The Spoilers

I

She lay on the bed in an abandoned attitude, oblivious of the big men crowding the room and making it appear even smaller than it was. She had been abandoned by life, and the big men were there to find out why, not out of natural curiosity but because it was their work. They were policemen.

Detective-Inspector Stephens ignored the body. He had given it a cursory glance and then turned his attention to the room, noting the cheap, rickety furniture and the threadbare carpet which was too small to hide dusty boards. There was no wardrobe and the girl’s few garments were scattered, some thrown casually over a chair-back and others on the floor by the side of the bed. The girl herself was naked, an empty shell. Death is not erotic.

Stephens picked up a sweater from the chair and was surprised at its opulent softness. He looked at the maker’s tab and frowned before handing it to Sergeant Ipsley. ‘She could afford good stuff. Any identification yet?’

‘Betts is talking to the landlady.’

Stephens knew the worth of that. The inhabitants of his manor did not talk freely to policemen. ‘He won’t get much. Just a name and that’ll be false, most likely. Seen the syringe?’

‘Couldn’t miss it, sir. Do you think it’s drugs?’

‘Could be.’ Stephens turned to an unpainted whitewood chest of drawers and pulled on a knob. The drawer opened an inch and then stuck. He smote it with the heel of his hand. ‘Any sign of the police surgeon yet?’

‘I’ll go and find out, sir.’

‘Don’t worry; he’ll come in his own sweet time.’ Stephens turned his head to the bed. ‘Besides, she’s not in too much of a hurry.’ He tugged at the drawer which stuck again. ‘Damn this confounded thing!’

A uniformed constable pushed open the door and closed it behind him. ‘Her name’s Hellier, sir — June Hellier. She’s been here a week — came last Wednesday.’

Stephens straightened. ‘That’s not much help, Betts. Have you seen her before on your beat?’

Betts looked towards the bed and shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘Was she previously known to the landlady?’

‘No, sir; she just came in off the street and said she wanted a room. She paid in advance.’

‘She wouldn’t have got in otherwise,’ said Ipsley. ‘I know this old besom here — nothing for nothing and not much for sixpence.’

‘Did she make any friends — acquaintances?’ asked Stephens. ‘Speak to anyone?’

‘Not that I can find out, sir. From all accounts she stuck in her room most of the time.’

A short man with an incipient pot belly pushed into the room. He walked over to the bed and put down his bag. ‘Sorry I’m late, Joe; this damned traffic gets worse every day.’

‘That’s all right, Doctor.’ Stephens turned to Betts again. ‘Have another prowl around and see what you can get.’ He joined the doctor at the foot of the bed and looked down at the body of the girl. ‘The usual thing — time of death and the reason therefore.’

Doctor Pomray glanced at him. ‘Foul play suspected?’

Stephens shrugged. ‘Not that I know of — yet.’ He indicated the syringe and the glass which lay on the bamboo bedside table. ‘Could be drugs; an overdose, maybe.’

Pomray bent down and sniffed delicately at the glass. There was a faint film of moisture at the bottom and he was just about to touch it when Stephens said, ‘I’d rather you didn’t, Doctor. I’d like to have it checked for dabs first.’

‘It doesn’t really matter,’ said Pomray. ‘She was an addict, of course. Look at her thighs. I just wanted to check what her particular poison was.’

Stephens had already seen the puncture marks and had drawn his own conclusions, but he said, ‘Could have been a diabetic.’

Pomray shook his head decisively. ‘A trace of phlebothrombosis together with skin sepsis — no doctor would allow that to happen to a diabetic patient.’ He bent down and squeezed the skin. ‘Incipient jaundice, too; that shows liver damage. I’d say it’s drug addiction with the usual lack of care in the injection. But we won’t really know until after the autopsy.’

‘All right, I’ll leave you to it.’ Stephens turned to Ipsley and said casually, ‘Will you open that drawer, Sergeant?’

‘Another thing,’ said Pomray. ‘She’s very much underweight for her height. That’s another sign.’ He gestured towards an ashtray overflowing untidily with cigarettestubs. ‘And she was a heavy smoker.’

Stephens watched Ipsley take the knob delicately between thumb and forefinger and pull open the drawer smoothly. He switched his gaze from the smug expression on Ipsley’s face, and said, ‘I’m a heavy smoker too, Doctor. That doesn’t mean much.’

‘It fills out the clinical picture,’ argued Pomray.

Stephens nodded. ‘I’d like to know if she died on that bed.’

Pomray looked surprised. ‘Any reason why she shouldn’t have?’

Stephens smiled slightly. ‘None at all; I’m just being careful.’

‘I’ll see what I can find,’ said Pomray.

There was not much in the drawer. A handbag, three stockings, a pair of panties due for the wash, a bunch of keys, a lipstick, a suspender-belt and a syringe with a broken needle. Stephens uncapped the lipstick case and looked inside it; the lipstick was worn right down and there was evidence that the girl had tried to dig out the last of the wax, which was confirmed by the discovery of a spent match with a reddened end caught in a crack of the drawer. Stephens, an expert on the interpretation of such minutiae, concluded that June Hellier had been destitute.

The panties had a couple of reddish-brown stains on the front, stains which were repeated on one of the stocking tops. It looked very much like dried blood and was probably the result of inexpert injection into the thigh. The key-ring contained three keys, one of which was a car ignition key. Stephens turned to Ipsley. ‘Nip down and see if the girl had a car.’

Another key fitted a suitcase which he found in a corner. It was a de-luxe elaborately fitted case of the type which Stephens had considered buying as a present for his wife — the idea had been rejected on the grounds of excessive expense. It contained nothing.

He could not find anything for the third key to fit so he turned his attention to the handbag, which was of finegrained leather. He was about to open it when Ipsley came back. ‘No car, sir.’

‘Indeed!’ Stephens pursed his lips. He snapped open the catch of the handbag and looked inside. Papers, tissues, another lipstick worn to a nubbin, three shillings and fourpence in coins and no paper money. ‘Listen carefully, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Good handbag, good suitcase, car key but no car, good clothes except the stockings which are cheap, gold lipstick case in drawer, Woolworth’s lipstick in bag — both worn out. What do you make of all that?’

‘Come down in the world, sir.’

Stephens nodded as he pushed at the few coins with his forefinger. He said abruptly. ‘Can you tell me if she was a virgin, Doctor?’

‘She wasn’t,’ said Pomray. ‘I’ve checked that.’

‘Maybe she was on the knock,’ offered Ipsley.

‘Possibly,’ said Stephens. ‘We can find out — if we have to.’

Pomray straightened. ‘She died on this bed all right; there’s the usual evidence. I’ve done all I can here. Is there anywhere I can wash?’

‘There’s a bathroom just along the hall,’ said Ipsley. ‘It’s not what I’d call hygienic, though.’

Stephens was sorting the few papers. ‘What did she die of, Doctor?’

‘I’d say an overdose of a drug — but what it was will have to wait for the autopsy.’

‘Accidental or deliberate?’ asked Stephens.

‘That will have to wait for the autopsy too,’ said Pomray. ‘If it was a really massive overdose then you can be pretty sure it was deliberate. An addict usually knows to a hair how much to take. If it’s not too much of an overdose then it could be accidental.’

‘If it’s deliberate then I have a choice between suicide and murder,’ said Stephens musingly.

‘I think you can safely cut out murder,’ said Pomray. ‘Addicts don’t like other people sticking needles into them.’ He shrugged. ‘And the suicide rate among addicts is high once they hit bottom.’

A small snorting noise came from Stephens as he made the discovery of a doctor’s appointment card. The name on it rang a bell somewhere in the recesses of his mind. ‘What do you know about Dr Nicholas Warren? Isn’t he a drug man?’

Pomray nodded. ‘So she was one of his girls, was she?’ he said with interest.

‘What kind of a doctor is he? Is he on the level?’

Pomray reacted with shock. ‘My God! Nick Warren’s reputation is as pure as the driven snow. He’s one of the top boys in the field. He’s no quack, if that’s what you mean.’

‘We get all kinds,’ said Stephens levelly. ‘As you know very well.’ He gave the card to Ipsley. ‘He’s not too far from here. See if you can get hold of him, Sergeant; we still haven’t any positive identification of the girl.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Ipsley, and made for the door.

‘And, Sergeant,’ called Stephens. ‘Don’t tell him the girl’s dead.’

Ipsley grinned. ‘I won’t.’

‘Now look here,’ said Pomray. ‘If you try to pressure Warren you’ll get a hell of a surprise. He’s a tough boy.’

‘I don’t like doctors who hand out drugs,’ said Stephens grimly.

‘You know damn-all about it,’ snapped Pomray. ‘And you won’t fault Nick Warren on medical ethics. If you go on that tack he’ll tie you up in knots.’

‘We’ll see. I’ve handled tough ones before.’

Pomray grinned suddenly. ‘I think I’ll stay and watch this. Warren knows as much — if not more — about drugs and drug addicts as anyone in the country. He’s a bit of a fanatic about it. I don’t think you’ll get much change out of him. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve cleaned up in this sewer of a bathroom.’

Stephens met Warren in the dimly lit hall outside the girl’s room, wanting to preserve the psychological advantage he had gained by not informing the doctor of the girl’s death. If he was surprised at the speed of Warren’s arrival he did not show it, but studied the man with professional detachment as he advanced up the hall.

Warren was a tall man with a sensitive yet curiously immobile face. In all his utterances he spoke thoughtfully, sometimes pausing for quite a long time before he answered. This gave Stephens the impression that Warren had not heard or was ignoring the question, but Warren always answered just as a repetition was on Stephens’s tongue. This deliberateness irritated Stephens, although he tried not to show it.

‘I’m glad you were able to come,’ he said. ‘We have a problem, Doctor. Do you know a young lady called June Hellier?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Warren, economically.

Stephens waited expectantly for Warren to elaborate, but Warren merely looked at him. Swallowing annoyance, he said, ‘Is she one of your patients?’

‘Yes,’ said Warren.

‘What were you treating her for, Doctor?’

There was a long pause before Warren said, ‘That is a matter of patient-doctor relationship which I don’t care to go into.’

Stephens felt Pomray stir behind him. He said stiffly, ‘This is a police matter, Doctor.’

Again Warren paused, holding Stephens’s eye with a level stare. At last he said, ‘I suggest that if Miss Hellier needs treatment we are wasting time standing here.’

‘She will not be requiring treatment,’ said Stephens flatly.

Again Pomray stirred. ‘She’s dead, Nick.’

‘I see,’ said Warren. He seemed indifferent.

Stephens was irritated at Pomray’s interjection, but more interested in Warren’s lack of reaction. ‘You don’t seem surprised, Doctor.’

‘I’m not,’ said Warren briefly.

‘You were supplying her with drugs?’

‘I have prescribed for her — in the past.’

‘What drugs?’

‘Heroin.’

‘Was that necessary?’

Warren was as immobile as ever, but there was a flinty look in his eye as he said, ‘I don’t propose to discuss the medical treatment of any of my patients with a layman.’

A surge of anger surfaced in Stephens. ‘But you are not surprised at her death. Was she a dying woman? A terminal case?’

Warren looked at Stephens consideringly, and said, ‘The death rate among drug addicts is about twenty-eight times that of the general population. That is why I am not surprised at her death.’

‘She was a heroin addict?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you have supplied her with heroin?’

‘I have.’

‘I see,’ said Stephens with finality. He glanced at Pomray, then turned back to Warren. ‘I don’t know that I like that.’

‘I don’t care whether you like it or not,’ said Warren equably. ‘May I see my patient — you’ll be wanting a death certificate. It had better come from me.’

Of all the bloody nerve, thought Stephens. He turned abruptly and threw open the door of the bedroom. ‘In there,’ he said curtly.

Warren walked past him into the room, followed closely by Pomray. Stephens jerked his head at Sergeant Ipsley, indicating that he should leave, then closed the door behind him. When he strode to the bed Warren and Pomray were already in the midst of a conversation of which he understood about one word in four.

The sheet with which Pomray had draped the body was drawn back to reveal again the naked body of June Hellier. Stephens butted in. ‘Dr Warren: I suggested to Dr Pomray that perhaps this girl was a diabetic, because of those puncture marks. He said there was sepsis and that no doctor would allow that to happen to his patient. This girl was your patient. How do you account for it?’

Warren looked at Pomray and there was a faint twitch about his mouth that might have been a smile. ‘I don’t have to account for it,’ he said. ‘But I will. The circumstances of the injection of an anti-diabetic drug are quite different from those attendant on heroin. The social ambience is different and there is often an element of haste which can result in sepsis.’

In an aside to Pomray he said, ‘I taught her how to use a needle but, as you know, they don’t take much notice of the need for cleanliness.’

Stephens was affronted. ‘You taught her how to use a needle! By God, you make a curious use of ethics!’

Warren looked at him levelly and said with the utmost deliberation, ‘Inspector, any doubts you have about my ethics should be communicated to the appropriate authority, and if you don’t know what it is I shall be happy to supply you with the address.’

The way he turned from Stephens was almost an insult. He said to Pomray, ‘I’ll sign the certificate together with the pathologist. It will be better that way.’

‘Yes,’ said Pomray thoughtfully. ‘It might be better.’

Warren stepped to the head of the bed and stood for a moment looking down at the dead girl. Then he drew up the sheet very slowly so that it covered the body. There was something in that slow movement which puzzled Stephens; it was an act of... of tenderness.

He waited until Warren looked up, then said, ‘Do you know anything of her family?’

‘Practically nothing. Addicts resent probing — so I don’t probe.’

‘Nothing about her father?’

‘Nothing beyond the fact that she had a father. She mentioned him a couple of times.’

‘When did she come to you for drugs?’

‘She came to me for treatment about a year and a half ago. For treatment, Inspector.’

‘Of course,’ said Stephens ironically, and produced a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘You might like to look at this.’

Warren took the sheet and unfolded it, noting the worn creases. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘It was in her handbag.’

It was a letter typed in executive face on high quality paper and bore the embossed heading: REGENT FILM COMPANY, with a Wardour Street address. It was dated six months earlier, and ran:

Warren said quietly, ‘This explains a lot.’ He looked up. ‘Did he write?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Stephens. ‘There’s nothing here.’

Warren tapped the letter with a finger-nail. ‘I don’t think he did. June wouldn’t keep a secondhand letter like this and destroy the real thing.’ He looked down at the shrouded body. ‘The poor girl.’

‘You’d better be thinking of yourself, Doctor,’ said Stephens sardonically. ‘Take a look at the list of directors at the head of that letter.’

Warren glanced at it and saw: Sir Robert Hellier (Chairman). With a grimace he passed it to Pomray.

‘My God!’ said Pomray. ‘That Hellier.’

‘Yes, that Hellier,’ said Stephens. ‘I think this one is going to be a stinker. Don’t you agree, Dr Warren?’ There was an unconcealed satisfaction in his voice and a dislike in his eyes as he stared at Warren.

II

Warren sat at his desk in his consulting-room. He was between patients and using the precious minutes to catch up on the mountain of paperwork imposed by the Welfare State. He disliked the bureaucratic aspect of medicine as much as any doctor and so, in an odd way, he was relieved to be interrupted by the telephone. But his relief soon evaporated when he heard his receptionist say, ‘Sir Robert Hellier wishes to speak to you, Doctor.’

He sighed. This was a call he had been expecting. ‘Put him through, Mary.’

There was a click and a different buzz on the line. ‘Hellier here.’

‘Nicholas Warren speaking.’

The tinniness of the telephone could not disguise the rasp of authority in Hellier’s voice. ‘I want to see you, Warren.’

‘I thought you might, Sir Robert.’

‘I shall be at my office at two-thirty this afternoon. Do you know where it is?’

‘That will be quite impossible,’ said Warren firmly. ‘I’m a very busy man. I suggest I find time for an appointment with you here at my rooms.’

There was a pause tinged with incredulity, then a splutter. ‘Now, look here...’

‘I’m sorry, Sir Robert,’ Warren cut in. ‘I suggest you come to see me at five o’clock today. I shall be free then, I think.’

Hellier made his decision. ‘Very well,’ he said brusquely, and Warren winced as the telephone was slammed down at the other end. He laid down his handset gently and flicked a switch on his intercom. ‘Mary, Sir Robert Hellier will be seeing me at five. You might have to rearrange things a bit. I expect it to be a long consultation, so he must be the last patient.’

‘Yes, Doctor.’

‘Oh, Mary: as soon as Sir Robert arrives you may leave.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’

Warren released the switch and gazed pensively across the room, but after a few moments he applied himself once more to his papers.

Sir Robert Hellier was a big man and handled himself in such a way as to appear even bigger. The Savile Row suiting did not tone down his muscular movements by its suavity, and his voice was that of a man unaccustomed to brooking opposition. As soon as he entered Warren’s room he said curtly and without preamble, ‘You know why I’m here.’

‘Yes; you’ve come to see me about your daughter. Won’t you sit down?’

Hellier took the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘I’ll come to the point. My daughter is dead. The police have given me information which I consider incredible. They tell me that she was a drug addict — that she took heroin.’

‘She did.’

‘Heroin which you supplied.’

‘Heroin which I prescribed,’ corrected Warren.

Hellier was momentarily taken aback. ‘I did not expect you to admit it so easily.’

‘Why not?’ said Warren. ‘I was your daughter’s physician.’

‘Of all the bare-faced effrontery!’ burst out Hellier. He leaned forward and his powerful shoulders hunched under his suit. ‘That a doctor should prescribe hard drugs for a young girl is disgraceful.’

‘My prescription was...’

‘I’ll see you in jail,’ yelled Hellier.

‘...entirely necessary in my opinion.’

‘You’re nothing but a drug pedlar.’

Warren stood up and his voice cut coldly through Hellier’s tirade. ‘If you repeat that statement outside this room I shall sue you for slander. If you will not listen to what I have to say then I must ask you to leave, since further communication on your part is pointless. And if you want to complain about my ethics you must do so to the Disciplinary Committee of the General Medical Council.’

Hellier looked up in astonishment. ‘Are you trying to tell me that the General Medical Council would condone such conduct?’

‘I am,’ said Warren wryly, and sat down again. ‘And so would the British Government — they legislated for it.’

Hellier seemed out of his depth. ‘All right,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I suppose I should hear what you have to say. That’s why I came here.’

Warren regarded him thoughtfully. ‘June came to see me about eighteen months ago. At that time she had been taking heroin for nearly two years.’

Hellier flared again. ‘Impossible!’

‘What’s so impossible about it?’

‘I would have known.’

‘How would you have known?’

‘Well, I’d have recognized the...the symptoms.’

‘I see. What are the symptoms, Sir Robert?’

Hellier began to speak, then checked himself and was silent. Warren said, ‘A heroin addict doesn’t walk about with palsied hands, you know. The symptoms are much subtler than that — and addicts are adept at disguising them. But you might have noticed something. Tell me, did she appear to have money troubles at that time?’

Hellier looked at the back of his hands. ‘I can’t remember the time when she didn’t have money troubles,’ he said broodingly. ‘I was getting pretty tired of it and I put my foot down hard. I told her I hadn’t raised her to be an idle spendthrift.’ He looked up. ‘I found her a job, installed her in her own flat and cut her allowance by half.’

‘I see,’ said Warren. ‘How long did she keep the job?’

Hellier shook his head. ‘I don’t know — only that she lost it.’ His hands tightened on the edge of the desk so that the knuckles showed white. ‘She robbed me, you know — she stole from her own father.’

‘How did that happen?’ asked Warren gently.

‘I have a country house in Berkshire,’ said Hellier. ‘She went down there and looted it — literally looted it. There was a lot of Georgian silver, among other things. She had the nerve to leave a note saying that she was responsible — she even gave me the name of the dealer she’d sold the stuff to. I got it all back, but it cost me a hell of a lot of money.’

‘Did you prosecute?’

‘Don’t be a damned fool,’ said Hellier violently. ‘I have a reputation to keep up. A fine figure I’d cut in the papers if I prosecuted my own daughter for theft. I have enough trouble with the Press already.’

‘It might have been better for her if you had prosecuted,’ said Warren. ‘Didn’t you ask yourself why she stole from you?’

Hellier sighed. ‘I thought she’d just gone plain bad — I thought she’d taken after her mother.’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘But that’s another story.’

‘Of course,’ said Warren. ‘As I say, when June came to me for treatment, or rather, for heroin, she had been addicted for nearly two years. She said so and her physical condition confirmed it.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Hellier. ‘That she came to you for heroin and not for treatment.’

‘An addict regards a doctor as a source of supply,’ said Warren a little tiredly. ‘Addicts don’t want to be treated — it scares them.’

Hellier looked at Warren blankly. ‘But this is monstrous. Did you give her heroin?’

‘I did.’

‘And no treatment?’

‘Not immediately. You can’t treat a patient who won’t be treated, and there’s no law in England which allows of forcible treatment.’

‘But you pandered to her. You gave her the heroin.’

‘Would you rather I hadn’t? Would you rather I had let her go on the streets to get her heroin from an illegal source at an illegal price and contaminated with God knows what filth? At least the drug I prescribed was clean and to British Pharmacopoeia Standard, which reduced the chance of hepatitis.’

Hellier looked strangely shrunken. ‘I don’t understand,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘I just don’t understand.’

‘You don’t,’ agreed Warren. ‘You’re wondering what has happened to medical ethics. We’ll come to that later.’ He tented his fingers. ‘After a month I managed to persuade June to take treatment; there are clinics for cases like hers. She was in for twenty-seven days.’ He stared at Hellier with hard eyes. ‘If I had been her I doubt if I could have lasted a week. June was a brave girl, Sir Robert.’

‘I don’t know much about the... er... the actual treatment.’

Warren opened his desk drawer and took out a cigarettebox. He took out a cigarette and then pushed the open box across the desk, apparently as an afterthought. ‘I’m sorry; do you smoke?’

‘Thank you,’ said Hellier, and took a cigarette. Warren leaned across and lit it with a flick of his lighter, then lit his own.

He studied Hellier for a while, then held up his cigarette. ‘There’s a drug in here, you know, but nicotine isn’t particularly powerful. It produces a psychological dependency. Anyone who is strong-minded enough can give it up.’ He leaned forward. ‘Heroin is different; it produces a physiological dependency — the body needs it and the mind has precious little say about it.’

He leaned back. ‘If heroin is withheld from an addicted patient there are physical withdrawal symptoms of such a nature that the chances of death are about one in five — and that is something a doctor must think hard about before he begins treatment.’

Hellier whitened. ‘Did she suffer?’

‘She suffered,’ said Warren coldly. ‘I’d be only too pleased to tell you she didn’t, but that would be a lie. They all suffer. They suffer so much that hardly one in a hundred will see the treatment through. June stood as much of it as she could take and then walked out. I couldn’t stop her — there’s no legal restraint.’

The cigarette in Hellier’s fingers was trembling noticeably. Warren said, ‘I didn’t see her for quite a while after that, and then she came back six months ago. They usually come back. She wanted heroin but I couldn’t prescribe it. There had been a change in the law — all addicts must now get their prescriptions from special clinics which have been set up by the government. I advised treatment, but she wouldn’t hear of it, so I took her to the clinic. Because I knew her medical history — and because I took an interest in her — I was able to act as consultant. Heroin was prescribed — as little as possible — until she died.’

‘Yet she died of an overdose.’

‘No,’ said Warren. ‘She died of a dose of heroin dissolved in a solution of methylamphetamine — and that’s a cocktail with too much of a kick. The amphetamine was not prescribed — she must have got it somewhere else.’

Hellier was shaking. ‘You take this very calmly, Warren,’ he said in an unsteady voice. ‘Too damned calmly for my liking.’

‘I have to take it calmly,’ said Warren. ‘A doctor who becomes emotional is no good to himself or his patients.’

‘A nice, detached, professional attitude,’ sneered Hellier. ‘But it killed my June.’ He thrust a trembling finger under Warren’s nose. ‘I’m going to have your hide, Warren. I’m not without influence. I’m going to break you.’

Warren looked at Hellier bleakly. ‘It’s not my custom to kick parents in the teeth on occasions like this,’ he said tightly. ‘But you’re asking for it — so don’t push me.’

‘Push you!’ Hellier grinned mirthlessly. ‘Like the Russian said — I’m going to bury you!’

Warren stood up. ‘All right — then tell me this: do you usually communicate with your children at second hand by means of letters from your secretary?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Six months ago, just before you went to America, June wanted to see you. You fobbed her off with a form letter from your secretary, for God’s sake!’

‘I was very busy at the time. I had a big deal impending.’

‘She wanted your help. You wouldn’t give it to her, so she came to me. You promised to write from America. Did you?’

‘I was busy,’ said Hellier weakly. ‘I had a heavy schedule — a lot of flights... conferences...’

‘So you didn’t write. When did you get back?’

‘A fortnight ago.’

‘Nearly six months away. Did you know where your daughter was? Did you try to find out? She was still alive then, you know.’

‘Good Christ, I had to straighten out things over here. Things had gone to hell in my absence.’

‘They had, indeed!’ said Warren icily. ‘You say that you found June a job and set her up in a flat. It sounds very nice when put that way, but I’d say that you threw her out. In the preceding years did you try to find out why her behaviour had changed? Why she needed more and more money? In fact I’d like to know how often you saw your daughter. Did you supervise her activities? Check on the company she was keeping? Did you act like a father?’

Hellier was ashen. ‘Oh, my God!’

Warren sat down and said quietly, ‘Now I’m really going to hurt you, Hellier. Your daughter hated your guts. She told me so herself, although I didn’t know who you were. She kept that damned patronizing secretary’s letter to fuel her hatred, and she ended up in a sleazy doss-house in Notting Hill with cash resources of three shillings and fourpence. If, six months ago, you’d have granted your daughter fifteen minutes of your precious time she’d have been alive now.’

He leaned over the desk and said in a rasping voice, ‘Now tell me, Hellier; who was responsible for your daughter’s death?’

Hellier’s face crumpled and Warren drew back and regarded him with something like pity. He felt ashamed of himself; ashamed of letting his emotions take control in such an unprofessional way. He watched Hellier grope for a handkerchief, and then got up and went to a cupboard where he tipped a couple of pills from a bottle.

He returned to the desk and said, ‘Here, take these — they’ll help.’ Unresistingly, Hellier allowed him to administer the pills and. gulped them down with the aid of a glass of water. He became calmer and presently began to speak in a low, jerky voice.

‘Helen — that’s my wife — June’s mother — my ex-wife — we had a divorce, you know. I divorced her — June was fifteen then. Helen was no good — no good at all. There were other men — I was sick of it. Made me look a fool. June stayed with me, she said she wanted to. God knows Helen didn’t want her around.’

He took a shaky breath. ‘June was still at school then, of course. I had my work — my business — it was getting bigger and more involved all the time. You have no idea how big and complicated it can get. International stuff, you know. I travelled a lot.’ He looked blindly into the past. ‘I didn’t realize...’

Warren said gently, ‘I know.’

Hellier looked up. ‘I doubt it, Doctor.’ His eyes flickered under Warren’s steady gaze and he dropped his head again. ‘Maybe you do. I suppose I’m not the only damned fool you’ve come across.’

In an even voice, trying to attune himself to Hellier’s mood, Warren said, ‘It’s hard enough to keep up with the younger generation even when they’re underfoot. They seem to have a different way of thought — different ideals.’

Hellier sighed. ‘But I could have tried.’ He squeezed his hands together tightly. ‘People of my class tend to think that parental neglect and juvenile delinquency are prerogatives of the lower orders. Good Christ!’

Warren said briskly. ‘I’ll give you something to help you sleep tonight.’

Hellier made a negating gesture. ‘No, thanks, Doctor, I’ll take my medicine the hard way.’ He looked up. ‘Do you know how it started? How did she...? How could she...?’

Warren shrugged. ‘She didn’t say much. It was hard enough coping with present difficulties. But I think her case was very much the standard form; cannabis to begin with — taken as a lark or a dare — then on to the more potent drugs, and finally heroin and the more powerful amphetamines. It all usually starts with running with the wrong crowd.’

Hellier nodded. ‘Lack of parental control,’ he said bitterly. ‘Where do they get the filthy stuff?’

‘That’s the crux. There’s a fair amount of warehouse looting by criminals who have a ready market, and there’s smuggling, of course. Here in England, where clinics prescribe heroin under controlled conditions to Home Office registered addicts, it’s not so bad compared with the States. Over there, because it’s totally illegal, there’s a vast illicit market with consequent high profits and an organized attempt to push the stuff. There’s an estimated forty thousand heroin addicts in New York alone, compared with about two thousand in the whole of the United Kingdom. But it’s bad enough here — the number is doubling every sixteen months.’

‘Can’t the police do anything about illegal drugs?’

Warren said ironically, ‘I suppose Inspector Stephens told you all about me.’

‘He gave me a totally wrong impression,’ mumbled Hellier. He stirred restlessly.

‘That’s all right; I’m used to that kind of thing. The police attitude largely coincides with the public attitude — but it’s no use chivvying an addict once he’s hooked. That only leads to bigger profits for the gangsters because the addict on the run must get his dope where he can. And it adds to crime because he’s not too particular where he gets the money to pay for the dope.’ Warren studied Hellier, who was becoming noticeably calmer. He decided that this was as much due to the academic discussion as to the sedation, so he carried on.

‘The addicts are sick people and the police should leave them alone,’ he said. ‘We’ll take care of them. The police should crack down on the source of illegal drugs.’

‘Aren’t they doing that?’

‘That’s not so easy. It’s an international problem. Besides, there’s the difficulty of getting information — this is an illegal operation and people don’t talk.’ He smiled. ‘Addicts don’t like the police and so the police get little out of them. On the other hand, I don’t like addicts — they’re difficult patients most doctors won’t touch — but I understand them, and they tell me things. I probably know more about what’s going on than the official police sources.’

‘Then why don’t you tell the police?’ demanded Hellier.

Warren’s voice went suddenly hard. ‘If any of my patients knew that I was abusing their confidence by blabbing to the police, I’d lose the lot. Trust between patient and doctor must be absolute — especially with a drug addict. You can’t help them if they don’t trust you enough to come to you for treatment. So I’d lose them to an illicit form of supply; either an impure heroin from the docks at an inflated price, or an aseptic heroin with no treatment from one of my more unethical colleagues. There are one or two bad apples in the medical barrel, as Inspector Stephens will be quick enough to tell you.’

Hellier hunched his big shoulders and looked broodingly down at the desk. ‘So what’s the answer? Can’t you do anything yourself?’

‘Me!’ said Warren in surprise. ‘What could I do? The problem of supply begins right outside England in the Middle East. I’m no story-book adventurer, Hellier; I’m a medical doctor with patients, who just makes ends meet. I can’t just shoot off to Iran on a crazy adventure.’

Hellier growled deep in his throat, ‘You might have fewer patients if you were as crazy as that.’ He stood up. ‘I’m sorry about my attitude when I first came in here, Dr Warren. You have cleared up a lot of things I didn’t understand. You have told me my faults. You have told me of your ethics in this matter. You have also pointed out a possible solution which you refuse to countenance. What about your faults, Dr Warren, and where are your ethics now?’

He strode heavily to the door. ‘Don’t bother to see me out, Doctor; I’ll find my own way.’

Warren, taken wrong-footed, was startled as the door closed behind Hellier. Slowly he returned to the chair behind his desk and sat down. He lit a cigarette and remained in deep thought for some minutes, then shook his head irritably as though to escape a buzzing fly.

Ridiculous! he thought. Absolutely ridiculous!

But the maggot of doubt stirred and he could not escape its irritation in his mind no matter how hard he tried.

That evening he walked through Piccadilly and into Soho, past the restaurants and strip joints and night clubs, the chosen haunt of most of his patients. He saw one or two of them and they waved to him. He waved back in an automatic action and went on, almost unaware of his surroundings, until he found himself in Wardour Street outside the offices of the Regent Picture Company.

He looked up at the building. ‘Ridiculous!’ he said aloud.

III

Sir Robert Hellier also had a bad night.

He went back to his flat in St James’s and was almost totally unaware of how he got there. His chauffeur noted the tight lips and lowering expression and took the precaution of ringing the flat from the garage before he put away the car. ‘The old bastard’s in a mood, Harry,’ he said to Hellier’s man, Hutchins. ‘Better keep clear of him and walk on eggs.’

So it was that when Hellier walked into his penthouse flat Hutchins put out the whisky and made himself scarce. Hellier ignored both the presence of the whisky and the absence of Hutchins and sank his bulk into a luxurious armchair, where he brooded deep in thought.

Inside he writhed with guilt. It had been many more years than he could remember since anyone had had the guts to hold up a mirror wherein he could see himself, and the experience was harrowing. He hated himself and, perhaps, he hated Warren even more for rubbing his nose into his shortcomings. Yet he was basically honest and he recognized that his final remarks and abrupt exit from Warren’s rooms had been the sudden crystallization of his desire to crack Warren’s armour of ethics — to find the feet of clay and to pull Warren down to his own miserable level.

And what about June? Where did she come into all this? He thought of his daughter as he had once known her — gay, light-hearted, carefree. There was nothing he had not been prepared to give her, from the best schools to good clothes by fashionable designers, parties, continental holidays and all the rest of the good life.

Everything, except myself, he thought remorsefully.

And then, unnoticed in the interstices of his busy life, a change had come. June developed an insatiable appetite for money; not, apparently, for the things money can buy, but for money itself. Hellier was a self-made man, brought up in a hard school, and he believed that the young should earn their independence. What started out to be calm discussions with June turned into a series of flaming rows and, in the end, he lost his temper and then came the break. It was true what Warren had said; he had thrown out his daughter without making an attempt to find the root cause of the change in her.

The theft of the silver from his home had only confirmed his impression that she had gone bad, and his main worry had been to keep the matter quiet and out of the press. He suddenly realized, to his shame, that the bad press he was likely to get because of the inquest had been uppermost in his mind ever since he had seen Inspector Stephens.

How had all this happened? How had he come to lose first a wife and then a daughter?

He had worked — by God, how he had worked! The clapperclawing to the top in an industry where knives are wielded with the greatest efficiency; the wheedling and dealing with millions at stake. The American trip, for instance — he had got on top of those damned sharp Yanks — but at what cost? An ulcer, a higher blood pressure than his doctor liked and a nervous three packets of cigarettes a day as inheritance of those six months.

And a dead daughter.

He looked around the flat, at the light-as-air Renoir on the facing wall, at the blue period Picasso at the end of the room. The symbols of success. He suddenly hated them and moved to another chair where they were at his back and where he could look out over London towards the Tudor crenellations of St James’s Palace.

Why had he worked so hard? At first it had been for Helen and young June and for the other children that were to come. But Helen had not wanted children and so June was the only one. Was it about then that the work became a habit, or perhaps an anodyne? He had thrown himself whole-heartedly into the curious world of the film studios where it is a toss-up which is the more important, money or artistry; and not a scrap of his heart had he left for his wife.

Perhaps it was his neglect that had forced Helen to look elsewhere — at first surreptitiously and later blatantly — until he had got tired of the innuendoes and had forced the divorce.

But where, in God’s name, had June come into all this? The work was there by then, and had to be done; decisions had to be taken — by him and by no one else — and each damned decision led to another and then another, filling his time and his life until there was no room for anything but the work.

He held out his hands and looked at them. Nothing but a machine, he thought despondently. A mind for making the right decisions and hands for signing the right cheques.

And somewhere in all this, June, his daughter, had been lost. He was suddenly filled with a terrible shame at the thought of the letter Warren had told him about. He remembered the occasion now. It had been a bad week; he was preparing to carry a fight to America, and everything had gone wrong so he was rushed off his feet. He remembered being waylaid by Miss Walden, his secretary, in a corridor between offices.

‘I’ve a letter for you from Miss Hellier, Sir Robert. She would like to see you on Friday.’

He had stopped, somewhat surprised, and rubbed his chin in desperation, wanting to get on but still wanting to see June. ‘Oh, damn; I have that meeting with Matchet on Friday morning — and that means lunch as well. What do I have after lunch, Miss Walden?’

She did not consult an appointment book because she was not that kind of secretary, which was why he employed her. ‘Your plane leaves at three-thirty — you might have to leave your lunch early.’

‘Oh! Well, do me a favour, Miss Walden. Write to my daughter explaining the situation. Tell her I’ll write from the States as soon as I can.’

And he had gone on into an office and from there to another office and yet another until the day was done — the 18-hour working day. And in two more days it was Friday with the conference with Matchet and the expensive lunch that was necessary to keep Matchet sweet. Then the quick drive to Heathrow — and New York in no time at all — to be confronted by Hewling and Morrin with their offers and propositions, all booby-trapped.

The sudden necessity to fly to Los Angeles and to beat the Hollywood moguls on their own ground. Then back to New York to be inveigled by Morrin to go on that trip to Miami and the Bahamas, an unsubtle attempt at corruption by hospitality. But he had beaten them all and had returned to England with the fruits of victory and at the high point of his career, only to be confronted by the devil of a mess because no one had been strong enough to control Matchet.

In all that time he had never once thought of his daughter.

The dimming light concealed the greyness of his face as he contemplated that odious fact. He sought to find excuses and found none. And he knew that this was not the worst — he knew that he had never given June the opportunity of communicating with him on the simple level of one human being to another. She had been something in the background of his life, and the knowledge hurt him that she had been something and not someone.

Hellier got up and paced the room restlessly, thinking of all the things Warren had said. Warren had seemed to take drug addiction as a matter of course, a normal fact of life to be coped with somehow. Although he had not said so outright, he had implied it was his task to clear up the mess left by the negligence of people like himself.

But surely someone else was to blame. What about the profit-makers? The pushers of drugs?

Hellier paused as he felt a spark of anger flash into being, an anger which, for the first time, was not directed against himself. His was a sin of omission, although not to be minimized on that account. But the sin of commission, the deliberate act of giving drugs to the young for profit, was monstrous. He had been thoughtless, but the drug pedlars were evil.

The anger within him grew until he thought he would burst with the sheer agony of it, but he deliberately checked himself in order to think constructively. Just as he had not allowed his emotions to impede his negotiations with Matchet, Hewling and Morrin, so he brought his not inconsiderable intellect to bear unclouded on this new problem. Hellier, as an efficient machine, began to swing smoothly into action.

He first thought of Warren who, with his special knowledge, was undoubtedly the key. Hellier was accustomed to studying closely the men with whom he dealt because their points of strength and weakness showed in subtle ways. He went over in his mind everything Warren had said and the way in which he had said it, and seized upon two points. He was certain Warren knew something important.

But he had to make sure that his chosen key would not break in his hand. Decisively he picked up the telephone and dialled a number. A moment later he said, ‘Yes, I know it’s late. Do we have that firm of investigators still on our books? They helped us on the Lowrey case... Good! I want them to investigate Dr Nicholas Warren MD. Repeat that. It must be done discreetly. Everything there is to know about him, damn it! As fast as possible... a report in three days... oh, damn the expense!... charge it to my private account.’

Absently he picked up the decanter of whisky. ‘And another thing. Get the Research Department to find out all they can about drug smuggling — the drug racket in general. Again, a report in three days... Yes, I’m serious... it might make a good film.’ He paused. ‘Just one thing more; the Research Department mustn’t go near Dr Warren... Yes, they’re quite likely to, but they must steer clear of him — is that understood? Good!’

He put down the telephone and looked at the decanter in some surprise. He laid it down gently and went into his bedroom. For the first time in many years he ignored his normal meticulous procedure of hanging up his clothes and left them strewn about the floor.

Once in bed the tensions left him and his body relaxed. It was only then that the physical expression of his grief came to him and he broke down. Waves of shudders racked his body and this man of fifty-five wet the pillow with his tears.