Another Man's Poison

by J F Straker

  ‘I’m Henry Mallett’s son,’ Simon said.

  ‘Ah! Thought you might be. Well, here’s hoping we can do business.’

  Simon had explained over the telephone that he was enquiring on behalf of a friend who might be interested in purchasing the old Anson factory. He repeated the explanation now, trying to get an impression of the man as he talked. Rowson looked well-fed, inclining to plumpness, and his grey suit sat well on him. The pallor of his skin suggested he did not see much of the sun. His hands and nails were clean, although Simon disapproved of the ornate rings on his chubby fingers; he also disapproved of the over-long fringe of hair beneath the bald crown. His excessive cordiality, Simon thought, could probably be excused by his eagerness to effect a sale. ‘My friend expects to be in town either this afternoon or tomorrow,’ he told Rowson. ‘But he has a tight schedule, and I’d like to have the key available on his arrival. Would that be all right with you?’

  ‘Quite,’ Rowson said. ‘What line of business is your friend in, Mr Mallett?’

  ‘Chemicals,’ Simon said.

  ‘Ah! Ansons was chemicals.’

  ‘I know. I got that from Cherwells, the printers. It was they who put me on to you.’ Stick to the truth wherever possible, Robin had said. If Rowson’s a wrong ’un he might decide to check. ‘That’s why I thought it might be suitable.’

  Rowson nodded. ‘Would this be a new business your friend is starting?’

  ‘More like a subsidiary,’ Simon said. ‘He’s been granted a licence to manufacture a new American product and his existing facilities can’t cope.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’ll be frank with you, Mr Mallett. I acquired those premises some years ago when I thought I had a cast-iron sale. Unfortunately I was wrong. The deal went sour, and I’ve had the building on my hands ever since. So I’ll be glad to be rid of it; capital tied up like that is a dead loss. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ Simon said.

  ‘So if your friend is interested, Mr Mallett, he’ll be getting it dirt-cheap. No messing about. Dirt-cheap, tell him. I want a quick sale.’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ Simon promised. ‘All right if I take the key now?’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ Rowson pulled out a drawer. ‘You wouldn’t prefer I show your friend round personally? I could, you know. No bother.’

  ‘It’s a question of timing,’ Simon said. ‘Not knowing when he will arrive, I can’t make an appointment. No. He and I will give it the once-over first. Then, if he’s interested, I’ll bring him back here and you can discuss terms. All right?’

  ‘If you say so, Mr Mallett.’ Rowson took a key from the drawer. ‘If I’m out Wally, my assistant, will know where to find me. And don’t forget. Dirt-cheap, tell him. No haggling.’

  ‘I won’t forget,’ Simon said.

  Robin was waiting for him in the carpark. ‘At a guess I’d say he’s on the level,’ Simon said. ‘He’d probably need watching on a business deal, but I doubt if he was involved in the kidnapping.’ He grinned. ‘I wouldn’t put it past his assistant, though. He looks a real bruiser. Anyway, what happens now? Do we take a look at the building?’

  Robin shook his head. That had been the original idea, but while waiting for Simon to return he had given it further thought. Suppose Rowson decided to visit the building himself, for whatever reason, and found him there? ‘As you rightly said, it’s possible he knows me by sight. That would really screw it up. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go. Getting a quick impression of the place for your friend, eh?’

  ‘But don’t you want to see for yourself?’

  ‘Not really. Too painful. And it could serve no useful purpose. Whatever you find won’t get us any forrader. It’s the people, not the place, that matter. And we’re on to them.’

  ‘Not ‘the man’, as the woman calls him.’

  ‘No. And we won’t get him from the building, either. I’m relying on Gatesby for that.’

  Simon grinned. ‘Under pressure, eh?’

  ‘I imagine pressure will be necessary.’ Robin did not echo the grin. Just thinking of the man made him sick and angry. ‘Well, off you go. I’ll meet you in the Boar around six-thirty.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Simon said.

  They were in the Rolls, parked beside his MG. As Simon made to leave the car Robin said, ‘And thanks a lot, Simon. If I’d known how much I’d have to rely on you I’d never have got you into this. Particularly as it seems to have earned you an unsavoury reputation with the police.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Simon said. Robin had told him earlier of the inference Martin had drawn from the presence of Adele’s Mini outside Welsh Gwyn’s flat. ‘I can take it. As for getting me into this — well, you didn’t. I got myself into it.’

  He might be able to take it, Robin thought, but he wouldn’t like it. Simon valued his image as a clean-living young man. To know that others now saw him in a different light must surely distress him.

  They arrived simultaneously at the Boar that evening. The Anson building, Simon said, certainly fitted the scene of Karen’s captivity as she had described it. Wide wooden stairs at one end led up to a suite of rooms that must have been the former company’s offices. ‘Another room at the back suggests it was used as a laboratory,’ he said. ‘And it contained a sink which Karen could easily have mistaken for a basin.’

  ‘An iron bedstead?’ Robin asked.

  ‘Yes. But in another room. They must have moved it.’

  ‘Windows boarded up?’

  ‘Yes. But then so are most of the windows at the back.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. But it seems to confirm Welsh Gwyn’s story. And that’s all you expected, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s all,’ Robin said. ‘Well, I’d best be getting back. Karen still gets jittery if she’s alone in the house after dark.’

  Karen was more curious than jittery. ‘You certainly seem to have changed your opinion of Simon,’ she said. ‘That’s the fourth time in a week you’ve been out with him. What’s going on, darling? You haven’t found yourselves a couple of dolly birds, have you?’

  ‘Only one,’ he said. ‘We share her.’

  ‘Disgusting!’ She put her arms round his neck and reached up to kiss him. ‘Seriously, though, Robin. There’s something, isn’t there?’

  He laughed. ‘Of course there’s something. Simon’s helping me with a bit of research.’ That was true enough. ‘You want details?’

  ‘No. Just so long as I don’t have to worry.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry,’ he said.

  Did she believe him? he wondered. Unaware that Simon knew of the kidnapping — yes, perhaps she did. Yet it was strange that in the two days since Lucy and Derek had left she had not once referred to the quest on which she knew he had embarked. He knew she regretted it, perhaps even feared it, and that she had agreed to hypnosis only out of love for him and a desire to please. But why the silence? Did she hope that by ignoring the matter it would go away?

  They made love that night for the first time since Lucy’s visit. The love-making was spontaneous and uninhibited and for Robin it gave tremendous relief, mental as well as physical. His fear that memory of Karen’s behaviour under hypnosis might reduce him to temporary impotence was swept aside in a tide of passion and as they lay spent in each other’s arms he told himself how foolish and disloyal he had been to harbour doubt. It was possible, he supposed, that there could be occasions in the future, perhaps when there was friction between them, when doubt would return. Or maybe not. But for the present he had it under control.

  Karen said sleepily, ‘I’m glad it’s finally over, darling, aren’t you?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ he asked, uncertain of her reference.

  ‘The adoption business. We can put it behind us now, forget it ever happened.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, aware that this was taking much for granted. ‘Although we still have to sign the agreement.’

  ‘But that’s just a form
ality, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  The visit of the woman from the adoption agency on the Sunday afternoon had not been the trial they had feared. Sympathetic and friendly, she had taken tea with them, enthusing over the house and Mrs Huntsman’s scones and doing her best to put them at their ease. It was now reasonably straightforward, she told them. The court had approved the application of the young Scot and his wife to adopt the child, which was already in their care. In a fortnight’s time the Grangers would be required to sign a legal agreement releasing the child to the agency, who would then assume all further responsibility.

  Despite Polly’s constant urging, it was some time since Robin had done any serious work on his book. With so much else to occupy his mind he had turned to it only in fits and starts, and it was little more than a collection of ideas, situations, incidents based on what he considered to be the nucleus of a promising plot but with no firm story to link them together. That the characterisation was vague worried Polly (‘I can’t really see any of them, Robin!’) more than it did him. Experience had taught him that his characters tended to develop their personalities as the story progressed and to start them arbitrarily in a set mould could be destructive and time-wasting. What did worry him, however, was the amount of technical detail still to be researched and, with Jonno Gatesby temporarily out of reach, he and Polly spent the following morning in the reference section of the town’s public library. He found the task a soothing contrast to his more phrenetic personal problems and it was after twelve-thirty when he reluctantly called a halt.

  ‘We’ll have a quickie at The Running Hound,’ he told Polly, ‘And then home. Mrs Huntsman will do her nut if the lunch is spoilt.’

  They were finishing the quickie when Martin and a detective colleague entered the bar and came over. For a few minutes the four chatted impersonally. Then Martin’s colleague left them to buy drinks and Martin said, ‘You need to powder your nose, Polly.’

  Polly stared at him. ‘Eh?’

  ‘In plain language, dear, get lost. I want a private word with Robin.’

  Polly departed in a huff. ‘What’s this about, then?’ Robin asked.

  It’s about the woman your friend Simon Mallett visited Sunday night,’ Martin said. ‘Gwyneth Davies. Or Welsh Gwyn, as she’s known locally. She was admitted to hospital last night with severe multiple bruising, a broken arm and cuts on the face and chest. Quite a mess.’

  ‘Good Lord! Do you know who did it?’

  Martin shrugged. ‘It’s the old story. Too scared to grass.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ Robin said. ‘But why tell me? You can’t possibly think that Simon —’

  ‘I don’t,’ Martin said. ‘But as one of her customers I thought he’d like to know. So pass it on, eh?’

  Robin was both shocked and puzzled by the news. Despite his anger against the woman he felt some sympathy for her. He did not doubt that her assailant had been Jonno Gatesby, returned from Liverpool sooner than expected, and that the assault was her punishment for having talked. But how could Gatesby know she had talked? The only other person they had contacted had been Rowson. So had Simon been wrong in his assessment of the man? Was it Rowson who had been behind the kidnapping?

  He tried to reason it out. The girl Janet would have told Gatesby of Derek’s visit, but that in itself would not have alerted him. Nor would the fact that the name ‘Derek’ might have no significance for him; he would not expect to remember the names of all his former fellow convicts. He might have wondered how Derek had known where to find him, but he would not have connected the visit with the kidnapping. Not now, ten months after it had happened. But suppose Rowson had been suspicious of Simon’s enquiry into the Anson building? Just as a precaution, might he not have mentioned the enquiry to Gatesby, warning him to be on his guard? Gatesby would have known that the only way in which Simon could have connected the Anson building with the kidnapping was through Welsh Gwyn. And if he had had any doubts that Rowson’s suspicion was justified, brutal persuasion would have revealed that it was. And a Gatesby alerted to danger would not be easy to nail.

  ‘Which means we can’t expect to tackle him at home,’ Simon said, when they met yet again at the Boar. ‘It’ll have to be an away fixture.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But we’ve never seen the swine. So how do we recognise him?’

  ‘Watch the house until he shows himself,’ Robin said. ‘That’s how. And let’s get one thing clear, Simon. Gatesby belongs to me. I’m grateful for all your help, you know that, but when it comes to the final act I want him on my own. What’s between him and me is personal. Understood?’

  ‘Of course. Except that — well, what is the final act? I mean, suppose you’ve got him where you want him — what then? What do you actually do?’

  Robin shook his head. It was something to which he had given considerable thought but on which he was still undecided. To plan violence was one thing, to execute it another. In the heat of the struggle he would have no compunction about beating the man halfway to death. But if there was no struggle — or when the struggle was over — what then? Would he have the stomach for unrestrained brutality?

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said flatly. ‘But I will when the time comes. Or I hope I will.’

  Simon did not press further. ‘Have you ever tackled a man armed with a knife?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Neither have I,’ Simon said. ‘I imagine it could be tricky. That’s why I think you’re going to need my help. After we’ve disarmed him — well, then he’s all yours. Not that I wouldn’t welcome a crack at him too, the black bastard!’

  The hint of steel in his voice, the way his leg twitched, the whitening of his knuckles as his grip tightened on the tankard, betrayed his thoughts. For Simon, Jonno Gatesby was not only a rapist. Jonno Gatesby was black.

  ‘You’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?’ Robin said.

  ‘Of course.’ Simon’s blue eyes widened in surprise. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘In a way. Although perhaps not for quite the same reason.’

  Poor street lighting in Colet Road meant that to get a good look at Gatesby they would have to watch the house by day. That could be done from behind the hedge bordering the allotments, Simon said. Nor did they need to use Colet Road to get there. Stone Street ran parallel to it and led to the children’s playground, which bordered the allotments to the north. ‘We park the car by the playground and walk across,’ he said. ‘That way we’ll be able to see him without him seeing us.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve been doing a recce,’ Robin said.

  ‘I thought it might come in useful.’

  ‘It will. But it won’t take two of us to watch the house. Leave that to me. You’ve a job to do.’

  Robin went on watch the following morning, using an elderly Morris Traveller supplied by his garage; the garage proprietor had been shaken by his request for something inconspicuous, perhaps suspecting marital infidelity, but he had been too aware of the value of the Granger custom to ask questions. A chill wind blew across the allotments from the east and although he was well wrapped up and had brought a flask of whisky the cold still got to him. No one left or entered the house and he spent the time pondering the problem of how vengeance could best be achieved. Simon was right, it would take the two of them to tackle the man initially; but how and when and where? The answer seemed to be to wait for him down the road at night and jump him as he passed, hoping to bundle him into the Morris and cart him off to a less populous spot for action. But that presupposed Gatesby would be on foot. Far more likely that one of the parked cars — the red Cortina outside his gate, perhaps was his and that he would use it.

  His mind switched to other matters. Karen had not questioned him further on what he and Simon were up to and for that he was grateful. If she doubted his explanation that they were engaged in research she was keeping her doubts to herself, presumably content to wait until he was ready to resolve
them. Polly was less content, however, vehemently insisting that he should be working on the book instead of gallivanting around with Simon. I employ a secretary, he thought, and she turns into a ruddy slave-driver. He had listed a few items to be researched and had told her to get on with it, but she was an intelligent girl and would no doubt recognise a ruse when she saw one. And grateful as he was for Simon’s help, he was worried by the young man’s racist approach to the affair. Simon, he suspected, would not find it easy to stand back and leave retribution to another.

  It was on the second morning that he saw the girl, recognising her from Derek’s description. She left the house shortly before ten o’clock, trailing a shopping trolley. Her return an hour later gave Robin some encouragement. He had begun to fear that, perhaps acting on advice from Rowson, Gatesby had decided to make himself scarce. But the girl’s gait as she walked slowly up the hill suggested that the trolley was heavily laden and he took that as a sign that the man was still around. And then, shortly after midday, Gatesby himself came out. The girl was with him and the two stood talking on the path, enabling Robin to get a good view of his quarry. Around thirty, Robin thought: slightly below medium height and very black, with heavy sideburns and a thin drooping moustache. Dressed in jeans and a blue anorak, with a multi-coloured woollen cap on his head, he jigged up and down as he talked. Presently the girl returned to the house, urged on her way by a slap on her trim behind. Out on the pavement, Gatesby stood for a moment, apparently irresolute. Then he walked off down the road, high heels clacking, his step springy. Robin resisted the temptation to follow. Where Gatesby went now was of no consequence. He went back across the allotments and the playground to the Morris.

  His way home led past the Peacock’s Feather. Waiting at the road junction for a car to pass, he was surprised to see Gatesby approaching along the road to his left. How had the man got there so quickly? He watched him enter the pub and then turned left, and some distance along the road he found the answer in an area of waste land on which new houses were being erected. Gatesby must have used it as a short cut, more than halving the distance by road.