‘That’s it.’
‘But I could ruin you — don’t you realize?’
‘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.
Back at Greene’s that evening Mrs Pargeter filled Truffler in on the day’s findings over more champagne.
‘That could be quite an important product,’ he announced mournfully after she had finished.
‘I’ll say. It’s the Holy Grail of the slimming industry. Anyone who could produce a safe drug that has that effect would just clean up.’
‘Yes, though it seems they haven’t yet.’
‘Haven’t what?’
‘Produced a safe drug.’
‘No.’ Mrs Pargeter once again was sobered by the recollection of the girl’s body on its trolley. She crowded the image out with new thoughts. ‘So it seems as if Ank is in it right up to his neck this time.’
‘Looks that way,’ Truffler agreed in deepest sympathy.
‘He put in the small ad, interviewed the students, got them to sign that spurious contract, and then… what? Do you reckon he actually administered the drug to them?’
‘Maybe he delegated that bit, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Hm?’
‘Remember, I saw Stan the Stapler taking a tray down to the cellars at Brotherton Hall. There were covers over the dishes. I don’t know what was underneath those covers.’
‘No. No… Good heavens, Truffler — are you suggesting that there might still be another guinea pig suffering the same appalling treatment at Brotherton Hall?’
‘There were two contracts, weren’t there?’
‘Yes. We must get back there, Truffler!’
‘That’s rather the conclusion I was coming towards, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘We must go there straight away! Maybe there’s another young life at risk. Come on, this is pressing business.’
Truffler let out a mirthless, bitter laugh. But then even his happiest laughs were mirthless and bitter. ‘Does me good to hear you say that, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘What?’
‘“Pressing business.” That was one of your husband’s favourite expressions. You must have picked it up from him.’
‘Suppose I must,’ said Mrs Pargeter, busying herself with getting handbag and coat together.
‘And of course we all — you know, the blokes who worked with Mr Pargeter — we all used that expression as a danger code.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, abstracted.
‘Well, if you was in trouble and you had to get a message to someone else in the organization… if you used the expression “pressing business”, they’d know what you meant.’
Mrs Pargeter froze, then suddenly started scrabbling through the contents of her handbag.
‘What’s up?’
‘I’m looking for a letter, Truffler.’ She located it and tugged the paper from its envelope. ‘This is what Ankle-Deep Arkwright left for me at Brotherton Hall. I thought it was just a form letter, but — look!’
She pointed to the line where ‘I’ve been called away on urgent business’ had been amended in longhand to ‘pressing business’.
Truffler Mason was suddenly pale. ‘My God!’ he breathed. ‘We must get down to Brotherton Hall as quickly as possible!’
Chapter Thirty-Four
It was not a suitable occasion to use Gary’s services. Secrecy was to be the keynote that night, and so no gleaming limousine drew up at the main doors of Brotherton Hall.
Truffler Mason parked his car in a quiet road outside the perimeter and led the way through a small gate into a wooded area through which the jogging track wound. But they encountered no ardent keep-fitters forcing their bodies to another circuit at that time of night. The ‘early to bed, early to rise’ regime guaranteed that all the health spa’s guests were safely tucked up in their beds dreaming guilty dreams of cream cakes and blissful lethargy.
But then it wasn’t the guests who worried Truffler and Mrs Pargeter.
They crept from the woods across a small area of lawn to the protection of the ornamental garden in which she had seen Stan the Stapler dragging the pond less than two weeks before. Hugging the shadow of a hedge, they sidled up to the building, homing in on a small delivery hatch Truffler had located on his previous visit.
This was locked, but his skills with a picklock were such that it opened as easily and quickly as if he’d had a key. He slid inside first to check the coast was clear, then ushered in Mrs Pargeter. She eased her considerable bulk gracefully through the narrow aperture, and was once again inside Brotherton Hall.
They had landed in a storeroom, stacked high with crates of mineral water. Its door to the rest of the house was locked, but this too only delayed Truffler a matter of seconds.
They found themselves in a narrow passage, dimly lit like the rest of Brotherton Hall, but carpeted in an ugly, rough cord which showed them to be in the staff rather than guest quarters.
‘I think we’re on a sort of mezzanine level,’ he murmured. ‘We can get to the cellars this way.’
Moving cautiously, with a noiselessness that belied his huge frame, Truffler led Mrs Pargeter along the sombre corridor, through a couple of doors from which shreds of green baize still hung, until they confronted a heavily studded door in oak.
‘This must be the way down,’ Truffler breathed in Mrs Pargeter’s ear.
She looked dubiously at the huge keyhole in its metal boxed casing. ‘Take more than a picklock to open that. You’ll need a hammer-drill or gelignite.’
‘Let’s see.’ Truffler leaned forward and grasped the door-handle. Tensing himself for the effort, he tried to turn the heavy metal ring.
It gave instantly and the door swung inward. He turned to Mrs Pargeter and, with a defeated wink, whispered, ‘An old trick, but it sometimes works — particularly when the door hasn’t been locked.’
It opened on to stone steps. There was no light ahead and chill, stale mausoleum air breathed against their faces.
‘Better close the door, Mrs Pargeter. Don’t want to leave more calling-cards than we have to.’
Truffler produced a pencil-torch from his inside pocket and directed its beam towards Mrs Pargeter’s elegantly shod feet on the worn stone steps. ‘Mind how you go,’ he said and gently pulled the oak door to behind them.
The network of cellars outlined in a fragmentary way by the tiny torchbeam was surprisingly extensive, running under most of Brotherton Hall’s ground-floor area. Side rooms spread off like fish-bones from the central spine of the passage they walked along. All had been used for storage at some period. In some the dusty detritus had lain undisturbed for centuries, but in others superseded models of exercise bicycles and other training impedimenta bespoke more recent use.
Their progress was slow, as the torchbeam probed each dark space in search of human signs, but suddenly Truffler froze and tapped Mrs Pargeter on the shoulder to still her too. They listened intently and both heard a tiny scrape of metal on metal.
He tapped her shoulder again and they moved towards the source of the sound. It emanated from a room whose relative lack of dust showed that it had been in recent use. As the beam of Truffler’s torch raked the walls, the scraping sound speeded up, almost to a frenetic level, as if someone or something was trying to escape its bonds.