Cry of the Needle

by Radford, Roger

  ‘Well, I suppose I’d better get back to work then,’ Tring said unconvincingly. He was mesmerised by the woman.

  ‘Just one thing, Jonathan ....’ Sharon Proctor stared at her visitor with eyes that were unusually expressionless. ‘Many people find it hard to believe that I could truly love a man like Jack Proctor, or that I didn’t marry him for his money. Let me just say that Jack and I are an item. He is everything I could wish for in a man.’

  Tring felt himself blush. Her protestation was as much a disappointment to him as a surprise. The vision of a bloated bullfrog astride sleeping beauty had crossed his mind more than once, and Sharon Proctor’s declaration of loyalty to her ugly sugar daddy stilled the pleasant warmth in his nether regions, replacing it with an unfamiliar pang of envy in his stomach.

  ‘Jack built this company from scratch,’ she went on. ‘He may have a few rough edges, but you don’t succeed in this business by playing softball.’

  Tring nodded in accord. Although others seemed to have an inordinate amount of faith in the breadth of his ability, he knew that he didn’t possess the ruthlessness to run a company. He was not multi-talented like his friend, Abe Klein, who was as astute an industrialist as he was a scientist. Professor Jonathan Tring was simply a boffin who enjoyed the challenge of research and the buzz of creativity. He also knew what he liked, and began to appreciate Sharon Proctor’s candour as well as her looks. He felt a need to know more about this beautiful woman and what made her tick. ‘How did you meet Jack?’ he ventured.

  Sharon Proctor rose from behind her large mahogany desk and turned to peer through the window at the green swathe of Essex countryside beyond. ‘What do you see out there, Jonathan?’

  Tring approached the window, his sudden proximity to her sending his senses reeling. He couldn’t put a name to the perfume she was wearing, but it reeked of class. The crisp cut of the Armani suit accentuated what he knew must be the perfect figure beneath. In heels she was almost as tall as him, and her legs seemed to go on forever. ‘I, er, don’t know,’ he flustered.

  She turned to face him, the steel blue orbs barely a few inches from his face. Her breath caressed him with sweet incense. ‘The environment,’ she said simply. ‘That’s how I met Jack. I was a twenty-two-year-old journalist covering a conference on the environment in D.C. Jack was a key speaker on behalf of the pharmaceutical industry. I was as fascinated by his accent as by what he had to say. It was the first time I had heard an Englishman who didn’t talk with a plum in his mouth.’

  ‘Like me, you mean?’ Tring smiled.

  ‘Maybe,’ she replied coyly. ‘Anyway, I decided to get his personal viewpoint in an interview later that day. Then came supper, and the rest is history.’

  ‘What about posterity?’

  She smiled thinly. ‘Oh, you mean children. No, neither Jack nor I have much time for kids. Other people’s are okay, but we don’t see many of them. My family is in Georgia and Jack was an only child. No, I’ve never had the maternal instinct.’

  There were many more questions Tring wanted to ask, but her outstretched hand signalled that his audience was over. As he shook it gently, the professor noted how slender was her hand and how perfectly manicured the nails. Once again he felt a pang of jealousy that a man as repulsive as Jack Proctor could command the affections of this exquisite creature.

  As Tring left her office, Sharon Proctor silently chided herself for being too open with him, for exposing her vulnerability to someone who was a relative stranger. She knew that she inspired the covetous admiration of men and the envious esteem of women, and that this demanded the retention of a sense of mystery. She was not one to give rein to every caprice, but Jonathan Tring would need to pay a price for her lapse. She would choose the time and the place, for she had pledged never to allow any man to exercise power over her again, not even the husband she secretly despised. As far as the crudities of connubial rights were concerned, she did it, on the rare occasions when her when her Pachydermatous spouse managed to get aroused, out of a sense of duty and self-interest. For no one knew the real truth. Nobody would ever know the real truth: that all her subsequent actions had been guided by the memory of that sleeping man in the cotton field, the one who had jumped up and raped her.

  As Jonathan Tring walked a few paces down the corridor, he paused to glance at the door bearing the name of his chairman. He could not help but feel again a pang of jealousy towards the man who shared Sharon Proctor’s bed. What the professor could not know was that the object of his envy had been listening intently to their conversation. Indeed, Jack Proctor was much more prone to this particular deadly sin than his employee. But on this occasion the chairman was smiling smugly, for his good wife had paid him due compliment, as he would have expected.

  John Albert Proctor was essentially a man of simple desires, demanding loyalty from his staff and fealty from his spouse. In return, they might enjoy job security, while she might share the keys to his kingdom. The operative word was ‘might,’ for virtue, as he was wont to say, is its own reward.

  CHAPTER 6

  ‘We have no choice, Abe, simply no choice. Every time he cocks up it’s costing us a fortune.’ The speaker, a tall, silver-haired man in his early fifties, threw up his hands in exasperation.

  The features of Kevin Kinloss were bark-hard, slanted and angular. He was a Scotsman by birth and, the irreverent might say, a Scotsman by nature.

  ‘I know, Kevin,’ said Klein, swivelling uneasily in his chair. ‘But I told you Tring is not interested at present. He’s the only man I believe can fill the void. Great scientists like him are gold dust. Anyway, I don’t think it’s just a case of throwing more money at him. He’s on a particular project at Parados and he wants to see it through. As you know, Jonathan is my best friend and if I can’t persuade him, then nobody can.’

  The Glaswegian stroked his angular jaw. ‘So it’s Bannister then,’ he said. ‘Temporarily.’

  ‘Until I can persuade Jonathan, yes.’

  The Scotsman’s grey eyes narrowed. ‘We won’t tell Bannister he’s on borrowed time. It’ll affect his performance. You know how much he wants to be medical director. We’ll let him assume he’s got the job permanently and we can let him go as soon as we find a suitable replacement, whether it’s Tring or no’.’

  Klein nodded. He knew his partner was right. That was why KleinKinloss was a success story. While he provided the scientific impetus, his associate looked after the business side of things. Hiring and firing was part of a game at which Kevin Kinloss excelled, although the duplicity of it all disturbed the American.

  ‘Right then,’ Kinloss said firmly, ‘it’s time to ring down the curtain on our Mr Sutton.’

  Abe Klein sighed as he moved his hand to the intercom buzzer on his right. ‘Maggie,’ he called to his secretary.

  ‘Yes, Mr Klein.’

  ‘Ask Derek Sutton to come into my office, will you please.’

  ‘I think he’s taking an extended lunch, sir. I, er, was with him at the Bull an hour ago. Shall I call him there…hang on a minute, he just passed my office door.’

  Klein and Kinloss could hear Maggie calling out. Then there were muffled voices and a scream. Within a few seconds there came a knock at the door of Klein’s office.

  ‘Lovely arse, that Maggie,’ the purple-nosed face at the doorway enthused. The familiar gold pince-nez lay at a peculiar angle across his hooked nose, giving him a somewhat palsied visage. Derek Sutton was clearly inebriated.

  ‘Come in, Derek, will you,’ Kinloss ordered with a smile as thin as mist. Klein knew that smile well. It usually presaged the kiss-of-death for some poor soul. ‘Take a seat,’ the dour Scotsman added, offering the scientist his own chair and moving to take up a position alongside his partner at the top of the table. Bad tidings were always easier to impart when the responsibility was shared.

  Sutton grinned like a Cheshire cat, wobbled unsteadily into the boardroom and half-fell into the vacant chair. Food stains on his t
weed jacket and slate-grey trousers added to his general dishevelment. ‘I’m shorry,’ he slurred, ‘over-indulged at lunch. Too mush wine in the Stroganoff.’ The medical director then broke into a fit of giggling.

  Kinloss cast a knowing glance towards his partner. Sutton was making it easier for them. It was faintly ridiculous to see such a renowned and respected scientist reduced to a barely coherent sop.

  ‘How long is it that you’ve been with us, Derek?’ Kinloss asked, already fully aware of the answer.

  ‘Sinsh the beginning, old boy,’ replied Sutton, beaming. ‘What would the company be without me, eh?’

  ‘Quite,’ replied Kinloss, his smile thin-lipped and mean. ‘And, of course, we are truly grateful for all your efforts, especially on Folitac.’

  ‘Thank you, Kevin,’ said Sutton, the veins of his florid complexion standing out like Danish Blue. ‘I appreciate your appreciation. I know you appreciate me. Everyone loves old Derek, hee-hee.’

  ‘Do you know who was the greatest heavyweight boxer of all time, Derek?’ the Scotsman asked suddenly. The change of tack took both Sutton and Klein by surprise.

  The scientist stroked his chin pensively. ‘I, er, don’t know mush about boxing, Kevin.’

  ‘Rocky Marciano. And do you know why?’

  Derek Sutton, already beginning to feel extremely queasy, shook his head. He was not in any state to indulge in a game of trivial pursuit.

  ‘He was the only one to retire undefeated, Derek.’

  Abe Klein looked at his partner knowingly. So that was it. If there had to be a coup-de-grace, then why not make it self-inflicted.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Sutton mumbled through his alcoholic haze.

  ‘No false comebacks for Rocky, Derek,’ explained the Scotsman. ‘Got out at the top and stayed out. That’s why he remains a legend.’

  ‘I still don’t know what you mean, Kevin,’ said Sutton somewhat disingenuously.

  The Scotsman’s voice suddenly mellowed. ‘Look, my friend, you’ve been going through a bit of a strain lately. Maybe it’s time to hang up those test tubes and take things easy. You deserve a rest. Early retirement at fifty-five is no disgrace.’

  ‘B-But I love my work, Kevin,’ Sutton quailed. He was already feeling quite faint.

  ‘Nevertheless, Abe and I feel that the company needs to move ahead and that the problems you’re suffering are preventing this. I’m sure you can see it from our point of view.’

  ‘But Kevin—’

  Kinloss held up his left palm and, with his right hand, withdrew a folded letter from his inside pocket. ‘I promise your golden handshake will not disappoint you, Derek. Just sign this.’

  Derek Sutton, totally enfeebled by his inadequacy and the alcohol with which he sought to combat it, accepted the letter meekly. He fumbled for his pen, signed the letter of resignation without reading it and promptly slumped into oblivion over the desk. A dribble of saliva meandered down onto the letter, which was lodged under his right cheek.

  Kevin Kinloss leant forward and delicately removed the piece of paper.

  ‘You didn’t have to make him resign, Kevin,’ Abe Klein said sadly.

  ‘Don’t worry, Abe,’ said the Scotsman firmly. ‘He’ll get his golden handshake. This just forestalls any complications that might arise in the future.’

  The American sighed. It had not been pretty to watch a ruthless tactician at work. At that moment Abe Klein was thankful that he was the majority shareholder of KleinKinloss.

  Barely forty miles south of the unassuming Cambridgeshire headquarters of KleinKinloss, the residence of John Albert Proctor stood out in the Essex village of Little Dunning like the Alamo. Its very size dwarfed even the lavish homes of the nouveau riche, the drug barons of East London who had moved there to acquire a semblance of respectability and, as an adjunct, to escape the prying eyes of the Metropolitan Police. The huge wrought-iron gates began opening as soon as Tring pulled his silver-grey Mercedes SLK to within a few feet of them. Woven into the gates was the word Parados, which Proctor had explained to him was an earthwork parapet thrown up behind a trench or other part of a fortified point to guard against attack or fire from the rear. The professor thought his boss’s choice of title for both his company and his home quite apt. Considering the range of forces lined up against him, Parados presented just as big a target for his competitors as they did for him. Thus to protect his rear was indeed prudent.

  The gravel road, flanked by ash and elm bedecked in fresh green shoots, seemed to wind interminably. Tring suddenly felt his stomach muscles tense. He was about to enter the wolf’s lair for the first time, although it had been the wolverine that had dominated his thoughts since their meeting a couple of weeks earlier. He had passed her in the corridor a couple of times since, and on each occasion had felt a little weak-kneed and giddy, feelings that he recognised as the first signs of infatuation. Her fleeting smiles had been nothing other than formal, and yet he convinced himself that the fire in those incredible feline eyes contained a spark of desire for him. It had been six months since he had last bedded a member of the fairer sex, and Sharon Proctor, wittingly or no, made the intensity of this abstinence almost unbearable.

  Thus it was with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation that Tring drew up outside the extraordinary Palladian edifice, its tall white columns boasting proudly that this was the home of people of substance. The seventeenth-century architecture of Inigo Jones did not come cheap. Harold Spencer had spoken of the magnificence of the house atop what he called the Palatine Hill, having once attended a party in honour of the development of a new drug. ‘I’d settle for just one of his minor works of art for a retirement gift,’ the clinician had joked, adding, ‘with my luck I won’t even get a gold watch.’

  Tring noted that alongside the conspicuous cream Rolls was ranged a number of cars of similar ilk, as well as lesser vehicles, including those of Henry Cartwright, the head of sales, and Philip Brown, the finance director. The one absentee from the company’s elite was Stanley Morris, the head of distribution, who had contrived to miss Jack Proctor’s fancy-dress birthday bash by taking a winter break in the Bahamas.

  Dressed as he was, Tring felt more than a little envious of his absent colleague. The professor felt faintly ridiculous in his eighteenth-century attire. From beneath his twenty-first century gabardine peeked a tightly fitting blue silk waistcoat. Frills and frothy lace sprouted at neck and wrists. When unencumbered by the overcoat, it would swing out over well-fitting knee breeches and the ghastly white tights that accentuated calf muscles set hard on the rugby field. In a box at Tring’s side were the obligatory powdered white wig and tricorne hat, and also a Venetian mask on a stick. It was made of the same sky-blue silk as his coat. The parcel of clothes had arrived by special courier at his home a week earlier, thus giving enough time to arrange replacements if they did not fit in accordance with the measurements he’d supplied to Jack Proctor’s secretary. Spencer had warned him that Proctor was a stickler for authenticity, and that his birthday parties were legendary. Previous bashes had seen the Wild West, The English Civil War and the Crusades visited upon this quiet corner of rural Essex.

  Two suitably attired footmen ushered Tring through the portals of Parados and into a lobby that would have done justice to the nobility. Expensive-looking portraits of bejewelled princesses and their uniformed beaux stared down at him from the walls adjoining a spiral staircase to his right. The furniture was Regency and he had little doubt it was the real stuff. The prisms of the massive crystal chandeliers were ablaze and the whole arena reeked of style. He was sure that while the pocket of Proctor was the bottomless pit for this extravagance, it was his wife who had dictated the decor. Everything about the place shrieked of an American besotted with an idea of British aristocracy.

  ‘This way, sir,’ said one of the footmen, pointing him in the direction of the cloakroom. Donning his wig and tricorne, Tring smiled sheepishly at a couple of other guests who were in various sta
ges of attire.

  ‘Do you feel as big a prick as I look?’ joked one fop, who was struggling to fit his wig over a shock of red hair. ‘I know it’s all good fun, but these things are so damn uncomfortable.’

  The professor smiled and preened himself again in the peach-tinted mirror. Not bad, he thought, straight out of the Age of Enlightenment. So was what greeted him a few moments later when, guided to it by the genteel sound of Purcell’s The Fairy Queen, he entered the ballroom. It was like a scene from Amadeus. At least fifty dandies and their partners were standing around, drinks in hands. Most of the women wore panniered evening gowns with low décolletage, and Tring could not help thinking how this apparel could make even the most meagre of breasts inviting. On the other hand, a powdered face might flatter a crone. Should he be fortunate to attract the attention of one of these masked courtesans, he intended to check the lines on her neck most thoroughly. Many of the female guests sported towering edifices of hair. The superstructures appeared to be glued to give the coiffures an aura of indestructibility.

  The babble emanating from the court flunkies almost drowned the music, which was being played somewhat forlornly by a small teahouse orchestra. To their right on the raised platform, the members of a more modern band were adjusting amplifiers and fiddling with guitars. This was more Tring’s kind of music. It looked like the party was going to be far from dull.

  The professor raised his mask frequently, using it like a pair of binoculars through which he could espy the multitude of wanton bosoms. It was unabashed voyeurism. As his grey-green eyes swept the assembly for the second time, he spotted the unmistakable figure of his host. The ungainly imperator, dressed as an absurd hybrid of the Doge of Venice and le Roi Soleil, surveyed his minions with smugness. He was the navel of their world, and therefore felt entitled to believe that ‘l'etat c'est moi.’ Proctor was seated on a dais around which his acolytes thronged. His fulsome robe was of golden cloth, as was his corno, the horned cap of office of those who had ruled the city of canals.