Lost Causes (8 page)

Melissa Carlisle’s expression could best be described as neutral, Steven thought, as she held the door open and gestured that he should come in. The fact that she kept her right hand on it suggested that she had no intention of shaking hands, so he stepped smartly inside and waited.

‘This way.’

He followed her into the drawing room and sat down on the chair that she indicated to him by way of a languid hand motion.

‘I don’t have much time. I’m leaving the country tomorrow.’

‘Holiday?’ Steven asked.

‘South Africa. A period of recovery.’

‘Ah yes, your sad loss.’

‘I’ve never heard of the Sci-Med Inspectorate, but I assume it’s John you’ve come here to discuss; the woman who
telephoned
me made it clear I didn’t have much choice in the matter. We get more like a police state every day. What is it this time? Ye gods, my poor husband isn’t cold in his grave. What exactly does the great voting public want now? His eyes?’

‘As I understand it, your husband committed suicide after making a fraudulent expenses claim over a property he didn’t actually own, and being found out,’ said Steven.

‘A complete misunderstanding.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ exclaimed Melissa, assuming an
expression
of wide-eyed disbelief.

‘As you don’t have much time, Mrs Carlisle, I though we should cut to the chase,’ said Steven, who had decided before coming that his only chance of success might be to go on the offensive. ‘I’m not interested in expenses claims. I’m not the press, and I am not under any obligation to report our
conversation
to anyone. What I need to know is just how a man of limited intellect, by all accounts, reached cabinet rank, received universal acclaim for the design of a revolutionary health scheme he didn’t actually design, and then plunged into obscurity before topping himself over a seedy little expenses fiddle.’

There was a long silence, during which Melissa stared at Steven unflinchingly. Just as he thought his gamble wasn’t going to pay off, she broke eye contact and said, ‘His suicide surprised me too. I didn’t think he’d have the balls.’

Steven remembered that Arthur Bleasdale had said much the same thing. It set off alarm bells, but he maintained an
expression
that indicated he was waiting for more.

‘Christ, I don’t know how he ever became a minister,’ said Melissa. ‘He was unbelievably thick.’

‘But he had the looks and the right accent,’ said Steven. Another gamble.

Melissa broke into a small smile. ‘You don’t mince words, do you, Dr Dunbar? But you’re right. It was something I learned too late. He was an empty shell, the mouthpiece of others.’

‘It’s the others I’m interested in,’ said Steven.

‘I don’t think I can help you there. I wasn’t privy to what arrangements he had. I was the dutiful little woman in the background, as befitted my role in the party.’

Steven smiled. ‘Does the name Charles French mean anything to you?’

‘He and John were at university together. John maintained they were friends but I could never see it.’

‘How so?’

‘I first met John when he was a young MP. He was
handsome
and charming and I fell for him. I suppose I just assumed he had ability, so I ignored certain warning signs, including the advice of my father who thought he was an idiot. Charles was introduced to me as one of John’s researchers but I got the impression that he lacked respect for John. He always had an air of quiet superiority about him.’

‘How did he feel about you?’

‘He seemed to like me. Encouraged the relationship between John and me.’

‘Saw you as a suitable wife?’

‘It could have been that.’

‘Do you think Charles French could have been the brains behind John?’

‘He was certainly much brighter than John,’ said Melissa, looking doubtful. ‘But he was young, the same age as John. He couldn’t have had any influence within the party, so I don’t see …’

‘Could he have been part of a larger, more influential group, d’you think?’

‘You know, I recently asked my father about that. Mistake. I thought he was going to have a heart attack. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry. Demanded to know what had made me ask.’

‘What did?’

‘John and I had a fight. I said some very cruel things. Told him exactly what I thought of him, and how the party were going to fling him out on his ear. He seemed to suggest they couldn’t because he “knew things” and “they” owed him.’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know. I was past caring by that time. I’d had enough of listening to his drivel. I stormed out and went home to my mother and father’s place.’

More alarm bells. Two people who knew him well didn’t think Carlisle had the balls to take his own life, and now the suggestion that he might have been considering some kind of blackmail. Steven asked, ‘I know it seems insensitive, but do you think I could see where John died?’

Melissa appeared taken aback but simply said, ‘I suppose so.’ She led the way through to the back of the house, where she donned a jacket before opening the door and crossing to the stable block. ‘I found him here, hanging from that beam.’ She pointed. ‘What exactly are you looking for?’

‘How he did it,’ replied Steven, deciding not to beat about the bush.

‘It’s not rocket science: even John managed it,’ said Melissa bitterly. ‘He tied the rope to that beam, looped it round his neck and jumped off. Look, I really don’t see the need for this. It’s positively macabre …’

‘Jumped off what?’ Steven interrupted.

‘The top rail of the stall, I suppose.’

‘Why the top rail?’

‘Because of the … height he was off the floor when I found him.’

‘Quite a gymnast.’

Melissa fell silent as she took Steven’s point. She examined the route her husband would have had to take to get onto the top rail of the stall, and thought about the physical ability it would have demanded. Then she shook her head.

‘Unless there was a stepladder …’ suggested Steven.

‘No,’ said Melissa. ‘No stepladders, no chairs, no boxes. Nothing. You think he was murdered, don’t you?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘But he left a note …’

They returned to the house. ‘Where do we go from here?’ asked Melissa, sounding very subdued.

‘In the circumstances, I suggest we do nothing for the moment. Go to South Africa for your “period of recovery”.’

Melissa nodded, and Steven sensed her relief, although her expression betrayed nothing. 

‘Apart from Charles French, do you remember anyone else who was around your husband at the time of the Northern Health Scheme?’

‘He was a minister. Lots of people.’

‘No inner circle?’

‘Paul Schreiber, I suppose. I think he was in charge of pharmaceuticals. And Gordon Field, the hospital manager.’

‘No one else?’

‘I’m not sure if you could call her inner circle, but a very unpleasant woman named Freeman kept popping up. She was the wife of a surgeon at the hospital but she behaved as if she had some kind of official position, although I never worked out what exactly. The others were very respectful towards her.’

‘Lady Antonia Freeman,’ said Steven.

‘That’s right. Do you know her?’

‘She’s dead. So is Charles French.’

Melissa swallowed. ‘I knew about Charles.’

‘These “things” that your husband said he knew. Are you absolutely sure you don’t know what he was referring to?’

‘Positive. He’d never mentioned anything like that before.’

‘Good.’

Melissa looked surprised, but then she understood. ‘You mean there are some things it’s better not to know?’

‘Enjoy your holiday.’

Steven left Markham House feeling satisfied with what he’d established. He called Jean Roberts from the car. ‘Jean, I need as much information as you can dig up on two people from the old Northern Health Scheme: Paul Schreiber and Gordon Field. Schreiber was concerned with the supply of medicines, and Field was the manager of College Hospital at the time.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, but—’

‘It was a long time ago. Yes, I know. Do your best. I also need more information about the people who died in Paris – not French or Freeman, the others.’

‘Very well. Have you heard how Sir John is?’

‘Not yet. I’ll let you know.’

First Steven called Charlie Malloy. ‘I know this isn’t your bag, Charlie, but I’m beginning to have doubts about John Carlisle’s suicide. Any chance of someone taking a discreet look at the circumstances surrounding it – and I mean discreet?’

‘You know, Dunbar, I’m beginning to wish you hadn’t come back,’ joked Malloy. ‘I’ll see what I can do. What exactly’s your problem with it?’

‘His jump-off point. According to his wife, his feet were about five feet off the ground. That meant he had to have come off the top rail of a horse stall. There was no chair or ladder around so he would have required considerable arm strength to get up there. If he’d been a fit Royal Marine, fair enough, but he wasn’t.’

‘I’m not sure how we could prove something like that now,’ said Malloy.

‘We couldn’t. So if nothing comes of your foraging maybe we’ll just keep it as our secret.’

‘Fair enough. Let’s both forget we just said that.’

Steven called the hospital and was told that John Macmillan was stable and comfortable. He had not been allowed to regain full consciousness yet. That would probably happen tomorrow. ‘Good luck, old son,’ he murmured as hung up.

Steven did not make much progress over the next three weeks. The information which Jean came up with on the Paris flat victims only served to confirm Charlie Malloy’s cursory
assessment
of them: two names in the business world, a merchant banker and a senior civil servant. None of them had a criminal record or had been associated with any scandal considered newsworthy by the press.

Paul Schreiber, however, had thrown up a more interesting CV. He had been head of a pharmaceutical company before being implicated in a price-fixing scam and forced to resign. He had remained as a major shareholder in the company, Lander Pharmaceuticals, with a big say in its running. He had been responsible for supplying the medicines requested by Charles French’s software. He had died in a fire along with a male nurse in the pharmacy department of College Hospital.

Gordon Field, the hospital manager, also had a bit of a shady past, having had some involvement with a dodgy PR company before reinventing himself in health care
administration
. Not much to go on, thought Steven, although Field, as far as he knew, was still alive … somewhere. A big plus in this investigation.

Carlisle, French, Freeman, Schreiber, Field … as fine a body of people as you could ever hope to meet, thought Steven. And the only thing on their mind had been the improvement of health services in the north-east. Not.

Charlie Malloy’s ‘discreet’ inquiry into Carlisle’s suicide had not come up with anything new either. The pathologist had been in no doubt that he’d died of a broken neck, sustained after falling a fair distance with a noose around his neck. How he had managed to get up high enough to achieve a drop of a ‘fair distance’ was not something that could now be
investigated
. People often managed feats of considerable strength under conditions of extreme stress, Malloy pointed out.

‘There was one thing that came up, though,’ he added. ‘The suicide note he left behind was typed – or rather printed. The signature was his but the letter hadn’t come from either of the two printers in Markham House. Not much, but
something
to bear in mind, I suppose.’

‘Thanks, Charlie. I appreciate it.’

While Steven hadn’t made much progress in the recent weeks, John Macmillan had. He’d been home now for four days and was reportedly in good spirits, although still very tired after the trauma of major surgery. His wife had noticed no worrying loss of mental faculty as yet, but it was still early days, and the mere fact that he recognised her was considered encouraging.

The national vaccine production agreement had also progressed. A quick government decision had been made on the tenders submitted and a manufacturer chosen. Merryman Pharmaceuticals, a company sited in the Midlands, would be tasked with providing the nation’s vaccine supplies. Steven felt a small twinge when he read this as it meant that his old company, Ultramed, must have failed in their bid. His regret was to turn to irritation, however, when Lionel Montague phoned him personally to complain.

‘Merryman must have known what our bid was,’ Montague fumed. ‘We pared our tender to the very bone and they still undercut us. We were even prepared to make a loss in the first year in order to get the contract.’

‘Maybe they did the same. Why are you telling me this, Lionel?’ said Steven. ‘I don’t know what your bid was, and I don’t know anything about the contract.’

‘You work for the government, and this is some kind of
government
stitch-up. They must have favoured the Merryman bid.’

‘Frankly, Lionel, that’s ridiculous. I don’t know the first thing about government contracts, but why would they do that? I’m sure they don’t care who makes the vaccines as long as they do it well and come up with them as quickly and as cheaply as possible. They’ve obviously given the contract to Merryman because they came up with the best package.’

‘You’ll never convince me of that.’

‘Then I won’t even try.’

‘I’m not going to let it rest here.’

Montague hung up, leaving Steven looking at the phone. ‘Thank you and good night, Mr Angry,’ he murmured.

On Friday afternoon he called Jean Roberts to say that he was planning to be away for a long weekend. He was driving up to Leicester that evening and then going on up to Scotland to see his daughter, leaving on Saturday morning. He’d come back on Monday.

‘A long drive,’ said Jean. ‘Is there anything you’d like me to do?’

‘The journalist who died up north, Jim Kincaid. Do you think you could see if he has any relatives still alive?’

‘Will do. Anything else?’

‘The manager at College Hospital – Gordon Field. Can you check if he’s still in that line of work – or even alive, for that matter?’

‘I’ll give it a go.’

‘Thanks, Jean. Now I understand why John thought … thinks so much of you.’

Jean laughed. ‘I didn’t realise he did.’

‘It’ll be the Scottish genes in him,’ said Steven. ‘Saying anything nice is a sign of weakness.’ 

As he put down the phone, Steven reflected on what Jean had said about the long drive. She was right. Tally was working this weekend, so she couldn’t come up to Scotland with him. It was time to get the Porsche back on the road. He called Stan Silver at the mews garage who said to give him a couple of hours.

‘I take it this means you’re back in the service of the nation?’ said Silver, who was working on the front brakes of a Saab convertible, spanner in hand, when Steven parked the Honda and walked towards him.

‘For the time being. My ex-boss has just had brain surgery, and I’m back holding the fort.’

‘Noble causes follow you around like a puppy, Steven,’ said Silver, lifting a brake caliper clear of the disc.

Steven didn’t respond. They’d known each other a long time. He valued the fact that Silver always said what was on his mind without considering first. Sometimes it didn’t make for easy listening.

‘She’s all gassed up and ready to go,’ he said now, nodding to where the Boxster was sitting.

‘We have to settle up first.’

‘Nothing to settle, mate. Band of brothers and all that.’

Steven nodded and smiled. ‘Thanks, Stan. I owe you.’

‘Try to look after it. Any plans for taking your motor across fields and through rivers like you usually end up doing, and I’d stick with the Honda if I were you.’

‘No such plans, Stan. Church on Sundays and running Tally to her French class.’

Steven started the Porsche and revelled in the sound. He took a last look at the staid, comfortable and utterly dependable Honda before smiling and spinning the wheels of the Boxster as he took off. He looked back to see Silver laughing and waving in the rear-view mirror.

* * *

‘I got the Porsche back,’ said Steven, not long after he’d arrived at Tally’s place. It was weighing on his mind.

‘I thought you might,’ said Tally, who had her back to him at the time, preparing dinner.

‘And?’ he asked tentatively.

Tally turned her head and smiled. ‘And nothing. It suits you.’

‘Have I told you lately that I love you?’

‘Not nearly enough.’

Steven put his arms round her waist from behind and kissed her on the side of her neck. ‘I love you, Tally Simmons.’

‘Of course you do. You’re hungry, and then you’ll want sex.’

‘Why do I get the feeling I can’t win?’

‘Because you can’t. Open the wine, will you?’

He told her about the call from Lionel Montague.

‘Silly man. Why call you?’

‘I guess he needed someone working for the government to yell at. What d’you know about Merryman?’

‘A perfectly reputable company. I see their name on quite a lot of things – more than I do Ultramed’s, if I’m honest.’

Steven nodded. ‘I guess he was just pissed off over losing the contract. It was such a big deal for him.’

‘And presumably for Merryman too,’ said Tally. ‘As long as someone starts making vaccines soon; that’s all I care about.’

The conversation moved on to Steven’s investigation and how he felt it was grinding to a halt. ‘I mean, I think John was right. There was something very fishy about the Northern Health Scheme and the forces behind Carlisle, but I can’t see how to make a twenty-year leap into anything that could be happening now.’

‘Well, the way things are going, you’ll be able to talk it over with John himself soon,’ said Tally.

‘You’re right,’ agreed Steven, finding something to smile about. ‘Against all the odds … So what’s been happening in your life?’

‘Apart from the usual skirmishes with them upstairs over money, not a lot. Although my sisters and I have decided on a home for Mum. She seemed to like it well enough, and it checks out as being well staffed, clean and comfortable. I still feel guilty, though. It’s an act of betrayal …’

‘Don’t,’ Steven soothed. ‘You’re doing the right thing. If we win the lottery we’ll move to a place in the country and have her come and live with us. This is only temporary.’

‘Idiot.’