by Val McDermid
But she was proved wrong. Sarah smiled and said, ‘So do you want some grub?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Whether there’s Higham’s Continental Tomato Pickle in it.’
Sarah looked bewildered. Maggie went on. ‘It seems that three people have died from arsenic administered in Higham’s Continental Tomato Pickle bought from Fastfare Supermarket.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘Wish I was.’ Maggie went through to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of orange juice as Sarah served up a steaming bowl of lentil soup with a pile of buttered brown bread. Maggie sat down and tucked in, giving her lover a disjointed summary as she ate.
‘Victim number one: May Scott, fiftyseven, widow, lived up Warburton Road. Numbers two and three: Gary Andrews, fifteen, and his brother Kevin, thirteen, from Priory Farm Estate. Their father is seriously ill. So are two others now, Thomas and Louise Foster of Bryony Grange. No connection between them except that they all ate pickle from jars bought on the same day at Fastfare.
‘Could be someone playing at extortion – you know, pay me a million pounds or I’ll do it again. Could be someone with a grudge against Fastfare. Ditto against Higham’s. So you can bet your sweet life we’re going to be hammered into the ground on this one. Already we’re getting flak.’
Maggie finished her meal. Her head dropped into her hands. ‘What a bitch of a job.’
‘Better than no job at all.’
‘Is it?’
‘You should know better than to ask.’
Maggie sighed. ‘Take me to bed, Sarah. Let me forget about the battlefield for a few hours, eh?’
Piped music lulled the shoppers at Pinkerton’s Hypermarket into a drugged acquisitiveness. The woman pushing the trolley was deaf to its bland presence and its blandishments. When she reached the shelf with the instant desserts on display, she stopped and checked that the coast was clear.
She swiftly put three packs of blancmange on the shelf with their fellows and moved away. A few minutes later she returned and studied several cake mixes as she waited for the aisle to clear. Then she completed her mission and finished her shopping in a leisurely fashion.
At the checkout she chatted brightly to the bored teenager who rang up her purchases automatically. Then she left, gently humming the song that flowed from the shop’s speakers.
Three days later, Maggie Staniforth burst into her living-room in the middle of the afternoon to find Sarah typing a job application. ‘Red alert, love,’ she announced. ‘I’m only home to have a quick bath and change my things. Any chance of a sandwich?’
‘I was beginning to wonder if you still lived here,’ Sarah muttered darkly. ‘If you were having an affair, at least I’d know how to fight back.’
‘Not now, love, please.’
‘Do you want something hot? Soup? Omelette?’
‘Soup, please. And a toasted cheese sandwich?’
‘Coming up. What’s the panic this time?’
Maggie’s eyes clouded. ‘Our homicidal maniac has struck again. Eight people on the critical list at the General. This time the arsenic was in Garratt’s Blancmange from Pinkerton’s Hypermarket. Bill’s doing a television appeal right now asking for people to bring in any packets bought there this week.’
‘Different manufacturer, different supermarket. Sounds like a crazy rather than a grudge, doesn’t it?’
‘And that makes the next strike impossible to predict. Anyway, I’m going for that bath now. I’ll be down again in fifteen minutes.’ Maggie stopped in the kitchen doorway, ‘I’m not being funny, Sarah. Don’t do any shopping in the supermarkets. Butchers, greengrocers, okay. But no self-service, pre-packaged food. Please.’
Sarah nodded. She had never seen Maggie afraid in eight years in the force, and the sight did nothing to life her depressed spirits.
This time it was jars of mincemeat. Even the Salvation Army band playing carols outside the Nationwide Stores failed to make the woman pause in her mission. Her shopping bag held six jars laced with deadly white powder when she entered the supermarket.
When she left, there were none. She dropped 50p in the collecting tin as she passed the band because they were playing her favourite carol, ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’. She walked slowly back to the car park, not pausing to look at the shopwindow Christmas displays. She wasn’t anticipating a merry Christmas.
Sarah walked back from the newsagent’s with the evening paper, reading the front page as she went. The Burnalder Poisoner was frontpage news everywhere by now, but the stories in the local paper seemed to carry an extra edge of fear. They were thorough in their coverage, tracing any possible commercial connection between the three giant food companies that produced the contaminated food. They also speculated on the possible reasons for the week-long gaps between outbreaks. They laid out in stark detail the drastic effect the poisoning was having on the finances of the food-processing companies. And they noted the paradox of public hysteria about the poisoning while people still filled their shopping trolleys in anticipation of the festive season.
The latest killer was Univex mincemeat. Sarah shivered as she read of the latest three deaths, bringing the toll to twelve. As she turned the corner, she saw Maggie’s car in the drive and increased her pace. A grim idea had taken root in her brain as she read the long report.
While she was hanging up her jacket, Maggie called from the kitchen. Sarah walked slowly through to find her tucking into a plate of eggs and bacon, but without her usual large dollop of tomato ketchup. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and the skin around them was grey and stretched. She had not slept at home for two nights. The job had never made such demands on her before. Sarah found a moment to wonder if the atmosphere between them was partly responsible for Maggie’s total commitment to this desperate search.
‘How is it going?’ she asked anxiously.
‘It’s not,’ said Maggie. ‘Virtually nothing to go on. No link that we can find. It’s not as if we even have proper leads to chase up. I came home for a break because we were just sitting staring at each other, wondering what to do next. Short of searching everyone who goes into the supermarkets, what can we do? And those bloody reporters seem to have taken up residence in the station. We’re being leaned on from all sides. We’ve got to crack this soon or we’ll be crucified.’
Sarah sat down. ‘I’ve been giving this some thought. The grudge theory has broken down because you can’t find a link between the companies, am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you thought about the effect unemployment has on crime?’
‘Burglary, shoplifting, mugging, vandalism, drugs, yes. But surely not mass poisoning, love.’
‘There’s so much bitterness there, Maggie. So much hatred. I’ve often felt like murdering those incompetent tossers who destroyed Liddell’s and threw me on the scrapheap. Did you think about people who’ve been given the boot?’
‘We did think about it. But only a handful of people have worked for all three companies. None of them have any reason to hold a grudge. And none of them have any connection with Burnalder.’
‘There’s another aspect, though, Maggie. It only hit me when I read the paper tonight. The News has a big piece about the parent companies who make the three products. Now, I’d swear that each one of those companies has advertised in the last couple of months for management executives. I know, I applied for two of the jobs. I didn’t even get interviewed because I’ve got no experience in the food industry, only in plastics. There must be other people in the same boat, maybe less stable than I am.’
‘My God!’ Maggie breathed. She pushed her plate away. The colour had returned to her cheeks and she seemed to have found fresh energy. She got up and hugged Sarah fiercely. ‘You’ve given us the first positive lead in t
his whole bloody case. You’re a genius!’
‘I hope you’ll remember that when they give you your inspector’s job.’
Maggie grinned on her way out the door. ‘I owe you one. I’ll see you later.’
As the front door slammed, Sarah said ironically, ‘I hope it’s not too late already, babe.’
Detective Inspector Bill Nicholson had worked with Maggie Staniforth for two years. His initial distrust of her gender had been broken down by her sheer grasp of the job. Now he was wont to describe her as ‘a bloody good copper in spite of being a woman’, as if this were a discovery uniquely his, and a direct product of working for him. As she unfolded Sarah’s suggestion, backed by photostats of newspaper advertisements culled from the local paper’s files, he realised for the first time she was probably going to leapfrog him on the career ladder before too long. He didn’t like the idea, but he wasn’t prepared to let that stand between him and a job of work.
They started on the long haul of speaking directly to the personnel officers of the three companies. It meant quartering the country and they knew they were working against the clock. Back in Burnalder, a team of detectives was phoning companies who had advertised similar vacancies, asking for lists of applicants. The lumbering machinery of the law was in gear.
On the evening of the second day, an exhausted Maggie arrived home. Six hundred and thirty-seven miles of driving had taken their toll and she looked crumpled and older by ten years. Sarah helped her out of her coat and poured her a stiff drink in silence.
‘You were right,’ Maggie sighed. ‘We’ve got the name and address of a man who has been rejected by all three firms after the first interview. We’re moving in on him tonight. If he sticks to his pattern, he’ll be aiming to strike again tomorrow. So with luck, it’ll be a red-handed job.’ She sounded grim and distant. ‘What a bloody waste. Twelve lives because he can’t get a bloody job.’
‘I can understand it,’ Sarah said abruptly and went through to the kitchen.
Maggie stared after her, shocked but comprehending. She felt again the low rumble of anger inside her against a system that set her to catch the people it had so often made its victims. If only Sarah had not lost her well-paid job, then Maggie knew she would have left the force by now, but they needed her salary to keep their heads above water. The job itself was dirty enough; but the added pain of keeping her relationship with Sarah constantly under wraps was gradually becoming more than she could comfortably bear. Sarah wasn’t the only one whose choices had been drastically pruned by her unemployment.
By nine fifty-five a dozen detectives were stationed around a neat detached house in a quiet suburban street. In the garden a ‘For Sale’ sign sprouted among the rose bushes. Lights burned in the kitchen and living-room.
In the car, Bill made a final check of the search warrant. Then, after a last word over the radio, he and Maggie walked up the short drive.
‘It’s up to you now,’ he said and rang the doorbell. It was answered by a tall, bluff man in his mid-forties. There were lines of strain round his eyes and his clothes hung loosely, as if he had recently lost weight.
‘Yes?’ he asked in a pleasant, gentle voice.
‘Mr Derek Millfield?’ Maggie demanded.
‘That’s me. How can I help you?’
‘We’re police officers, Mr Millfield. We’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind.’
He looked puzzled. ‘By all means. But I don’t see what . . .’ His voice tailed off. ‘You’d better come in, I suppose.’
They entered the house and Millfield showed them into a surprisingly large living-room. It was tastefully and expensively furnished. A woman sat watching television.
‘My wife Shula,’ he explained. ‘Shula, these are policemen – I mean officers. Sorry, miss.’
Shula Millfield stood up and faced them. ‘You’ve come for me, then,’ she said.
It was hard to say who looked most surprised. Then suddenly she was laughing, crying and screaming, all at once.
Maggie stretched out on the sofa. ‘It was appalling. She must have been living on a knife-edge for weeks before she finally flipped. He’s been out of work for seven months. They’ve had to take their kids out of private school, had to sell a car, sell their possessions. He had no idea what she was up to. I’ve never seen anyone go berserk like that. All for the sake of a nice middleclass lifestyle.
‘There’s no doubt about her guilt, either. Her fingerprints are all over the jar of arsenic. She stole the jar a month ago. She worked part-time in the pharmacy at the cottage hospital in Kingcaple. But they didn’t notice the loss. God knows how. Deputy-heads will roll,’ she added bitterly.
‘What will happen to her?’ Sarah asked coolly.
‘She’ll be tried, if she’s fit to plead. But I doubt if she will be. I’m afraid it’ll be the locked ward for life.’ When she looked up, Maggie saw there were tears on Sarah’s cheeks. She immediately got up and put an arm round her. ‘Hey, don’t cry, love. Please.’
‘I can’t help it, Maggie. You see, I know how she feels. I know that utter lack of all hope. I know that hatred, that sense of frustration and futility. There’s nothing you can do to take that away. What you have to live with, Detective-Sergeant Staniforth, is that it could have been me.
‘It could so easily have been me.’
A Traditional Christmas
Last night, I dreamed I went to Amberley. Snow had fallen, deep and crisp and even, garlanding the trees like tinsel sparkling in the sunlight as we swept through the tall iron gates and up the drive. Diana was driving, her gloved hands assured on the wheel in spite of the hazards of an imperfectly cleared surface. We rounded the coppice, and there was the house, perfect as a photograph, the sun seeming to breathe life into the golden Cotswold stone. Amberley House, one of the little jobs Vanbrugh knocked off once he’d learned the trade with Blenheim Palace.
Diana stopped in front of the portico and blared the horn. She turned to me, eyes twinkling, smile bewitching as ever. ‘Christmas begins here,’ she said. As if on cue, the front door opened and Edmund stood framed in the doorway, flanked by his and Diana’s mother, and his wife Jane, all smiling as gaily as daytrippers.
I woke then, rigid with shock, pop-eyed in the dark. It was one of those dreams so vivid that when you waken, you can’t quite believe it has just happened. But I knew it was a dream. A nightmare, rather. For Edmund, sixth Baron Amberley of Anglezarke had been dead for three months. I should know. I found the body.
Beside me, Diana was still asleep. I wanted to burrow into her side, seeking comfort from the horrors of memory, but I couldn’t bring myself to be so selfish. A proper night’s sleep was still a luxury for her and the next couple of weeks weren’t exactly going to be restful. I slipped out of bed and went through to the kitchen to make a cup of camomile tea.
I huddled over the gas fire and forced myself to think back to Christmas. It was the fourth year that Diana and I had made the trip back to her ancestral home to celebrate. As our first Christmas together had approached, I’d worried about what we were going to do. In relationships like ours, there isn’t a standard formula. The only thing I was sure about was that I wanted us to spend it together. I knew that meant visiting my parents was out. As long as they never have to confront the physical evidence of my lesbianism, they can handle it. Bringing any woman home to their tenement flat in Glasgow for Christmas would be uncomfortable. Bringing the daughter of a baron would be impossible.
When I’d nervously broached the subject, Diana had looked astonished, her eyebrows raised, her mouth twitching in a halfsmile. ‘I assumed you’d want to come to Amberley with me,’ she said. ‘They’re expecting you to.’
‘Are you sure?’
Diana grabbed me in a bear-hug. ‘Of course I’m sure. Don’t you want to spend Christmas with me?’
; ‘Stupid question,’ I grunted. ‘I thought maybe we could celebrate on our own, just the two of us. Romantic, intimate, that sort of thing.’
Diana looked uncertain. ‘Can’t we be romantic at Amberley? I can’t imagine Christmas anywhere else. It’s so . . . traditional. So English.’
My turn for the raised eyebrows. ‘Sure I’ll fit in?’
‘You know my mother thinks the world of you. She insists on you coming. She’s fanatical about tradition, especially Christmas. You’ll love it,’ she promised.
And I did. Unlikely as it is, this Scottish working-class lesbian feminist homeopath fell head over heels for the whole English country-house package. I loved driving down with Diana on Christmas Eve, leaving the motorway traffic behind, slipping through narrow lanes with their tall hedgerows, driving through the chocolate-box village of Amberley, fairy lights strung round the green, and, finally, cruising past the Dower House where her mother lived and on up the drive. I loved the sherry and mince pies with the neighbours, even the ones who wanted to regale me with their ailments. I loved the elaborate Christmas Eve meal Diana’s mother cooked. I loved the brisk walk through the woods to the village church for the midnight service. I loved most of all the way they simply absorbed me into their ritual without distance.
Christmas Day was champagne breakfast, stockings crammed with childish toys and expensive goodies from the Sloane Ranger shops, church again, then presents proper. The gargantuan feast of Christmas dinner, with free-range turkey from the estate’s home farm. Then a dozen close family friends arrived to pull crackers, wear silly hats and masks, drink like tomorrow was another life and play every ridiculous party game from Sardines to Charades. I’m glad no one’s ever videotaped the evening and threatened to send a copy to the women’s alternative health co-operative where I practise. I’d have to pay the blackmail. Diana and I lead a classless life in London, where almost no one knows her background. It’s not that she’s embarrassed. It’s just that she knows from bitter experience how many barriers it builds for her. But at Amberley, we left behind my homeopathy and her Legal Aid practice, and for a few days we lived in a time warp that Charles Dickens would have revelled in.