SICK TO DEATH
Douglas Clark
© Douglas Clark 1971
Douglas Clark has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1971 by Stein and Day, Publishers.
This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
For Jim Hotchen,
whose knowledge of drugs—
like his willingness to help—
is apparently limitless.
Table of Contents
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
1 |
Detective Chief Inspector Masters and Detective Inspector Green were not on speaking terms. They rarely were. The pleasure that each one took in his job was soured by the knowledge that in all major cases it was now accepted that they were paired to work in tandem. Paradoxically, they were a successful team. Know-alls, speculating on their success, attributed it to the fact that each set out to beat the other at every turn. Inevitably, it was said, they were both kept so much on their toes by this exercise that they exerted maximum effort at all times: the basic ingredient of success.
The lovely June morning had not made either of them better disposed towards the other. When the Chief Superintendent had given Masters the warning order for a murder investigation, Masters had not, himself, alerted Green. He had told Sergeant Hill to do it. When Green arrived at Masters’ office, the Chief Inspector had already gone for his briefing, while Hill was absent, helping Sergeant Brant to load the Vauxhall with the bags: the travelling laboratory, photographic and other impedimenta of a murder inquiry. So Green was unwelcomed and alone. Left to savour the bitter taste of being summoned by a younger man to a more palatial office than his own to receive orders. He didn’t like it. And he didn’t like Masters. He wandered around. Sneered inwardly at the cream alpaca jacket Masters kept for hot weather wear but which was now hanging, immaculately ironed, on the coat stand, neighboured by Masters’ hand-made showerproof with a removable, bright red, half-lining. Green judged a policeman’s efficiency by the length of time he’d worn regulation boots; and for Masters, that time had been short. The minimum. Green’s opinion of Masters’ ability was similarly curtailed.
Green stopped by the desk. Masters’ chair was the biggest the Ministry could provide. And because it was bigger, it was more opulent. Green felt a twinge of envy. Masters, he thought, could get away with anything. Uncharitably, Green supposed that was what happened when a copper had his name printed on his shoe soles.
Green picked up a journal from the desk. Masters’ professional background reading. He glanced at an article that said unsolved crime was on the increase because the police were not making enough use of forensic facilities. Green snorted and flung the book down. To him, police routine was all-important. The expert witness was anathema. Somebody who’d go into court and swear black was Bombay tartan if the fee was big enough. He’d no time for semantics—or, as he put it, word-juggling—in court, either. He’d been rattled more than once by defence counsel: made to lose his discreet control by some clever Q.C. who, lacking a case, had wanted to make the police look like lying humbugs. It made Green feel sick with life. For him, once a very happy policeman, his lot since teaming up with Masters was becoming distinctly unhappy. He decided he really would apply for his transfer to a division.
Masters came in, carrying a postcard-size photograph. Without a word he handed it to Green. A girl in a tennis dress that looked as if it might be a Tinling model. Simply cut, the unembroidered purity of its line showed off the pretty figure so elegantly that though still girlish, it looked provocatively mature. Her legs were long and firm with erotically inviting thighs. She was smiling. Obviously happy. A few strands of fair hair had fallen across her eyes, but did nothing to diminish the youthful beauty and freshness of the face. Green studied it for a moment and then handed it back. ‘Murdered?’ he asked.
‘A lot of people seem to think so. Including a coroner, the Gloucester police and her doctor.’
‘Poor kid. How old? Twenty?’
‘Twenty-two. Sally Bowker.’
The thought of the tragedy of this girl seemed to be opening up a channel of communication between them. ‘What did she die of?’ Green inquired.
‘A diabetic coma.’
Green stared for a moment. Still faintly hostile. ‘You just said she was murdered. Diabetic coma’s … well, it’s natural causes.’
‘Not if it’s induced.’
‘And what does that mean exactly?’
‘Brought on unnaturally.’
‘How can they tell it was brought on?’
‘I’ll explain in the car,’ Masters said. ‘Hill and Brant had better hear.’
‘So we’re going to Gloucester?’
Masters nodded and took back the photograph.
‘It’s just the time of year for a run in the country,’ Green said. Masters picked up his briefcase and showerproof and followed Green out. They went down, and out to the car in another period of silence. Masters let Green take the nearside back seat because that was where the Inspector felt safest. Brant was in the driving seat; Hill beside him.
‘Make for Reading,’ Masters instructed. ‘Then take the Wantage road. I want to see Streatley, Faringdon and Lechlade. We’ll lunch at the riverside pub near the bridge there. The Trout.’
Brant manoeuvred them through London, staying north of the river till Hampton Court bridge. He made good time. The mid-morning traffic was fairly light after the turning up through Virginia Water. Green, by this time slightly less apprehensive than in heavy traffic, asked, ‘Now what about this diabetic coma?’
‘As I understand it,’ Masters said, ‘although Sally Bowker was diabetic, she was perfectly fit otherwise.’
‘That’s stretching it a bit. Permanently on the needle and perfectly fit.’
‘She’s on insulin, remember. Not pot. You saw her photograph.’
‘I’ll admit what I saw looked O.K. Couldn’t wish for anything better. But all those injections two or three times a day! Even though they are only insulin.’
‘I can only repeat what I’ve been told. These days diabetics can be carefully balanced and controlled to keep their disability in check. And evidently when that’s achieved, they can live a pretty normal life. Sally Bowker’s doctor was so sure she was fit that when he was called to her flat on Monday night and found she’d died in a coma he immediately suspected something out of the ordinary.’
‘So he told the local police.’
‘And he had the bottle of insulin beside her bed checked.’
‘Ah! Hanky-panky?’
Masters took out a brassy new tin of Warlock Flake before replying. As he broke the seal he said, ‘It would appear so.’
‘Meaning what? That somebody had changed the contents?’
‘Nobody is quite sure, but they think not.’
‘Slipped in a dollop of some foreign liquid? Water even? That would play havoc with a diabetic, wouldn’t it?’
Masters rubbed a fill of Warlock Flake in the palm of one hand with the heel of the other. His empty pipe was gripped between his teeth as he spoke. ‘All we know is the insulin in that bottle was useless but not toxic. And that amounts to the same thing with a diabetic. But it was one of a fresh supply she got on prescription last Saturday morning.’
‘The chemist she got them from will have some explaining to do.’
‘He’s already done it. To the coroner yesterday afternoon. He supplied Sally Bowker with four ten mil phials, packed just as they came from the manufacturer. The other three he gave her have been tested, and so have the rest of h
is particular consignment. They’re all perfect. The manufacturers had a research man present at the inquest and he reported that the rest of the batch has been analysed and found to be in good condition.’
Green lit a Kensitas for himself and tossed one over to Hill. Then he said, ‘I suppose the bottle we’re concerned with had an extruded rubber cap stretched over the neck, and nobody could remove it and replace it without it being as obvious as a pig in a hen run.’
‘Quite right. The cap hadn’t been tampered with. There was only one puncture in it through which, presumably, Sally Bowker had withdrawn one syringe full on Saturday night. Anyhow, they think so, because the amount missing from the bottle was equal to the number of units of insulin she was supposed to use at each injection.’
Hill half turned in his seat. ‘I don’t know much about injections,’ he said, ‘but I’d have thought it would be easy to empty and refill a bottle with a syringe through one hole.’
‘We’ll probably have to get you to put your theory to the test,’ Masters answered. ‘But until we know more, further speculation won’t get us very far.’
They drove on in silence. Just past Pangbourne, where a stretch of the river opened out close to the road, a motor cruiser was coming downstream, mirrored in water without a ripple, but dotted with tiny splashes here and there as insects alighted or fish rose to the surface. Masters watched with envy. Stillness, peace and pleasure. No murder. The craft had a blue hull and white upperworks. A man was steering: on the cabin top an attractive girl in a yellow bikini, Mexican straw hat and sun glasses. She was stretched out soaking up the sun. She epitomized relaxation for Masters. For Hill she meant other things. He said, ‘Just look at that. I could do with taking her down the river myself. It wouldn’t take me long to become expert at berthing that little beauty.’
‘You haven’t seen the photograph of Sally Bowker,’ Green said.
Masters was so surprised at the rebuke implied in this remark that without being asked he took the picture from his pocket and handed it to Hill. The sergeant looked at it for a moment, then asked: ‘Somebody did away with that bit of capurtle? I don’t believe it. No man would be that daft.’
‘I don’t like it either,’ Green said.
Masters grunted and relit his pipe. Green went on: ‘I don’t like the thought of that lass getting the chop, and I like it even less because it’s a medical problem. Medicine’s not up our alley. We’re going to be hard pushed to pin this on anybody. And that’s a pity because I want to get the bastard who did it.’
‘Don’t be frightened of it,’ Masters said. ‘We can’t afford to be. From the outset we’ve got to keep it simple. If anybody utters as much as one word we don’t understand, we ask for an explanation immediately. If we do that we’ll stand a better chance of cutting this business down to size.’
They went along in silence for a few moments. Hill broke it. ‘Starveall Farm. Somebody with a sense of humour.’ He got no reaction. The road started to rise and dip with the hills. There was little traffic. The sun grew hotter and the tar softer. At Masters’ request Brant opened the ventilators. Wantage came up fast and went past slowly as they crawled through the market place.
When they were back in open country again Brant said, ‘I’ve only known one diabetic, and he told me that even ordinary doctors don’t know a lot about it.’
‘That’s my impression, too,’ Masters answered. ‘It’s fairly usual for general practitioners, once they’ve diagnosed diabetes, to refer the patient straight away to a consultant diabetitian at a hospital or a clinic.’
‘Then why was Sally Bowker’s ordinary doctor prescribing for her?’ Green asked.
‘What happens usually, I think, is that the new diabetic goes to the clinic and it’s there that all the tests are done and the right initial treatment decided on. You’ll remember I said the patients were balanced or controlled? When that’s achieved, the patient goes back to his family doctor, who’s been told by the clinic what prescription to give him. And this is what the G.P. does in these cases. Prescribes for his patient and keeps an eye on him between visits to the diabetic clinic every three or four months. If a change in medicine or doses of insulin is needed, the clinic makes the adjustments when the time comes.’
‘Sounds reasonable,’ Green commented. ‘But I still think that if the ordinary quacks don’t know all that much about diabetes, we’re going to find it as hard as little nuts to get to grips.’
Masters didn’t reply. Brant slowed to turn right handed over a bridge and slip gently from Berkshire into Gloucestershire. A dozen yards inside the new county he brought the Vauxhall to rest outside the Trout Inn. Masters clambered out, saying, ‘I’ve heard that every table in this place is booked for lunch and dinner weeks in advance. So prepare yourselves for a refusal.’ He led the way into the cool interior of the old Cotswold Stone house. They were in luck’s way. After a pint of Worthington on the smooth lawn running down to the river they were called to a table and a lunch that kept even Green appreciatively free from odious comparisons with police canteens.
By two o’clock they had skirted Cirencester, leaving it on their right, and were big-dippering along the old Roman way, straight as a Chinaman’s pigtail for sixteen miles before turning at Birdlip, where Masters ordered Brant to pull in so that they could all enjoy the view over the city. Then on and down, winding between tall trees in low gear to start the last few miles into Gloucester. At the crossroads in the centre of the city they stopped to ask the way to the station.
Chief Superintendent Hook received them in his office. He was a large, florid man, with a neat moustache that seemed too small for his face. The heat wasn’t helping him. He had his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up above the elbows. In one hand he held a wet ball of handkerchief with which, from time to time, he mopped his brow, his bald patch, and the back of his neck. His shirt showed sweat patches under the arms and round the collar, and a great forward thrust in front over the tops of his trousers. His grip as he shook hands was firm but moist. When Hook turned to greet Green and the sergeants, Masters surreptitiously wiped his own palm on his handkerchief.
Hook, labouring under full steam, drew up chairs for them. His charm, a surprising gentleness of manner, was enhanced by the soft, almost Welsh inflexion in his voice. ‘I’m mighty glad you’ve come. And so quickly. Curious case, this is. Not one I care for at all.’
Masters said bluntly, ‘Why?’
Hook stared at him for a moment. Then he said, ‘Because I don’t understand what’s going on and because I knew Sally Bowker … well, shall we say I really know her father and mother, but I knew her as well.’
‘So you are involved personally?’
‘Yes. But I’m personally involved in all crime that takes place here, because I was born and bred in this city and know practically every other person in it.’
‘That’s not what I meant, sir.’
‘I know. You’re suggesting that my judgment may be clouded because the pretty daughter of an acquaintance of mine is the victim. You’re right. I make a habit of walking round Gloucester in my uniform, carrying stick and gloves, to see and be seen. Every day I walk round about the cross in the city centre, and then out a bit to one of the more domestic areas, across the park, round the schools, near the factories—even into the swimming baths. Most people, including the kids, know me. Some of them speak. Some of them look a bit apprehensive at times. We’ve a large coloured community. They see me and, I think, realize that though I represent the law, I can go among them without causing them the least concern if they’ve given me no trouble. You get my point?’
‘I do, sir. It seems an admirable habit. An extension of the bobby on the beat. And I can see it doing nothing but good for relations between the police and the public and—as a bonus—for your own health. A constitutional every day is what the doctors order, isn’t it? But chiefly I’m impressed that you can make the time to be out and about so much. It says a lot for your administration tha
t you can leave your desk and other duties so regularly.’
Hook waved a disclaiming hand. ‘I’m as proud of the way I run things as the next man. But that aside, what I was going to say was that though I’m widely recognized and greeted pretty often by the public, I never enjoyed my jaunts as much as I did on the days when I saw Sally Bowker.’
Green coughed. Hook glanced at him and said: ‘I know what you’re thinking. A man of my age on the look out for a lovely young lass puts me in the dirty-old-man class. Well, have it that way if you like. But I’ll still confess that seeing and passing the time of day with a vivacious, pretty young thing like her was a real tonic to me. And there’s a lot of others round here who feel the same way. She skipped along like a kid, you know. Always had a bag on a long strap over her shoulder and swung it as she went, dodging through the crowds. Head high, laughing. I can tell you it wasn’t only men who’d turn to look at her. Women, too. She’d a flair for dress. Always simple clothes, but I reckon she’d have looked well in a coal sack with a smudge of slack on her face. I do. Honest.’
‘We’ve seen a picture of her,’ Green said.
‘Then you’ll know.’
‘And you’re amazed that anybody could kill—even harm—a girl like that?’ Masters asked.
‘I am that. Apart from me knowing her father, I mean. If I’d never met Donald Bowker, or if Sally hadn’t known me from David of the White Rock, I’d still have been nonplussed. Aye, and more than that.’
Masters said, ‘You’ve told us a lot, sir. And it’s all useful. Would you care to go a bit further and give us a verbal picture of everything you knew about Miss Bowker? I always find it a great help to know as much as possible about a victim, what she did for a living, her environment, her family, friends, and so on.’
Hook offered him a cigarette. ‘I’ve heard how you work. That’s why I’ve been running on so much.’ Masters refused the cigarette and took out his pipe. Hook went on: ‘I’ll send for a pot of tea—unless you’d like cold squash or something? No? Right.’ He spoke into the house phone. He put it down and looked up. ‘I’ll talk all night if it’ll help, but I must have a spot of lubrication. Incidentally, while we’re waiting, I might as well tell you we’ve booked you in at the Bristol in Southgate. It’s an old inn not far from here, and it’s comfortably near the hospital if you want to chat to the staff of the diabetic clinic there.’
Sick to Death Page 1