Absolute Poison Read Online Free

signs of life, Rafferty retreated to the doorway of Clive Barstaple's office, from where, with nostrils clenched, he gazed round the room. The smell both in the small office and in the gent's toilet, was appalling. Obviously, in the later stages, Barstaple hadn't made it back to the lavatory; the dead man had not only soiled his trousers, he had vomited down his shirt as well as in the metal wastebin in the corner of the room. Apart from the swimming bile, the bin was half-full of shredded paper on top of which rested an empty yoghurt carton. The yoghurt was hazelnut flavour, Rafferty noted. It was the only one he liked.
    The desk phone was off the hook, the receiver dangling down the side of the desk by its plastic wire and Rafferty guessed the dead man had tried vainly to summon help. Obviously, he had left it too late and, presuming Smales’ deductions to be correct, the convulsions and paralysis had overtaken him before he'd been able to do so. Rafferty could imagine that, in the earlier stages, the dead man had just assumed he had a particularly bad stomach upset and thought no more about it than to ensure he had a clear run to the lavatory. But then, as the symptoms had grown more violent he had probably been torn between lavatory and telephone.
    Unfortunately for him, the need for dignity had triumphed over common sense until it was too late. Barstaple had died a horrible death, alone, frightened, covered in his own vomit and excrement. Poor bastard, thought Rafferty. Poor, poor bastard.
    For the second time today, the odours of death overpowered him and he stumbled from the office, down the stairs and out into the fresh evening air. For once he didn't curse the weather. The cold raindrops refreshed him.
    He was surprised to find that Llewellyn had followed him. Unlike his own, Llewellyn's stomach seemed able to take the most appalling sights and smells in its stride. To cover his attack of collywobbles, Rafferty now remarked, “Seems like young Smales was right.”
    Llewellyn nodded.
    Though whether the culprit was rhododendrons or some other toxic substance, Rafferty wasn't prepared to hazard a guess. “What a way to go. Somebody must have hated his guts to do that to him. Bloody awful death.”
    Llewellyn nodded again. As if he sensed that Rafferty needed a few moments more to get himself together, he remarked quietly, “The ancients were fond of poison, you know. Used it for murder, suicide, even judicial execution.”
    Sensing an imminent lecture, Rafferty merely remarked, “Is that so?”
    “Oh yes. For instance, the Athenian philosopher, Socrates, was condemned to die on charges of atheism and corrupting youth. He was ordered to drink hemlock.”
    Rafferty raised his eyebrows. “And did he?”
    Once more, Llewellyn nodded.
    The information that one of Llewellyn's much-quoted and know-all heroes had got up other noses than his own and had met a sticky end for his pains restored Rafferty's stomach quicker than an alka seltzer. His manner more sprightly, he now remarked, “And I thought your old Greeks and Romans were supposed to be such a civilized lot. God save us from civilized people, hey? Give me ignorant barbarians any day and a quick sword thrust in the vitals.”
    Confident he now had his queasy stomach under control, Rafferty led the way back upstairs. This time, he was able to take in more than the immediately obvious. There was a large pinboard just outside the victim's office. It was covered with notices and he glanced at them; reminders to the staff of this or that new company policy; warnings of the penalties awaiting those who failed to grasp and implement the numerous changes swiftly; bans on smoking either inside or immediately outside the building, bans on eating outside the prescribed lunch periods, bans on making tea or coffee more frequently than lunchtime, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. The bans even extended to making more visits to the loos than the management deemed