Absolute Poison

by Evans, Geraldine

  According to DC Hanks, to whom Rafferty had allocated the job of checking, there were six Flowers in the phone book, and the same number on the electoral roll. Again, according to Hanks, none of them were dark, female or over sixty.

  Rafferty was pondering his next move and forcing an Alka-Seltzer down his throat when Llewellyn returned with the news that the two photo-fits that Rafferty had requested had been organised.

  “Better get the one of Mrs Flowers circulated as well now.” Rafferty advised Llewellyn of Hanks’ poor luck in connecting her with any of the locals of that name. Birmingham still had no answers. “Is Lilley in, do you know?”

  “He's in the CID room working of those lists of Barstaple's previous firms.”

  “Tell him I want to see him, will you? I want to find out how he's getting on.”

  Unfortunately, Lilley, young and keen, was no more able to speed up the time-consuming checking for Barstaple's old enemies than Llewellyn had been.

  Since setting himself up as an independent consultant, Barstaple had rarely stayed longer than three months with any one firm. This, of course, meant that the list of his possible enemies was long. It also meant that in between Barstaple rationalizing them in a previous job, and their possibly being taken on by Watts And Cutley or any of their subsidiaries, his would-be murderer could have married or changed their recognisability quotient in any number of ways.

  Barstaple wouldn't necessarily recognise an old adversary in any event. If his killer was employed in the head office and made a point of keeping his head down only visiting Aimhursts after checking that Barstaple was absent, he might not have had the opportunity.

  It wasn't even as if they could concentrate on those who had joined Watts And Cutley after Barstaple; it could be that his murderer had already been in post when he had been hired as their axe-wielding consultant. His hiring would undoubtedly bring with it a return of all the bitterness and resentment felt at the time of their rationalization at their old firm.

  Watts And Cutley's business interests were extremely diverse and their employees ran into the thousands. Checking them all out for possible past links with Barstaple would take forever. It was one of the reasons Rafferty had pulled Llewellyn off the job and given it to Lilley. Along with the lists and the visitors’ book, he had given him the instruction to do the job as quickly as he could, but most of all, to be thorough. That was exactly what he was being, Rafferty discovered. If only it wasn't so painfully slow.

  It was Friday evening and Llewellyn returned from getting the circulation of Mrs Flower's photo-fit organised to learn that forensic had finished at Aimhurst's offices and things were back to normal. Or at least as normal as they could be after a murder.

  Forensic had found little of interest. Admittedly, they had found fingerprints on the pot of hazelnut yoghurt in Barstaple's wastebin, but the only prints on it were those of the victim himself and his milkman. There were a few other, smudged ones, but they were insufficient to be of any value. Certainly, there were no matches with any of their more obvious suspects who had all been fingerprinted as a matter of course.

  Llewellyn consulted his watch and remarked, “It seems an ideal opportunity to put Albert Smith's hearing to the test. The staff won't start back to work till Monday and the cleaners won't have arrived, so we'll be able to stage the test under the same quiet conditions that would have applied just before the time of Barstaple's death.”

  Made wretched by the flu, Rafferty had forgotten all about this test, but now he rallied, stretched and stood up. “I wanted to have another word with Ada Collins, too, so we'll be able to kill two birds with one stone. Let's get over there.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When Rafferty and Llewellyn reached Aimhurst's offices it was about 5.45 pm. Rafferty had thought Albert Smith would be the only one there, but, as they walked up the side of the drive, having left the car on the road, he was surprised to see Marian Steadman through the reception window.

  She and Smith appeared to be having an argument. Their dark heads were thrust forward either side of the reception desk, and their waving hands made the same emphatic gestures. This silent, apparently mimed argument looked curiously comical. They reminded Rafferty of a particular bonus television zappers conferred; the ability to play the more pompous politicians in reverse so they looked like marionettes gone mad. It never failed to give him a good belly laugh. In her heyday, Maggie Thatcher had been a favourite for this treatment; she hadn't seemed nearly so formidable when she'd been zapped backwards through the cathode ray tube.

  Marian Steadman and Albert Smith were apparently so absorbed in their discussion that they didn't notice when Rafferty pressed the latest entry code on the number key by the front door and entered reception with Llewellyn just behind him.

  They heard Marian Steadman say, “I know very well you've been avoiding me. You can't deny you must have-” She broke off as Smith threw her a warning glance. The pair sprang apart guiltily and two pairs of dark eyes fastened on Rafferty with matching expressions of dismay.

  The two policemen exchanged bemused glances. What was that about? Rafferty wondered. The pair seemed—conspiratorial. It was the only word to describe their behaviour. Yet he couldn't imagine a more unlikely pair of conspirators. Marian Steadman's dark eyes were intelligent, warm, humorous. Smith's were none of these things; even his pepper and salt moustache had a downward cast as if it shared its owner's outlook on the world. Rafferty could only think Marian Steadman felt sorry for him.

  Marian Steaman was the first to recover her poise. “Hello, Inspector,” she said. “You startled me.” She made no attempt to explain the argument, which, to Rafferty, either pushed her intelligence up a notch or confirmed her innocence of any misdeed. “I thought you'd finished examining the offices.”

  “We have,” Rafferty confirmed. “Don't let us disturb you,” he added. They didn't take him up on his invitation. “We're just going upstairs for a minute.”

  Marian Steadman buttoned her coat and said, “I was just going, anyway. See you Monday, Albert. Have a nice weekend.” She bid them adieu and disappeared.

  Rafferty and Llewellyn rounded the bend and climbed the stairs to the first floor. They waited till, through the main office window, they saw Marian Steadman reach the forecourt entrance, turn right and head out of sight up the main road and then Llewellyn vanished into the gents’ toilet while Rafferty concealed himself behind the door of the open-plan office.

  He had no difficulty hearing Llewellyn's shout for help. Neither, it appeared, did Albert Smith. He came racing up the stairs, two at a time and burst into the lavatory, displaying a zeal for assisting the police that Rafferty found commendable. He only hoped it continued when they questioned him.

  “What's going on?” the security man demanded of the loitering Llewellyn when he found him apparently unharmed. “I thought someone was being murder-” He stopped abruptly. Then, belatedly realizing that there must be more to this than he understood, he tightened his lips and stared mulishly at Llewellyn.

  Rafferty popped his head round the door and commented, “I see there's nothing wrong with your hearing, Mr Smith. Perhaps you can explain why you didn't hear Clive Barstaple shout for help? I think he must have shouted, don't you? More than once, too. He must have been in agony, unable to help himself and desperate. Surely you heard him?”

  Rafferty's insistance that he must have done so made Smith surly and defensive. “Maybe he didn't shout at all,” he told them. “But even if he did, I didn't hear him. Got my rounds to do, haven't I? Must have done any shouting while I was at the other end of the building checking the place was secure.”

  It was plausible, Rafferty had to concede. Smith must be smarter than he looked. He had certainly come up with a defence quickly enough.

  “And what time, exactly, do you do your rounds, Mr Smith?” Llewellyn asked.

  Smith paused a moment before answering. Probably doing some swift mental arithmetic was Rafferty's suspicious conclu
sion. “Around half-five or just after.”

  “And how long would your rounds generally take?”

  Smith shifted his feet and scowled, but he admitted to 15 minutes.

  “Did you check in Barstaple's office at all?”

  Smith apparently now felt brave enough to scoff at Llewellyn's question. “Of course not. I knew he was still there, didn't I? Wouldn't have thanked me if I'd disturbed him.”

  “You know that for sure, do you, Mr Smith?” Llewellyn asked. “We understand Mr Barstaple had something of a reputation for being unpleasant. Had you had a run in with him at all?”

  A brief shadow passed across Smith's features and was as quickly gone. “No. No need. I do my job properly. I've had no complaints.”

  Llewellyn didn't pursue it. “What about the toilets? Did you check them?”

  Llewellyn's gaze was steady, unthreatening, but Smith avoided it. “No. The windows in there don't open. There was no point in checking them.”

  Rafferty raised an eyebrow, so much for Smith's claim that he did his job properly. Now he took over the questioning. “Surely you must have been instructed to check everywhere, particularly in view of the recent threats against the firm. Besides, you couldn't be sure one of our local hooligans hadn't smashed a window in one of the toilets. We had reports of a gang of youths causing trouble out this way that night.”

  “The windows are still there aren't they? Besides, I'd have heard it smash.”

  “Even if you were at the other end of the building? You can't be certain of that,” Rafferty insisted. “After all, you didn't hear Clive Barstaple shout.”

  “Glass is different. It makes a much sharper sound. The noise would have carried. Besides,” he repeated, “we none of us know that he did shout.”

  Rafferty was half-tempted to put Smith's theory to the test and smash a pane of glass at the rear of the premises. But the thought of explaining such vandalism to Bradley and Alistair Plumley made him forget the idea. Why court more problems? But there was one thing he could try smashing—Smith's claim to innocence. There was something decidely shifty in the man's manner. And once the security man had returned to his duties downstairs, Rafferty instructed Llewellyn to get back onto Guardian Security, Smith's employers, to see if they could tell them any more about the man than the basics they had so far supplied.

  Downstairs once more, they ignored Smith's sullen face and settled in the staff room to await the arrival of the cleaners.

  “I can't believe that Barstaple didn't make some attempt to get help,” Llewellyn commented as Rafferty studied the drinks machine and hunted in his pocket for change.

  “Nor me.” Rafferty broke off. “Oh good, they've got vegetable soup.” He hoped something warming in his stomach would persuade his bones to stop aching. “After all, Barstaple's phone was dangling over the edge of the desk so it seems likely he tried to summon outside help. Maybe that's because he'd given up on getting any of the other sort. He must have been in that lavatory for some time, far longer than the fifteen minutes that Smith claims his rounds take. Which leaves us with the probability that Smith did hear him, but chose to ignore him.” He gazed speculatively at Llewellyn. “Any ideas as to why?”

  Llewellyn hadn't. Rafferty turned back to the drinks machine, inserted his coins and made his selection. Nothing happened. He thumped the machine, but this brought no result either and he scowled. “Blasted thing. Bet you it won't give me my money back, either.”

  However, to his surprise, the machine proved more honest that most of its breed and regurgitated his coins once Llewellyn suggested he press the reject button. The noise of a vacuum cleaner starting up told him the cleaners had arrived earlier than he had expected and he decided to abandon the idea of soup. It was as well to quit while he was ahead.

  They went out to the reception area. At the desk, Albert Smith's head was determinedly bent over some papers. Rafferty ignored him. For the moment he had other things on his mind than the security guard's suspiciously selective deafness and he went in search of Ada Collins. Even if she had found Mrs Chakraburty no more chatty than he had, the Asian woman might have let slip something about her family to another woman. Dot Flowers had done so after all. Rafferty felt that if he could just find the two women who were presumably working illegally he might be in a position to eliminate them from the enquiry. There was enough to do without chasing around trying to find people who were probably guilty of nothing more than working off the books. Besides, with his body laid low with flu and half his mind occupied with personal problems, he was having trouble enough keeping on top of it all. On top of the enquiry was the last thing he felt.

  After walking round a mop and bucket wielded enthusiastically by Eric Penn on the reception area floor, Rafferty followed the noise of the electric cleaner to its source in one of the downstairs offices. It was there that he found Ada Collins.

  She switched off the cleaner as soon as she saw them. “I wondered if I'd see you again. Ross Arnold's been complaining you've scared off half his workers. I've even been able to get a pay rise out of him.” Her smile became conspiratorial. “You must have put the wind up him good and proper.”

  “All in the line of duty,” Rafferty told her. He propped himself on the edge of a desk, surprised that Ross Arnold hadn't yet staged his own disappearing act. Arnold's business must be even more lucrative than he had imagined.

  “About time somebody did,” she remarked. “The way he treats the likes of Eric and those poor Asian women is sinful.” She shrugged. “All right I know they're illegals and not supposed to be in the country, never mind working, but they're decent, hardworking people, most of them. You can't help feeling sorry for them. A few of the women I've worked with have told me they felt they had no chance of any kind of a life in their own countries, so they come here, hoping for better. Fat chance of that when they have to work for the likes of Arnold. Sad little things, some of them.”

  Rafferty nodded. He could imagine Ross Arnold would be the type to enjoy bullying people who couldn't fight back. “I gather Arnold had a few other people working here at the beginning of the contract.” He already knew about Anderson and now he questioned her about the others.

  “Not much I can tell you,” she said. “They came, worked a few days and then left.” Mrs Collins screwed up her forehead. “If I remember rightly there were three all told; two Asian women and one white chap. I haven't seen any of them since. None of them was much more than 30. Told me their first names and nothing else. Then Dot Flowers started shortly after the new year and we were more settled.”

  Curious, Rafferty asked, “Why do you choose to work for a man like Arnold?”

  She shrugged. “I just stayed on when he bought the business. Not one for change, me. Though I was surprised he let me stay, given the set-up he prefers. But I'm reliable, you see. I suppose that's what stopped him getting rid of me. With the illegals he employs, he can never be sure when they'll feel it necessary to move on and leave him shorthanded, so he has to have a few old faithfuls.”

  “Tell me about Mrs Chakraburty. You know she's disappeared?”

  Ada Collins nodded. “Ross Arnold told me I'd likely be getting another replacement. Can't say I'm surprised.”

  “Had you worked with her before?”

  “No. This was the first time. And the last, I imagine.

  Rafferty had hoped for more. “I take it then that you didn't know her well?”

  “I doubt anyone ever gets the chance to know her well. She hardly opened her mouth the few evenings she worked with me and just did what I directed her to do. And, of course, her English wasn't too good. Like all of them, she was between the devil and the deep blue sea. Although I didn't get to know her, I've known plenty of women like her. Men too, though it's mostly women I see. They all knew well enough that they had no rights. Knew they had to take whatever the likes of Ross Arnold dished out. They stuck it because they had no alternative.”

  “So you've no idea where she lived or w
hat her real name is?”

  “I'm afraid not. As I said, she didn't talk about herself. I barely knew the woman.”

  “What about Mrs Flowers? You told my sergeant you thought she was foreign. Do you think she was an illegal, too?”

  Ada Collins frowned. “I'm not sure. It was more an impression I had, as if she was somewhere else half the time.” She shrugged. “Most of them are. It was that more than anything that made me think she might be foreign. But I have to say that she spoke English as plain as you or me. Some of them do. Educated some of them and use this sort of work as a stopgap.”

  “Have you heard from her since she phoned you?” Llewellyn asked.

  She shook her head. “No. Not a word since last Friday night. Still, I expect with her son in hospital, she's got more to worry about than keeping Ross Grab-it-all Arnold sweet. Jobs like this are ten a penny. She can get another one easily enough when she comes back. There are no shortage of employers of Ross Arnold's stamp.” She paused and then added, “If she comes back, that is. She'll have heard of the murder here by now, so she may decide she can do without getting tangled up in it.”

  “We've contacted various hospitals in Birmingham,” Llewellyn butted in. “But none of them had admitted a male named Flowers. Of course, it's possible that's not his name, especially if Mrs Flowers is working here illegally and using a false name, but I wanted to check that you're sure she said Birmingham.”

  Rafferty hadn't considered that possibility and he looked sharply at Ada Collins. Her look of doubt didn't inspire confidence.

  She apologised. “I thought she said Birmingham, but now you mention it I can't be sure. It was a bad line,” she explained, “and I couldn't hear her all that well. It's not as if I thought it was important. It certainly began with a ‘B’ and ended with a ‘ham’ It's the bit in the middle I'm not sure of.”