The Longest Pleasure Page 8

  “Have you done anything about it?”

  Green shrugged. “I asked the locals to keep an eye open. But the only thing that would work would be to revoke the all-night licence.”

  Masters grinned. “I’ve a better idea, Bill.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why don’t you buy the premises and turn them back into a newsagent’s shop?”

  Green frowned and then suddenly straightened in his chair. “Do you know, George, that’s not a bad idea.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Why not? I haven’t got all that long to go, and Doris has always wanted a little shop. She used to work in one, you know, before we were married.”

  “And her lifelong ambition has been to own a shop of her own?”

  Green nodded. “I’ve never done anything about it, but there’s no reason . . . I shall have to do something, won’t I? I’ll mention it to her. At least it will give her something to think about.”

  “Newsagents have to get up early—every day.”

  “And I suppose a copper doesn’t have unsocial hours?”

  “That’s true.”

  “There’s a house behind and above the shop. If we sold ours . . .”

  “Steady,” warned Masters. “Don’t go too fast, and don’t you dare tell Doris that I suggested it. I was joking.”

  “I know.”

  “Good. Now to get back to this case . . .” He was interrupted by the constable putting a bowl of sugar on the desk.

  “You’ve been so long, lad, it’s cold by now,” said Green, helping himself to a heaped spoonful.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Masters began again. “Bill, besides the property deals, there’s another aspect I want you to look at. We must explore the disgruntled employee angle. There could be some chap whom Redcoke has got rid of and who thinks he was treated less than fairly. Get the locals to inquire into that, too.”

  “I’ll ask them,” replied Green, “but I don’t think they’ll get very far with that one. They won’t know anything about any of the internal politics of Redcoke.”

  “Maybe not, but they could make discreet inquiries among other members of staff. And they would know if Redcoke had ever prosecuted an employee for theft.”

  “We’re getting deeper, George.”

  “I suppose the list of possibilities is endless, Bill, but we’ve got to do it. How else are we to proceed if we don’t assume for the moment that this is a hate campaign directed at Redcoke?”

  “We’ve got to assume that. But I can’t see a chap who is an able scientist and technician being an ex-employee of a grocery chain which has treated him badly. But I do reckon he could have been a property owner who was diddled.”

  “We daren’t overlook anything, Bill.”

  Green got to his feet. “Berger is reserving two open lines in my office. I’ll get on with the phoning, and I’ll write a confirmatory memo to each of the forces I speak to. They’ll go off tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  *

  “I’ve brought in a portable TV, sir,” said Lake. “So that you can see the broadcast at six.”

  “Thank you. Let Mr Green and Sergeant Berger know. I’d like them to see it.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “By the way, how many enquiries have we had from the press?”

  “Only three direct to us here, sir. Most are going through the press office. I’m just telling callers to contact Dr Moller, as you instructed.”

  “Quite right. I was really wanting to know the amount of interest the outbreaks have caused. Various people have suggested there could be panic and I was wondering just how true that could be.”

  “I could open a file specifically for reaction reports, sir. I’ll have the PR clippings boys send us newspaper reports and we can tape radio and TV. We could build up a full dossier—including letters to the papers. There’ll be some of those tomorrow, for sure.”

  “In that case . . .”

  The phone rang on Masters’ desk. Lake picked it up and answered. After listening for a moment, he handed it over to Masters. “Dr Moller, sir.” As Masters took the handset, Lake called over to one of his subordinates. “Log a call for now from Dr Moller to DCS Masters. Get Mr Masters’ note of the contents after he’s finished speaking.”

  The centre was working. Resignedly Masters took up pencil and pad. He supposed he’d better jot down whatever Moller had to say.

  “Masters.”

  “Hello, there. Harry Moller here. I’ve rung to tell you that I and two lab technicians have been trying out the method of infecting cans that was suggested by your Sergeant.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Some. We tried a case of four dozen cans, and reckon we got five, possibly six, successes.”

  “That at least suggests that the method is feasible.”

  “It is, without a doubt, and I feel it safe to say that we would achieve a slightly higher percentage of successes the longer we continued.”

  “You mean you would become more adept?”

  “Quite. We were learning just how the materials had to be handled. But I thought you would like to know that we have had a better than ten per cent success so far.”

  “So far? You propose to go on?”

  “My people here have been injecting uncontaminated broth, of course.”

  “Testing the mechanics only?”

  “Quite. Now we are facing the next problem, and that is going through the same motions with anaerobes.”

  “You mean what you’ve done so far is no good?”

  “Not good enough, in my opinion.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we think that we’re not getting a completely airtight job. We think that if we were to use a hydrogen bottle to activate the syringe, for example, at least those successes we got would be anaerobic.”

  “I see. Thanks for letting me know. And by the way, what sort of questions have you been asked by reporters?”

  “I held one short session for them this afternoon. I’m sorry to tell you, old chap, that they are a darned sight more interested in the clinical side of the attack than they are in the police and forensic efforts to stop it recurring.”

  “Thank heaven for that. It means there is no panic.”

  “None at all, so far. I don’t think they’ve got round to the causes and implications.”

  “Good. Did you know that a Dr Cutton of the DHSS is broadcasting on television at six this evening?”

  “Nobody ever tells me anything.”

  “We have a set in my office if you care to come along.”

  “I might just do that. If so I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

  “We’ll be pleased to see you.”

  After ringing off, Masters completed his telecon for the file and handed it across to one of Lake’s assistants. He had scarcely put down his pencil before the phone rang again.

  Convamore.

  “Good afternoon, Professor.”

  “Masters, my boy, bad news.”

  “What sort of bad news? Another outbreak?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “For there not to be more seemed too good to be true. Where this time?”

  “Bournemouth. A crowd in a self-catering flat let. Four adults and three children. There was a baby there, too, but it wasn’t fed the meat loaf.”

  “That again? I take it you are referring to the Redcoke luncheon meat?”

  “The same. Fortunately, they were able to get help pretty quickly by knocking up people in the neighbouring flat, and the health authorities there, alerted by knowledge of the previous outbreaks, immediately suspected botulism and took the necessary steps.”

  “What are they?”

  “Massive doses of botulinum antitoxin. As the type of botulism was unknown to the hospital doctor, he played safe and gave them a tri-valent anti-serum against types A, B and E. With the usual life support measures to help them breathe and so on, that particular
group should pull through because they’re all young and healthy.”

  “Did you tell us earlier that the antitoxin was a polyvalent horse serum?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What is the availability of the antitoxin?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Is enough of it readily available all over the country? With outbreaks of botulism occurring almost everywhere, heaven knows where and when it will be needed.”

  “Don’t worry about that side. Every area is catered for.”

  “Amply catered for?”

  “Every major hospital carries stocks and the manufacturers have assured us they have stocks at their distribution points. They can be rushed anywhere.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it, because when you started talking about the Bournemouth people giving massive doses to seven patients . . . what I mean is, surely they don’t carry that much stock of a drug which is needed so rarely and, presumably, has a shelf-life of only a few years?”

  “I’ve checked up on it,” replied Convamore. “Personally, I mean. I think you—and everybody—can rest assured that we have adequate stocks of the anti-serum, and to make doubly sure, the manufacturers started up a production line this afternoon. If, by any chance after that, we find ourselves running short, we shall fly in ear-marked stocks from the States. Three hours away by Concorde, chum.”

  “So somebody has pulled his finger out in that direction, at least.”

  “What’s up, young Masters? Why so bitter?”

  “I’ve had a meeting with a chap from the DHSS, a Dr Cutton . . .”

  “Ah! The prize Mugwump himself! Detestable in his mugwumpery, ain’t he?”

  “You describe him so well. I can only assume you have encountered him.”

  “Encountered is the right word. But you will probably find that it was he who took the steps you were just applauding—seeing that we have adequate stocks of the horse serum.”

  “That doesn’t alter my opinion of him. We have yet to see what he says in his broadcast. He refused our request to issue any form of warning.”

  “Did he, indeed? Ah, well, it’s what I’d expect of him. But to return to our little botulism, I thought you’d like to know that all the samples I’ve tested are exclusively type E—if it’s any help to you.”

  “Thank you. The knowledge may be useful.”

  Green and Berger came in as Masters finished his notes on this conversation. “Ready for the show, George? There’s only a couple of minutes to go.”

  “Ask Lake to switch on.”

  Masters told Green of the fourth outbreak while the set was warming up, and just as Cutton was announced, Moller joined them.

  “Made it,” he gasped. “Nearly didn’t. News of the fourth case came in.”

  Masters nodded and they settled down to listen to Cutton.

  He spoke for about four minutes. Nobody uttered a word until he had finished.

  “Patronising bastard,” said Moller.

  “Have you met him?”

  “No, and I can’t say I wish to.”

  “He didn’t say a bloody thing,” grunted Green. “Don’t worry, all will be well. No danger. We’re looking after it. Botulism is so rare that the chances of getting it are millions to one against! We don’t need many more incidents the size of the Bournemouth one before the chances will fall to less than one million to one.” He turned to Masters. “We’re supposed to have progressed a long way in the last forty years, but we’re now considered to be too immature to be told of blood, sweat and tears, even if the trouble is likely to last for only five days instead of five years.”

  Masters nodded. “I can’t agree with feeding facile pap of that sort to the public, with no hint as to how to protect themselves.” He picked up the outside phone. “I’m going to ring Redcoke head office,” he declared grimly, “and say to them that as four of their damned strip-cans have so far caused—how many? . . . about twenty?—cases of botulism in the past twenty-four hours, it is time they withdrew the remaining stocks from their shelves.”

  “That won’t help people who have already bought infected tins,” reminded Moller.

  “No it won’t,” grunted Green as Masters asked the switchboard to get his number, “but at least it will stop more being sold.”

  Masters was hanging on to the phone. After some delay, the operator informed him there was no reply from Redcoke.

  “It’s way after six o’clock, Chief,” said Berger. “Those offices will have been empty since half past five.”

  Masters put the phone down in disgust.

  “Just as well,” said Moller. “By tomorrow we could be in a position to force their hand. If we want to, that is,” he said looking round.

  “How?”

  “Well, when I hold a press conference tomorrow, I could have the cans on display for the photographers to snap and the correspondents to draw their own conclusions from. I won’t have to mention the name, Redcoke . . .”

  “I like it, Doc,” said Green. “Have a tube.” He offered the scientist his packet of Kensitas.

  “Then nobody gets in the soup,” continued Moller, accepting the cigarette. “All I have to say is that those are the cans from which my team and I have collected the botulism bacteria. That is the truth and nobody can blink that.”

  “It’s come to something,” complained Masters, “when people like us have to stoop to that sort of caper in order to get one of the country’s leading enterprises to do the humane thing.” He turned to Moller. “I’d like to give them the chance to do it off their own bat before we force their hand.”

  “Okay. You’ve got until eleven tomorrow morning. That’s the time of the press conference.”

  “Hold it, hold it,” protested Green. “Do it off their own bat, George? How would we know? They wouldn’t publicise it. Or were you thinking of nudging them tomorrow morning and getting a promise from them?”

  “That was my intention.”

  “And it’s a good one. But if you have to prompt them you can hardly call it doing it off their own bat.”

  “No matter, if it succeeds.”

  “Fair enough,” said Moller getting to his feet. “Let me know how you get on—before eleven o’clock. Oh, and incidentally, George, all the cans have yielded E type.”

  “Exclusively?”

  Moller nodded.

  “No salmonella?”

  “No. Why should there be?”

  “Think it over, Doctor. Goodnight.”

  As Moller left, Reed entered the room. “Sorry I’m late, Chief, but I thought I’d better finish the job.” He put two plastic carriers bulging with tins of food on the desk. “There’s something of interest here, I reckon.”

  “What?” demanded Green.

  “Price tickets,” murmured Masters quietly.

  “You knew, Chief?” exclaimed Reed.

  “That they differed between tins? Yes. What I didn’t know was whether they differed between stores.” He turned to Green. “The tin I took from Wanda’s shelf this morning had a label which was rectangular with an indented semicircle at each end. At least one of the tins on Moller’s bench had a rectangular label with rounded corners. I couldn’t see the others, and I couldn’t inspect them.”

  Green nodded. “So what we’ve got to decide is whether individual shops have their own private labelling machines.” He looked across at Masters. “That can’t be right. There aren’t enough shapes and sizes.”

  “That’s what I thought. Their head office probably supplies one or two different models of those hand labelling gadgets and the distribution of them is haphazard. But Reed will be able to tell us.”

  The sergeant started to unpack his bags. “It took me some time to get on to it, Chief.”

  “On to what, lad?” growled Green.

  “That the labels in each shop are different.”

  Green sat up. “They’re what?”

  “Look,” said Reed. “I’ve written on every tin which branch I got it from.
Look at these. Both from the Earl’s Court branch. They’ve both got the labels with the semicircles, and both semicircles are tinged with orange paint. But the Victoria branch . . . here, take a look . . . the ends are black. And the Mile End Road is green.” Reed looked across at Masters. “I began by only buying one tin at each place, Chief, but when I cottoned on that the labels were either colour-coded or different shaped, I went back and bought a second tin at each place to make sure.”

  “So what we’re saying,” said Green, “is that we can tell exactly where those tins came from.”

  “Where they were bought initially.”

  “But, Chief,” protested Berger, “wouldn’t Chummy have put them back in the shops he got them from? The different labels would give them away.”

  “They wouldn’t, you know.” said Reed. “I went off shopping looking like mad for something, because I knew the Chief wouldn’t send me out on a job like that unless there was something to learn. And it took me—as I said—a longish time to tumble to the fact that those labels are all different. You have to look closely, you know. Once it’s been pointed out to you, there’s no missing it, but I don’t reckon one housewife in a thousand would notice the difference. If she did, she’d only think two girls with different machines had done the pricing.”

  “I’ll buy that,” growled Green. “We don’t need telling how unobservant the general public is.”

  Masters faced Green. “This could help, couldn’t it?”

  “Me? I dunno. If all four contaminated cans come from the same shop, I could concentrate there, but there’s nothing to say he doesn’t live in Sheffield and slipped over to Leeds for his groceries.”

  “Quite. But we could ask Redcoke to inspect every strip-can and to remove any with the wrong price tags.”

  Green grimaced. “It might help, but there again it mightn’t. I know I agreed with Reed just now, but earlier you yourself said we were dealing with a fly boy who would take good care not to have his contaminated tins examined at a check out. It could be he was careful to return them to their original shops.”