Harmful Correlation

By Nick Bydwyn

During a futile attempt to balance his finances, Drake Sanders, a private investigator, is visited by Mrs Francis, a woman who would like to enlist his services to find her missing husband.
Unfortunately the search ends with the discovery of his body in an east London churchyard and the police already on the scene. At first glance it appears poison was involved but, feeling that he hasn’t quite earned his fee, Drake asks to look into the circumstances of what would cause Mr Francis to be driven to such extremes.
While visiting the offices a pharmaceutical giant he bumps into Inspector Williams who is researching the death of a different man. With the help of Mitchell, a pathologist, it’s discovered that both men were killed with a substance that doesn’t exist in either nature or as a known chemical compound. By piggybacking onto the Inspector’s investigation, Drake comes up against the director of Asclepius Labs, a quintessential manager who will volunteer nothing and admit to even less.
Ultimately Drake comes to understand that he may never be able to obtain enough hard evidence for a conviction, but he becomes absolutely determined to get justice for his client and the victims of an apparent cover-up, which would mean taking on the formidable director personally and against the Inspector’s wishes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Apr 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781800469747

Nick Bydwyn

Nick Bydwyn was born in Salford, grew up in Wigan and currently resides in Greenwich. An innate curiosity about what makes the universe tick led to a degree in Astronomy and means that living so close to the Prime Meridian, the zero point of space and time, feels like a dream come true.

Book preview

30

Chapter 1

As usual, Drake’s keys had slid inside the deep recessed folds of his jacket pocket and what should have been a two-second manoeuvre was stretching to the minute mark. He gently lowered his leather case onto the hard tile, watching it wobble slightly as he did so. This was followed by the placement of his collection of folders and papers flat onto the ground. For the seventh time that morning he reminded himself to buy a bigger receptacle so he wouldn’t have to keep splitting his workload in such an awkward fashion.

With this tricky dance complete, he was free to have a deep rummage through his inside jacket pocket. Some grunts and flailing later, he was in possession of his keys and was stabbing the lock with them. He heard the click of the bolt drawing back, swiftly turned the handle and pushed the door open as far as it would go. He scanned the small room for the trash can and with two swift steps jumped across the room and picked it up before quickly spinning round and moving quickly to stop the door, which was already on the move, from closing. He dumped the can on the floor as a temporary doorstop. When he was sure he wasn’t going to be locked out, he went to retrieve his files and case.

With his hands full again, the only way he could close the door was by booting the trash can out of the way. It bounced a bit due to the force of his shove but eventually settled in the middle of the room. The door was free and so it slowly started to close, the click of the latch confirming that he was sealed inside. With the entrance procedure complete, Drake walked over to the desk and placed his detritus on it, then made his way around to the other side to sit in the part-padded wooden chair. Naturally it creaked horrendously, but Drake liked the way that it seemed to be alive and able to register its disgust at having his weight placed on it. He leaned forward to pull his case toward himself which made the chair groan even more. Once close enough, he sprung the metal clasps and flipped up the leather straps so he could retrieve the stack of papers inside. Paperwork, it was always paperwork, there was no escaping its tedious grasp but it was a necessary evil if he were to keep on top of his cases and finances. The biggest issue he had was in preventing himself from being distracted while performing this mind-numbing task. It seemed his brain would not let him concentrate for more than five minutes at a time in his own apartment, so he had to find a neutral place with nothing to draw his attention from the task in hand.

This was why he had rented a broom cupboard. His business wasn’t such a thriving concern that he could hire people to take these chores away from him, though he was in no danger of going hungry either. The other reason was more practical; as much as he hated to admit it, having conversations with clients in his dusty apartment whilst drinking from chipped mugs didn’t always give off the right impression. One of his contemporaries had mentioned that a part-time office rental could be sought, so every Tuesday and Thursday this space was his to do with as he desired. It was a small room in an old building set equidistant between St. Pauls, Blackfriars and the river. Impressive geographically, less so when inspected closely. At least there was a window through which the sun would shine in the afternoon, making the enclosed space bright and toasty. It was always a battle to not fall asleep in his chair when that happened, a battle oftentimes he would lose. There was a bank of steel filing-cabinets set against the wall that each of the room’s tenants could hire. Not being a big fan of traipsing around the city with large bundles of paper every day, Drake had taken this offer and used it as ad-hoc storage for his work. He’d filled the bottom drawer of his cabinet with a few homely essentials; a small kettle, a few cups, tea and a bottle of scotch with glasses. All of which he defended as being hospitality for potential clients but in reality were used almost exclusively by himself. Although not a scientific method of making a decision, two things convinced him that this would be a good investment. The first being that the door was one of those old office-styles with the top half filled with frosted glass so that he could see people passing in the corridor; the second that the building provided an old rotary phone that sat on the far corner of the heavy wooden desk. It was only allowed to make outgoing calls, for an extra charge of course, but that wasn’t why Drake liked it. Together with the broken Venetian blind on the window that he could never get fully lowered, the whole atmosphere reeked of low-budget film noir. Given his line of work, it was hackneyed in the extreme; nevertheless, it appealed to his sense of pastiche and maybe it was what people expected of a Private Revenue and Investigation Specialist. As a point of advertisement, the setting had the merit of being so stereotypical it was probably unique these days.

Pulling his laptop from the case, he set it squarely in the centre of the desk. It was an odd habit that he’d picked up, especially as any sense of artificial order tended to rankle him, but for some reason the clean aesthetics of the room seemed to require it. The fact that his dishevelled self was also in the room put lie to that thought almost instantly, but in his mind it indicated the first substantial step in climbing a mountain of work, like setting up a base camp. The rest of the documents soon followed and were spread out in a fan-like arrangement for no other reason than to fill the empty space. Today was accounts day, the dreaded time of every month when he had to make a list of his outgoings to satisfy the parasitic intentions of the tax man. To that end he’d also brought along a large amount of tattered receipts and valiantly tried to stack them on another free part of the desk without them falling over. Naturally, this was an exercise in futility and a nanosecond after he set them down they seemed to explode across a wide area. Drake looked at the paperwork on his desk and sighed. He knew he had to take the rough with the smooth just as with any job, so he saw this as a cosmic exercise in honing his patience. He wasn’t very ‘zen’ by nature but years of forcing himself to focus on this mundane but necessary duty probably had some real-world overspill when it came to limiting his field of vision. Glancing at the mess before him, he didn’t know where to begin, so he applied what he considered to be a random selection process; he closed his eyes, span around in his chair twice then pointed at what he hoped was the desk. When he’d built up enough courage to look, he saw his finger had settled on a bill for a few boxes of disposable ballpoint pens. A bit of a disappointment, but at least he had a place to start.

A few hours later he resurfaced from the sea of spreadsheets and balances to gasp for some air. He was almost done and before he went any further he made a point of saving his work twice under different filenames and once more to a USB drive. Past experience had taught hard lessons and he was damned if he was going to forgo a hot meal just because his computer decided to play silly buggers. Rubbing his eyes to dislodge the grid of numbers, he got up and took a few leaden steps toward his filing cabinet. Opening up the requisite drawer he reached in and his hand hesitated. He was grasping for the kettle when the whisky caught his eye. Too early for a quick dram? There was still work to be done so he reluctantly grabbed the handle of the kettle, a mug, a teabag and a small bottle of mineral water. The plug socket was high against the wall for some reason. Drake surmised that it was probably left from a wall-heater that had long since been removed. If the sun hit the wall just right, he could swear he could see the faint outline of what used to hang there. In any event, it meant that he had to make his beverages at chest height in the corner of the room as the cable would not stretch beyond a few feet.

He dropped the teabag into the cup, poured the water into the kettle and flipped the big, red plastic switch so it lit up. Waiting patiently for the water to boil, he stared into the middle distance. After an eternity he was roused by the faint bubbling of the liquid and poured it into the mug along with some sugar and powdered milk. There was no refrigerator so keeping a fresh bottle handy wasn’t a viable option. He stirred his mixture a few times and fished the teabag out with the spoon. Letting the excess water drain back into the cup, he gingerly stepped to the trash can and let the spent bag plop to the bottom. He placed the spoon next to the kettle and with hot drink in hand he walked back and sat in his chair, took a couple of sips and then closed his eyes. He could feel the sun moving into position as the warmth crept across the back of his neck. He surmised that it must be close to noon and as usual he felt himself drifting.

The sounds of the city filtered in through the window and the increase in verbal noise level meant that it really was lunchtime. The footfall from outside had increased and the voices were less of befuddled tourists and now more like the pompous barks of stockbrokers looking for their feeding troughs. Inside, too, he could hear more people walking around on the floors above and below and he briefly considered whether he was hungry enough to join the crowds in satisfying their appetites. Ultimately, the answer was ‘no’. Listening to his gut was par for the course in his line of work, both for discerning clues and preventing starvation. It wasn’t a perfect system as a lot of times he tended to miss meals completely, but at least he rarely felt the after-effects of eating too much: the cramps, the lethargy, the coma induced by too many carbohydrates, so for that he was grateful.

It was the rap on his door that prevented him from slipping into any more cuisine-related thoughts and stopped him from dozing off – as he was still holding a mug full of tea, it also sidestepped the possibility of making another mess. Opening his eyes slowly, he placed his cup squarely on the desk and made sure none of it splashed over his papers. He could see the fuzzy form of a woman waiting outside, shuffling slightly by the looks of things. This was new. Apart from the building manager he hadn’t had anyone come to see him in person since he moved in. He briefly wondered whether this was one of his neighbours finally saying hello, but judging from the agitated state of the shadow behind the frosted glass he doubted it. In any event, he had to admit her; with the sun behind him there was no doubt she could see his clouded figure just as well as he could see hers. He stood, pushing the chair away with a teeth-splitting squeak as it scraped along the wooden floor and rounded his desk. In just five steps, he was opening his office door.

The woman who stood there was slightly shorter than himself and a bit older. She was dressed in a long overcoat which seemed out of place in the bright weather. She had her hair up and was clutching a handbag in front of her, twisting the straps in nervous preparation. All in all she gave the impression of being a housewife, but he knew better than to use initial stereotypes to define people. More often than not, the people who sought his services out weren’t typical.

Are you Mr Sanders? she said with a wavering voice.

I am.

And you’re an investigator?

For my sins, yes.

Then I think I might want to hire you. Her tone was trepidatious but firm.

Drake stepped to the side, opening the door fully and sweeping his hand in a gesture to enter the room. She did just that and stood patiently while he closed it behind her.

He took the spare chair from the corner of the room and placed it in front of his desk.

Please, take a seat, he said, trying to sound sympathetic and professional at the same time.

She did as instructed and Drake started to walk to his own chair. He stopped at the side of his desk and indicated his own rapidly cooling mug.

Would you like a drink? I have tea and… he considered whether he should include the scotch, well, that’s about it I’m afraid. I don’t usually have clients come directly here.

She glanced at his drink then back at him.

No thank you. I don’t think I’ll be here that long.

Drake nodded and took a seat. He took a few seconds to reassess the woman and on second glance she wasn’t quite as domesticated as he’d first assumed. She was wearing sparkling earrings, maybe diamond, the handbag that she was still clutching was an Italian make and her overcoat was very well tailored, possibly bespoke.

What can I help you with today, Mrs... He had noticed the wedding band on her left hand.

Francis, Caroline Francis.

Mrs Francis, he repeated, in order to make the name sink in. Please... again he left some whitespace in order to draw her out.

Well, I know this is probably going to sound very mundane for someone in your line of work, but my husband has gone missing.

The way she was still clasping her handbag tightly, like some sort of security blanket, indicated that this was a very upsetting thing.

Don’t worry, I can assure you that this type of thing doesn’t fall into that category, said Drake with total honesty. The disappearance of a loved one is rarely a trivial thing. But please go on.

Thank you, Mr Sanders. The woman let out a small sigh and then straightened up, as if trying to compose herself for the upcoming description.

Daniel, Danny, my husband has always a pretty reliable man. He’s not Phileas Fogg predictable but he does have his routines. He’s not set in his ways by any means but he does like a certain amount of structure in his life.

Drake could relate to that desire, even if he wasn’t always the most devout follower of its teachings.

Danny’s a chemistry professor at the University...

Just a second, said Drake, as he reached into his case. A few seconds of rummaging produced his trusty notebook. He flipped through it until he found the latest blank page and, with a pencil pulled from his jacket pocket, jotted down a heading and some of the details he’d been told so far.

Sorry about that. You said he taught at a university – which one?

Oh, Kent. Organic Chemistry, I think. I was never sure as his explanation went a bit above my head. He’s always been interested in how compounds affect living things.

You mean medicines and things?

No, I don’t think so, more basic than that, like how things we produce in labs for our convenience might have unintended after-effects.

Drake frowned a little.

So...plastics or vitamin pills? He was grasping at straws as the work sounded atypical.

A little bit, I think, replied Mrs Francis. He’s worked for large companies as a research scientist in the past so he knows what they do and what goes into certain products. Having said that, he became very disillusioned a few decades ago and decided to move into teaching, maybe to instil a sense of responsibility into the new crop of scientists. He’s always getting a bee in his bonnet about the way we’re poisoning our planet and that these big conglomerates seem to be intent on scorching the earth. I think he wanted to help build up case studies to help people fight their negligence and a large part of doing that is knowing how detrimental to all life some of the gases or oils were.

I see, said Drake, still scribbling. So he’s an activist?

Oh no, no. He doesn’t believe in making a scene. He believes that hard facts speak for themselves and will sway public opinion.

Does that actually work? These large companies have massive PR departments.

Maybe not directly, but having a verifiable data-set means others have been able to show some of the hypocrisy of these people. He doesn’t like confrontation but he likes to be part of the mechanism that forces change.

He sounds very principled.

Mrs Francis nodded. Perhaps he is, although recently...

She stopped and gazed into the middle distance. Drake didn’t try to hurry her this time as she seemed to need the space to think, or remember.

She blinked a couple of times as if suddenly noticing her surroundings, refocusing on Drake she continued.

What I mean is, we lost our daughter five years ago and since then it seems like the spark that was inside him seemed to be dimming. He’s become more introspective and can spend hours looking at old photos of her.

Do you think his state of mind might have had something to do with his disappearance?

I don’t know. He isn’t the type to just go without telling me.

But if you live in Kent why come to me?

He’d travelled to London to attend a symposium. He likes to keep abreast of advancements in his field so he goes to these lectures a few times a year. This one was just the same as all the others.

Chemist, professor, symposium, silent activist. Drake was writing in broken sentences but underlining some of what he thought might be relevant points as he went along.

That’s not quite what I meant. Why didn’t you go to the police first? I’m just one guy and they have whole teams set up to deal with things like this.

I did, Mr Sanders. I’ve been to our local station and the one closest to where he said he was staying. They both, almost word for word, said they’d do their best and that I should wait for their call.

Drake looked at Mrs Francis’ concerned face. She wasn’t looking directly at him, rather she was watching the sky outside of the window behind his head. She seemed earnest enough in her pursuit, but if the police were involved already why had she come to him? Come to think of it, how had she tracked him down? He wasn’t about to give up another payday if he could help it, but he needed to soothe his itchy conscience.

Forgive me for asking Mrs Francis, but if the police have things in hand then why come to me? I might be able to help you but shouldn’t we see what they come up with first?

She blinked and then focused back onto Drake. Mr Sanders, my husband seems to be missing. I know this might sound strange but having more than one set of eyes on this is a good thing, don’t you think? I’m sure the police are doing everything they can but they are busy people. If I’m willing to pay you to have a look around too, where’s the harm?

He nodded and scratched the top of his right ear with his pencil. Alright, let’s start with some specific details so I can get some idea of Danny and his state of mind.

Mrs Francis smiled and her shoulders dropped. The confirmation of his involvement seemed to relax her slightly and for the first time since he’d opened the door she stopped wringing the straps on her handbag.

Good, thank you, I mean...well, as I said he was attending a chemistry lecture at a hotel in Kensington, near the exhibition centre.

Drake searched his mental map of the metropolis for an idea of roughly where that might be. He had a vague idea of the location but he’d look it up on his computer later.

So he was staying in the same hotel as the conference? he queried.

Yes, he liked being able to mingle with the people in his field on a social level. It helped him understand the way the wind was blowing and to put forward his views.

No doubt he contacted you when he arrived; from what you’ve said he seems like he wouldn’t want you to worry?

Indeed, he said he’d settled in and that things were looking good, the room was nice and had a view of the street.

When did you think he’d gone missing?

Normally I just leave him to it. He goes to his conferences and does whatever he does and then he tells me all about it when he gets home. We don’t feel the need to phone each other unless plans change.

Did he call you to make some changes this time?

No, the opposite. I was expecting him home a few days ago and I heard nothing at all. He didn’t call to say he was going to be late or anything like that. There was just nothing.

Mrs Francis snapped open her bag and reached inside for a tissue. No doubt she’d been through this line of questioning more than once with the police and her emotions were still pretty raw. She dabbed the sides of her eyes and her nose and sniffed a bit as if desperately trying to keep her emotions in check.

Anyway, I tried his mobile and it just kept going to voicemail. That’s when I knew something must be wrong.

Drake looked up from his notebook. Naturally you spoke with the hotel and the conference organisers?

Of course. They said he’d checked out on time so there was no reason for him not to arrive back home when he said he was going to.

How did he seem? asked Drake, as delicately as he could. You mentioned earlier that he’d been a bit out-of-sorts. Might that have something to do with it? Would he have just gone somewhere to clear his head?

Mrs Francis furrowed her brow in a moment’s thought. No, I don’t think so. He doesn’t really know the city so I’ve no idea where he might go if he was feeling a bit low. Usually he comes to me and we work it out together.

To Drake this didn’t sound like the actions of someone who had just snapped, but by the same token, deviation from a routine did suggest some sort of problem. Disappearing without a word might be a personal choice but he couldn’t discount the possibility that the missing man had been detained against his will. Whatever the explanation, he knew that he had to try to start investigating quickly as in these instances time really did matter.

I don’t suppose your husband’s phone had one of those tracking applications on them – you know, for when they get lost? It was a bit of a reaching question but there was no harm in at least trying.

I don’t know, it’s possible, she said, through reddened eyes. I gave all of the information to the police but they said they couldn’t see anything on the online map.

To Drake that just reinforced the notion that the phone may have been turned off. This was going to be a tricky job, he could feel it, and the odds were against a swift resolution if someone was determined not to be found. Though seeing his potential client sniffling into her tissue made him want to offer some sort of reassurance.

Mrs Francis, I’ll need any information about your husband that seems relevant. Mobile number, clothes he was wearing, clothes he took with him in case he changed, the exact address of where he was staying, whether you’ve both visited London before as he might have gone to those places.

The woman’s face brightened a little. Does that mean you’ll help?

Of course. Although I do have some set rates and expenses to cover, in situations like this I don’t see why I can’t get started as soon as possible. Drake glanced at the mound of paperwork on his desk. Anything to clear his mind of the never-ending financial maze would be welcome.

Mrs Francis stood up and walked up to him, grasping his hand tightly. Thank you, thank you. I’m glad you believe me. The police didn’t seem that concerned but I just know something has happened to him.

Drake smiled sympathetically. He rarely got outpourings of gratitude so he was content to let this small display run its course.

I’ll go back to my hotel and make a list of Danny’s details. I’ll give you a call later this afternoon, if that’s alright?

Perfectly, Mrs Francis, and if you can think outside the box and remember something that might seem insignificant, something he said or did before he travelled here, that might be of relevance.

Yes, yes of course. She started to dry her lightly stained eyes as she moved to the door.

Out of ingrained courtesy, Drake opened it for her. I can’t tell you not to be too distressed as I don’t have any information yet, but I’ll do what I can and if there’s a chance of finding him, I will.

Oh thank you, Mr Sanders.

With that she passed through the open doorway and made her way down the hall, still trying to compose herself as she went. Drake closed the door behind her and turned back into the room. It didn’t seem like a complex job, he’d encountered many more just like it, he just wasn’t sure yet what shape it would take. The man might have good reason for not wanting to be found, he might have been kidnapped, or have met with an accident, or any number of possibilities. No point in speculating until he was in possession of Mrs Francis’ information.

He looked at the almost cold tea on his desk, the scattered papers and the sun streaming through the windows. It was far too nice of a day to be cooped up for much longer. Another hour of wrestling numbers into some sort of sequence and he could have the rest of the afternoon to himself.

Chapter 2

After emerging from the building, Drake had to spend a few moments letting the fresh air