The Longest Pleasure

by Douglas Clark

“Would I be in my present company otherwise? How are you, Tom?”

  So it was a happy party. The two sergeants had been left outside with the car, as Masters had thought it best not to overwhelm Lockyer with a show of force. It had been a wise decision. Had there been more bodies present, the atmosphere could well have not been as co-operative as, from the outset, it promised to be.

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” asked Lockyer as soon as the greetings were over.

  “You will have heard that there have been several, almost simultaneous, outbreaks of botulism, Mr Lockyer.”

  “Nasty. It looks like becoming an epidemic.”

  “Not if we can prevent it, sir.”

  “You are dealing with it? That surprises me. I’d have thought it was a job for doctors and health authorities and . . . well, chaps like Moller here. But perhaps that is why . . .!”

  As Lockyer’s sentence tailed off, Masters said: “Normally, what you have just said would be correct. But the outbreaks are in widely different parts of the country and, as I said, virtually simultaneous. As botulism is so rare a disease—usually occurring about once in twenty years in this country—it was felt there was something either mysterious or sinister about the present crop of incidents.”

  “I see. And when things are mysterious or sinister, the police are called in, is that it?”

  “The very senior police,” interjected Moller.

  “Of course. So where do I fit in? I presume you have approached me concerning the laboratory. But surely the government’s resources are big enough to cope, though we shall be willing to help if at all possible.”

  There was a little silence, with Lockyer looking from one to the other of his visitors. Then—

  “Mr Lockyer,” said Masters slowly. “I may have misled you by not stating the reason for this visit as soon as we came into your office.”

  “Misled me? How?”

  “We are here to seek your help, certainly, but not in the way you appear to think. We do not wish to avail ourselves of your laboratory facilities, but to establish whether or not they have been misused by one of your employees.”

  “You’re going round every lab in the country making an inspection? Well, that seems a reasonable step to take, I suppose, but it’s going to be a hell of a long and tedious job.”

  “No, sir. We believe your lab has been used, unbeknown to you, for criminal purposes.”

  Lockyer’s mouth opened in surprise. For a moment he was speechless, then he seemed to recover his faculties. “I won’t say that your statement is rubbish, Mr Masters, because you are obviously serious—sincere, even. But I have to say that I believe you to be mistaken. It is inconceivable that these laboratories could have been used for a criminal act. Botulism is a disease. We have nothing to do with disease and bacteria here. We are a physics team, not a team of physicians.”

  “Perhaps—by way of explanation—I should tell you a story,” said Masters. “A story in which all the facts are true.”

  “I’m certainly willing to listen if it will throw some light on your suspicions of my company.”

  “Let me ask if you know anything about botulism?”

  “Only what I’ve read in the papers and heard in the news programmes.”

  “Then you will not know that there are several types of botulism, designated by letters of the alphabet. One of the rarest is type E. Yet this is the type that Dr Moller has isolated from the cans of food eaten by all those who are now suffering from the disease.”

  “That must have been a bit of a hurdle for you,” said Lockyer, now fully interested.

  “It looked as though it might be at first, but we know that type E, though rare in Britain, is rife throughout the waters of the northern hemisphere.”

  “Waters? You mean seas and oceans?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  “So you deduced that the bug itself came from the sea?”

  “We have established that as a certainty. We have also established that the botulism has been introduced into tins of food under anaerobic conditions. You know what they are, Mr Lockyer?”

  “Of course.”

  “So our man had to have the theoretical knowledge to know that anaerobic conditions are vital. He also had to have the practical laboratory skills to carry out his work successfully.”

  “Agreed,” said Lockyer. “Laboratory facilities would be needed. Indeed it would take a good technician with a lot of modern equipment at his disposal to undertake such a task and pull it off. But I still don’t see why you have descended on Locklabs.”

  “You will,” grunted Green.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I stressed the botulism came from the sea. But it had to find conditions to its liking before it could produce its exotoxin. The most likely place for it to find those conditions was in a tin of food—preferably a tin of fish, because it has a predilection for fish.”

  Lockyer nodded to show he understood.

  “Such a tin of fish would probably have been in the water for some time. Seawater, as you know, will eat metals away. We think our tin had been in the sea long enough for the salt to find a weak spot on the surface of the metal . . .”

  “Probably where sand and grit had worn the surface tinning off,” agreed Lockyer.

  “Quite. Only a minute hole would be needed—one scarcely discernible, even with a magnifying glass, and small enough to self-seal with solidified juices from the contents once the spore had entered. Once a spore entered under those conditions, it would multiply.”

  Lockyer nodded.

  “Our next thought was that the tin would have to be retrieved from the water. While considering this, it was as well to question how it would get into the water in the first place.”

  “Lost overboard from a ship, presumably.”

  “Quite. And then, after a time, washed up on some shore to be found by somebody who made use of it as a source of virulent botulism for contaminating other tins of food.”

  “Haphazardly? It’s fiendish.”

  “That’s roughly how we described the operation,” conceded Green, fishing out a crumpled packet of Kensitas. “Mind if we smoke in here, Mr Lockyer?”

  “Go ahead.” Lockyer pushed an ashtray across the desk.

  Masters, glad of Green’s interruption, in so far as it removed the need to connect the previous bit of his narrative with the next bit, continued his explanation.

  “You may recall that last autumn there were several bouts of exceptionally severe weather in the Channel and generally off the south coast.”

  “The Fastnet disaster?”

  “That was part of it, I believe. What I am sure about is that a number of small coasters got into difficulties and some even sank. Those disasters were recalled in the spring of this year when, some six months after the sinkings, whales started to die of poisoning.”

  “I do remember that,” said Lockyer, “because one was washed up on the beach at Becton Bunny.”

  “Where?” demanded Green.

  “Becton Bunny. On the Hampshire coast between Barton and Milford, not far from Christchurch. We have a cottage down there. That’s why I can remember the details so well.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes. I recall now that another two were washed up on the Isle of Wight which is only just opposite our little place.”

  “Funny you should mention the Isle of Wight . . .” began Green, and then looked across at Masters to indicate that he could pick up the cue. But Masters did not do so, directly. Instead, he said: “The craft which went down were obviously well-provided with food, and much of it would break loose and get scattered about, so that the sea could get to work on the tins. Besides contaminating them, it would eventually wash them ashore somewhere when the wind and tides were setting in the right direction.”

  “The spring gales washed them ashore?”

  “Together with other items from the cargoes that had been lost. At least one of those ships was carrying dangerous chemic
als in canisters. And those canisters were washed ashore with the tins of food.”

  Lockyer grimaced. “That’s right. I remember the poisons coming ashore.”

  “Arsenic trichloride, amino methyl propanol and phenyl benzanine,” said Masters. “All stuff that had to be handled with care and, if possible, by experienced scientists.”

  “I should think so. People who find things on beaches are quite naturally inquisitive and anybody getting too nosey with canisters of the poisons you have named wouldn’t last long enough to make a choice as to whether they wanted to be buried or cremated.”

  Masters nodded his agreement. “Consequently, when those drums started to come ashore on the Isle of Wight, the authorities there roped in every scientist they could lay their hands on to identify the poisons for the police and firemen who were faced with the task of making the beaches safe.”

  Masters looked straight at Lockyer. “You see where we are getting, sir?”

  Lockyer nodded. “You’ve married up a number of the scientists from among whom you expect to find a culprit with the source of the virulent botulism.”

  “Quite. We have reason to believe that one of the men who helped, picked up a can of food. We believe he has enough scientific knowledge to recognise its potential for harm, and we believe he has the facilities of a modern laboratory at his disposal.”

  Lockyer made no comment. Moller cleared his throat apologetically and Green crushed out the butt of his cigarette. At last—

  “You think those laboratory facilities are in this building.” It was a flat, spiritless statement.

  “Yes, Mr Lockyer, I do.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “One of your employees on holiday at the time of the gales was staying at a guest house on the Isle of Wight. It so happened that another young scientist—an industrial chemist—lived in that house. The chemist was rounded up to help on the beaches, but it was a most inconvenient time for him because he was just about to be married. Your man offered to stand in for him on the beaches . . .”

  “Good lord! You are saying that one of my people deliberately set himself out to find a tin of contaminated food . . .?”

  “No, sir. I am doubtful whether the idea ever entered his head at that time. I am sure he just picked up a tin of food that the firemen had missed and probably slipped it inside the parka he would be wearing on so cold and windy a beach as he located the drums and pronounced on their safety. He forgot it, I expect, till he got back to his digs, and then didn’t bother to return it to the dump. When he came away, he probably brought it with him.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Who can say? As a scientist he might be interested in some aspect of the effects of sea water.”

  “Highly probable. We, here, are deeply involved in the effects of the elements on materials in everyday use. But you haven’t yet told me the name of the man—I assume it is a man?—whom you suspect.”

  “A cryophysicist called Stephen Wilkin.”

  “We certainly employ him,” agreed Lockyer. “And he is an assistant in the cryo lab.”

  “I have told you as much as I think I can safely tell you without prejudicing the case,” said Masters. “So now we would like your permission to investigate further. You keep a list of holiday dates, I suppose?”

  “Naturally.”

  “In that case, would you please allow DCI Green to check it to make sure that Wilkin was absent from the laboratory at the relevant time?”

  “Nothing easier . . .” Lockyer stretched out his hand to press the button to summon his secretary and then exclaimed: “Good heavens, look at the time. It’s gone six. Everybody will have left ages ago.” He got to his feet. “I think I can manage to find the book myself. We are not so big an organisation that we have yielded cost efficiency to the administrative maws of water-tight compartments.”

  As soon as Lockyer was out of the office, Moller said to Masters: “Don’t be too hard on him. This will be a great blow to him—commercially as well as . . .” “He’s coming back,” mumbled Green, getting to his feet to take the book that Lockyer was bringing with him.

  “It was very much to the fore,” he said quietly. “It is the high holiday season now, so I suppose it is in constant daily use.”

  Green leafed through the hard-backed ledger. After a moment or two he looked up and said to Masters: “Away for the week.” Keeping his forefinger on the relevant entry, he passed it across for the Chief Superintendent to see.

  “Get a photocopy of that page,” counselled Masters. “There’s no need to impound the book itself.”

  The atmosphere had changed. Now that the Yard men had started to gather material evidence a sombreness had descended on the gathering.

  “We shall need to inspect the cryogenics laboratory, sir.”

  “There will be nobody there now.”

  “Nobody staying on to take late readings?”

  “We try to avoid that. It costs a lot of money in overtime. By and large, readings are taken at timed intervals, and I’m pleased to say that most scientific men are prepared to come back at specified times to take readings when they are engaged in a project that necessitates them.”

  “So there are keys available?”

  “We have a man on the door all night. He has keys to all the labs. He lets people in.”

  “Without question?” asked Green.

  “He wouldn’t let a stranger in, of course. But he knows everybody who works here. That’s not quite as irresponsible as it may sound to you, because though all our work is important research, none of it is categorised by any of the Ministries, for example. An ordinary intruder would learn little from a visit to any of our labs. Really important papers are locked in the safes overnight, and they include bench diaries on any original work that’s going on.”

  Green grunted and got to his feet.

  “The photocopier is in the general office,” Lockyer told him. “It will be switched off at the plug. After you’ve used it, please switch off again and leave the book alongside it.”

  “Ta!”

  Masters said: “You are being very helpful and understanding Mr Lockyer.”

  “Helpful, perhaps, because I want to see this business cleared up. And I’m still living in hope that you are mistaken. But understanding, no. I do not understand it, Mr Masters, and I don’t think I need tell you I am as near distress over this whole affair as I have been at any time over anything affecting my professional life. Apart from the damage it may do Locklabs—which probably won’t matter at all, because the firm can recover—I am concerned about Stephen Wilkin.”

  “You like him?”

  “Not very much. In fact, I probably dislike him.”

  “Why?”

  “Probably because I did not take to him when he first came—for his first interview. Obviously he had good qualifications, otherwise we wouldn’t have looked at him. But when I saw him that first time, my immediate reaction was to turn him down. After he’d gone I began to think how unfair and, indeed, unwise, my attitude was. He was far from prepossessing physically. In my day we would have called him weedy. But I asked myself whether that was a good reason for discarding him immediately. He was obviously possessed of the application and mental stamina necessary to take a good degree, and if every employer he met turned him down, out of hand, simply because he hadn’t a personality that appealed immediately . . .”

  “Was this his first job, then?” asked Green.

  “No. His second. He came to us from a dead-end job—as far as research physics was concerned—in a small firm making traditional electric batteries.”

  “So you took him on out of sympathy?”

  “I like to think not. I’ve tried to flatter myself I made a rational decision, devoid of sentiment.”

  “Was your choice justified?” enquired Masters.

  “Until I heard what you had to tell me today, I would have said that I had engaged a hard worker who would never reach any dizzy heigh
ts.”

  “Did he get on well with his colleagues here?”

  “In the lab he was very quiet and fussy. Outside he did not socialise at all. He was, you see, a mother’s boy.”

  “No father? No wife or girl friends?”

  “That’s it. He lost his father when he was a boy. Mother brought him up tied tight to her apron. I could tell that immediately I met him, but I had hopes that coming down here on his own and living in digs would improve matters. I think it did, a bit, and he began to get a taste for freedom or solitude, whichever way you look at being alone.”

  “He went to the Isle of Wight alone.”

  “That surprised me a bit, because last autumn he bought a flat and brought his mother down here to live with him. He then reverted to the old, reserved Wilkin he had been when he first arrived. Why he went away without her is a mystery to me.”

  “You’ve met Mrs Wilkin?”

  “No, no. He never comes to any of the firm’s social functions and I don’t inflict on my staff invitations to dinner with the boss.”

  “But he definitely began to come out of his shell before his mother joined him?”

  “That is my belief. I thought I detected a definite lessening of his nervousness and I can recall Dewer—that’s Wilkin’s departmental head—saying that the man was getting frisky. He’d banged his thumb, I believe, and exhibited quite a repertoire of blue language.”

  “They do, that type,” said Green. “You ought to hear some of your actual gay boys swear.”

  “They can hold their own?”

  “More than that. They often use it gratuitously. I’ve always put it down to the fact that they want to prove they’re tough.”

  “I see.”

  Masters asked: “Where did Wilkin come from?”

  “Leicester.”

  “Was that where he was living or where he was born?”

  “Oh, where he was living. I can’t remember where he was born.”

  Masters looked at Green. “Ask Reed to tell Lake to concentrate there, would you please?”

  Green left the office.

  “Now,” said Moller, “could we go to the lab, please, I’d like to see what there is there that he could have used.”