by Andrew Garve
‘Was the new drug discovered by that sad little man? He was at the house-warming, but didn’t stay. Doctor Bottle?’
‘Bodlin. Yes. Brilliant chap.’ It was how everyone described Bodlin.
‘Bachelor. Looked as if he needed a good woman to smarten him up.’
‘I don’t believe Bodlin has much time for women.’
‘Well a good man then.’ She drank some more lemon juice as though she were enjoying it – or the self-deprivation involved in not having anything stronger. ‘And Bob didn’t find Doctor Bodlin? I mean he joined Closter Drug before Bob got there?’
‘Several years before. He was hired by the previous owners. They hoped he’d produce some pharmacological miracles.’
‘It seems he has. One at least. According to the Standard. So why did the previous owners take on Bob Larden? Bob and his macho lieutenant?’
‘Dermot Hackle?’
‘Yes. The one all the women fancy. But not as much as he fancies himself, I thought. Jane mentioned him today. Fair locks and lantern jawed. Would have made a wonderful matinée idol. Is he good at his job? He had us in fits with his imitations. At the party. D’ you remember?’
‘Vaguely. He and Bob are a team. Management and marketing. Yes, they’re good. As a team.’
‘I can’t remember, does Dermot Hackle have a glamorous wife too?’
‘A worthy but decidedly unglamorous one. You must have met her at the Lardens’, too.’
‘I do vaguely remember now. Mousy, nervous little thing is she? And they live in West Ealing? I hardly talked to her. I thought she was someone else’s wife.’
‘She’s slightly older than Dermot.’ Treasure shook his head. ‘And yes, very nervous. She told me all about her two young children. Twice.’
‘Will she be at the Savoy dinner next Thursday?’
‘I should think so. When she’ll probably tell me about them again. They’ll all be there, I expect.’
‘Not the children?’
‘No, the other directors, and their wives, or husbands, or whatever.’
‘Does Doctor Bodlin have a whatever?’
‘Yes. He’s an actor, I believe.’
‘Oh? What’s his name?’
‘No idea. Never met him, and he doesn’t show up at company events.’ He picked up some nuts from the dish on the table. ‘Bodlin usually escorts the lovely Doctor Ricini who doesn’t seem to have a regular chap.’
‘She’s divorced isn’t she?’
‘Yes. I believe Ricini’s her maiden name. Anyway, you’re coming still? To the dinner? It’s a chore, but they’ll appreciate it. I’ll appreciate it. You’ll be lionised, I expect.’
‘I’m looking forward to it. Not to being lionised,’ she added modestly. ‘To the excitement, I mean. Isn’t it the day when you’ll know if the flotation’s been a success?’
‘No, the day after. When trading starts in the new shares. When people who’ve bought them will know whether they’ve made a profit over the offer price of a hundred and ten pence.’
‘Doesn’t sound much.’
Treasure chuckled. ‘The Financial Times thinks it’s too much.’
‘What do they know?’
‘Rather more than you probably, darling. But thank you for the support.’
‘Presumably it’s all going to make Bob Larden very rich? What about handsome Dermot Hackle?’
‘Not very rich in his case. He had no capital to invest at the right time. Five years ago. And none since then, either, or so it appears. Hughie McFee, the Production Director, has the biggest stake after Bob. You haven’t met him yet. Nice Scotsman with a large, jolly wife. They weren’t at the Larden party. They’re very keen Scots. She’s on the organising committee of an annual one-day Scottish Festival where they live. In Maidenhead.’
‘Maidenhead?’
‘Mmm. Sort of mini Highland Games in the afternoon. Scottish dancing in the evening. On a meadow next to the McFees’ place.’
‘How unlikely. But how splendid. How do you know about it?’
‘Because some years ago she started sending us tickets at the office. Miss Gaunt used them, and she’s been going every year since. She likes Scottish dancing. It’s on a late Saturday in May. Quite soon, I suppose.’
‘Isn’t Maidenhead rather a long way for Miss Gaunt to go to a dance?’
Miss Gaunt, Treasure’s middle-aged secretary, lived in Islington, on the edge of Central London.
‘Oh, it’s quite an event. Beside the river. She goes with an older male cousin. The Gaunts were originally Scottish.’
‘Fancy,’ Molly shook her head, and tried – without real success – to picture a tartan-sashed Emily Gaunt with a kilted, elderly kinsman dancing an abandoned Strip the Willow on the banks of the River Thames. ‘Is Barbara Closter-Bennet involved in the reeling?’
‘Not unless they do it on horseback.’
‘But Later Burnlow is near Maidenhead.’
‘Close by. Remember, we decided it was a village with more stables than bedrooms?’
‘But the Closter-Bennets will be at the Savoy dinner on Thursday?’
‘Sure to be.’
‘Will the flotation have made them a lot of money?’
‘Nearly as much as the McFees. She’s fairly well off, although she complains to me at every opportunity about how little her family got for the company. That was thirteen years ago. When it was originally bought by Philer International.’
‘Is Giles Closter-Bennet good at his job?’
Treasure pouted for a moment, then replied. ‘He’s an adequate accountant, but an unspectacular Finance Director.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘It would if ever the company had to operate entirely on its own.’
‘Without advice from Grenwood, Phipps?’
‘Without our involvement in financial management. As for Giles, I think he’s run by his wife. I’m pretty sure she resents not heading up the company herself.’
‘Could she have done?’
‘She might. Her father controlled it, after all. She was originally against the flotation. She’s come round now, but reluctantly. It wouldn’t take much to alter her view again. Or rather her view as expressed through her husband.’
‘Was anyone else against the flotation?’
‘Yes. People who would have preferred it if we’d sold out to one of the big pharmaceutical manufacturers.’
‘Isn’t that rather unadventurous? And going backwards? Since Closter used to be owned by a big company?’
‘Which wasn’t in the drugs business. The situation’s rather different now.’
‘But won’t everyone be better off when Closter goes public?’
‘Not necessarily. Three or four of the international outfits have privately offered to buy Closter recently. At very fancy prices. Two directors besides Giles have been in favour of taking that route’
‘Who?’
‘Doctor Bodlin and Doctor Ricini. They’d have been well enough paid for their stakes in the company. Like the Closter-Bennets, they don’t really believe Closter’s big enough on its own to handle an important new drug like Seromig. Not world-wide.’
Molly nodded slowly. ‘So how does it handle things that have to be world-wide now?’
‘Through agents, or through licensing agreements with overseas manufacturers. It’s not as efficient as having Closter branches in other countries.’
‘But less expensive?’
‘For a one-product company certainly.’
‘The one product being Seromig?’
‘Will be. Provided nothing goes wrong with the remainder of the tests, and provided the Department of Health finally approves the product.’
‘But Closter makes lots of other drugs, surely?’
‘Yes, but nothing unique or exclusive. And nothing with serious international potential.’
‘So are Doctor Bodlin and the other two right? Should Closter have been sold to a big company?’
‘
Not according to Bob Larden. He’s convinced Seromig will make huge profits, which will pay for the development costs of the other new products in the pipeline, and eventually make Closter itself big and international.’
‘That sounds more exciting. Is he right?’
Treasure gave an optimistic grunt. ‘I hope so. It’s a business gamble, but an acceptable one.’
‘On Seromig being a success? Where does Dermot Hackle stand? You said he has no shares.’
‘Very few,’ Treasure corrected. ‘He supports Bob, but possibly only because Bob is too determined to be persuaded otherwise. More to the point, the bank goes along with Bob.’
‘Well I know Bob’s the big noise in the company, but it’s Doctor Bodlin who discovers the new drugs. If he doesn’t believe Closter is big enough, why does he stay?’
‘For several reasons. Seromig and the other new development formulas are patented in the company’s name not his.’
‘Is that fair?’
‘Entirely. He discovered them in company time, and he’s paid handsomely to do just that.’
‘So why didn’t he join a big company in the first place?’
‘Because eight years ago, when he was thirty-two, Closter offered him his present job, with a totally free hand. He liked the title of Research Director and the terms. At that time he was an unknown academic and wouldn’t have got either in a big company.’
‘But he’s changed his tune now?’
‘For responsible reasons, and perhaps for the added personal one that in the interim he’s acquired a successful track record. If he was in a big company now he’d no doubt be given a grand title and a free hand.’
‘And that can’t happen still?’
‘It could.’ He paused. ‘Once Closter becomes a public company, any of the major drug manufacturers could make a takeover bid for it. A predator would find it costly, of course. At Grenwood, Phipps we’re placing a substantial block of the shares with our main customers. After the flotation, they and the Closter directors will hold fifty-five per cent of the issued shares between them. They’ll be looking for income and long-term growth, not a quick resale for profit. Except at a very sexy price indeed.’
‘So anyone wanting to take over Closter would have to offer a lot more than a hundred and ten pence for the shares?’
‘I’ll say.’
‘If it happened though, would it mean that Closter directors would have to be talked into selling their shares?’
‘That’s a possible scenario. But not the likeliest.’ Treasure pulled a face. ‘No, I really can’t imagine a circumstance where all the directors would be ready to sell.’
‘But if there were a takeover, the Closter directors with the larger holdings who make big fortunes next week could make even bigger ones? Could be why they’ve held out against selling so far.’
‘Bob Larden, you mean? And Hughie McFee?’ Treasure chuckled, shaking his head. ‘I’m glad they can’t overhear this conversation. Darling, your imagination is running away with us. Must be the lemon juice. I really don’t believe anything dramatic is going to happen to Closter Drug. Other than a successful flotation, of course.’
But for once the banker was seriously wrong.
Chapter Four
‘Doctor Ricini, it says in the handout that preventive treatment of migraine’s been favoured in the past. That’s because treatment after an attack’s started is too late.’ The speaker was male, old and paunchy, with a persistent cough. He was ‘London Correspondent’ for several small provincial newspaper groups, which meant the food and drink he consumed at news conferences was usually worth more than he was paid for his reports. He was in the front row, balancing a glass of amber fluid on a folder of information from Closter Drug. ‘Is that the reason why Seromig is going to be a preventive treatment too?’
‘Not quite.’ Mary Ricini responded with a bright smile. She was in the left end chair, facing the audience, of the row of five behind the table. Next to her stood the wooden rostrum where she and a nervous Stuart Bodlin, now sitting beside her, had earlier made formal presentations. ‘Seromig could have gone either way. Preventive or acute treatment. It still could, in the sense it’s going to be a valuable therapy in both areas. As I said before,’ she went on, wishing the questioner had been listening more carefully the first time, ‘Seromig can provide quick relief at the start of an attack. Especially if injected, or given through a nasal inhaler. In one group of patients it arrested attacks in an average of twelve minutes. That’s fast, but perhaps not fast enough.’ She paused to gauge response to the premise, but there didn’t appear to be one. ‘In contrast, in two other groups of patients in the same trial series, Seromig in tablet form taken regularly over a two-year period eliminated migraine altogether in seventy-eight per cent of regular sufferers.’
‘So why aren’t you pushing it just as a long term treatment?’ asked a barely audible, drab young woman in the second row. She was from Tween magazine (advertised as ‘for girls in their teens who think over twenty’).
‘We’re not pushing Seromig. It hasn’t been marketed yet. When it is, it’ll only be available on prescription. We’ll detail it to doctors. Definitely no pushing,’ corrected Dermot Hackle, leaning forward with the devastating smile that was almost guaranteed to captivate impressionable women of all ages. He was seated at the other end of the table from Mary Ricini, next to Bob Larden. Treasure was in the centre.
On the wall beyond the directors a banner announced CLOSTER DRUG in red letters two feet high on a solid yellow background, while on either side there were portable display stands exhibiting promotion material, and packs of the company’s products.
‘I meant, why bother researching it for acute attacks if it’s so spot-on for the other,’ the Tween woman responded, blinking several times, and reddening slightly: one hand moved subconsciously to improve the arrangement of a single lank curl hanging over one of her ears.
‘Because although a regular daily dose of Seromig promises to eliminate migraine for most sufferers, we have to be certain that over the long term it won’t inhibit natural chemical processes in the blood.’ This was the woman Medical Director again. ‘Really it’s a matter of finding the right dosage.’
‘So it’s dangerous in the wrong dosage?’ Tween returned suspiciously and more loudly.
‘Not dangerous, except in massive overdose. But that applies to most drugs. Including aspirin.’ Bob Larden had taken the question. ‘As Doctor Bodlin explained earlier, Seromig is a synthesised variant of 5HT, a natural body substance. That’s the transmitter we believe triggers the headache in migraine by expanding the blood vessels. Seromig, chemically known to us as 5HT7, neutralises this painful effect by constricting the blood vessels. That’s the simplest explanation I can give you. But natural 5HT also has useful actions that we don’t want to cancel out while we stop the migraine with an antagonist.’
‘But the production of pain is a useful action too? A warning to the body, no?’ The question had come in a husky voice and a German-American accent from a stylish young woman in a black beret, worn coquettishly over straight, sculpted dark hair. She had risen to speak from behind the others. The beret was setting off a crisp, red and white check shirt loosely clasped with a wide black belt over tailored black trousers. The wearer had come in after the presentation had started, and wasn’t wearing one of the badge-stickers given out at the door: Treasure speculated that she probably worked for a fashion magazine.
‘To say pain is a warning is a relative truth.’ It was Larden who answered again. ‘But you wouldn’t get many migraine sufferers to accept it as just that.’
The reply brought a murmur of sympathetic approval, also a nasty coughing fit from the already florid ‘London Correspondent’.
‘And the clinical tests you haven’t published yet. Are they going to confirm that you’ve found the safe dosage for acute and prophylactic treatments?’ asked a donnish young man from The Times.
The Tween girl’s eyes
narrowed at the use of the word prophylactic.
‘Naturally our aim is to find the safe and correct dosage,’ said Dr Ricini carefully.
Most observers would have considered the attendance at the news conference to be disappointing – only a dozen reporters from the consumer press (the medical press hadn’t been invited), no photographers, a man from the Press Association, no one from BBC radio, one from commercial radio who had left early, and none from television.
Penny Cordwright was worried about how long she could expect to keep the Closter PR business after failing to stimulate a better showing than this. She was a big bossy woman with a flowered blouse, a loud voice and a frenetic manner. She was hovering near the door at the back, still on the lookout for latecomers.
In contrast, Mark Treasure was relieved at the poor turn-out. It was clear from the numbers and quality of those who had come – and, more to the point, those who hadn’t – that editors had not considered the occasion important. For reasons of his own, the banker supported their view.
The paucity of the attendance was also emphasised by the size of the room. It was on the first floor of the New Connaught Rooms in Great Queen Street – one of the biggest banqueting venues in London. By Connaught Rooms standards, the room was one of the smallest on offer, but would still have taken many times the number present for the advertised programme, which included drinks, a presentation followed by questions, then more drinks and a stand-up buffet lunch.
It was now after one o’clock. Treasure was hoping he could soon declare formal question time closed and the buffet open.
‘And migraine is caused by something in the blood not something in the brain?’ asked the earnest, middle-aged cookery correspondent from the Daily Gazette whose daughter suffered from migraine: she had come for that reason, and because the medical correspondent of the paper hadn’t been interested.
Stuart Bodlin cleared his throat. The others at the table looked to him expectantly. ‘Opinion is still divided on the root causes of migraine. Nobody knows the cause for sure,’ he uttered in a more confident tone than he had used at the rostrum. ‘But current thinking has veered to the idea that the aetiology is almost certainly vascular not neurological. Which applies equally to common migraine and to classic migraine with aura. That’s why we’ve been searching for a very restrictive vasoconstrictor.’