Absolute Poison (2 page)

The
funereal weather and the discovery of another lonely death were more than enough to get a man down. But thoughts of ma and her “bargains” reminded Rafferty that he had yet another reason to be gloomy; one that had, like the weather, been getting him down since Christmas. Unfortunately, unlike the weather, the cause of the other low depression was going to require some input from him. And as he walked back down Mrs Pearson's path, dodging puddles as he went, Rafferty reflected that a solution was as far away as ever.

Needless to say, his family were at the root of his problem. When weren't they? he murmured. Without his knowledge, his ma had persuaded Llewellyn to buy one of her dubious “bargains”—a suit of quality as superior as its provenance and price were inferior. A suit which Rafferty had good reason to believe had formed part of an insurance fiddle by a tailor down on his luck.

Ignorant of both the suit's likely provenance and Ma Rafferty's back of the lorry bargain-hunting propensities, Llewellyn had snapped up the suit. And, as Rafferty had afterwards learned, intended its first outing to be on the occasion of his wedding to Rafferty's cousin, Maureen.

Rafferty climbed in the car and wondered again how he was going to dissuade the Welshman from wearing the suit without revealing it was bent; a task made no easier given the first-class quality of its tailoring and the Beau Brummel tendencies of his sergeant.

With anyone else, of course, this wouldn't be a problem. With anyone else all he'd need to do would be to have a discreet word. Not with Llewellyn though. Oh no, thought Rafferty. Nothing so simple. In fact, there was a distinct possibility that if he shared his suspicions the morally-upright Welshman would shop ma out of a sense of duty. Rafferty wished he didn't find it so easy to imagine Llewellyn explaining, quite kindly, that the law applied to everyone, even the mothers of detective inspectors.

Yet if he didn't tell Llewellyn, there was a good chance that someone at the wedding would admire the suit and ask Llewellyn where he had bought it. There were sure to be a fair number of their police colleagues at the reception and if one of them sniffed out the truth and it got back to Superintendent Bradley…But that possibility didn't bear thinking about.

It seemed a petty problem after the morning they'd had. But then, Rafferty had found that life was generally made up of an endless variety of such problems. Maybe it was the last in a long line of them that had prompted Dorothy Pearson to give up the struggle and bow out.

The unwitting catalyst of Rafferty's latest little poser climbed in the car beside him. After they had watched the mortuary van pull away, Llewellyn asked, “Back to the station, sir?”

Rafferty nodded absently and sank back into his thoughts. For the umpteenth time he'd tried to make ma see the error of her ways, but, as usual, his attempt had failed miserably.

“A suit's a suit,” she'd said. “One's much the same as another. Though, seeing as you made such a fuss about its lack of labels, you'll be happy to know I sewed a Marks and Spencer tag in it.”

“St Michael?” Rafferty quoted the name of the store's old garment label. “Patron Saint of Clothing? Oh well,” he had remarked tartly, “that's my mind put at rest. No danger of anybody mistaking it for dodgy gear while St Michael's on guard duty.”

“It's only doing Dafyd a favour, I was,” Ma had told him indignantly. “There's no need to get on your high horse. Sure and he'll have expense enough with this wedding without paying over the odds for a suit that Maureen's ma won't turn her nose up at. At least he'll have no worries on that score.”

“That'll be a comfort to him when he spends his honeymoon on remand in Costa Del Pentonville,”

“Pentonville?” his ma had snorted. “Don't be ridiculous. As if I'd sell Dafyd a suit likely to send him to prison.”

Rafferty had said no more, realising it was a waste of breath. Ma was incorrigible. She would never give up her love of ‘bargains’, policeman son or no policeman son. His only consolation was that, as the wedding date had yet to be settled, he had time on his side. Anxious to confirm this happy state of affairs still existed, Rafferty adopted a casual tone as he asked Llewellyn, “Named the day yet?”

Llewellyn didn't reply till he had negotiated the busy junction by Elmhurst mainline train station. Then he said, “It's not that simple. Maureen's a Catholic, like you. I'm a Methodist. And as my late father was a Methodist minister, my mother's sure to expect me to marry in that faith.”

Rafferty grinned. “You mean Ma hasn't managed to convert you to Catholocism yet?”

Llewellyn shook his head.

“Must be losing her touch. Of course, these days her mind's taken up with other things than our love lives. She can hardly put it to anything else but my niece, Gemma, and the prospect of becoming a great-grandma in the summer. I'd take advantage of that if I were you,” Rafferty teased, confident that the Welshamn's in-built dislike of haste would preclude him doing any such thing, “and fix up a quick register office wedding before she's back to normal.”

Rafferty said no more. But now he relaxed back against his seat happy that religious differences and Llewellyn's natural caution would ensure the wedding was a long way off. It meant he had plenty of time to resolve the problem of the groom's dodgy suit.

Clive Barstaple
laced his fingers under his chin and stared out at his open-plan kingdom through the glass of his office window. The Big Brother overview had been installed on his instructions so the staff would know they were under his constant scrutiny. Most of them were now so cowed, so scared of losing their jobs, that one frowning glance through that shiny screen was enough to pale even the ruddy features of Hal Gallagher.

His Kingdom. It might only be a temporary kingdom, but he still thought of it that way. His services as interim manager hired from his own consultancy firm which specialized in rationalization gave him that sense of potency, of power that he craved. He liked to watch all the little wage slaves, heads bowed, beavering away, knowing that his recommendation could secure their future—or ruin it. He'd put the fear of God into them all since his arrival three months ago. They were now all gratifyingly terrified that he'd think them slacking. Barstaple almost laughed out loud. The desire to laugh vanished abruptly, as, through his triumph, he heard the voice of his great-uncle in his head. It sounded sad and asked the question it always asked: “Why do you want to hurt them?”

It was a question he had never answered. He didn't answer it this time. Always, he had veered away from delving too deeply into his own soul for fear of what he might find.

Instead, he forced his thoughts into more fruitful lines; such as the wisdom of his decision to turn his management skills to the growing rationalization market and specialize. His was a relatively easy job—lucrative, too; his brief to do the dirty jobs, like getting rid of staff, for which the in-house managers often had little stomach.

It was a simple enough exercise, the methods crude but effective. He was good at it, too, skilful at the chipping away of confidence, the repeated criticisms, the finding of weaknesses and using them for his own purposes. But then, he'd had a good teacher. The best.

In short, his brief was to intimidate, harangue, humiliate, till staff either provided him with a reason to sack them or left of their own accord. Of course, if the timescale had been briefer, he'd have had to use even cruder methods. But Plumley had given him six months so he had time. And this way was so much more satisfying.

He caught the eye of Linda Luscombe, the nineteen-year-old blonde Head Office had sent over on work study from the local college and he gave her a proprietary smile as if he'd already possessed her. She flushed and dropped her gaze. Power was also an aphrodisiac, he'd discovered. It brought rewards in ways he had never fully appreciated. He was appreciating them now. Funny it had taken him so long. When he remembered what he'd had recourse to in the past…Again, he abruptly cut off the line of his thoughts.

She'd tried to pretend she didn't understand what he was after—and her with one illegitimate child already! Of course, when he'd made clear that the permanent post with the company when she'd finished college in the summer rested on his recommendation, she'd become much more anxious to please. After all, as he'd been at pains to make clear to all of them, jobs were hard to come by, for young women like Linda with unreliable child-minders as much as for the over-the-hill over-fifties. Most of them would find it out for themselves soon enough.

Of course they hated him. That didn't worry him. Let them hate, so long as they feared—wasn't it some Roman emperor who had coined the phrase? Whoever had coined it, Barstaple knew he'd been right.

He frowned and sent a minor tremor through the office before glancing at his watch. Nearly midday. Old Harris would be going to lunch any minute. Barstaple knew Harris had arranged to meet his wife in an attempt to patch up their marriage. Slowly, he unlaced his fingers; he intended to put a stop to that. It would never do to have the old dinosaur getting back to his wife just when he was on the point of cracking up and giving him an excuse to sack him.

Barstaple shouted Harris's name just as Harris headed for the door. “Come in here a minute.”

Harris hesitated, then, his face a mask of apprehension, he turned and walked to the office door, with a gait that had become increasingly shuffling over the months. “Yes, Mr Barstaple?”

“Come in here. I want a word.”

A quickly concealed dismay shadowed Harris's eyes, a touch of unexpected rebellion made him blurt out, “I was just going to lunch, sir, and…”

“What's more important?” Barstaple asked silkily. “Lunch or increasing the efficiency of the department? You seem to lack the team spirit, Harris. I've noticed that in you before. It's one of a number of things I've been meaning to discuss more fully with you and this seems an opportune moment.” He paused. “Still, if your lunchbreak is more important to you…” He let the words hang on the air.

Harris blinked. For a moment Barstaple thought the old fool was going to burst into tears, as his Adam's apple bounced like a yo-yo against the corrugated skin of his throat. But then Harris got a grip on himself. His stiffened features revealed how tight a grip his emotions needed. The tightened lips muttered, “No, sir. Of course not.”

Barstaple smiled. “So glad you can spare the Company a few minutes of your precious time. Come in and shut the door. We don't want to be disturbed, do we?”

Harris complied and then sank heavily onto the hard chair, his air of defeat robbing Barstaple of much of his satisfaction. Until he noticed that Harris's lowered eyes held a simmering resentment rather than defeat. That was much better. The almost dumb insolence from the usually meek Harris sent Barstaple's mind flying back years. Harris's face dissolved and instead, Barstaple found himself staring into the angry face of his father. He was again that small fearful boy, the boy his father had delighted in goading, in hurting. The face shimmered in front of suddenly tear-washed eyes. He blinked rapidly and when the tears had cleared, his father had gone and Harris's face was again before him, grey and anxious, and Barstaple felt a surge of relief swiftly followed by a desire to punish.

He decided to push Harris that little bit further. Who knew of what foolishness the man might be capable if he thought his last chance to patch up his marriage was being stolen from him?

It
was thirty minutes later, just after half-past-twelve, when Barstaple finally let Harris go. Long enough, he thought, for the estranged Mrs Harris to get good and mad at being stood up.

Harris, who had obviously come to the same conclusion, stood uncertainly in the middle of the open-plan office for fully ten seconds, before shuffling first to his desk and from there to the kitchen. He clutched a bag that probably contained the bland food, the milk and yoghurt that his ulcers demanded.

Barstaple remembered the large plate of peeled prawns he had waiting for him in the kitchen and his mouth watered in anticipation. They should have defrosted nicely by now. Shame he couldn't go to his usual restaurant for lunch, but he'd promised himself he'd lose a stone and there was no way he could do that if he carried on going to Luigi's every day. Besides, he thought as he glanced down at his lap-top, he wanted to get his report finished. It should do him a bit of good; maybe even earn him a fat bonus. If he continued as well as he'd started, he'd save Watts And Cutley a packet, especially as Plumley had had to tie his own hands to get Aimhurst's son to agree to the sale of the firm. And I'm the man with the golden key, he thought, the key to unlock those chains.

It was a few minutes later when he walked past the hunched figure of Harris. He was sitting at his desk sipping a glass of milk. Almost, Barstaple felt sorry for him, but he stopped that line of thought immediately. That way lay weakness. That way lay a return to the days of being a victim. He was resolved they would never come again.

He felt Harris's gaze follow him as he walked towards the kitchen; no doubt he was wondering what excuse he could give his wife and Barstaple smiled to himself. It was true what they said, he reflected, there was more than one way to skin a cat. More than one way, too, to get rid of unwanted employees…Now—lunch. As he glanced again at Harris's defeated figure, he knew he'd earned it.