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‘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 cigarette-box. 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 four-pence. 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.
