Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh (16 page)

CHAPTER 32

Truffler Mason was waiting for her in the foyer when Mrs Pargeter got back to Greene's Hotel, and he had on his face that expression of incurable apathy which meant he was really excited about something.

'What is it?' she asked, instantly alert.

'It's something pretty good,' he said dispiritedly. 'Really very good actually.'

'Come to my room. I'll get some champagne sent up.'

Once they were ensconced in armchairs with full glasses in their hands, Truffler Mason told Mrs Pargeter that he had spent the previous night at Brotherton Hall.

'Not, I take it, as a guest?'

'Er, no. Not exactly. Thing was, I thought I might get some clues as to where Ankle-Deep Arkwright's been hiding himself.'

'Any luck?'

'No, not actually with him, but –'

'What about Stan the Stapler?' After what she'd heard from Jack the Knife, the whereabouts of the oddjob man had suddenly become important.

Truffler Mason looked a little aggrieved at not being able to conduct his narrative at his own pace. 'Well, I did see him, but I got some more important stuff, actually.'

'Yes, I'm sorry. I'm rushing you. You tell me exactly what happened.'

'Well, I got inside about midnight. There was nobody around then.'

'No, there wouldn't be. Early to bed, early to rise is part of the regime.'

'Right.'

And did you have any problem getting in?' Truffler gave one of his bleak looks which made her regret having asked the question. 'Sorry, sorry. Where did you start looking for Ank?'

'Started in his rooms. He's got a flat at the top of the east wing.'

'I know.'

'But no sign of him there. Doesn't look like he's been home for a few days. I did a quick search of the place, but I couldn't find anything.'

'What were you looking for?'

Again Truffler looked pained at having his narrative rushed.

'Sorry, sorry. Please go on.'

'So, anyway, I thought I'd check out his office downstairs.'

'Behind Reception?'

'Right. Went through all the filing cabinets and that, but I didn't find what I was looking for.'

With difficulty Mrs Pargeter restrained herself from asking once again what he had been looking for.

'But,' Truffler continued, timing his revelation with lugubrious eclat, 'he's got a safe. And it was in the safe.'

'What? What, for Heaven's sake?' Mrs Pargeter demanded in an agony of curiosity.

Truffler was still not to be hurried. 'From the time you brought me into this, I've been looking for something which would indisputably link Ankle-Deep Arkwright with Jenny Hargreaves.'

'And you've found it?'

The investigator nodded. Mrs Pargeter felt a pang of disappointment. Up until that moment she had been nursing the secret hope that some evidence would emerge to clear Ank, that he would be revealed as a victim rather than a perpetrator of whatever evil had been going on. Now, it seemed, that hope was destined to be crushed.

'What did you find?' she asked quietly.

'It's like a contract. There were two of them, actually, signed by different people, both female.' He took a folded paper out of his inside pocket. 'I photocopied the relevant one right there in the office, then put the original back into the safe.'

Mrs Pargeter took the proffered sheet. The agreement contained on it was not elaborate. In fact, it was not so much a contract as a disclaimer. The signatory agreed that, in consideration of the payment of five thousand pounds, she would participate in such dietary, medical, or exercise programmes as were recommended by the representatives of Brotherton Hall Leisure PLC or Lissum Laboratories; that her regime should be conducted under the medical supervision of a physician appointed by the said Brotherton Hall Leisure PLC or Lissum Laboratories; and that she was entering into this agreement entirely of her own free will and that, in the event of any adverse effects being caused by the recommended regimes, the signatory undertook not to make any legal claims against the said Brotherton Hall Leisure PLC or Lissum Laboratories.

'But surely this agreement's not legal,' Mrs Pargeter objected. 'I mean, it could be a licence for them to poison people without any fear of prosecution. That'd never stand up in a court of law.'

'No, I agree it wouldn't. But a legal-sounding document like this could well be enough to frighten into silence an impoverished student, who was breaking college regulations by even agreeing to take part in the programme.'

'Yes,' said Mrs Pargeter, her eye unwillingly drawn to the signature at the bottom of the sheet. 'Jenny Hargreaves' was written in a robust, rounded slightly childish hand.

The countersignature did not provide any comfort either. 'P.T Arkwright.' It matched exactly the signature on the impersonal letter of farewell she had received from the Brotherton Hall manager.

'Doesn't seem much doubt that he was involved, does there, Truffler?' Her surmise was confirmed by a mournful shake of his head. 'I hate to think what they made that poor girl take . . .'

'Whatever it was, it doesn't seem to have done her much good.'

'No.' The memory of the body on the trolley was once again vivid. For a moment a rare doubt came into Mrs Pargeter's mind. 'I wonder if this document is enough evidence . . .'

'Enough evidence for what?'

'Well, to prove that Ank was implicated in Jenny's death.'

'And if it was . . . ?'

'I suppose we could hand it over to the police and leave them to sort it out.'

'
To the police
?' Truffler echoed in disbelief. 'Are you feeling all right, Mrs Pargeter?'

'Well . . . No, I'm not. I suppose I'm rather put down by the thought of having to go after someone I like. I mean, I really thought Ankle-Deep Arkwright was one of my friends. It's horrible when friends let you down. When I think back to what happened in Streatham . . .'

Truffler Mason quickly shook her out of this uncharacteristic mood. 'This piece of paper isn't worth anything so far as the police are concerned. For a start, they aren't even aware that there's been a murder – assuming that there has. You forget, Mrs Pargeter, that so far as we know nobody has found Jenny Hargreaves' body.'

'That's true.'

'No, we've got to keep investigating Ank until we get the whole picture.'

'Did you go on looking for him at Brotherton Hall after you'd found the contract?'

'Not as things turned out, no. Actually, I'm pretty convinced he isn't there. I was going to check over the whole place – particularly the basement level . . .'

'Down by the Dead Sea Mud Baths?'

'Right. There's a whole network of other cellars down there.'

'Ideal place for someone to hide?'

'Or for someone to be hidden.'

'What do you mean?'

'I'm pretty sure that they may have some other people locked down there.'

'People like Jenny? Who they're testing drugs on or . . . ?'

He nodded. 'That's what I reckon. Remember – I found another contract apart from Jenny's. There may be even more we don't know about.'

'Yes,' said Mrs Pargeter grimly.

'I went down to the cellars last night.'

'And did you find anyone?' she asked breathlessly.

'No. I was . . . how shall I put it . . . interrupted.'

'Someone saw you?'

'Not quite. Close shave, though. I was down working on the cellar door with a picklock when I heard footsteps approaching. I hid back in the shadows and someone passed me and went through into the cellar.

'Who?'

'Stan the Stapler.'

'Ah,' said Mrs Pargeter, another residual chance of thinking the best of someone shattered. 'So he's back. You're sure he didn't see you?'

'Positive. But I thought it was too much of a risk to stay if he was wandering round the place, so I scarpered. One interesting thing, though . . .'

'What?'

'Stan was carrying a tray with covered dishes on it . . .'

'Oh.'

'Suggesting that there might be someone down there.'

'Hiding?'

'Possible, Mrs Pargeter. Though I think the other possibility is more likely.'

'Being kept down there against their will, you mean?'

'That's exactly what I mean, yes.' A new thought came to him. 'Oh, just remembered – there's one other important thing I found out, Mrs Pargeter.'

'What?'

'Lissum Laboratories.'

'Yes?'

'I spent the morning investigating Lissum Laboratories, finding out who owns them. It wasn't easy. They're held through a lot of different companies – in fact, I think there's little doubt that an elaborate chain has been set up deliberately to obscure who the real owner is.'

'But I assumed you managed to work your way through that chain?'

He nodded modestly. 'Yes.'

'So who is the ultimate owner?'

'
Mind Over Fatty Matter
. In other words, Sue Fisher.'

'Ah,' said Mrs Pargeter. 'Now that
is
interesting.'

CHAPTER 33

'I cannot think of anything I would enjoy more,' said Ellie Fenchurch when Mrs Pargeter tentatively made the proposal. 'I'd love to see that cow squirm.'

The journalist dropped everything the minute Mrs Pargeter's call came through. She deferred the long-set-up telephone chat with Madonna and cancelled the interview with J.D Salinger, who was at the time travelling incognito in England. Ellie Fenchurch had never had any doubt where her first loyalty lay. When she thought of all that the late Mr Pargeter had done for her . . .

Gary once again delivered them in front of the blanched
Mind Over Fatty Matter
headquarters. There was no delay; they were ushered immediately into the presence of the boss (no doubt known within the company as the 'senior co-worker'). Whatever Ellie had said on the phone when arranging the encounter, it had worked. Sue Fisher looked defensive, a rare posture for her, and one that she clearly wasn't enjoying.

She began with professional coolness, however, as if the meeting was nothing out of the ordinary. 'I gather there were a few details you wanted to check up on for your profile,
Ellie
.' She invested the name with poisonous gentility.

The journalist went straight for the throat. 'I don't think you'd want the details I'm after to appear on any profile,
Sue
.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Lissum Laboratories.'

They could see the name's impact on Sue Fisher's face in the split-second before she covered up. 'I'm afraid I still don't know what you're talking about.'

'Don't bother with all that,' Ellie Fenchurch snarled. 'We've traced the ownership. There's no question that you own Lissum Laboratories.'

'Well, what if I do?'

'There are things going on there that don't fit in very well with the squeaky-clean image of
Mind Over Fatty Matter
. Certain experiments are conducted at Lissum Laboratories that don't accord with the high-flown ethical principles you keep banging on about, Sue – or with those self-righteous little slogans which are plastered all over your products.'

'I'm sure that's not the case. I can guarantee that nothing being developed at Lissum Laboratories is tested on animals.'

'No,' Ellie agreed.

'Well, then, I don't see –'

'But some of it's tested on
humans
.' Sue Fisher seemed unable to think of an appropriate response to this, so Ellie went on. 'Now, I know in this country, that's very much a secondary consideration, way down in the scale of things. So long as beagles aren't being forced to chainsmoke and little pussycats aren't being injected with cancer cells, most people aren't that fussed about what happens to mere human beings. Mind you, I think if details of what has gone on under the Lissum Laboratories umbrella were published, you still might get a bit of reaction.'

Sue Fisher remained silent. Mrs Pargeter watched her closely. The woman was under attack, but by no means defeated. The formidable will that had built up the
Mind Over Fatty Matter
empire was not easily broken.

'I have very good lawyers,' Sue Fisher announced eventually. 'If you try to publish any such allegations, we'll take your paper for millions.'

'Even if I have detailed research to back up what I'm writing . . . ?'

Sue Fisher grinned, sensing a recovery of control. 'I said they were
very good
lawyers. They'll have injunctions out before your article hits the streets. And even if something did somehow creep out in print, they'd get you.'

'Even if what I'm printing happens to be the truth?'

Sue Fisher, now considerably more relaxed, laughed out loud. 'I didn't think you were that naive Ellie. We're talking about a libel case here – the truth doesn't come into it. My lawyers always get the results they're paid to get.'

The journalist nodded, accepting the inevitability of this, and Sue Fisher pressed forward her advantage. 'I would also like to point out that I serve on a government environmental committee with the owner of your newspaper, Lord Barsleigh. And that
Mind Over Fatty Matter
has put a great deal of money in the paper's Save the Rainforest Initiative. As you know, it's an issue about which Lord Barsleigh is particularly concerned – as anyone would be who is desperate to divert public attention from the number of trees which are cut down daily to provide the material on which his paper is printed.'

'What are you saying?'

'I'm saying if I were you, I wouldn't push my luck,
Ellie
.' Again the name was infused with saccharine venom. 'Lord Barsleigh might well be more willing to sacrifice one journalist than the
Mind Over Fatty Matter
investment.'

'I take your point.'

Sue Fisher stretched out her perfect body preeningly in her chair. 'So I don't really think what you're talking about poses that much of a threat to me or my company, do you?'

Ellie Fenchurch conceded the point. 'No, publicity about a few dodgy experiments in some far-flung department of your empire is hardly going to bring the whole edifice tumbling down, is it?'

'I'm so glad you understand that.'

'Oh yes. I mean, after all, what could I do – if I was lucky, find a couple of women who'd had an allergic reaction to some cosmetic they tested for Lissum Laboratories . . . ? And probably by the time I found them, the rash would have faded . . . Just be their word against yours, wouldn't it? And who's going to believe some disgruntled little housewife against the might of an institution as clean and as green as
Mind Over Fatty Matter
. . . ?'

'Precisely,' said Sue Fisher, her confidence flooding back.

'But it'd be rather different if someone were to
die
from the effects of some product they'd tested for you, wouldn't it?'

If Ellie had been expecting a reaction of appalled horror, she must have been disappointed. All she got was a light laugh and 'Yes, if that happened, the situation would be very different. Since it hasn't happened, I don't see that I really have a problem.'

To Mrs Pargeter, alert for signs of lying, the reaction appeared completely genuine. Sue Fisher did not know about the death which had taken place at Brotherton Hall, or if she did know of it she had no suspicions of its possible connection with drug-testing.

'It
has
happened . . .' said Ellie Fenchurch quietly.

'What!' The shock in this monosyllable confirmed Mrs Pargeter's conclusions.

'And a product developed at Lissum Laboratories was definitely implicated.'

The confidence in Ellie's tone belied her lack of proof, but it still had the effect of draining her opponent's confidence. Sue Fisher looked deeply shaken as she asked, 'What are you proposing to do about it?'

'Well . . . I'm not a vindictive person,' Ellie lied genially. 'I think we should come to an arrangement.'

'What kind of an arrangement.'

'An arrangement of mutual benefit. I agree not to publish any of the material I have on you – indeed, to keep
Mind Over Fatty Matter
's name out of any investigation that might emerge . . . in exchange for certain information.'

'Why should I give you further information? You aren't well known in journalistic circles for your discretion. How do I know you won't just print anything I tell you, in addition to the material you've already got?'

'Because I want to keep my job. You're right – if Lord Barsleigh was given the choice of losing me or losing the money you're putting into his righteous environmental endeavour . . . I'd be out, no question. My feet wouldn't touch the ground. On the other hand, if I was out . . . I'd have nothing to lose, so I'd get my findings published somewhere else – some environmental publication maybe . . . What's the name of that one that's always banging on about all the wonderful stuff your company's done to save the planet . . . ?'

Sue Fisher recognized the potency of the threat. 'You're saying that to keep you quiet I have to give you more potentially damaging information?'

'That's it.'

'But I could ruin you – don't you realise?'

'And I could ruin you. But neither of us wants to do that. In fact, it's in both of our interests not to do that.'

Sue Fisher nodded as she thought through the implications. She reached a decision. 'All right. What do you want to know?'

'I want a list of all the products currently in development and testing at Lissum Laboratories.'

Sue Fisher catalogued the required information in an unemotional voice. Ellie wrote the details down in shorthand.

There were few surprises. A set of variations on the theme of cosmetics and shampoos.

Only one item didn't fit. It was a drug treatment for slimming. Not only did it act as an appetite-suppressant, it also offered the possibility of changing the body's basic metabolism. Tests were at an early stage, but the treatment showed promising signs that it might be able to change an endomorph into an ectomorph.