‘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.
ELEVEN
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.’
