The Best of British Crime omnibus

by Andrew Garve

  ‘The report simply says they expect we’ll be announcing a development with one of our experimental projects. Probably the migraine drug. They must have been guessing, and got lucky.’

  ‘Won’t all the other papers want more information now?’ asked Dr Ricini.

  ‘Sure. So we’ll keep ’ em all guessing,’ said Hackle with a grin. ‘It’s stirring stuff. Should help the flotation no end. As a major shareholder you ought to be delighted, Stuart.’ It was a matter of record that his own shareholding was tiny when compared with the Research Director’s – or, for that matter, the holding of any of the other working directors.

  ‘There’s more at stake than a penny or two on the new shares.’ Still disconsolate, but his anger starting to abate, Bodlin dropped into an empty chair.

  ‘Of course there’s more than that at stake,’ Larden said, quickly following through on an improving situation. ‘But honestly, I don’t think we’ve lost anything except a bit of Professor Garside’s goodwill. And he’ll come round again. To be frank, I believe the paper he’s doing will be a lot stronger if he uses the data from the second clinical trial, even if it means a delay. Don’t you agree, Stuart?’

  Bodlin frowned before replying. ‘It’s possible,’ he acknowledged grudgingly, because the known facts confirmed it.

  ‘Oh, better than that, surely?’

  ‘All right. There are obvious advantages.’

  ‘In other words, except for an irritating newspaper leak, we’re in the same position as we were yesterday when we agreed, some of us with reservations,’ Larden paused to nod at Bodlin, ‘that a cautious, layman’s update on Seromig to the media would be timely and helpful in a number of ways.’ He leaned far back in his chair.

  ‘The same position as yesterday except Professor Garside’s going to take longer with a better documented paper,’ put in Mary Ricini. ‘And I have to say, Stuart, I’m going to be happier that he’s using the second trial report. The data so far is fantastic. Much better than from the first one.’

  The Research Director shifted in his chair. ‘The data so far,’ he repeated. ‘OK, if the timing doesn’t bother the rest of you, I’m sure it doesn’t me.’

  ‘Oh marvellous, Stuart. The patient sample in the second trial will be much bigger than the first too. And the weighting’s much heavier on preventive treatment,’ said Mary Ricini with enthusiasm.

  The scientific paper they were referring to had been promised by Professor Garside of Middlesex University – but only when he was satisfied he had enough clinical as well as pharmacological data on Seromig to draw firm conclusions on its usefulness. Garside was the leader in his field, and universally respected. Bodlin was right in believing that he was the perfect author of a paper that would dramatically improve the chances of the new drug gaining official approval when the formal application was made.

  ‘Mary’s right,’ Larden nodded. ‘On the timing, of course we’re working against the twenty-year calendar, as well as the competition. Remind me, someone, are we finishing the sixth or the seventh year since the company started on Seromig?’

  ‘It’s nearly seven years since we patented,’ said Mary Ricini. ‘We were a year ahead of the others then.’

  All present were aware that two other much larger drug companies were working on a migraine treatment, and on lines chemically similar to their own.

  ‘Seven years,’ repeated Larden. ‘Let’s hope we’re still a year ahead. The trial results coming through now are certainly exciting. Of course, we’ve known all along that when it came to clinical work we’d be governed by the nature of migraine.’

  ‘That it’s difficult to study,’ agreed the woman.

  ‘And how.’ Larden pushed the newspaper to one side. ‘It’s a pity migraine clinics aren’t like hospital wards.’

  ‘Instead of a cross between out-patients and casualty.’ This was Dr Ricini again. ‘With patients hardly ever available when they’re actually suffering an attack. That’s why treatment of acute attacks will always be hit or miss. Why Stuart’s belief in preventive treatment has to be right in logic.’ She leaned forward eagerly as she continued, her dark eyes alight as she pushed back a fold of jet black hair that had fallen becomingly across one cheek. ‘It’s why Stuart’s been on a winner from the start, however long it takes.’

  The Research Director shifted in his chair. ‘My premise hasn’t been justified yet, though. That’ll take more time.’

  In truth, the development of Seromig had been a good deal faster than that of most new drugs. After its pharmacological proving, it had been rigorously tested in animals for method and size of dosage, as well as for side-effects, and, to a degree, for effectiveness. Though you can’t give a monkey migraine, you can induce changes in an animal’s blood to match what happens in a human being during a migraine attack. You can then affect those changes with chemicals.

  Because migraine is such a common ailment, the first human tests with Seromig had later been carried out on a group of migraine sufferers recruited from Closter’s own staff, supervised by Mary Ricini. Afterwards, a series of outside clinical trials had been arranged through Dr Ricini with the medical chiefs of migraine treatment centres in different parts of the country. Even with the delay now expected over Professor Garside’s paper, the new drug was still ahead of schedule.

  ‘I have to get back to something in the lab,’ said Bodlin. This palpably invented reason for his leaving put an end to the remaining tension in the room. It was clear that he had decided to accept the situation even if he wasn’t totally condoning it.

  ‘Of course, Stuart,’ Larden responded, lifting an open palm as if in blessing. ‘And listen. Nothing’s lost. There’s everything to win yet. Seromig is going to put us on top. Like the flotation. The news conference will help in both causes. Believe me.’ He thrust himself forward in his chair with an expansive grin, his voice sounding a little too like a boxing manager’s before a not very promising bout.

  Bodlin gave a bleak smile, rose and made for the door, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of the long white jacket.

  ‘You don’t need me for anything more?’ This was Dr Ricini, getting up after Bodlin.

  ‘No. Thank you, Mary. Thank you very much.’ The repetition, together with Larden’s meaningful expression and the woman’s unspoken acknowledgement, recorded the special thanks due to her for her well-phrased contributions. They both knew that Bodlin enjoyed compliments rather more than most people.

  Less subtly, Hackle winked at Dr Ricini, and blew her a kiss. After the door had closed, he fell back in his chair with a sigh. ‘Well thank God that’s over without Bodlin actually chewing the carpet or climbing up the walls,’ he said. ‘You handled him beautifully.’

  ‘So did Mary. I wish you’d done the same.’

  ‘I thought I did my bit. Sorry. But you know I can’t stand prima donnas, especially male ones.’

  ‘Except that particular prima donna has the key to all our futures.’

  ‘All right, Bob. But I backed you over the news conference, didn’t I? Really, Bodlin’s such a creep. A brilliant creep, of course, but with no commercial sense at all.’ After his ten-year close working relationship with Larden, Hackle had earned the right – or thought he had – to be as open and critical about other colleagues as he chose. ‘Are you going to call Mark Treasure at the bank?’

  ‘I have. He isn’t back from lunch.’

  ‘Is the leak going to bother him?’

  ‘Was it a leak? An inspired guess, you said.’ His gaze held the other’s as he went on: ‘Yes, it’ll bother him.’

  ‘Not the medical aspect?’

  ‘No. Only the City one. He’s going to tell me again that the Stock Exchange gets very uptight over this sort of thing during the actual flotation period. He said that yesterday when he first heard about the news conference.’

  ‘We should have asked him, not told him. Except he might not have agreed.’

  Larden didn’t respond to the last comment. �
��About the actual conference,’ he said. ‘I’ve promised Mark we’ll just present the bare data from the clinical trial. That we’ll answer questions only with verifiable facts. No speculations.’ He leaned back, hands clenched behind his neck. Like Hackle, he was jacketless, with shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms – in his case somewhat flabby forearms. His stomach was protruding more than it should have been, too. He eyed the other man, conscious of their contrasting physiques and the difference in their ages.

  Larden’s gaze then moved to the picture of Jane, his second wife. They had been married two years. He consoled himself that it took more than physical attraction for a man to earn an enduring commitment from a woman like Jane. This was a sentiment that recurred frequently in his mind, and provided the reassurance he needed to combat a growing sense of sexual insecurity.

  He watched the Marketing Director gather up the documents he had brought for their original meeting. Hackle remained good at his job, he thought, so long as Bob Larden was around to programme him. That hadn’t applied so much in the past because it hadn’t been quite so true in the past. Hackle was too frivolous by half – too privately irresponsible, and he seemed to be growing less not more mature. If his personal finances hadn’t always been in such chaos, by now he might have been one of the major shareholders in the company, not one of the smallest. That point alone put a question mark over a lot of other things.

  ‘Treasure knows Bodlin was against telling the media anything until after the journal article?’ Hackle questioned.

  ‘Yes, because Bodlin made sure he did. He knows Giles Closter-Bennet was against it too.’

  Closter-Bennet was Finance Director of the company, the only remaining link with the founder, although that link was tenuous. He was not a direct descendant of Albert Closter. He had married Barbara, who was Albert’s only surviving granddaughter, and added her surname to his.

  ‘Closter-Bennet doesn’t rate with Treasure,’ Hackle offered dismissively. ‘And of course, if the journal article had come out last Monday as scheduled, we wouldn’t have needed a news conference.’ He rubbed the big muscle of one arm. ‘So, have you given any more thought to how soon you’ll become Chairman?’

  ‘Soon enough. I’ve told you we’ll need a direct line to a merchant bank for some time yet.’

  ‘You mean Treasure gives us extra advice and attention for a very small director’s fee?’

  Larden chuckled. ‘You could say that. His mind’s doubly concentrated, isn’t it? As the head of our bankers he has a hell of a lot riding on us still. But as our Chairman he’ll make sure the bank goes on indulging us if necessary.’

  ‘I just think it’d be better if we went forward the way we planned now. With you as Chairman.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that, Dermot.’ The words were meant to encourage, but they also indicated that the subject was closed. When Larden moved up to be Chairman, Hackle expected to become the Managing Director. Both men knew this, but Larden was the one who could make it happen. Larden lowered his gaze, pulled his chair up to the desk, and shuffled the papers on the blotter. ‘And you’ll be coping personally with the news media for the rest of today?’ he queried, on an evidently concluding note.

  ‘Any calls here from reporters are being redirected to the PR company,’ said Hackle, rising from his chair. ‘Penny Cordwright will keep the embargo till the conference tomorrow. Special queries she’ll refer to me for clearance.’

  Larden nodded, then frowned. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know if there really was a leak to the Standard.’

  ‘I don’t suppose so either,’ Hackle replied.

  But one of the two was lying.

  Chapter Three

  ‘I should make the effort and swim here every day,’ said Molly Treasure, putting her lipstick and compact away, and closing her handbag with a decisive snap to match her words.

  ‘I think you should too,’ said her husband.

  She glanced up sharply. ‘Why? Do I look that much in need of jacking up?’ she demanded.

  Molly was one of the most celebrated high comedy actresses on the London Stage, and much in demand. Slim, vital, patrician, and with an appearance arguably more striking than that of many reputedly more beautiful women (which was just as well since she was not a perfect beauty: to begin with her nose was too pronounced) – with all of this, the lady was definitely not in decline.

  ‘I meant you look terrific after a swim,’ Treasure explained lightly. ‘All of a glow, as they say in the Wrens.’

  Molly considered the comment, then gave a tiny sniff of satisfaction. ‘Thank you, darling. Swimming does give one a lift. Well, that’s all right then.’ She smoothed the top of the sleeveless, cotton shift dress with one hand, while picking up her glass of lemon juice with the other. Her one-week commitment to a lemon juice and salad diet was well into its twelfth hour.

  The two were seated in the atrium bar of the Fitness Club in the basement of Augustus Court, a big new block of flats close to their home in Chelsea’s Cheyne Walk. It was a relaxing place – stone flagged, fountained, furnished with pretty wrought iron chairs and tables, scented by exotic plants, and enlivened only by the muted chirpings of tropical birds: for the moment, they had the bar to themselves; there had been other members in the pool and the gym.

  Coming here together for exercise before dinner was a treat the two seldom enjoyed on a week-night. Treasure was rarely home early enough. Molly was too often appearing in the theatre. She had just finished a successful revival of Bernard Shaw’s Captain Brassbound’s Conversion. Because the run had been extended, it had clashed with some filming, also now completed, but the days had been long ones. Her next professional engagement was not for three weeks, and a period without working after months of hyperactivity was inducing a niggling sense of indolence and, even more illogically, those suspicions of approaching decay.

  ‘Did you read the script? The one that came this morning?’ Treasure asked, picking up his whisky: they both made sacrifices in the cause of healthy living, but doing without a single serious drink before dinner was not yet one of his.

  ‘The Ken Jago play? Yes, I read half of it this afternoon. Riveting first act. Then Jane Larden arrived. We spent ages debating over those fabrics. For the new covers in the big guest room. She’d been to so much trouble matching samples for me.’

  ‘Do we need new covers for the big guest room?’

  Molly smiled indulgently. ‘Not if you think the old orange ones will go well with the new pink wallpaper. You liked the paper when I showed it you. The fabric I chose for the covers isn’t made any more.’

  Life was too short for him to want to know why. ‘How was Jane?’

  ‘Oh, gorgeous, as usual. She sent love. I’ve definitely decided her red hair is natural.’ Molly gave the lemon juice a dubious look before taking a tentative sip. ‘It’s unfair to be quite that beautiful. Especially without taking pains.’ She made a sour face over the juice, or, perhaps, the pains involved in staying slim.

  ‘Beautiful if not all that bright.’

  ‘That’s not true. I think she’s very intelligent. And she’s really got a flair for interior design. Anyway she seems to make a fantastic living at it. Everyone’s using her. Including Barbara Closter-Bennet, by the way.’

  ‘Hmm. That must be a first for any designer.’

  ‘Quite. The house in … ?’

  ‘Later Burnlow,’ he provided.

  ‘Yes. Remember when we dined that time last year? It looked exactly as if it had been caught up in a 1939 time-warp.’

  ‘Was it Jane who told you she was making a fantastic living in design?’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious.’

  ‘I wonder. Her husband is certainly very successful.’

  ‘So are you, but it doesn’t stop me being the same. Some of the time,’ she ended a touch disconsolately.

  ‘That’s different. I’d guess Jane Larden is an interior designer not for the money but because— ’

  ‘She�
�d otherwise lack fulfilment. You’ve said that before,’ Molly interrupted. ‘Maybe they’ll have children. She’s only twenty-eight. Bob Larden’s not very old is he?’

  ‘Old enough to have two grown-up daughters by his first marriage. He’s fifty-four or -five. I don’t think he wants children.’

  ‘You may be right. About Jane not being happy. D’you think I should insist on paying her a fee for helping me with the guest room? It’s a very small job. I mean she volunteered when I mentioned I’d been let down over the fabric. It was at their house-warming party.’

  The Lardens had recently moved to a bigger house in Fulham, next door to Chelsea. This was a lot closer to central London than their previous place had been, and further away from the Closter factory twenty miles to the west, though the beginning of the M4 motorway was nearby.

  ‘Offer a fee by all means,’ said Treasure. ‘She probably won’t accept, but it might help with the fulfilment. I expect she’ll get a discount on the stuff she buys for you.’

  ‘I’d forgotten that.’ She stroked her long throat and glanced up at the blue sky through the Gothic glass roof sections of the atrium. ‘Did you see there was something in the paper today about Closter Drug?’

  He nodded. ‘There’ll be more at the weekend. There’s a news conference tomorrow.’

  ‘About the new cure for migraine?’

  ‘Yes. Ahead of an article in one of the medical journals on Monday. Bob Larden wants to be sure the news doesn’t get overlooked by the national media.’

  ‘Is it to help with the flotation?’

  Treasure pulled a face. ‘Indirectly it’s bound to.’

  ‘Touchy subject?’

  ‘Fairly.’

  ‘Is that because it’s not covered by the thingy?’ Molly wrinkled her nose. ‘The prospectus? So why did you approve a news conference? You’re Chairman of Closter aren’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t approve it.’

  ‘Oh. Another touchy subject?’

  ‘Not any more. Anyway, I’m going to be there. At the conference. It’ll be safer. If a bit like walking on eggs.’