The Silent Sleep of the Dying (Eisenmenger-Flemming Forensic Mysteries) (15 page)

Frank had been considering these matters for a while and now he was beginning to wonder and, having wondered, he reached for the telephone and dialled Chief Inspector Lambert. He might, he reasoned, be totally wrong to incubate concern, but equally he might not. It would not do any harm, he reasoned, to pre-empt any possible fuss. If it came to nothing, then he was merely being over-zealous; if it blossomed into something, he would look really rather good.

Unfortunately Lambert was not there and Wharton took the call. Since he did not know her, he was at first reluctant to discuss the matter but she soon made it plain that he was not to be allowed a direct line to Lambert while she was around. Some people would have taken this as a message to piss off, but Frank was made of oilier stuff.

"I appreciate how busy he is," he said, then, "it's Beverley, isn't it?"

Her response suggested that whatever her name was, he was a prick. "Just what, precisely, do you want, Mr Cowper?"

Cowper's brain never stopped calculating advantages and disadvantages, whom to cultivate and whom to cut, when to speak and when to dismiss. Wharton was still unknown, but he had a feeling that she would be a good person to nurture. Accordingly he told her about the mix-up over the bodies, without
actually
implying anything. He also slipped in his vague disquiet about the autopsy report. The overall impression was one of a man just making sure that she knew what might, or might not, be going on.

Beverley Wharton thanked him. Her manner was polite but peremptory; she, too, saw no reason to make enemies unduly, especially so early in her time in this posting. In truth, she would have dismissed the whole thing as irrelevant and a waste of her time, but for the fact that Cowper had mentioned the solicitor's name.

Helena Flemming.

A name from Beverley's past.

She decided then two things; that she would like to look a little more closely into what may be going on with the body of Millicent Sweet, and that she would forget to mention it to Lambert.

*

Turner had arranged the meeting for seven o'clock in a theatre bar. His problem was that Siobhan had arranged that they should attend a dinner party.

"No, you're not. You're coming with me, as arranged. To the Gilberts'. It's been arranged for weeks."

Siobhan was a determined woman, an Irish streak lending her not only obstinacy but also stridency. She had big eyes, big lips and a big bust; Turner had decided when he met her that he liked bigness. Unfortunately, it appeared that the gene coding for the physical size of such attributes also coded for the size of temper. In their relatively short marriage it had led to not infrequent episodes of explosion interspersing the more intimate moments.

"I'm sorry, Siobhan. It's important." He heard his voice sound terse. God, how he wanted to tell just how important it was. He didn't know how much time he had left. He felt sure that he was getting the flu. He had woken in the night sweating. Sneaking to the bathroom he had taken his temperature and seen the numbers sneak up and up, eventually stopping at just over thirty-eight Celsius. The sight had left him weak, almost unable to move.

"Really important," he repeated.

"What do you mean? Why is it important? Who are you meeting?" Her voice was suspicious.

He didn't want to deceive her. He loved her, loved the intimacy that they shared, loved being married to her. He had come to marriage late and considered himself blessed to have found someone like her in his middle age. "I can't sav. It's confidential."

This paradigm of lameness temporarily discomforted her. "Confidential?" she said at last. "What does that mean?"

And he had been forced to shrug his shoulders, seeing anger flaring in her eyes and afraid that it would soon scald him. Yet she had seen something in this gesture and in his whole demeanour that checked her anger and turned it to concern. "Robin? What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

She put her hands on his shoulders, one of their private displays of love. "Please, Robin," she insisted, putting her head beside his. "I can see that there's a problem."

He smiled, an effect that was spoiled to destruction by his jittery behaviour and the wateriness of his eyes. "There isn't. It's just a meeting with … " the pause was brief but destructive of sincerity " … a potential sponsor. May be able to donate upwards of a million."

She knew it was a lie but fear stopped her from denouncing him. "What's his name?"

"I don't know," he said and, aware that it sounded pathetic, he continued. "It's Pel-Ebstein."

She frowned. "Didn't you used to work for them?"

He nodded. "Yes. That's how I've made the contact."

She knew that there was a lie somewhere in his words but her suspicions were tempered by the fear she could see within his words. He continued, "It shouldn't take too long, Siobhan. I'll join you at the Gilberts' a bit late, that's all."

She had reluctantly agreed, as he kissed her cheek and hugged her.

*

Feeling lousy, a discomfort growing in his chest, an ache in his limbs, Turner ordered a large gin and tonic, then sat at a table near the door of the theatre bar. The drink was gone quickly, another also proving transient. A third lasted longer, taking him past the appointed hour. It was only the fourth that produced company for Professor Turner.

The man that sat down opposite him was familiar, but he had by now consumed enough ethanol to be significantly slowed in his reactions.

"You." This vowel served as a greeting.

Rosenthal smiled. "Me," he agreed. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, the buckle hanging down to the ground. He wore leather gloves that he did not take off.

Belligerently, Turner pointed out, "I wanted to talk to Starling. Not you."

"You got me." Having disposed of that issue, he asked, "What's the problem?"

Turner found himself propelled by gin-soaked fear of what he suspected. He leaned across the table to put his face close to Rosenthal's. "Proteus, that's what."

Rosenthal could scent dread and trouble, and began to calculate likelihoods, but nothing of this reached his face. "You're shouting, Robin."

"Don't you call me Robin! To you, I'm Professor Turner."

Rosenthal's voice was monotonic, his face passive. "I'd forgotten that you'd been elevated."

Turner sneered. "Don't forget it. It's Professor now."

Rosenthal pointed out gently, "Perhaps you shouldn't forget who facilitated the chair."

Turner was too inebriated for a moment to react. "Perhaps you shouldn't forget what I know."

"Meaning?"

Turner coughed, finding that it hurt. The room was warm, but then it was full of people and the night was mild. Perhaps it meant nothing …

"Get me another drink," he ordered. Rosenthal nodded once, a look on his face that was inscrutable. When he brought back the drink, he said, "You're upset."

Turner looked at him in owlish disbelief. "Upset?" he demanded. "Upset? You can bloody bet I'm upset!"

"You're shouting again."

Turner had downed the drink in the time that it took for the four syllables to hit the air. He hissed at Rosenthal, "You think I'm shouting now? You wait 'till I've finished."

Turner's words were only confirmation of what Rosenthal had suspected ever since Turner's histrionic, voracious call. He could have abbreviated the conversation at any time, cut into the heart of Turner's bluster to ask what he was after, but he was keen to find out as much as he could about the circumstances of Turner's suspicions.

"Perhaps you could actually tell me what this is all about."

Turner looked as though he would have quite liked another bolus of ethanol, but he at last consented to divulge the source of his agitation. "You lied to me."

"About what?"

Turner reacted badly. His voice rose high and loud. "Don't, Rosenthal. Don't. If you want to play stupid games, I'm quite willing to oblige. Would you like me to start shouting here and now? Words like, 'Proteus,' perhaps? How about 'Pel-Ebstein Pharmaceuticals,' followed by 'The death of Millicent Sweet'?"

Rosenthal smiled, his hands raised in supplication. "Okay, okay. I get the message."

"No!" Turner contradicted. "I got the message. You lied to me. You told me the tests were negative."

Rosenthal judged it wiser to concede the point. "And you've discovered otherwise."

"Too bloody right I have! And suddenly I wonder how and why Millie died."

"Your conclusion?"

Turner's anger flared again. He leaned forward and poked his finger into Rosenthal's shoulder while a snarl distorted what he was saying. "My conclusion is that Proteus killed Millie, and that maybe I'm next. Maybe this cold, this flu or whatever it is, might just be the last sniffle I ever get."

Even while he was speaking and emphasizing the points with jabs he was aware that he was prodding something that didn't give, that Rosenthal's face was passive like a waiting lion's, and that his words were not threatening, certainly not to Rosenthal who had seen the worst of humanity's depravities. He was not a naturally aggressive man.

"What would like me to do about this situation?"

"Situation? Situation?" The volume was increasing again. "You call this a 'situation'?" There was an indistinct slur to the word, no matter how often he repeated it.

Rosenthal shrugged. In retrospect it was an error. Turner took it badly. His voice rose even higher. "Listen, you bastard! I want money. I want lots and lots of money. I want more money than I've ever thought it possible to own." He was attracting attention. Rosenthal ignored the glances of the increasingly numerous crowd. "And if you don't, I'll do a bit more shouting. To the papers, to the television, to whomever else would like to know."

Rosenthal made a decision then. He said quietly but earnestly, "Okay, okay." He looked around. "You've made your point. We obviously need to talk, but not here."

Turner stared at him. "You're just trying to put me off!"

"Not at all. It's clear that you have a grievance against us … "

Turner laughed. "Oh, that's good. A grievance. This is a
situation
and I have a
grievance
." Suddenly he lurched forward. "Did you take lessons in understatement?"

Rosenthal said only, "Would you like another drink?" He didn't actually wait for an answer. Turner asked as the glass was put in front of him, "Why?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why? Why did you do it? You should have told me." Rosenthal noticed again that Turner seemed to be taking a somewhat self-centred line on things.

"It wasn't my decision." Not the truth, certainly, but Rosenthal considered the truth to be a parallel universe rarely intercepting his own. "I'm sorry."

Turner's expression didn't exactly convey acceptance of this proffering, but he didn't react quite as violently as he might have. Rosenthal went on, "You clearly have not only a moral right to some form of compensation … " Turner nodded fiercely, "But also the means to enforce compensation."

"That's the least of what I'm owed. What we're all owed."

Rosenthal was smiling; Turner had calmed down. He could sense success. "Very well. But we can't negotiate here."

Turner was now distinctly drunk, "Where, then?"

Rosenthal stood. With a smile he suggested, "Somewhere private. Why don't I take you to Mr Starling? He's the one with the authority to give you what you want."

If Turner was suspicious, he failed to show it. As he stood, he was swaying noticeably. Rosenthal said, "I'd better drive."

"What about my car?"

"You can pick it up when we've finished." He walked out and Turner followed.

He led him out on to the street where his car was parked. Turner got in and Rosenthal drove off. He cut across the city, eventually ending up outside a multi-storey car park near the Medical School. He turned in with out pausing, driving straight to the top floor. Turner was dozing and it was only when the car stopped that he awoke and realized where he was.

"What's going on?"

"I've arranged for Mr Starling to meet us here."

Turner accepted this. They got out of the car and began to walk towards an impressive Mercedes in the far corner. It was dark and so impossible to see whether or not it was occupied. They were nearly at the car, walking side by side, before Turner's befuddlement cleared enough for him to realize that this was all slightly odd.

He paused in his stride, then turned to Rosenthal. "What's Starling doing up here, in a car park?"

The answer he received was not the one he expected. Without saying anything, Rosenthal grabbed the cloth of his jacket sleeve from behind — careful not to take flesh in his grip — first the left then the right. Before Turner knew what was happening he was being propelled forward, towards the edge of the car park. When they reached the metal fencing at the edge, Rosenthal released one hand, bent down, gripped Turner's ankle and upended him with insolent ease.

He turned away from the scream.

*