Cry of the Needle

by Radford, Roger

  Tring smiled, despite himself. ‘How can I ever say no Jewish penicillin and gefilte fish, Abe?’

  ‘Friday, then,’ said the American.

  ‘You got it, Yank,’ replied Tring in his best mock New York.

  Jack Proctor was in mixed mood. His birthday party had been its usual glittering success. And so it damn well should have been. It had cost him enough. But then the dour Yorkshireman had always been prepared to entertain the troops, enjoying the homage engendered by wealth. Riches, however, could be ephemeral. If Parados did not grow, it would flounder or, worse still, be taken over. There could be vast profits in the pharmaceutical industry, which accounted for the many piranhas it attracted. Some of the big boys were already making overtures towards him. Sure, the money they were offering made the National Lottery look like a poor relation, but with a hundred million in the bank and no Parados, he knew he would be like a fish out of water. Jack Albert Proctor would rather go down with his ship than surrender the bridge. He was also enough of a realist to know that his good lady would desert that ship ahead of the rodents. Sharon had learned to love power more than money. She had demanded to be brought into the company soon after they married, and he had to admit she had proven a damn good businesswoman. He also knew that a woman as young and as beautiful as his wife was open to temptation. Potential seducers were legion and her chastity had had to be guarded, constantly and diligently. She never complained about his over-protectiveness, nor refused his advances, which admittedly had become less frequent with the years. Yet behind those steely eyes lurked a mystery that was as considerable as Southern hospitality.

  The chairman, chiding himself for daydreaming, suddenly leaned across his desk and pressed a button on the intercom. ‘Jonathan?’ he barked.

  There was a few seconds delay before the scientist’s tinny reply.

  ‘Come into my office, will you,’ Proctor boomed.

  ‘Right away, JP,’ Tring replied with a false brightness. The last thing he needed that morning was an interruption from his leader. He was due in the animal lab in five minutes and there were some rodents who needed his attention, particularly a couple of over-sexed rats.

  ‘When His Master’s Voice summons, one must but obey,’ Harold Spencer said resignedly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll mind the store.’

  ‘Thanks, Harold, I’ll meet you by the rat emporium in ten minutes. By the way, how do I look?’

  The Mancunian twiddled his bow tie, leaned back in his chair and carefully surveyed the white-coated professor. ‘From the neck down you look great.’

  ‘And from the neck up?’

  ‘You look like one of our rats just after he’s serviced a dozen females.’

  ‘That good, eh,’ said Tring while doing some mock tidying of his hair. Spencer would never know how close he was to the truth. ‘See you soon.’

  ‘Don’t forget to take your sleeping bag,’ Spencer called out as the professor shut the lab door behind him. ‘Nobody gets out of JP’s office in under an hour.’

  When Tring knocked on Proctor’s door he felt more than a little uneasy. He still had no clue how he had arrived home from the party, and yet he felt sure his boss must have been involved.

  ‘Sit down, dear boy,’ said his host, beaming. ‘Well, what did you think of your first Jack Proctor birthday party?’

  ‘Truly amazing,’ Tring replied honestly, ‘although I don’t quite remember all of it.’

  ‘Don’t I know it, my boy.’ Proctor’s jowls danced a jig as he guffawed.

  ‘You were so far gone I had to arrange for one of my friends to take you home.’

  ‘I hope I didn’t disgrace myself.’

  Proctor laughed again. ‘Oh, no, you put up very little resistance.’ The chairman’s tiny eyes narrowed and a sly grin cracked his ugly visage. ‘Did she?’ he asked with raised eyebrow.

  ‘Who do you mean?’ replied Tring disingenuously.

  ‘You know, the country bumpkin, the farmer’s daughter, my wife’s friend, Fiona.’

  The professor moved uneasily in his chair. Thankfully, Proctor appeared to be unaware of the sexual shenanigans that had taken place. ‘I’m afraid I only had a few dances with her.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s just as well.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sharon got a phone call from Fiona this morning. Apparently her company’s sending her to Hong Kong. Works in IT. Sales side. Wish she was working for us.’

  Tring felt deflated. He had wanted to see Fiona again, if only because the sex had been so great. He was also intrigued by her secretiveness. There was something about the girl’s vulnerability that appealed to him. ‘Pity,’ he said, ‘I didn’t even know her full name.’

  ‘Harrington. Fiona Harrington. Anyway, enough of girls,’ said Proctor with finality. ‘What about sex in the laboratory, how go the rats?’

  ‘I was about to try a new formula this morning,’ Tring replied. As a scientist, he could not afford to be maudlin about the fate of his laboratory animals. They were specially bred in carefully controlled environments, and the tests were important to discover which drugs were likely to be the most effective and safe when given to humans. Although the use of animals in laboratory experiments was controversial and generally undesirable, there was currently no other system that allowed the evaluation of new drugs with the same degree of reliability or acceptability to government health boards. The professor was currently undertaking a study on a new compound to determine whether or not it caused cancer or other serious toxicity and, most importantly, its effect on reproduction, or teratology. They were all constantly aware of the thalidomide and benoxaprofen disasters.

  ‘Good, good,’ Proctor enthused. ‘We all have the fullest confidence in you, Jonathan.’ The chairman’s mood suddenly turned more serious. ‘I need you to work your boys harder, lad.’

  Tring scratched his head defensively. ‘But some of them are already putting in sixteen-hour days, JP. There’s not much more they can do.’

  ‘How far are we away from trials on humans?’

  ‘Three, maybe four months,’ replied Tring, trying hard to cover the gnawing doubt in his mind. Small amounts of the new synthetic hormone would be administered in controlled circumstances to a few carefully selected and screened healthy volunteers. Then blood levels of drug, the excretion characteristics and any beneficial or unwanted effects would be monitored in order to evaluate the behaviour of the new drug in humans. It all took time and could not be rushed.

  ‘Then we have phase two trials followed by study of the risk-benefit ratio,’ the chairman went on. ‘And then we have to decide whether the whole thing’s worth further development, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And how much money has the project already cost us by then, Jonathan?’

  Tring shifted uncomfortably. ‘I don’t really know, JP, but it must be considerable.’

  ‘Hundreds of millions, Jonathan, and nobody can really understand the pressure that implies for me.’

  The scientist nodded. He could see that Proctor was hurting. There could be any number of reasons for discontinuation of a project: poor tolerability leading to a high number of side effects, formulation of the drug being unstable or unpalatable, little or no effectiveness, the cost of production outweighing the projected income, or, maybe, the drug being inferior to other compounds.

  ‘Then, as you know, we have large-scale clinical trials in hospitals and general practice,’ Proctor continued, ‘and only then can we apply for a product licence.’

  Tring was fully aware of the procedure. He’d been involved many times in the compilation and evaluation of data on thousands of treated subjects. He hated the preparation of the phases two and three reports that, together with all the pre-clinical data from animal and laboratory studies, were sent to the Department of Health’s Medicines Control Agency for evaluation by a team of experts. Usually, this evaluation took many months, even years, before a product licence was granted. Whoever tho
ught up the phrase ‘time is money’ must have had the pharmaceutical industry in mind.

  ‘What do you think of Parados, lad?’ Tring was nonplussed by the question.

  ‘You know, you’ve been here a while now,’ Proctor went on. ‘I value your opinion. What are your impressions?’

  Tring thought carefully before answering. He thought Parados had been an amazing success story, but he didn’t want to sound sycophantic. ‘I think you and Mrs Proctor run a tight ship,’ he said simply.

  Proctor’s gimlet eyes narrowed. ‘What if I told you the ship was floundering, the sharks were gathering and there was blood in the water.’

  ‘I’d say that maybe they’re underestimating you.’

  Tring’s comment forced a thin-lipped smile from the chairman. ‘Maybe, Jonathan, maybe, but the fact remains that Glaxo is putting out feelers.’ Proctor held up the palms of his hands. ‘This is strictly confidential, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The Yorkshireman swivelled out of his chair and waddled over to a model of the Parados headquarters that lay astride a large table. ‘I just had this delivered, lad. Do you know why I had it made?’

  Shaking his head, Tring joined his master at the table. The model was accurate, right down to the toy cars. A miniature cream Rolls dominated the parking bays.

  ‘I had this made to remind me of who I am and what I am. I had it made to remind me that without Parados I am nothing. I had it made to remind me that money alone can never mean as much as the creation and sustenance of this company. Can you understand that, lad?’

  ‘Yes, JP, I think I can,’ replied Tring, visibly moved by the chairman’s impassioned speech. Whatever antipathy Proctor’s physical attributes and gruffness engendered in others, there could no doubt the sincerity of his love for his company.

  The chairman leaned over the model and picked up the toy Rolls. ‘This means nothing to me without this,’ he said, gesturing towards the cardboard factory with his free hand. He then replaced the Rolls and returned to his chair. ‘Sit down, lad. Sit down. I haven’t finished yet.’

  Tring returned to his own chair unsure of where all this was leading. Although he was flattered that his chairman chose to trust him with information that, in truth, had been unnecessary to impart, the professor felt that there was a purpose to it.

  ‘You know, Jonathan,’ the safely ensconced Proctor went on, ‘at some point in their lives, most of the great leaders of our industry have had some tough times. What makes them great is that they don’t wait their entire lives for Christmas to come. Leaders don’t wait for someone else to change before they do. They act decisively. You know what I do when I feel under threat, lad?’

  Tring shook his head, wondering what pearl of wisdom was coming next.

  ‘I go out and buy, lad. While the bigger fish are looking to swallow me up, I look around for some minnows myself. That way I might get too large for the big boys and get stuck in their craw. You either eat or get eaten in this business.’

  Get to the point, thought Tring. His chairman’s pontificating was becoming irksome. Proctor’s eyes narrowed again until the pupils were barely discernible.

  ‘What do you know about KleinKinloss?’

  So that was it. Proctor was out to swallow up Abe’s company. ‘They make Folitac,’ said Tring unblinkingly.

  ‘And Folitac is a patch with a great reputation,’ stated Proctor with a smile that could freeze mustard.

  ‘And one great reputation deserves another.’ ‘Quite.’

  ‘So…’

  ‘So how well do you know Abe Klein?’

  Tring smiled thinly. ‘You already know that, JP.’

  The pit bull gave a sort of half-laugh, somewhere between a snigger and a snort. ‘Of course, lad, of course. I’ve done my homework. You two are pretty close.’

  Tring leaned forward. ‘He won’t sell, JP. You might as well forget it.’ Proctor sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his ample girth.

  ‘Every man has his price, as they say,’ he growled.

  ‘You don’t,’ said Tring, perhaps a little too boldly.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not, but we’re not talking about me. I’d like you to have a little chat with Mr Klein. I’m not asking you to compromise your friendship. Just find out his thoughts about the matter. No numbers yet. Just a tentative inquiry.’

  ‘He has a partner, JP.’

  ‘A junior partner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Kinloss is the smaller fish. He doesn’t interest me. When are you seeing Klein next?’

  ‘Friday night. I’m invited for supper.’

  Proctor smiled wistfully. ‘Ah, Jewish cooking. Nearly as good as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Enjoy your meal, lad, and let me know what happens.’

  Tring guessed by Proctor’s demeanour that his audience was over. He stood up and nodded to the chairman. So be it. Abe Klein wanted Jonathan Tring and Jack Proctor wanted Abe Klein. Business was business.

  It was just that he hated to be in the middle.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘How is it, Jonathan?’

  Tring’s wide smile said it all. Rachel Klein made the best chicken soup north of Watford.

  ‘Don’t ask rhetorical questions, darling,’ said the professor’s host, tapping his good lady on her ample bottom as she ladled some more of the broth into his plate. Abe Klein was never happier than when entertaining his best friend for a traditional Sabbath eve meal.

  ‘It’s good you’re staying overnight, Jon. I made cholent for tomorrow. Fancy some?’ Rachel playfully ignored her husband’s demand. She was a balabusta, a house-proud Yiddisher Momma from New York who doted on her spouse and their two children. Plain in looks and plain by nature, she gained complete fulfilment from her role of dutiful housewife and parent. Not for her the title of working mother, with latchkey children and a husband who thought homemade food came out of a packet.

  Tring sipped the stock, and its warmth was the same as he felt for this wonderful family. True, Rachel was a bit of a fusspot, but she had the knack of making a guest feel like the most important person in the world. And what’s more, it was genuine.

  The Englishman beamed. ‘Wild horses couldn’t drag me away from a plate of your cholent, Rachel,’

  ‘Enough talk,’ Abe Klein chimed in. ‘Eat, eat.’

  The younger Kleins, Warren and Rebecca, needed little encouragement. They were already halfway through the course. Tring could see that while his mother’s cooking would have little effect on ten-year-old Warren, who would probably grow up to be as dapper as his father, Rebecca was now showing signs at nine that she was destined for the fuller figure boutiques. The professor envied the children the warmth of their upbringing. Perhaps that was why he was so drawn to this family, because family was what they were, in every positive sense of the word.

  ‘Do you recall the time old Dalgleish cooked that haggis his uncle sent him from Scotland?’ Klein asked his guest with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Here we go again,’ said Rachel. ‘Do you two never tire of talking of Oxford?’

  ‘Charcoal on a bed of crispy rice,’ said Tring wistfully, as the memory resurrected itself from the treasure trove of university life. Perhaps that’s why Klein and he were so close. Friendships forged in student salad days often provided a bond that surpassed time and distance. Many old friends had drifted apart, but the mere mention of their names was enough to rekindle the fires of shared experiences. Oxford University had been a gothic time capsule that had been polishing minds and confounding outsiders in equal measure for eight hundred years. Thanks to a uniquely British blend of tradition, first-rate scholarship, and, often, inspired eccentricity, it was in every sense a place apart. Klein, a Rhodes scholar, had fallen in love with the place, never fully comprehending its mystique, or the fact that students were not required to attend lectures, did not receive grades, seldom studied anything outside their chosen subject, and took just three sets of exams during the course of thei
r college careers –‘one to get in and two to get out,’ as his English friend had put it. Both men had graduated spectacularly, with Tring preferring to continue in academia, while the American returned to Brooklyn.

  Within six months he was married and back in England. The Sceptred Isle, its habits and traditions, had proved too great a lure. Small-time posts with minor drugs firms had given way to a fervent desire to run his own company.

  A couple of years of steady success saw the need for an extra hand on the tiller. Abe had wanted to devote more of his time to research and development and needed an experienced businessman to guide the finances. Kevin Kinloss seemed to fit the bill. He knew little about pharmaceuticals, but was ruthless in business. That, plus a million pounds to buy in as a junior partner, and the marriage was made. So far it had been made in heaven, although Klein had never felt totally at ease with the Scotsman, who was fifteen years his senior. Theirs was strictly a formal relationship, a case of opposites that attracted, but only in the workplace.

  The diners continued their reminiscing until Rachel disappeared into the kitchen to attend to the dishes, and the kids into a bedroom to play with their computer. Despite the general bonhomie, Tring was keenly aware of the task that Proctor had set him. He felt a little like a Trojan horse.

  ‘You look a bit like Dalgleish’s haggis,’ said Klein, noting his friend’s sudden frown. ‘I hope that black look isn’t because of Rachel’s cooking.’

  Tring smiled uncomfortably. Unlike his mother, he was never much good at hiding his feelings. ‘No, no, the food was great as usual, Abe.’

  ‘Have another Drambuie. You know Kinloss swears by it.’

  Tring proffered his glass and then downed the whisky liqueur in one go. ‘Steady on, old chap,’ said Klein in mock posh English.

  His guest felt the warming liquid further release the inhibitors that had been plaguing him all evening. ‘Abe, there’s something I’ve been asked to ask you,’ he said at last.

  ‘Shoot,’ said the American, his hazel eyes bright with inquisitiveness.