Chapter Four
Altogether we found twenty-one recorded incidents of tampering, all in Grainger's stores, which was a determined effort to make mischief by anybody's standards. It looked as if the early efforts — the dye and the tin- puncturing — had not had the required effect, so more drastic measures had been adopted. But how many suspect tins were standing on the shelves, either in a store or in somebody's larder, was impossible to calculate. There were bound to be some. Grainger's temporarily took tinned pineapple, peaches and baked beans off their shelves and issued a statement offering to replace any that had been purchased from them in the previous three months. It made the headlines locally and was reported in the national press, lost somewhere between news that a Pop Idol contestant had had a boob job and the tomato that spelled out Allah is Great when cut in half.
We were less successful in our attempts to talk to Sir Morton Grainger. He had a personal assistant — male — resident at Dob Hall, the Georgian pile near Hebden Bridge that he called home, who told us that Sir Morton would be passing through on Wednesday afternoon. Mrs Grainger — she held the title of Lady but preferred plain Mrs — was in London, where she had an architect's practice.
We made a list of all the dates but it was meaningless. Things could have been lying around for weeks. As Jeff Caton said, this was the only enquiry he'd ever been on where there was no point in asking: 'Where were you on…?' The forensics people started some experiments to see how quickly tinned fruit went mouldy, but we knew it would be of doubtful value.
Wednesday morning Dr Hirst rang me. The name didn't mean anything for a few seconds until he reminded me that I'd seen him at the General after the Ebola scare.
'Sorry, Dr Hirst,' I said. 'I didn't recognise the name.
We're still working on the case but not making much progress.'
'I know, I've heard the appeal, but there may have been a development.'
'Go on.'
'We had an admission through the night with all the symptoms of a severe stroke, but a brain scan was negative. She's very ill — we've put her on a respirator — and in the light of what's been happening I started wondering about botulism poisoning. I've given her a dose of the antitoxin serum and sent a stool sample for analysis, but a full diagnosis may take a day or two.'
Twenty minutes later Dave and I were seated in the corridor outside the 1C ward with Dr Hirst.
'You work long hours, Doc,' Dave told him.
'It's not too bad,' he replied with a grin. 'They let us use the coffee machine as often as we like. Can I offer you one?'
'No, we'll get out of your way,' I said. 'So tell us about botulism.'
'I suspect you know the general details,' he replied. 'It's caused by a little blighter called Clostridium botulinum, which normally lies dormant in the soil.' He paused as a grim-faced man carrying a bunch of carnations and leading a weepy little girl was taken into the ward. The door swung silently shut and he continued: 'The bacterium thrives in conditions of low oxygen, such as in sealed cans, where it produces a nerve toxin which can be deadly.'
'Sounds nasty. What can you tell us about the patient?'
'Maureen Wall, a fifty-six-year-old widow. Started feeling ill last night. Blurred vision, slurred speech, difficulty swallowing. She telephoned her daughter in Ipswich who thought it sounded like a stroke and sent for an ambulance.'
'Is she speaking?' I asked.
'Barely.'
'Will she live?'
'She's off the danger list, but it will take a long time for her to get over the paralysis.'
'Do you want me to look for her last meal?'
'It could be a big help.'
'No problem. Do we have an address?'
'Right here.' He produced a piece of paper.
'And a key?'
'It's with the neighbour.'
'Right. I could sign a search authority but it might be more polite to telephone the daughter.'
'I've spoken to her,' Dr Hirst said. 'She says do whatever's necessary.'
'You're a treasure, Doc. If you ever want a career change we could use you. If we find something, who do we leave it with?'
It was the corned beef. The neighbour wanted to supervise our search but Dave steered her away with threats of having to take intimate body samples 'for elimination purposes' if she stepped one inch over the threshold. It was a tiny kitchen in what I believe is called a maisonette, designed for older couples or singletons. There was a group of them, each block containing four homes, situated around an overgrown patch of lawn with cherry trees, long past their best.
I opened the refrigerator door and immediately saw the remains of the corned beef on a saucer, covered with cling film. In a swing bin under the sink we found the tin. Dave sniffed at it, said he couldn't smell anything, but I declined the opportunity. He turned the tin in his fingers, holding it by the edges, and gestured for me to look. In the middle of the O of Corned was a tiny hole. When you looked inside you could see how the metal was displaced. This hole had been made with a nail or something like a drawing pin, not drilled.
'Brilliant,' I said. 'You and the doctor could crack this one between you and I could go home.' We bagged the evidence and dropped it off at the hospital's toxicology lab.
In the car on the way back to the station I said: 'It's good to be out on the streets again, Dave, making enquiries. Sitting behind a desk was getting me down.'
'Serves you right for joining.' What he meant was that promotion above the rank of sergeant always took you one more step away from the sharp end, where the real policing was done.
'True,' I agreed.
After a silence Dave said: 'It's great to see you more relaxed. Charlie. We were worried about you after the last job.'
'I was worried about myself. I thought I'd gone mad.'
'Yeah, well, it was a tough 'un. The rest of us were feeling edgy, too.'
'I know. Everybody in the team felt a personal involvement, but I don't think I handled it as well as most of you.'
'It was your head that was on the block, Charlie. I don't know 'ow you stood the pressure.'
'Well it's behind us now, and I learned a lot from it. From now on I'm going with the flow. It's tough luck on Mr Johnson and Mrs Wall, and I'll do everything in my power to give them justice, but it's their problem, not mine. I hesitate to admit it, but I'm enjoying this case.'
'You might not if someone dies,' Dave cautioned.
'Yeah, well, let's say a little prayer that it doesn't come to that.'
'Amen. So why do you think he's suddenly started using poison?'
We were going through the town centre but it was still early and not many shoppers were about. Two girls and a youth were standing outside the side door of the HSBC bank, shivering in the cool morning air and drawing on cigarettes as if their lives depended on it. The last remaining greengrocer in Heckley was loading his outdoor display with fruit and veg. Hand-written signs showed the prices of carrot's, apple's and orange's. I started to laugh.
'What's so funny?'
'Nothing.'
'Well something's tickling you.'
'It's nothing.'
Now Dave was laughing. 'It doesn't look like nothing.'
I found a tissue and blew my nose. 'Do you remember when I was in digs at Chapeltown?' I said.
