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  ‘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 chain-smoke 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 had 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 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 crowde
d 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.

  The torch found the source of the sound first, framing a wrist handcuffed to a rusty pipe. Its movements grew even more panicked, straining hopelessly to escape.

  As the light moved up the body, its head was suddenly averted and a muffled, fearing groaning joined the metallic scrape.

  But Mrs Pargeter had recognized the suit. She rushed forward to put a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Ank,’ she said. ‘It’s Truffler and me — Mrs Pargeter. We’ll get you out of this.’

  The face that turned in gratitude to hers was bisected by a thick strip of sticking plaster. Mrs Pargeter reached tentatively towards the corner and Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s eyes encouraged her to rip it off.

  This she did, in one quick, agonizing movement.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ he groaned. ‘Thank God. I never thought I was going to get out of here.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You can do the handcuffs, can’t you, Truffler?’

  The big man nodded and leaned forward, feeling in his pocket for another set of picklocks. He passed the torch to Mrs Pargeter, who needed no telling where to point it.

  ‘Hm, bracelets like these are always tricky,’ he said, as he riffled through the fan of tiny wires. ‘Don’t worry, though, Ank. Soon be free.’

  ‘Be as quick as you can. Won’t be long before they’re back.’

  ‘That’s the baby,’ Truffler murmured in relief as he felt a wire engage in the handcuffs lock.

  But just as h
e clicked it home, they all heard a loud clang from the doorway and turned to face a sudden blaze of powerful light.

  Though the torch was focused on them, light spilled out behind, and, distorted against the low, uneven walls of the cellar, they could see, grotesquely amplified, the shadow outline of the man who carried it.

  Stan the Stapler.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  They stood frozen like rabbits in the headlights of an oncoming Land-Rover. As her eyes accommodated the glare, Mrs Pargeter saw that in his other hand Stan the Stapler held a snub-nosed automatic pistol.

  She was astonished at the speed with which Truffler Mason moved. Projecting himself suddenly forward, he curled over into a ball, somersaulted, and scissored his legs around Stan the Stapler’s as his body straightened out. The torch went flying from Stan’s hand and Truffler reached up to seize the wrist that held the gun.

  A brief struggle ensued, before the weapon was wrenched free and sent scuttering away into the passage. Then Stan the Stapler was lifted high, immobilized from behind by the lock Truffler had on his arms. The thug gurgled in a grotesque parody of terrified speech.

  ‘Well done, Truffler!’ Mrs Pargeter congratulated in an excited whisper. ‘Brilliant!’

  But Ankle-Deep Arkwright didn’t seem to agree. ‘Let him go, you fool. He’s on our side.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stan’s been helping me. They were going to let me starve down here. He’s the one who’s been bringing me food.’

  Truffler wasn’t convinced. He didn’t release his hold. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Pargeter chipped in, ‘what do you mean? Stan hasn’t behaved in a very friendly way to me. There’s a long history there, anyway, between him and Mr Pargeter. Going right back to what happened in Streatham.’

  Stan the Stapler’s gurgles redoubled at the mention of the word, but Ankle-Deep Arkwright protested, ‘No, people got him all wrong over Streatham. Because Stan can’t talk, he never got the chance to explain what really happened. Yes, he thought Julian Embridge was OK — a lot of us did, Jack the Knife and all — and by the time we realized he was a bad ’un, your husband’d already been sent down. Led to a lot of misunderstandings for a lot of people, that did.’