On either a Tuesday or a Thursday, at a few minutes before noon, the volunteer reports to a local school canteen where lunch is ready for serving. Piping hot foil containers are loaded into the box by the dinner ladies. The box is carried to the car. With the meals aboard, the wheels take over.
‘Now begins the tricky part,’ Susan Dowsett explained to Joan Hanks, who was about to join the Acton Turville and District team and had come along to learn how it was done. Mrs Dowsett was the mainstay of the service, one of those admirable, well-to-do Englishwomen who plunge into voluntary work with the same sure touch they apply to their jam-making. ‘They do look forward to seeing you, and most of them like a chat. Some poor ducks hardly ever see anyone else, so one does one’s best to jolly them up. The snag is that you have to ration your time, or the ones at the end of the round get cold lunches.’
‘I expect you can pop them in the oven if that happens. The meals, I mean.’
‘That’s the idea, and sometimes I’ ve done it, but old people are so forgetful. More than once I’ve opened the oven on Thursday and found Tuesday’s lunch still in there, untouched and dry as a biscuit.’ Her chesty laugh jogged the steering. She drove an Isuzu Trooper that suited her personality.
Acton Turville alone would have been a simple task: meals on foot. The ‘and District’ was the part requiring transport. Many of the recipients lived in remote houses outside the village.
‘I always start at the farthest outpost,’ Mrs Dowsett explained as they cruised confidently along a minor road. ‘Old Mr Gladstone is our first call. He’s not the most pleasant to deal with and most of them leave him till last. Get the worst over first, I always say.’
‘What’s wrong with Mr Gladstone?’
‘Hygiene. The atmosphere, shall we say, is not exactly apple-blossom. He’s none too sociable, either. I’ve known him to be downright offensive about the meals. There’s no need for that. It’s plain food, but at least it’s warm.’
‘If he doesn’t want us…’
‘Social Services insist. He won’t cook for himself, apart from eggs from the few wretched hens he keeps in his yard. Used to be a farmer. Lived there all his life, as far as I can gather, but he doesn’t seem to have any friends. Sad, isn’t it?’
‘Perhaps he prefers a quiet life.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs Dowsett, unconvinced.
The ‘farthest outpost’ turned out to be only a mile from the village, just off the Tormarton Road, up a track that Joan Hanks privately vowed to take cautiously in her own little car for fear of ruining the suspension.
‘You’ll need tougher shoes than those when the weather gets worse,’ Mrs Dowsett advised when they were both standing in the yard. ‘Every time it rains, this is like a mud-hole after the elephants have been by. Good, you’ve brought the box. Always bring the box into the house. It keeps the food warm. Let’s see what reception we get today.’
As they crossed the yard to the door of the stone cottage there was an extraordinary commotion from the henhouse at the side, hens crowding the wire fence.
‘Hungry, I expect,’ said Mrs Dowsett. ‘All they get is scraps, and not much of them.’
‘Poor things,’ said Joan.
Mrs Dowsett tapped on the door and got no answer. ‘This is often the case,’ she explained. ‘They don’t hear you. As often as not, the door is open, so you just go in. Try it.’
‘He doesn’t know me.’
‘Don’t let that put you off. He treats us all like strangers. Is it open?’
Joan knocked again, turned the handle and pushed. The door creaked and opened inwards just an inch or so. An overpowering stench reached her nostrils and she hesitated.
‘You see?’ said Mrs Dowsett. She called out in a hearty tone, ‘Meals on wheels, Mr Gladstone.’
Joan held her breath and pushed at the door. The interior was shadowy and the full horror of the scene took several seconds to make out. Old Mr Gladstone was inside, slumped in a wooden armchair. The top of his head was blown away. A shotgun lay on the floor.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ said Mrs Dowsett, suddenly turned motherly.
In this bizarre situation, Joan was uncertain whether the remark was addressed to the corpse, or herself. She gave a nod. She was reeling with the shock, and she needed fresh air if she was not to faint. She turned away.
‘I’d better get on the car-phone,’ said Mrs Dowsett, a model of composure. ‘Why don’t you feed that meal to the chickens? I don’t like to waste things.’
The old farmer’s death was routinely dealt with by the police. A patrol was detailed to investigate. Peter Diamond heard of it first over the radio while driving down Wellsway. Nothing to make his pulse beat faster, some sad individual topping himself with a shotgun.
He drove on, his thoughts on his own mortality. High blood pressure, it seemed, was a mysterious condition. His sort had no recognised cause, according to Dr Snell. The symptoms were vague. He might suffer some headaches, tiredness and dizzy spells. He had not. If it affected the heart, or the arteries, he might experience breathlessness, particularly at night, pain in the chest, coughing or misty vision. He had told the doctor honestly that none of it seemed to apply to him. In that case, she said, he need not alter his life-style, except, she suggested, to reduce some weight, if possible, and avoid worrying too much.
Great, he thought. Now I’m worrying about worrying.
As he had time to spare, he called at the Central Library and looked up high blood pressure in a medical textbook. They called it hypertension, a term he didn’t care for. But the author was good enough to state that if the condition caused no symptoms at all, it could not be described as a disorder. He liked that and closed the book. The rest of the article could wait until he noticed a symptom, if ever.
His hypertension level had an immediate test. Having returned the book to the shelf, he turned the corner of the stack and found himself face to face with the new Assistant Chief Constable, all decked out in black barathea, shiny silver buttons and new braided hat. Diamond managed a flustered, ‘Morning, em, afternoon, sir.’
‘Afternoon, Mr Diamond. Checking some facts?’
He didn’t want the high-ups to know about his hypertension. Not for the first time in a crisis, he said the first thing that popped into his head, and it was so unexpected that it had to be believed. ‘That’s right, sir. I’m looking for the philosophy section.’
‘Philosophy?’
‘I wanted to find out about Kai Lung, if possible. I think he must be a philosopher.’
‘Chinese?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Sorry. Can’t help. Is this an Open University course?’
A low punch. Diamond’s rival John Wigfull had got to the head of Bath CID on the strength of his OU degree. Further education was not on Diamond’s agenda. ‘No, something that was quoted to me earlier. I wanted to trace the source. It’s my lunch-hour.’
‘Good luck, then. I’m looking for
Save your time, matey, Diamond thought. You won’t make
To support his story, he strolled over to the inquiry desk and asked if they had anything on Kai Lung. A tall young man looked over his glasses and told him to try under Bramah.
Thinking Bramah sounded Indian, Diamond emphasised, ‘I said Kai Lung. I reckon it’s Chinese.’
‘Ernest Bramah. He was a fictional character invented by Ernest Bramah. the first title of several, as far as I remember. Try the fiction shelves.’
‘Ernest Bramah?’
‘Yes, but don’t pick up one of his Max Carrados books expecting to find Kai Lung. Carrados is the blind detective.’
Diamond didn’t want to know about infirmities in his profession. ‘I’ll avoid those, then.’
He wandered over to the fiction shelves.
The hypertension definitely edged up a few points when he got back to his place of work, Manvers Street Police Station. Two of the youngest detectives were getting into a car when he drove in. The use of CID manpower was a constant source of friction. His old adversary Chief Inspector John Wigfull was in charge of CID matters, but
