The Longest Pleasure

by Douglas Clark

  “You mean I’ve wasted my time?” asked Reed.

  “I don’t think so,” said Masters. “We’ve got to pursue this business of the labels and identify shops. Don’t forget that once those patients can tell us where they bought their goods, we shall know whether our man was scrupulously careful or not. Whichever he is will help to build up his character for us.”

  Green said to Reed: “Nothing’s ever lost or wasted in this game, lad. His Nibs has told you often enough that it all helps, even if only to eliminate somebody or to tell us one avenue of investigation is blocked to us.”

  Reed nodded. “Sorry I asked the question, Chief.”

  “There’s no need to be sorry. You did well enough.”

  “I know, but you told us this morning we had to make a positive approach to this one. Grumbling about wasting time isn’t very positive.”

  “Don’t worry. You know we’ve got to work fast, and so the idea of wasting time is anathema. It is bound to happen while we are looking for ways of getting to grips with the problems.”

  “We’ve come a long way already, Chief,” said Reed.

  “That’s right,” added Berger. “We reckon we know the type of man we’re looking for and we reckon we know how he managed to contaminate the tins. And the DCI has put out all his calls and they could bear fruit. What more could we expect in less than twenty-four hours, Chief?”

  “Forget the bloke himself for a moment,” said Green. “What we want to do is to stop any more innocent people being killed. Once we’ve done that, we’ll have plenty of time to find the culprit.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “I hope you do,” said Masters, “because if we were to catch our man in half-an-hour’s time, there’s every possibility that more people would die and would continue to do so until all his damned tins had either been discovered or used up. He’s set time bombs and it’s no use our catching him and getting him to tell us where he placed them if they’ve already been bought and are currently residing in the larders of unsuspecting housewives.”

  Green sucked his teeth. “You do realise, you lads, don’t you, that one or more of those tins could be in your own houses or your mothers’?”

  Berger swore. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “No? What does it feel like to be on a hit list?”

  “Bloody frightening. And I can understand why the Chief is so worried . . . well, not worried exactly, but anxious to get all the strip-cans in every store examined or withdrawn.” He looked across at Masters. “Chief, we’ve only to drop one unofficial word to the press and everybody—Redcokes and the DHSS—would have to toe your line.”

  Masters shook his head. “I can’t do that, and you know it. Nor can you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Were Redcokes to act on their own, even though they could still claim there was no absolute proof, very little harm would be done to their business, and a lot of good from the humanitarian point of view would ensue. But were we to tell the press . . . well, Redcoke would act, but they could claim they were pressurised by scandal—scandal which would cost them millions in loss of sales and loss of good-will and trust. We don’t want any more disasters.”

  “No absolute proof, Chief? The forensic people have found the bugs in Redcoke tins. What more proof do we need?” demanded Reed.

  “Quite a lot, lad,” said Green. “You see, we don’t think that Redcokes are responsible. We’d have to say so, wouldn’t we? So Redcokes would claim that in order to solve a crime—that is, find a villain we’re looking for—we took the sizeable step of ruining the reputation of one of the country’s largest and most respected grocery chains. Put baldly like that, it doesn’t sound like good detective work. In fact it sounds bloody stupid, and we’d have to answer for it. Not now, while the scare is on and opinion would be on our side, but in a year’s time, probably, when the scare is over and people have forgotten it ever happened. Things will look different then, matey.” Green thought for a moment and then continued. “Suppose, just for laughs, that it turns out that Chummy only infected four tins—the four we’ve already found—and we pillory Redcokes after it’s all over. What’s going to be said about that a year from now, in a court of law, when the Redcoke legal eagles are picking over what we are now doing and have done?” He shook his head. “His Nibs is right. This is like trying to walk on water. Unless somebody, somewhere, provides us with a raft, we’re sunk.”

  Reed nodded to show he agreed, but was not yet ready to yield. “What about an anonymous tip to the press?”

  “You weren’t here,” said Berger, “but Dr Moller reckons he can do that by not saying a word about Redcokes.”

  “How?”

  “By putting the empty tins on display at the press conference tomorrow morning. Reporters and cameramen won’t miss a hint like that.”

  “So what are we worried about?”

  “I am still reluctant to do it that way,” replied Masters. “What the DCI said was right. We’re not out to make Redcoke suffer for this. They are a company with the highest standards of cleanliness and service, and they really are an asset to the country. I do not want to destroy them. It would be against the principles of every one of us, to make the victim pay for the culprit’s misdeeds. Besides, I have a nasty suspicion that by putting Redcoke on the spot, we would be playing Chummy’s game. He’s out to hit them hard. I have a strong objection to helping any villain in such a fashion. If Redcoke would take the necessary steps of their own volition, with no fuss and bother, the damage would be minimal, they’d be saving lives and they’d be thwarting the madman who is trying to destroy them.”

  There was a moment or two of silence. The uncomfortable silence of men who are at a loss, but desperately trying to find an answer to an impossible problem.

  Lake broke the silence by coming across to Masters’ desk. “The file of information you asked for, sir. There’s more to come, but I thought you’d like to see what we’ve got already.”

  Masters took the sheaf of medical papers and thanked Lake.

  “What’s that?” asked Green. “Light reading?”

  Masters nodded.

  “For tonight?”

  “I thought I’d better look at them . . . just in case . . .”

  Green got to his feet. “If you’re proposing to tangle with that lot before you go to bed, it’s time you were getting home to your little missus.”

  Reed asked, astounded, “Are you packing it in for the day, Chief?”

  “What do you mean, lad?” demanded Green. “We were up all night. And because we’re not sitting in this office doesn’t mean we’re not working.”

  “No . . . well . . .”

  The phone rang on Masters’ desk.

  “It’s fatal not to get away at once,” counselled Green. Masters picked up the phone.

  “You’re right, George,” said Moller without preamble. “Type E with no salmonella or any other blessed bug means that . . . well, I don’t know exactly what it means, except that our pal must have cultured his strain very carefully. He certainly didn’t just half cook a pound of stewing steak and keep it warm thereafter, or he’d have had lashings of different nasties burgeoning on it. Nor did he add muck of one sort or another like Convamore suggested.”

  “Vegetables?”

  “I think not. Vegetables—when imperfectly cooked—can produce botulism if closely sealed, but if they’re left unsealed they tend to ferment in one of the usual ways—acetous, alcoholic, butyric, lactic, putrefactive and so on, and I think that this would probably kill the botulinum bugs. Certainly it would give a chance for other bugs to proliferate like hell. I’m talking about the non-lactose fermenting enterobacteriaceae like proteus, shigella and—yes—your friend salmonella. I’m not sure of all this, of course, because I doubt whether the exact parallel of our present problem has ever occurred before, and so no work will have been done on it. That means I’ve no references to help me, so I shall need to experiment.”

&nb
sp; “Not too fast,” chided Masters. “I know you scientists! You want to get to the bottom of everything. But don’t waste your time doing a lot of new experiments for me. I couldn’t care less whether our man used meat or vegetable to produce his blasted brood. You’ve told me what I want to know, and that is that he had the ability to culture his bugs in isolation. No layman could do that. Not even by chance, I suspect?”

  “George, you’ve opened up an avenue that I honestly don’t believe anybody has ever trod before. A number of American housewives have produced botulinum from time-to-time, inadvertently, by inefficient bottling methods. A few may even have brewed one hundred per cent botulinum, but I doubt it. There are just too many bugs about wanting to get in on the act as any food hygienist will tell you.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “You make it sound as though I’d helped.”

  “Maybe you have.”

  “And maybe not. But still, it was you who opened my eyes to this complication. You’re a bit of a clever bastard, aren’t you, George?”

  “On the quiet, yes.”

  Moller’s voice changed. “And a good thing, too. Although they’ll never know it, there may well be quite a few people alive next year at this time who would have died this year but for you.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence, but please remember we haven’t got very far yet towards solving our problem.”

  “Yes you have, old chum. And I know. I can tell when a test is beginning to come out right. Stick to it, chum.”

  “Good night.”

  Masters put the phone down.

  “Can we go now?” demanded Green, “or shall we wait for some other back-slapping stinks-man to ring up?”

  “You heard some of that?”

  “Didn’t miss a word,” replied Green, not at all abashed at confessing to eavesdropping. “And for the record, I don’t reckon you’re doing too badly.”

  “That,” said Masters, “is most definitely the signal to go home. When you start throwing bouquets, it is definitely time to quit.”

  Chapter Five

  Doris Green had returned to her own home earlier in the day, so there was no reason why the DCI should accompany Masters who, consequently, walked home alone, clutching the file which Lake had prepared for him.

  The baby was already in his cot and asleep, so Wanda was free to greet her husband and prepare him a drink to be taken in the kitchen while she put the finishing touches to supper.

  “Fish, darling. Dover sole.”

  He grinned. “Playing safe, poppet?”

  She looked up at him. Her very fair hair glinted in the rays of the westering sun coming through the window. It showed up just a trace of perspiration on her forehead, due to the non-stop domestic activity of the last two hours and the heat of the oven. “I don’t think I shall open another tin until I have your assurance that it is absolutely safe to do so.”

  He nodded at her. “If you feel better that way . . . but I think you—and everybody else—will be safe if you avoid strip-cans.”

  “Strip-cans?”

  “The ones you open with a key.”

  “They are the dangerous ones?”

  “All four of the outbreaks . . .”

  “Four?”

  “There’s been another. In Bournemouth.”

  “Could it . . . grow worse? Spread?”

  “It wouldn’t spread like an epidemic, but there could easily be more cases.”

  She came and stood close to him. “I heard a man on television . . .”

  “Cutton?”

  “Was that his name? I didn’t understand him. He pretended there was no danger. Nothing to worry about.”

  “There isn’t—for you, if you take care and avoid strip-cans.”

  “Why couldn’t he have said that? I trust you implicitly, so I know for certain that what you have told me is true. Why can’t everybody be given the same advice?”

  Masters kissed her forehead. “Because the reaction of many people would not be the same as yours, my darling. It is feared that if strip-cans were to be mentioned specifically, thousands of people who had just eaten from them would immediately begin to suffer from bogus, autosuggestive symptoms and would swamp every doctor and hospital in the country. And they would have to be taken seriously because among them there could be genuine cases.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” replied Wanda, “but it does seem a pity nothing can be done to prevent further trouble.”

  He grinned at her. “We’re doing our best.”

  “I know that, you chump. And I know you’ll not stop until you’ve put it right. You won’t, will you?”

  He shook his head and then said: “I’m rather pleased you’re urging me on. Now you won’t be able to complain because I’ve brought a file of work home . . .”

  She pushed away from him. “You big . . . I could wallop you . . . and you’re looking tired.”

  “I’ll manage. Having you here chases it all away . . . tiredness, trouble . . .” He took her in his arms. “You’re the complete restorative. The elixir man has sought in vain down the ages.”

  “Rubbish. But nice rubbish. Now, if you’ll let me go, I can do something about the Dover sole . . .”

  *

  It was a pleasant, companionable evening in the little house. The sky had clouded over, so that Masters needed a lamp to read by. Wanda sat in the huge chair opposite but, because of the size of the room, she was very close to him. She read, too, her latest library book, Marguerite Yourcenar’s Memoirs of Hadrian. She looked up once and caught his eye, when the first splashes of rain hit the windows.

  “Cosy,” she murmured with a smile. It was the only word she spoke, though after getting up to go upstairs to see their child was still sleeping, undisturbed by the rain, she prepared her husband a drink and set it down on the small pie-crust table on which his ashtray stood.

  He grunted his thanks, aware of her gesture, but too totally immersed in his work to pay her undivided attention. It was more than half an hour later when he leaned back, leaving the open file on his knees.

  “The fish . . .” he began.

  “For supper? The Dover sole?”

  “Why fish and not meat?”

  “We had a joint last night, remember. We can’t afford joints every night. Nobody can.”

  He looked across at her. “I would have thought Dover sole would have been as dear as meat. Dearer than, say, liver and bacon or a savoury mince.”

  She nodded. “They were a bit of an extravagance, perhaps.”

  “But you provided them because I like them so much?”

  She blushed. “Why not?”

  “No reason why not, my sweet. It was very thoughtful of you.”

  “And they don’t come in tins,” she added sombrely.

  “Ah!”

  “What does that mean?” Now there was a hint of alarm in her voice.

  “Only that they come out of the sea.”

  “Of course they do. They’re built for it . . . oh, my God!” She put one slim hand to her mouth and her eyes widened in horror. “Don’t tell me those bacteria infest the seas, too.”

  He stretched across and took her hands in his. “Don’t get alarmed, my beautiful. Convamore and Moller told us that all the outbreaks have been caused by type E botulinum. They also told us that though that type is rare in Britain, it is nevertheless peculiar to the northern hemisphere. Not knowing much about these things, I took that to mean that they inhabit the land surfaces.”

  “But they don’t just do that? They get into water as well—lakes and rivers and seas?”

  “Apparently.” He tapped the file. “One of these papers says that type E is predominantly found in the waters of the northern hemisphere, and carries on to say that one of its distinctive features is that it can grow and produce its toxin at four degrees centigrade—the temperature of a domestic refrigerator.”

  “Is that knowledge important?”

  “Important to the case? Th
at would be hard to say, but it’s an important lesson to me.”

  “In what way?”

  “Not just to presume I understand what experts mean. Convamore and Moller were, strictly speaking, correct to say that type E is found mostly in the northern hemisphere, but I should not have assumed they meant only the land masses. I should have asked questions.”

  “They were talking to laymen. They could have said they meant the oceans as well as the land.”

  “True. But egg-heads often lose sight of the fact that because they know what they are talking about, others don’t, necessarily.”

  Wanda took her hands from his and pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over her eyes. “It stands to reason, though, doesn’t it, that streams and rivers will carry the bacteria from the land down to the water?”

  He nodded. “Now we know, yes, it is logical.”

  “You’re a very clever detective man to have those papers gathered together so that you could read it all up for yourself.”

  “Clever . . . but worried.”

  “Nonsense, darling. Knowledge is . . .” Once again she stopped in alarm. “Oh, no! Don’t tell me they contaminate fish?”

  “As to that—whether they contaminate wet fish in any way, I can’t say. I don’t think they do, because we were told they contaminate only dead flesh. But this man I’ve been reading is insistent on mentioning fish. In one place he says that types A and B are characteristically contaminants of meat and vegetables, type E of fish. Then later on he says, in context, that certain fish dishes which have caused outbreaks abroad were contaminated with type E of the organism, which is particularly associated with fish.”

  “That raises at least two points,” said Wanda slowly.

  He waited for her to continue.

  “What does he mean by characteristically? Absolutely distinctive?”

  “I think not. He must mean likely. Typical perhaps. But not absolute, because don’t forget that he went on to use the phrase ‘particularly associated’ which suggests that it doesn’t go for fish and fish alone. And that must be true, because both Convamore and Moller have cultured type E from cans of meat of various kinds.”