The Longest Pleasure

by Douglas Clark

  “Why five years?”

  “Do you think this hate would go back longer than that?”

  Green grimaced. “It could fester. It’s probably been building up in our nutter. Over a long period.”

  “I’ll leave it to your discretion, Bill, but don’t forget that these huge stores take anything up to a couple of years to build, so going back five years could be, in effect, going back seven.”

  Green grunted to show he had appreciated the point.

  “And I don’t want to make the operation too big.”

  “What operation?”

  “We are going to investigate every one of those sites—who lost his land or business or whatever—to try and unearth somebody with a grievance against Redcoke.”

  Green helped himself slowly to a Kensitas from a crumpled packet. Then he said: “It’s not our scene, George. Country-wide enquiries on a big scale . . . it’s a long routine job . . . there are others who are better at it than we are.”

  “We’ve been given the job.”

  “To get a quick result. The sort of investigation you’re proposing could take months—a Yorkshire Ripper job.” Green got up to put a dead match in the ashtray. “Come on, mate. You’re a fast worker. Let’s have something else.”

  Masters replied: “I’m having two strings to this bow. The slow, routine one, and our usual method of working.” He grimaced. “Because I can’t guarantee success by working as we usually do, and we simply have to succeed.”

  “Because there may be other lives at stake, Chief?” asked Reed.

  “Precisely. Normally it doesn’t matter if it takes us two days or two weeks to find a murderer. But this time . . . the bastard may be planting tins at this moment.”

  “Good enough,” said Green rising to his feet. “Get the address of the Redcoke office, laddo,” he said to Berger, “and get a car pronto. We’re on our way.” As Berger left the office, the DCI turned to Masters. “What about you, George?”

  “We’re going to have to set up an Incident Room,” said Masters reluctantly.

  “Where?”

  “Here. There’s nowhere else. I’ve decided to ask for a uniformed Inspector and a couple of clerks to run it. I don’t want all the usual Church Hall paraphernalia, but we will have to be able to co-ordinate those property searches. There’ll be the technical material coming in, too.”

  “You’ll have to deal with that yourself.”

  “I intend to. That’s why I hope you’ll take charge of the property business. I’ll see you when you get back from Redcoke.”

  Green shrugged and went off.

  “What about me, Chief?” asked Reed.

  “I want you to go shopping.”

  “Chief?”

  “Get a car and a plain-clothes driver, and get round to every Redcoke store you can manage between now and closing time. Buy one tin of anything at each store.”

  “Why, Chief?”

  “Just do it. And get back here by six or soon after. And get out into the suburbs.”

  Reed went about his business.

  *

  Masters had spent more than an hour arranging the setting up of the Incident Room. The uniformed staff members who were to help him had been briefed and started on their various tasks. By the time all three were installed, together with a couple of small tables for desks, there was very little room left in Masters’ office, but it was as he wanted it. He felt the need to be close—physically as well as mentally—to everything that was going on.

  Keith Lake, the Inspector who had been lent to him, was an intelligent young man. He lacked the experience that is so great an asset in setting up the checking and cross-checking procedures that are usually so vital in the sifting out of clues in a case of this nature, but Masters was content to have a man who might well understand more of the technical side of the investigation than one who would be left to juggle his clues in the darkness of incomprehensibility.

  “I have a job for you personally, Lake.”

  “Sir.”

  “I want a file on botulism. By that, I mean a photocopy of every paper written on it that you can find. The library here, the boffins, the Royal Society of Medicine Library and any other source you can think of. Glance through them as you go so that you don’t duplicate the material. By that, I mean, go to one good pathology book and take their section on the basic information, and don’t get any others that are similar. Have it here by six o’clock if you can. At least have something here. I want to do some homework tonight.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Masters was in the process of explaining to one of the two remaining policemen how he wanted a map of the country set up, when a call from Anderson came in.

  “George, the doctor from the DHSS—the one who is broadcasting at six—is in my office. I think you’d better come up here and meet him.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Masters’ first thought when he was introduced to Dr Cutton was that he was the last man he himself would consider putting up as a spokesman for the Ministry. Not that the doctor was ill-favoured, but rather that his manner was of that irritating variety that puts up the backs of colleagues and causes them to dislike those who may be perfectly able, even brilliant men. Masters got that far on introduction. Before the conversation was more than a minute or two old, the Chief Superintendent found his initial repugnance to the man growing stronger.

  “The Assistant Commissioner tells me you would like me to warn the public against using tinned meat that comes in the strip-open cans.”

  “As a measure of safety, Doctor. All three of the contaminated cans are of that variety. I realise we cannot be sure that any further cans—should there be any—will be the same, but at least by issuing such a warning we may save some lives.”

  Cutton shook his head. “Can’t be done, Masters.”

  “Can’t be done?” Masters’ tone sounded dangerous. Anderson stepped in quickly. “I have already asked Dr Cutton to take the steps you suggest, George. It is because he has refused to issue a warning that I asked you to meet him—so that you would know at first-hand why your apparently reasonable request has been refused.”

  Masters was certain that Anderson had as poor an opinion of Cutton as he himself had—and obviously arrived at equally quickly. “Certainly I should like to be told why Dr Cutton takes the attitude he has chosen to adopt. My business, as a policeman, is to save life wherever possible and to try to do so however slim the chance. Equally I would have thought that to have been the objective of the medical profession, too.”

  “Now, George,” warned Anderson. “Hear Cutton out before getting too cross.”

  “Quite,” said Cutton, self-importantly. Masters squirmed inwardly. The man was dressed well, in pale grey, with a reasonable shirt and tie. His hair was cut relatively short and everything else about him measured up except the insufferable manner and, perhaps, a sort of lippy-toothed slew to the mouth as he spoke. “Now,” he continued, “we at the Ministry don’t want you people to make too much of this botulism scare. I shall tell the public tonight that botulism is so rare that the chances of anybody contracting it are millions to one against.”

  “Naturally, perhaps,” said Masters quietly. “But with a madman loose . . .”

  “That’s just the point. We can’t say there is a madman loose. First because we have no proof that there is, and second because such a statement, even if proven, would cause panic. I therefore take the view that I cannot suggest to the public that there is anything out of the ordinary going on. Were I to do so, the result would be disastrous. So I cannot give a blanket warning against all strip-open cans. Were you able to give me a single batch number for one single food, the situation would be different.”

  “You could warn them against Redcoke products in strip-open cans,” suggested Anderson.

  “Impossible. The effect on one of the largest food stores in the country would be disastrous, and the action they could take—and win—were I even to hint t
hat their items, and theirs alone, were responsible for the outbreak, would cause so great a legal furore that we at the Ministry shudder to contemplate it.”

  “It would most probably save lives,” insisted Masters.

  “Not so. It would jeopardise far more lives than it would save.”

  “How on earth do you make that out, Dr Cutton?” demanded Anderson.

  Cutton smirked. “A little thought would give you the reason. Or perhaps you are too isolated from the public to gauge their reaction to a warning that particular Redcoke foods may be dangerous?”

  “Tell us,” grated Anderson, visibly angry.

  “Everybody—and there would be millions of them—who had eaten food taken recently from a Redcoke strip-can, would immediately feel ill. Such is the power of suggestion, particularly on television. Within an hour, every doctor in the country would be overwhelmed with patients who thought they felt ill or who wanted a check-up ‘just in case’. A GP who failed to recognise a genuine case after the patient had reported to him would be vilified—and worse. So doctors would take samples of blood, and every path lab in the country would be so swamped with unnecessary tests that the ordinary routine hospital tests—most of them vital—would be skimped or overlooked or delayed in the flood of work. The work of hospital doctors would be held up, and the patients would suffer, probably to the point where fatalities ensued. That is what I meant when I said that to utter a warning about Redcoke strip-cans could well cause more deaths than it would prevent.”

  Masters and Anderson remained silent when Cutton had finished. Their lack of response seemed to urge him to make a further statement. “Surely you can see that even if I mentioned Redcoke products, a great many people would take that to mean any strip-cans. They would either forget the qualification, or they would say that all the shops sell the same goods with different labels and the results I have just described would apply to and spring from the contents of any of that particular type of can. You’re warning is not on, Masters.”

  Masters ignored Cutton and addressed himself direct to Anderson. “Isn’t it possible to appeal to a slightly higher authority, sir?” he asked quietly.

  It was a calculated insult, and Cutton took it as such. His anger flared. “I didn’t come here . . .” he began.

  “Steady, gentlemen, steady,” ordered the AC sternly. “You both have right on your side. You, George, to want to do everything to save life, and you, Doctor, to want to save the whole medical world from being cast into turmoil. You’ve both had your say. Now I suggest we forget it. George, I think you’d better get back to your investigation and please don’t try to circumvent the DHSS policy by making your own point to the press through Moller. Is that understood?”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Masters, seething with rage, returned to his office. Shortly afterwards Green joined him.

  “I’ve been to the Redcoke head office, George.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Wait a moment, mate. What’s the matter with you?”

  Masters grimaced. “I’ve just had a most unpleasant interview with a Dr Cutton from the Ministry. The man had the most irritating manner. Smug, I suppose you’d call it.”

  “I see,” said Green. “He got up your nose because he regards himself as the Great I Am whereas you know that you already hold that unique position?”

  Masters grinned ruefully. “You could be right. Actually he’s the one making the TV appearance tonight and he turned down flat my request for a warning against Redcoke strip-cans.”

  “Just like that?”

  “To be fair to him, he produced some reasoned arguments about panicking the public and swamping the health service, but it was the way he did it and his manner that flicked me on the raw. To be candid, Bill, I wanted to hit him.”

  Green regarded him closely for a minute.

  “Then he must have really upset you, George, because I’ve never before heard you say that. I reckon it’s a measure of how worried you are by this case.”

  “Worried isn’t the word for it. I’ve been thinking . . .”

  “The worst thing you could do.”

  “Thinking over what was said this morning.”

  “There was a hell of a lot said.”

  “About how the botulism that was used in the cans came to be made in the first place.”

  “You heard what Convamore said.”

  “And I know what I told Reed. That it would be easy to produce clostridia because people do it inadvertently all the time.”

  “Right. And Convamore agreed.”

  “So he did. But I don’t think he’s ever produced any himself—I can see no reason why he should have done. He’s merely cultured it after it has contaminated something.”

  “After it is already alive and kicking, you mean?”

  Masters nodded. “And he isn’t a detective—or at least not our sort. I don’t believe he’s considered anything from our point of view so far. Only from his own.”

  “What the hell are you getting at, George?”

  Masters began slowly to fill his pipe. “What I think I am trying to say, Bill, is that to produce botulism bugs is easy enough, but to produce them in isolation could be extremely difficult. That is why I believe what I said to Reed this morning is wrong.”

  “And what Convamore said?”

  “Is wrong, too.”

  “Go on.”

  “Convamore is an authority on this, and I’m most definitely not. But I have been brought up to believe that if you don’t cook meat well enough to kill off all the bugs, the food remains infected and there is every chance of the danger of bacterial multiplication.”

  Green stared at him. “That’s exactly what everybody has been saying the whole time.”

  “Yes, they have. But if your missus undercooked a bit of stew and you got tummy-ache because of it, you wouldn’t expect the ailment to be botulism, would you?”

  “No . . . o,” said Green slowly. “I’d expect it to be gut’s ache—gastroenteritis—due to food poisoning.”

  “Caused by what organisms?”

  “Salmonella—isn’t that the name?”

  Masters tapped the table, waiting for Green’s thought processes to catch up. At last—“You’re on to something, George . . .”

  “You see what I’m getting at?”

  “Of course I see what you’re getting at. If our laddo produced his botulism soup, stew, hash or ragout—as it says on the sauce bottles—he would be producing other food-poisoning organisms at the same time. And all the others, except botulism, produce diarrhoea—according to Convamore and Moller. So . . .” Green paused as if for breath. “So . . . if all the present patients haven’t got diarrhoea and gut’s-ache, the botulism bug must have been produced in isolation. And as we have no reports that the patients have got the trots . . . we haven’t, have we?”

  “No. I’m going to get Lake to ring round the hospitals to confirm it, though.”

  “Per-zactly.” Masters grinned at Green’s valiant efforts to cheer him up. “So we are back to our first thought. We’re looking for an illegitimate glow-worm.”

  “A what?”

  “A bright bastard. A scientist-cum-technician as opposed to any old bod. Somebody who can produce the botulism organism without the other nasties.” Green took out a battered Kensitas. “So what are you getting worried about, mate? You’ve just uncovered something mighty important. That shows you are on top, or at least coping with the job. What more do you want? The ability to solve the riddle inside five-and-twenty minutes?”

  Masters smiled. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’ll bet you wouldn’t.”

  Masters called across to one of the uniformed constables. “Could we have some tea, please,” and then turned back to Green. “Sorry, Bill. I haven’t even had the courtesy to ask how you got on at Redcoke HQ.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “What doesn’t?”


  “Your not asking. You knew the answer before I went. I’ve always said you were jammy. I’ll wager everything I’ve got that you know nothing about the running of supermarkets or grocery chains.”

  “I don’t.”

  “But yet you could tell me Redcoke would have built, on average, five big stores a year for the past five years.”

  “It was a guess, Bill. I didn’t tell you they had.”

  “Good. Because if you had, you’d have been wrong—by two. They’ve actually knocked up twenty-three.”

  “Widespread around the country?”

  “John o’ Groats to Land’s End.”

  “That makes our job more difficult, I suppose.”

  “Not it. I’m not visiting them.”

  “Telex messages to the local nicks?”

  Green shook his head. “A personal phone call. I can say what I mean in a person-to-person chat.”

  The constable put two cups of tea on the desk. Green tasted his and grimaced. “You trying to poison me, lad? There’s no sugar in this.”

  “Sorry, sir. Didn’t know you took it.”

  “Thought I was sweet enough without, did you? Well, you were wrong, so let’s have a couple of spoonsful from somewhere, lad.”

  As the constable left, Masters asked: “If I were you, I’d jot down a check list of what you’re going to ask over the phone. After all, you’ll have to do it twenty-three times, so it would be better to get the same message across each time. Then Lake can keep the list to make sure he gets all the answers when they’re phoned in.”

  “Right. But there’ll be no common form of questions and answers. I want the locals to find out whether old, empty property was demolished, whether currently used property was absorbed, open ground—all that sort of thing. Then I want to know about prices paid. Was some little owner gypped? Or frightened out?”

  “Or had his view spoilt? Or his peace and quiet ruined by the hordes of shoppers that suddenly arrived outside his windows? It hasn’t got to be purely a monetary blow that somebody suffered.”

  “That’s right. They opened up an all-night launderette near us—on the corner where the paper shop was. Now not only can we no longer get papers, fags, cards and all the rest, but we have cars stopping and starting all night and women tapping about in those wooden-heeled shoes. Besides, the activity there has started to draw the yobs. They congregate there. Some went in and beat the place up a week or two ago. I know I’d like to do somebody for turning a decent, traditional amenity into nothing more than a damned nuisance.”