She studied it for much longer than necessary, weighing the implications of her reply.
'It… could be,' she decided upon, eventually.
'Is it or isn't it?'
'I think it is.'
'Do you still have that coat?'
'Yes.'
'Can I see it, please?'
'The coat?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'To prove to myself that it's you in the picture.'
'I'll fetch it.' She stood up and left the room. I was wondering if I should have followed her, how it would look if she hurled herself from an upstairs window while I was sitting there twiddling my toes, when she returned with the coat over her arm. I took it from her and held it up by the shoulders.
It was a navy blue Burberry, lightweight, with an expensive feel to it, and exactly like the one in the photo. I delved into a pocket and found a leather glove. Its partner was in the other pocket. That saved me having to ask to see the gloves.
'I was worried about these,' I said, flapping the gloves at her. 'I didn't think you'd be able to wear them over your nail extensions, so we made enquiries with your hairdresser. Apparently you had short nails up to last week.'
'What's all this about, Inspector?'
'I think you have a good idea, but I'll show you.' I reached into the briefcase again and retrieved the tin of corned beef. 'This is a tin of corned beef exactly like the one that poisoned Maureen Wall, nearly three weeks ago. Somebody had pierced the tin, and the others that were found, with something small and sharp, like a drawing pin.' I produced one from my briefcase. 'Let's see if it works,' I said.
It was awkward, holding the tin steady while trying to balance the pin under my thumb with the point against the hard metal. When it was stable I placed my other thumb over the first one and squeezed. The thumbnail turned pink with the pressure until, without a sound, the pin penetrated the steel and slid effortlessly into the meat.
'There,' I said. 'Nothing to it.'
'I don't know what all this has to do with me,' she said, but her expression told a different story.
'You're a practical person, Mrs Grainger,' I told her. 'I'm told you made the model of the office and leisure complex with your own hands. You know how to use tools, have access to them, no doubt know all about soldering and super glue and saturated solutions. I think it was you that contaminated all the food at Grainger's superstore.'
She was staring down at her hands and I noticed that one of her nail extensions had become detached. She tried to press it back in place. 'It's absurd,' she declared. 'Why would I do such a thing?'
'To hurt your husband,' I suggested. 'You'd had as much as you could take and this was revenge for all his philandering.' She stayed silent, as I expected, so I threw her the lifeline: 'Or perhaps you did it to save your marriage. You saw it as a way to win Sir Morton's affection back by giving him your full support and understanding during these difficult times? If the Press were hounding him everywhere he turned perhaps he'd spend more time at home instead of gallivanting off every weekend? Or maybe you thought that by putting pressure on the company you'd create stress between him and his staff, in other words, between him and Sharon Brown. You tell me.'
'You haven't any evidence. None at all.'
The gloves were on the arm of my chair. 'That's true,' I conceded, 'and you saw how fiddly it was holding the pin against the tin. Doing that whilst at the shelves might attract attention; might be picked up by the CCTV cameras. But if you put the pin inside your glove, poking out of the thump, it would look perfectly natural to pick up a tin, appear to read the label and then replace it, after piercing it with the drawing pin. That's what you did, Mrs Grainger.'
She shook her head but was unable to speak.
'And if we look at your gloves,' I continued, 'I suspect we'll find a neat little hole in the thumb of the right hand one.'
'You're very clever.'
'It's what I'm paid for.'
'You're right, I did it to save my marriage,' she said, her voice a whisper.
'I don't think you should say any more,' I told her, 'until you have a solicitor present. I'll have to ask you to come to the station with me.'
'Am I under arrest?'
'Not unless you refuse to come.'
'Will I go to jail?'
'Two people nearly died. You put hundreds of lives at risk, scared half the population out of their wits and wasted thousands of hours of police time. If a child or someone frail had eaten that corned beef this might have been a murder enquiry. You could go to jail, but no doubt you will have a very good lawyer in your corner.'
'I didn't want to hurt anybody. It's just that nothing happened.'
I interrupted her — 'I'd prefer you not to say anything until we're at the station,' — but she ignored me.
'I pierced the corned beef and some tins of fruit, but nobody noticed. I wanted them to go bad, that's all, but nothing happened. So then I used the dye, but it was covered up by the store. Next I used the rat poison. It tastes horrible. I tried it. I didn't think anybody would actually eat the stuff.'
I cautioned her. If she insisted on telling me all the details without being cautioned the whizz-kid lawyer would pick it up and make trouble. 'We'll take a statement from you at the station,' I said. 'Can you come with me, please?'
'Do I need anything?'
'No. Just the key to lock the door.'
Driving through Hebden Bridge she turned and looked out of the window at my side of the car. 'I hate this place,' she said. 'Can you believe that? It's such a beautiful place and I hate it. Do you know what the happiest day I've had was, for months and months?'
I shook my head, not wanting to hear, not interested.
'It was last Thursday. Morning coffee with you in that quaint little cafe, then sitting by the river watching the birds and talking. Simple gifts. I felt happier than I've done in a long while. I… I thought I'd found a friend.'
If it was meant to make me feel good it didn't work. 'If it's any consolation, Debra,' I said, 'I think Sir Morton is every kind of fool I've ever known.'
But that didn't help, either.
The Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) was delighted, and when he's happy we're all happy. The troops who were out knocking on doors, studying CCTV footage or skulking round supermarkets were pulled in and told that the job was solved, they could have the weekend off. We were sitting round in the big office, drinking more coffee, when Gilbert came down to tell us of the ACC's pleasure at clearing up two high-profile cases in one week. He then immediately destroyed the euphoria by asking what we were doing about burglaries. Two cases, no matter how big or high-profile, didn't have much impact on our figures.
'Oh, we'll sort them out Monday morning,' I assured him, reaching for another chocolate digestive.
'Before elevenses,' Jeff added.
Mrs Grainger had made a full confession, in the presence of a solicitor, and was released on police bail on condition that she brought her passport in. When her case came to trial medical reports would be presented to the court by the best in the job, all the way from Harley Street. They'd clainvthat trying to poison half the population of Heckley was a plea for help after years of mental cruelty. We'd try for a section 18 assault — grievous bodily harm with intent — but settle for a section 47 actual bodily harm after her lawyers plea bargained. She'd probably get a community service order and a large fine, before fleeing back to the States and screwing Sir Morton for half his fortune.
Mrs Norcup was remanded to a safe institution while her state of mind was investigated, and a GBH charge would stay on her file. She'd be inside for a long time before being pronounced cured and released to whatever society had to offer her. Another dismal flat in the Project if she were lucky. Whether she'd ever see Rory again was
