Sick to Death

by Douglas Clark

  ‘Chief Inspector Masters and Inspector Green,’ Brian said.

  Harry Dent said, without getting up, ‘You’ve had a long chat. You’re not suspecting Brian of harming Sally are you?’

  ‘That’s a question I can’t answer,’ Masters replied.

  ‘You what?’ Masters could see why Hook had described Harry Dent as an old blowhard. His question was an attack in defence of his son. Intended to crush opposition. It had little effect. Masters said, ‘I can’t eliminate anybody until the guilt has been squarely placed on one person’s shoulders.’

  ‘Maybe. But our Brian …’

  ‘Was the last to see her alive, Mr Dent. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I think he killed her.’

  ‘I should bloody well hope not.’

  ‘But I must consider him, just as I must consider you.’

  ‘Me? Now look here …’ He half rose in his chair.

  ‘And Mrs Dent and everybody connected with Miss Bowker.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ Brian said. ‘Everybody’s got to go through the hoop on these occasions.’

  ‘But we loved Sally,’ Mrs Dent protested.

  ‘I’m sure you did,’ Masters answered. ‘That’s why I’m counting on you to help. Can I call on you later to talk things over?’

  ‘Oh, dear. Must you?’

  ‘Why not now?’ Dent asked. ‘Get it over with.’

  ‘Because I’m in a hurry to get to another appointment, Mr Dent. Otherwise I could think of nothing nicer than to sit here beside your very lovely pool and talk to you. But I’m afraid it will have to be nine o’clock tonight.’

  ‘That’s what you think. I’m not …’

  His wife cut in: ‘Don’t be silly, Harry. We must co-operate with the police.’

  ‘That’s all very well, Cora, but Saturday night!’

  ‘Is our night for entertaining.’ She turned to Masters. ‘We weren’t, of course, expecting guests tonight, but now you and the other officer are coming it will seem almost as if we were getting back to normal again. Poor Sally! We shall all miss her so much—not just Brian. But we can’t hide ourselves away because she died. Life must go on, mustn’t it, Mr Masters?’

  ‘Indeed it must, ma’am.’

  ‘There you are, you see, Harry.’

  Harry Dent grunted and pulled his towelling cap lower over his eyes. His son said to Masters, ‘I’ll run you into town if you like.’

  ‘I should be very grateful.’

  When they left the E-type at the town centre Green said: ‘What’s all this about an appointment?’

  ‘I haven’t got one. But I want to get to a chemist’s shop before they shut.’

  Green grunted and stepped out alongside Masters, glancing at his reflection in shop windows as he went. He decided the Palm Beach suiting looked very smart on him. He hoped the hot weather lasted.

  5 |

  Green said to the girl behind the medicines counter, ‘We’re police. We’d like to see the pharmacist.’

  She left them without a word. In a moment a middle-aged man appeared from behind a frosted-glass dispensing screen. He was bespectacled and bald, with greying side patches of dark hair neatly brushed. He looked nervous, questioning, as if expecting bad news. Masters guessed it cost him quite an effort to approach them and speak.

  ‘I’m the pharmacist. Frane. I own the shop.’

  ‘We’d like a few words with you in private,’ Green said.

  Frane looked even more perturbed. ‘Of course. If you’d come round the end of the counter.’ The girl was standing by, saying nothing, but looking slightly apprehensive. Masters smiled at her and said, ‘Don’t worry. We only want some information.’ She smiled back at him, gratefully. Frane heard the message. He seemed a little more cheerful as he ushered them into the dispensary.

  ‘We’re investigating the death of a diabetic girl, Mr Frane.’ Masters explained.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘You’ve heard about the case?’

  ‘The one there was an inquest on a few days ago?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I didn’t have anything to do with supplying her insulin.’

  ‘No. We realize that. All we’re here for is to get some information about insulin and the amounts the patient takes. You see, Mr Frane, all the talk about diabetes and its treatment is way above our heads, so we’ve come to an expert to help us out.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Will you be willing to answer a few questions?’

  ‘If I can. Yes.’

  ‘Thank you. Now the dead girl was using Rapitard insulin.’

  ‘Rapitard? Yes. That’s the neutral insulin with the bluey-green colour code. Easy to remember, Rapitard. Both labels have very similar colour triangles.’

  ‘Perhaps you would explain? Colour triangles?’

  ‘Let me see, now, there are how many different types of insulin? Soluble, protamine, globine, isophane …’ He counted on his fingers as he went through them. ‘Nine. Yes, nine types. And every type is designated by a different colour.’

  ‘Rapitard is bluey-green?’

  ‘Correct. But there are two strengths of all those nine. Forty units per mil and eighty units per mil. And strengths, too, have to be colour-coded.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The colour for U forty is blue, and for U eighty, green—on all types. So what we do is to divide the square packing label into two triangles. The bottom left triangle is coloured either blue or green to denote the strength. The top right triangle has its individual colour to denote the type. Well, like I said, Rapitard is easy to remember, because its own colour is bluey-green, while its strength colours are blue and green.’

  Green looked a little lost and Masters wasn’t quite sure he’d got it, but he said to Frane, ‘That’s very clear. Now to talk about the amounts in the syringe at each injection.’

  ‘Very small. Very small. But, of course, they differ with every patient according to his or her needs.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘I see. So you can’t tell me how much this girl would inject each time?’

  ‘Not unless I knew how much …’

  ‘She got four ten mil phials to last her exactly four weeks.’

  ‘Ah! Well in that case …’ Frane took a pencil from the breast pocket of his white coat and drew a pad towards him. ‘Forty mils for four weeks means ten mils a week means ten-sevenths of a mil a day.’ He looked up. ‘Rapitard is a combination of quick and slow acting insulins. Its effects last something like ten or twelve hours so it’s usually given in two injections a day.’

  ‘That’s right. The dead girl had one before breakfast and one before supper.’

  ‘So she had ten-fourteenths at each injection which is point seven of a mil.’

  ‘And how big’s a mil?’

  Frane picked up a ruler and marked off a centimetre with his two thumbs. ‘A cubic c.c.’

  ‘That’s pretty small.’

  ‘It might appear so. But in fact it’s quite big so I would say. Her doctor must have been giving her U forty.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘An active young woman like her would need a good dose but not a massive one. One mil of U forty contains forty units. Point seven would contain …’ He did a quick sum on the pad. ‘… twenty-eight units; and that would be about what I’d expect her to have.’

  Masters took from his pocket the slip of paper Dr Sisson had given him. ‘Can I buy ten mils of Rapitard from you? Against this?’

  Frane read the note and nodded.

  ‘And a one mil syringe?’

  ‘A BS 1619?’

  ‘If that’s the standard?’

  ‘It is. Fitted with Luer needles.’

  ‘I’ll take that.’

  Frane went to the back of the dispensary and got the goods. ‘You’re not going to practise injecting yourselves?’ he asked.

  ‘Not bloody likely,’ Green replied. ‘I’ve had
enough jabs in my time without any experiments.’

  ‘Good. Is that all?’

  ‘You’ve been most helpful over the insulin. I wonder, could you give me some information about emetics. I know there’s ipecac, of course, but I seem to remember that it has a very bitter taste.’

  ‘Not the syrup, so much. You can buy that at any chemist’s. And though it is an emetic, it’s usually used for coughs. An emetic dose would have to be very large. Anything up to an ounce and a half.’

  ‘What other forms are there?’

  ‘You can get it in Dover’s Powders and various cough linctuses, but I don’t think they’d work as emetics.’

  ‘Is the syrup bought very often?’ Masters asked.

  ‘Fairly often. Sales are growing as a matter of fact. You see, certain authorities are now recommending that it should be kept in every household where there are children, so that if a child eats or drinks a poisonous substance, there’s a dose of ipecac handy. It is hoped that a large dose will make the child vomit before it even reaches hospital. If it does, it’s half the battle in putting them right.’

  ‘Are there any other forms—more concentrated?’

  Frane grimaced. ‘There’s the fluidextract. That’s the strong solution—fourteen times as strong as the syrup—from which the syrup is made.’

  ‘Is that freely available?’

  ‘There’s nothing to prevent a chemist selling it, but not many would stock it. Very few make up their own syrups these days; and I think if somebody were to ask me for fluidextract I should look sideways at them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s so bitter and potent. One or two drops could make somebody very ill. I tasted a little when I was an apprentice. Only a little, mark you.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was that sick I thought I’d have flung my pluck up. And the taste! The memory of it’s enough for me. You know how a bitter lemon tastes harsh and draws your mouth? Multiply it a thousand times and you get ipecac fluidextract.’

  Masters stood silent for a moment. Frane went on: ‘It’s no business of mine, but why questions about emetics?’

  ‘The girl was very sick. I just wondered if she could have been given something to bring it on.’

  ‘Not without her knowing. All the emetics are nasty tasting. Take common salt for instance. Think how hard it would be to disguise an emetic dose of that in anything short of a gallon of soup. It would be very difficult indeed to make anybody sick without them knowing.’

  ‘I see. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful, Mr Frane.’

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t do more for you.’

  Masters smiled at the chemist, so sure of himself now that he was on his own ground. ‘You’ve done a great deal. All information—even if only negative—is useful. It stops us chasing hares and wandering off the main track. We’re grateful for even those small mercies.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. It all saves work. And talking of work, I’ve got prescriptions to make up.’

  ‘Of course. We’ll see ourselves out.’

  Green said, ‘That’s a new one on me.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘ “I thought I’d have flung my pluck up.” ’

  ‘New to me, too. But descriptive—if a little inelegant.’

  ‘Did you get anything from him—other than the information about the insulin?’

  ‘Perhaps. We shall have to see.’

  They turned into the Bristol. Tea was served in the lounge. Green poured. ‘D’you think anybody would mind if I took my jacket off?’ he asked, glancing round at several other people all engaged with toasted tea cakes and scones.

  ‘Not so long as you haven’t got braces on.’

  Green sat down in his shirt sleeves. The heat had not curbed his appetite. It was some minutes before his mouth was disengaged enough to make conversation possible. He then said, ‘Who’ve we got? Breese, Nurse Ward, Brian Dent. Anybody else?’

  ‘Why Dent?’

  ‘The pass key. You didn’t ask about it.’

  ‘You think it’s important?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Dent senior could have got at it as easily as his son.’

  ‘Maybe he could. But you can’t suspect him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He liked the lass.’

  ‘So did Brian. Enough to want to marry her. And his mother. She liked her enough to give her five hundred pounds.’

  ‘Yes. But you don’t give two people a couple of presents like a thousand quid and five hundred quid at tea time and then start bumping them off an hour or two later. So you can’t suspect the parents. It wouldn’t make sense.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Though I’d say it depends on the way you look at it. I wonder if Hill and Brant have had any luck?’

  ‘I hope so.’ Green wiped his mouth and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. ‘Otherwise we’re in a bit of a hole. I’m beginning to think that I’ve never been so fogbound as I am in this case.’

  ‘Oh, surely!’ Masters said, handing his cup over for a refill.

  ‘It’s right. In fact I’m beginning to think the girl wasn’t seen off at all. She just died. Have you thought of that?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And I’ll bet what that chemist had to say made you think you were right. No chance of making her puke artificially. So she just took ill and died.’

  ‘She was feeling sick, did vomit. And her insulin was useless. And she died because of it.’

  ‘I know. The two sides balance out.’

  ‘They don’t. Her death is a positive fact. The fact that emetics are difficult to disguise is a negative point. She may not have been given an emetic. It was just a thought of mine.’

  ‘Quite a reasonable one,’ said Green graciously. ‘But how about this for a theory? Are you listening?’

  ‘With bated breath.’ Green was always anxious that nobody should miss his pearls. They were cast so rarely.

  ‘That carrying-case of hers. There was room for two bottles of insulin.’

  Masters nodded.

  ‘She must have taken two with her.’

  ‘Because there were two compartments in the case?’

  ‘No. Because her old stock was due to last until Saturday evening. So she’d take the last dose out of one bottle just before supper that night at the Dents’, and she’d have the new bottle with her as well just in case of accidents. Right?’

  ‘By the lord Harry I’d overlooked that.’

  Green smirked. ‘Well then, if the new bottle was mucked about with, why not the old bottle, too? That would mean she had useless insulin before supper. Without the insulin to counteract it the food made her feel sick. When she got home she started the new bottle. That was duff, too, so she grew worse and died. No emetic needed.’

  Masters began to fill his pipe. Green waited expectantly for comments. Masters kept him in expectation for some moments before saying, ‘You may be right, at that. Sisson should be able to tell us.’

  Green, slightly disappointed, said, ‘You don’t think much of the idea.’

  ‘I certainly do. So much so, in fact, that I shall proceed using your theory as a fact. It must have happened as you say. It’s a natural. But! And here you’ll remember better than I do what Sisson said about insulin-hunger—it takes a hell of a long time to come on. Now, Sally Bowker would be perfectly normal until seven or half-past at night. Then she had a useless injection. By eleven o’clock—less than four hours later—she wouldn’t be far gone. Nowhere near approaching a coma. So I still think she was given something that positively upset her, as well as having her insulin rendered useless. And I think the two combined killed her, where only one or the other might not have done.’

  ‘So my theory doesn’t help us on.’

  ‘It does, tremendously. It irons out one of my mental reservations. But I don’t think it will stand alone.’

  Green squeezed the teapot, draining the last trickle from the leaves. Masters k
new he felt that his theory should have been received with more acclaim. But what the hell! Green was paid for it. What more did he want? Medals?

  The two sergeants came into the lounge. ‘Order another pot, quick,’ Green demanded.

  ‘So’s you can have it?’ Hill asked. ‘I like that!’

  Brant sat down. ‘Any joy?’ Masters asked him.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘On either of them?’

  ‘We got a little on Breese to help confirm her story, and nothing to show she was lying. There’s not a sausage on Nurse Ward.’

  ‘Now where do we go for honey?’ Green asked.

  Hill joined them. ‘Why? What’s up? Case fallen through or something?’ he said.

  ‘Or something,’ Green answered. ‘We can’t get a lead.’

  Brant, through a mouthful of sandwich, said, ‘So we’ve started giving up in less than twenty-four hours now, have we?’ He looked inquiringly at Masters, who shook his head slowly.

  ‘Apart from seeing the Dents tonight, what are we going to do?’ asked Green.

  ‘I think I’ll go and see Hook,’ Masters said. ‘If somebody could drive me there.’

  Hook wasn’t at the Station. Masters and Hill found him at his home. He welcomed them warmly. Asked Masters for an account of his activities and conclusions, and declared himself satisfied, though it was fairly obvious from his manner that he had hoped for more startling revelations even at this early date.

  ‘What I really came for, sir, was to talk about the post-mortem findings,’ Masters said.

  ‘You’ve got the report. Slight traces of alcohol. No signs of any toxic substance in the body. No signs of stomach irritation. Serious lack of mineral salts, chiefly potassium, due to dehydration brought about by excessive vomiting.’

  ‘Who did the post-mortem?’

  ‘The pathologist at the hospital. He’s not a fool. He’s an able man.’

  ‘I’m sure he is, but I’ve known cases where sometimes some indication has been missed because the doctor wasn’t specifically looking for it. For instance, did he specifically look for traces of ipecac? Can he definitely state there were none?’