The Longest Pleasure Read online

  The image of the newsreader disappeared and the features of a full-fleshed man took its place. The newcomer spoke in the racy, pseudo-knowledgeable way of one who, though not thoroughly informed on the subject has, nevertheless, boned up on it just enough to half-inform the lay listener.

  “Botulism! The name comes from the Latin, botulus, meaning a sausage and refers to the fact that in the old days, before canning and preserving, most outbreaks of the disease resulted from eating contaminated sausages. Clostridium botulinum, to give it its full medical name, is a dangerous bacterium. Dangerous because it is poisons given off by the bacteria, known as exotoxins, which cause anybody unfortunate enough to ingest them to become seriously ill. The disease is almost invariably the result of eating imperfectly canned or bottled meats or fish, and the fatality rate in humans is usually at least fifty per cent and often higher.

  “The Burnham family is thought to have eaten a commercially canned ham at about six o’clock, three evenings ago. The symptoms of botulism are not like those of ordinary food-poisoning in that there is rarely—if ever—any diarrhoea. There is, however, vomiting, though the most serious symptoms are the result of the poison affecting the nervous system—particularly the nerves of the eyes and the throat, which are paralysed. These symptoms begin between twelve and thirty-six hours after eating contaminated food. So what probably happened in the case of the Burnhams was that the whole family went to bed three nights ago apparently fit and well. But the next morning—at any time after six o’clock—they could have all been feeling extremely ill. Too ill, perhaps, to summon help.

  “It is highly probable that Mr Burnham, the one whom one might have expected to attempt to get help for his family, was, in fact, the most seriously ill. Being a grown man he probably ate much more of the affected food than did his wife or young children, and the point about botulism is that the more one ingests of it, the more dangerous the symptoms are liable to be. Mr Burnham was, therefore, probably the most intoxicated of the four—because intoxication is what botulism is—intoxication caused by exotoxins.

  “Their plight would gradually grow worse and their condition, when discovered by the two students who summoned medical help at lunchtime yesterday would, I am reliably informed, be extremely grave, because survival depends so much on prompt treatment. And one must remember that before the disease can be correctly diagnosed, long and difficult tests must be made.”

  The face of the newsreader reappeared to continue the bulletin.

  “If that’s all you want to see,” said Wanda, “everything is ready for supper.”

  The dining-room was bigger. Long for its width, it ran right across the back of the cottage and had given Wanda the opportunity and space to plan the room she wanted. It was here—if anywhere—that was apparent the good taste that had caused Green to christen the place Wanda’s little palace. He loved the room and, apparently, the meals served in it.

  “Proper lamb that,” he said appreciatively.

  “Of course it’s proper lamb,” retorted his wife.

  “I know what William means,” said Wanda. “He’d like some more. George!” She handed the empty plate to her husband, who immediately started to carve more meat for his colleague.

  “Actually,” said Green, eyeing Masters’ carving appreciatively, “I meant what I said. When I was a lad, there was such a thing as mutton. Saddle of mutton, mutton chops, mutton ham . . .”

  “Mutton ham?”

  “A leg of mutton cured like a pork ham. Very good, too. They tried to make bacon the same way during the war. Macon they called it, but it didn’t catch on. But in those days we used to eat onion sauce with mutton and mint sauce with lamb. Now every blessed bit of sheep meat, old or young, is lamb.”

  “I agree with you,” said Masters, passing Green the replenished plate. “When I was a boy we used to eat beef pie. Now it’s all steak pie.”

  “Do you know my pet hate,” said Doris Green, helping her husband from the tureens. “I’m not a woman anymore. I’m a lady. All those TV chat-show people have decided it’s wrong to use an honest-to-goodness word like woman.”

  “That’s ladies’ lib for you,” said her husband, spooning mint sauce on to his meat. “I always thought women’s lib was bad enough, but ladies’ lib . . .” He grimaced and attacked his food.

  When the meal was over, the two men offered to wash up. Masters had taken his jacket off and donned a plastic apron emblazoned with a Real Ale campaign ad while Green had the tea towel at the ready when Wanda came through to the kitchen.

  “Darling!”

  “Yes, poppet?” Masters was washing his glasses in plain warm water. He refused to use soap or washing-up liquid for them.

  “There’s been another outbreak of botulism, they think.”

  “Think?”

  “Doris and I had the ten o’clock news on. Reports are just coming in about the suspected outbreak. They say it’s somewhere in Essex.”

  “Anything else, love?” asked Green.

  “I’m afraid so. The younger of the two children in Taunton has died.”

  “Poor little kid,” said Green quietly. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “We’ll be through before the end of the news,” said Masters. “There may be some more details then.”

  Wanda left them and the two men continued with their chores. As Green folded the teacloth and hung it over the towel rail, he said: “I suppose the people in Essex bought a tin of ham from the same batch as the Burnhams.”

  “That would seem to be the most likely thing to have happened,” agreed Masters, putting on his jacket. “But I’m surprised they haven’t announced the batch number and warned people to be on the look-out for it.”

  “They daren’t,” said Green, feeling in his pockets for cigarettes and matches. “Not yet. That tin of ham is only suspected. The report said the Burnhams had apparently eaten it, are believed to have eaten it, and so on. Anybody who comes straight out and says it was definitely the cause of the trouble—before the doctors and scientists have proved it—could be liable.”

  Masters nodded. “Still, there should be some means of early warning—without prejudice—to alert people. I mean, they wouldn’t even have to name the brand. They could issue a blanket request not to eat any form of tinned ham until the matter was settled one way or another.”

  The two men went through to the sitting room.

  “Nothing more about the Essex outbreak,” said Wanda, “so we switched off because I want to talk to William.”

  “Lovely,” said Green. “Here? Or shall we go where we can be alone?”

  “Silly ass!” said his wife. “She’d be as safe alone with you as she would be on a desert island.”

  “Spoilsport!” laughed Wanda. She turned to Green. “Our elder, unmarried son . . .”

  “You’ve only got one and he’s only about three months old.”

  “You never know. We may have another, and he’ll come unmarried, too.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure. There was a young lass went back to school at some Comprehensive after her honeymoon the other day. White knee-socks and a gymslip . . .”

  “Be quiet,” ordered Doris. “Wanda wants to say something.”

  “Brandy, Bill?” asked Masters.

  “I’m not allowed to say,” whispered Green, “but if you were to shove one in my mitt I couldn’t say no.”

  “Our son,” resumed Wanda, “is shortly to be christened. He, being a boy, needs by tradition, two godfathers and one godmother. As we propose to give him the same name as you, William, will you consent to be one of his godparents?”

  Green did not reply immediately. In the silence they all watched his face. Incredulity and delight struggled for possession of his round, heavy features.

  “Oh, Bill!” breathed his wife.

  “Give him my name? But he’s already called Michael.”

  “Michael William Masters,” said Wanda with a smile. “Doesn’t that sound strong and fine?
”

  Green looked enquiringly at Masters who said, “We both wanted you, Bill. Unanimous decision with no discussion necessary.”

  Green set down the brandy glass Masters had handed him. “I don’t have to tell you, do I? I never dreamed . . . godfather to the young sprog! Me!”

  “Well!” asked his wife.

  “The pleasure,” said Green handsomely, “will be entirely mine.”

  Wanda rose and kissed him. “Thank you, William.”

  “My cousin and his wife will be your partners in crime, Bill,” said Masters. “Like you, they have no children of their own and are delighted to . . .”

  The sound of the phone bell cut through his words. Wanda went out to the tiny hall to answer it. She was back very quickly.

  “It’s Edwin Anderson, darling,” she said quietly.

  “Ringing from home?”

  “From the office.”

  Masters got to his feet. Green said, “What in the name of all that’s holy is the AC Crime doing at the Yard at this time of night? He should be at home doing his pools or playing Mah Jong.”

  “Bridge,” corrected Wanda absent-mindedly. “He plays bridge. Rather badly, actually.”

  Her tone caused Green to glance across at her. “Cheer up, love. It’s only another job for George.”

  “I know, William. It’s just that being this late at night it must be an important call. And important calls usually mean that you two are going to be away for days on end.”

  “I warned you,” grinned Green. “I told you not to marry a copper, but you would have your own way.”

  “You’re a liar, Bill Green,” said his wife. “You encouraged them.”

  “I had to marry George,” said Wanda, “just so I could stay in touch with you, William. If I hadn’t joined the Yard I might never have seen you again.”

  Green beamed at her. Doris said: “You wouldn’t have said that if you’d been married to him for thirty years.”

  The DCI got no chance to reply. Masters came into the room looking grave. “We’re wanted, Bill.”

  “What, now?”

  Wanda smiled tremulously at her husband, who sensed the question in her mind.

  “It’s this botulism affair, darling.”

  “Why you? I thought the local health authorities would deal with that?”

  “And the police,” grunted Green. “They’re always involved in the tracking down of suspect food.”

  “But surely not the CID from Scotland Yard?”

  “I must agree it seems a bit unusual, but if the outbreaks could be widespread they might want us to co-ordinate the local forces.”

  Wanda shook her head. “No good, William. It’s more serious than that, isn’t it George?”

  “Can you tell us?” asked Doris Green.

  Masters said: “The second outbreak is now confirmed. It was caused not by a tin of ham, but by a tin of canned beef.”

  “They’re positive?” asked Green.

  “As sure as they can be at the moment.”

  Green said quietly. “That’s bad. But I’d guess from your attitude that there’s more to come, George.”

  Wanda exclaimed, “Oh, no!”

  Masters nodded. “A third suspected outbreak in Derby. But this time it’s a tin of luncheon meat.”

  Wanda went to her husband. “What does it mean, George?”

  “It means, my precious, that there’s something terribly wrong somewhere, and they want Bill and me to find out what.”

  Green got to his feet. “Then the sooner we get weaving, the better, George.” He turned to his wife. “Ring for a taxi, love.”

  “Doris will stay here tonight,” said Wanda firmly. “The spare bed is made up and she can’t go home alone to an empty house at this time of night.”

  *

  “This,” said Anderson angrily, “is going to be a bastard, George. Epidemics and what-have-you are not our business.”

  “In that case, sir, why is Crime involved and not Administration or Uniform?”

  They were sitting in Anderson’s office waiting for three others who were to attend the conference. A trolley with coffee and sandwiches had been brought in together with the extra chairs.

  “The Home Office,” grunted Anderson, in reply to Masters’ question. “They want us in.”

  “To co-ordinate the local police activities, sir?”

  “Their advisers say there’s something fishy about the whole business, George.”

  “By that you mean criminal?”

  “So they say.”

  “Reasons for saying so?” asked Green.

  “First of all, incidence,” replied Anderson. Green smirked. He had made the same point earlier. “There reckons to be a decade or two between isolated outbreaks of botulism in the U.K. It’s barely two years since the Birmingham case. Second, they would not have been so worried if the three outbreaks we know about had been caused by the same type of food from the same batch or from the same manufacturer. But there are three foods involved—ham from Denmark, bully beef from South America and meat loaf from Holland. All at once. They can’t swallow the coincidence. And neither will the public.”

  “They believe that these foods have been contaminated for a purpose, sir? It seems unbelievable. For what reason?”

  “That’s where we come in—or rather, you do. Somehow we’ve got to contain a panic . . .”

  “There won’t be one,” muttered Green.

  “Maybe not if there are no more outbreaks,” replied Anderson. “But what if there are two more tomorrow and three the day after? And that seems a distinct possibility to me if the contamination has been criminally induced and the perpetrator has made a thorough job of it.”

  Green nodded to show he appreciated the logic of this possibility and proceeded to ask the AC if the public was to be warned against using the foods he had mentioned.

  Anderson spread his hands. “We warn them against three types of food, and then there’s a fourth outbreak implicating a tin of herrings in tomato sauce. Then how do we stand?”

  “Nevertheless, sir,” said Masters, “there should be some warning given.”

  “Against all tinned foods? The country would starve. Think of supermarkets, George. Nothing but tins. Think of late-night shoppers with those damned trolleys piled high with nothing but tins.” Anderson expired. “Green says there’d be no panic. There’d be bloody food riots!”

  While his subordinates were digesting this rather unpalatable morsel of clairvoyance, there was a knock at the door, and a uniformed constable ushered in three men. Anderson got to his feet to make the introductions.

  The newcomers were Chief Superintendent Wigglesworth, the Home Office Police Co-ordinator; Professor Convamore the eminent pathologist; and Dr Moller, a Principal Scientific Officer from the government forensic department.

  Anderson poured the coffee and spoke as he did so. “As I see it, gentlemen, Scotland Yard will take responsibility for any criminal aspects of this business. But nothing more. The local health and safety authorities can deal with their individual medical problems. They’ve got the expertise and the staffs to do it, whereas I don’t suppose we even know how to spell . . . what is it? . . . Clostridium botulinum. As it is, I’ve assigned Masters and Green to the investigation—as being the most knowledgeable about medical matters among my senior staff.”

  “The best pair you could give us, sir,” said Wigglesworth. Convamore, who had worked with Masters on several previous occasions, winked at him surreptitiously, as much as to say that he agreed with Wigglesworth but regretted the Co-ordinator’s unctuous way of putting it.

  When he was again seated at his desk, Anderson said: “I’ll try to paint the overall picture—what little I know of it. You gentlemen can then make what contributions you like in a general discussion.”

  “We can interrupt to ask questions, sir?”

  “For clarification, George, certainly. But I don’t want to be here till dawn.”

  “Thank y
ou, sir.”

  The AC began. “There have been three almost simultaneous but widespread outbreaks of botulism. One in Somerset confirmed; one in Essex virtually certain; and one in Derby suspected. The first two have been announced in news bulletins, the third is being kept quiet for as long as possible for two reasons. The first so that the diagnosis can be fully confirmed. The second to try and dampen down the public dismay—if not panic—that an impression of widespread botulism could cause.”

  “There could be more incidents,” reminded Wigglesworth.

  “If so,” replied Anderson, “I would expect the Director of the Communicable Diseases Surveillance Centre to know as soon as there are any more suspected cases.”

  “Not quite right, Edwin,” asserted Convamore. “No doctor is going to want to start hares of that sort. He may suspect botulism—among other things—but he’s going to be pretty sure in his own mind before he sounds the alarm.”

  “And this suspected case in Derby?”

  “They’ll be sure of it,” said the pathologist. “Sure of it in the patients, that is, though they may not have completed their tests to isolate the peccant food.”

  “Is that really so?”

  “It has to be. There are too many variables for any diagnosis to be anything like definite without tests. So by the time a doctor says he suspects botulism, he’s a long way down the road to proving it.”

  “That suggests there is a hideous time lag,” said Anderson.