Mr Kidley looked at him belligerently. ‘And if you’re telling me that some bloody maniac came in here with three dead bodies last Sunday and spent the day using our equipment to convert them into cooked meat edible for human consumption under the Food Regulations Act, I’m telling you that that come under the head of…Head? What did he do with the heads?’ Tell me that?’
‘What do you do with heads, Mr Kidley?’ asked the Inspector.
‘That rather depends. Some of them go with the offal into the animal food bins…’
‘Right. So that’s what Wilt said he did with them. And you keep those in the No. 2 cold storage room. Am I right?’
Mr Kidley nodded miserably. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘we do.’ He paused and gaped at the Inspector. ‘But there’s a world of difference between a pig’s head and a…’
‘Quite,’ said the Inspector hastily, ‘and I daresay you think someone was bound to spot the difference.’
‘Of course they would.’
‘Now I understand from Mr Wilt that you have an extremely efficient mincing machine…’
‘No,’ shouted Mr Kidley desperately. ‘No. I don’t believe it. It’s not possible. It’s…’
‘Are you saying he couldn’t possibly have…’
‘I’m not saying that. I’m saying he shouldn’t have. It’s monstrous. It’s horrible.’
‘Of course it’s horrible.’ said the Inspector. ‘The fact remains that he used that machine.’
‘But we keep our equipment meticulously clean.’
‘So Wilt says. He was definite on that point. He says he cleaned up carefully afterwards.’
‘He must have done,’ said Mr Kidley. ‘There wasn’t a thing out of place on Monday morning. You heard the foreman say, so.’
‘And I also heard this swine Wilt say that he made a list of where everything came from before he used it so that he could put it back exactly where he’d found it. He thought of everything.’
‘And what about our reputation for hygiene? He didn’t think of that, did he? For twenty-flue years we’ve been known for the excellence of our products and now this has to happen. We’ve been at the head of…’ Mr Kidley stopped suddenly and sat down.
‘Now then,’ said the Inspector, ‘what I have to know is who you supply to. We’re going to call in every pork pie and sausage…
‘Call them in? You can’t call them in,’ screamed Mr Kidley, ‘they’ve all gone.’
‘Gone? What do you mean they’ve gone?’
‘What I say. They’ve gone. They’ve either been eaten or destroyed by now.’
‘Destroyed? You’re not going to tell me that there aren’t any left. It’s only five days since they went out.’
Mr Kidley drew himself up. ‘Inspector, this is as old fashioned firm and we use traditional methods and a Sweetbreads pork pie is a genuine pork pie. It’s not one of your ersatz pies with preservatives that…’
It was Inspector Flint’s turn to slump into a chair. ‘Am I to understand that your fucking pies don’t keep?’ he asked.
Mr Kidley nodded. ‘They are for immediate consumption he said proudly. ‘Here today, gone tomorrow. That’s our motto. You’ve seen our advertisements of course.’
Inspector Flint hadn’t.
‘Today’s pie with yesterday’s flavour, the traditional pie with the family filling.’
