Stratton sat back. “He must know what he’s about.”
“He does.”
“At any rate you seem to have rumbled the method.”
“We hope so. Forensic have been trying to copy it. They are getting about ten per cent success.”
“You mean . . . you mean that if the bastard bought a hundred tins he’d only contaminate ten of them successfully?”
“Only, sir?” asked Reed.
“Sorry. But you must agree that for nine out often to fail is better than . . .”
“It is, sir. But we’ve only located four.”
Masters interrupted. “Now, Mr Stratton, would it be possible to empty your shelves—everywhere—of those items that are opened with keys?”
“It’s got to be.” He pressed another button on his intercom.
“Fenton.”
“Reggie, what do we sell at the moment in cans that are supplied with keys and which strip open on a ribbon of metal. Disregard ring pulls.”
“Not a lot of varieties, sir, but a hell of a lot of volume.”
“What?”
“Corned beef, large and small. Two or three types of luncheon meat. Ham. Mackerel fillets, cod roes, soft-herring roes, sardines. No others spring to mind except some tins of nuts.”
“Thanks. Come in here straight away, Reggie.”
Stratton turned to Masters. “We’ll remove them all.”
“Thank you. I don’t think they’ll be lost. Either we can examine them or—when we catch our man—we can make him tell us where he placed the contaminated cans.”
“Hm-m.”
The door opened and Reggie came in. Behind him came Green.
“All fixed?” asked Masters.
Green nodded.
“Reggie,” said Stratton, wasting no time in introducing the young executive type. “Phone every area manager and speak to him personally. If by some mischance he is absent, speak to his deputy. Leave no doubt in their minds about this. They are personally to instruct every manager—immediately—that every can of goods that is supplied with, and opened by a key—excluding ring pulls—is to be removed from the shelves before twelve o’clock today. Each manager is to supervise the operation personally, and will not delegate it. Each manager will report personally, by phone, to his area manager, that these orders have been carried out to the letter. Area managers will then phone you to tell you the job has been completed. You, in turn, will report completion to me, here, by twelve-thirty. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
“This afternoon, area managers will visit each shop in person to see for himself that the job has been done, and will certify in writing that they have done so. The certificates will be expressed to reach here tomorrow morning. All this to be done without fuss and without explanation. Understand? As secretly as possible.”
“Right, sir. Got it.”
“Away you go, then.”
As Reggie turned to leave, Green said: “And, lad, tell them to make sure none of that type of tin is lurking anywhere else where an odd shopper might find it—behind an upright or another stack of tins.”
Reggie nodded.
“Add, please,” said Masters, “that all those tins should immediately be put under lock and key.”
“Heavens, yes,” said Stratton. “I’d forgotten that. They are to be put where nobody can get at them. In the manager’s office if needs be. We have the odd light-fingered employee. Bound to have among the number we employ.”
“Can the shelves be refilled, sir?”
“Not with similar cans, Reggie. Tell them to put sugar or tea or bottled coffee in the gaps.”
“Right, sir.”
When Reggie had gone, Stratton said: “There’s not much more I can do. If adulterated cans have already been sold . . . that’s beyond my powers.”
“You’ve acted courageously and promptly,” said Masters.
“Can we warn people?”
Masters shook his head. “Against all those products? Ham, luncheon meat . . . anything may be implicated. I’ve been into all this with the health authorities, Mr Stratton. They believe that such a warning would cause a panic and a consequent breakdown of medical services. Besides, my colleagues and I are extremely anxious not to mention the name of Redcoke. We have no wish to damage the reputation of what is, after all, a national institution that is of benefit one way or another to every member of the community.”
“Thank you.”
“Besides our personal views,” continued Masters, “I have a professional antipathy to doing the criminal’s work for him.”
“How do you mean?”
“I believe the reason for what he is doing is to harm Redcoke. I’m not prepared to help him achieve his aim by crucifying you.”
“Thank you, again. May I be allowed to say that such an attitude does a lot to dispel the despair and anger I am feeling at this news you have brought.”
“I’m sorry to have sprung it on you, sir, but I didn’t realise that you had not been told that your goods were implicated.”
“Stands to reason, though, doesn’t it?” said Green. “I came here yesterday to ask about your new buildings, Mr Stratton, but I didn’t tell your property office why I was asking. There was no reason why I should. And I can’t see the DHSS getting in touch with you. They would expect the Home Office to do it and as they’ve handed the investigation over to us, they would naturally assume it was our job. Too many cooks passing the buck, that’s the trouble.”
Stratton nodded. “And everybody trying to keep their counsel. I’m grateful for that, so I can’t complain.” He touched the intercom. “Nora, coffee for four please. Lots of it.” He looked across at Masters. “I assume you can stay for coffee?”
“That’s very kind of you. We’d like coffee, and we have a few more questions for you.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Not to safeguard your customers. More to help our enquiries. You’ve probably noticed that Sergeant Reed has a couple of plastic carriers.”
“I wondered about those.”
“They’re filled with goods from your shops. No, not suspected tins. We bought them for a comparison of price labels.”
“I know very little about . . .”
He was interrupted by his PA opening the door and edging a trolley into the office. “I had the restaurant send up biscuits and a variety of cakes, Mr Stratton.”
“Thank you, Nora. Would you pour out for us. I never know quite how to operate those push-button thermos jugs.”
“They’re quite easy, sir, as long as you remember to hold the cup under the spout and not to try to do it with a saucer.”
“I see. Thank you.”
As the elevenses were handed round, Stratton made another call on his intercom. “Peter, I’ve a question about price labelling. Come in, will you? Now?” He turned to Masters. “We might as well have the expert in from the outset. Peter Musgrove is our equipment buyer. He’s been with us since the year dot and knows everything about everything to do with cash registers, shelving, labelling guns, scales, meat saws, etcetera, etcetera.”
“He’s the chap I want to see then,” said Reed, taking over as if in order to show Masters that the enthusiasm engendered by the pep-talk of the previous day had not waned. “I’ll just finish this coffee . . .”
“Thank you, Nora.” Stratton dismissed his PA and turned to Reed. “You’re the one who went on the shopping spree, are you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who pays when you have to go out and spend money like that?”
“You do, sir. We all do. Public funds foot the bill, though it comes out of the police entitlement, so we’re not allowed to go over the top.”
“I see.”
Peter Musgrove knocked and entered. Masters was slightly shocked by his appearance because he was exactly like the picture of the man he had envisaged from Stratton’s brief description of him. He was a small man of about sixty with a head of grey, closely curled hair.
He wore an impeccable mid-grey suit, white shirt and club tie, and no doubt had been accustomed to doing so for many years. And yet he looked ill-at-ease in them: as though he had suddenly been promoted to executive level from a supermarket floor and had bought a new rig-out to mark the occasion. Very different from Reggie, who had given the impression that a business suit was the only wear and a smart young man’s first duty was to sign an annual contract with a weekly valetting firm.
“Peter, these gentlemen from Scotland Yard are investigating an extremely serious crime which, they believe, involves . . . well, I don’t quite know what it involves, but something to do with our price labels, I believe.”
“They haven’t recovered that container load of dry goods that was hijacked, have they, John?” asked Musgrove.
Masters was surprised that Musgrove addressed the Managing Director by his first name. It somehow seemed out of place: too modern an approach for an old-worldly employee.
“Nothing like that, Peter.” Stratton turned to Reed. “I believe you said this was your part of the enquiry.”
Reed nodded. “Do you mind if I lay these out on your desk, sir?” As he spoke, the sergeant began lining up the tins so that the small price tags showed. He turned to Musgrove. “See these? Different sizes, different shapes, different tips of colour on some of them.”
Musgrove peered. “Yes, indeed. They have.”
“Okay. I’ve got some tins of your stuff I’m interested in and I want to know exactly where they come from.”
“Oh, yes?”
“So, have you got a list of which of your shops uses different shapes or colour codes?”
“No, no. Of course not.”
“Sure, Peter?” asked Stratton.
“Absolutely. I just buy labelling guns as and when we need them. We’ve been supplying them to our outlets now for close on twenty-five years, and in that time there have been many patterns from different manufacturers.”
“And you send them out willy-nilly?” asked Reed, disappointed.
“Of course we do. If a supermarket with twenty guns has one go wrong, we don’t withdraw the other nineteen. We send a replacement from whatever we’ve got. And we don’t keep big stocks. Just two or three at any time. It may be a different size and type altogether from the others.”
“And the labels themselves?”
“They’re all coded by the manufacturers. Each shop puts in a requisition for the codes it needs. At the moment we’re just beginning to introduce new guns. They’ll save time because they’ll do a row of cans all at once. You just draw it across each layer while it’s still in the outer or—if you like—once they’re lined up on display. But they’re going out gradually—as replacements—and even then not on a one for one basis. We’ve a lot of money tied up in things like price guns. And before we know where we are we shall be using these new computer symbols, and they will be even more expensive to install, though I think they’ll stop mistakes at tills.”
“And these faint colours at the ends of the labels?”
“Meaningless. I don’t know how they get there. The manufacturers may be able to tell you, but we certainly don’t waste time and money in colour-coding price tags.”
“Pity,” said Reed. He looked across at Masters. “It would be no use asking for samples of labels from every shop, Chief, because the chances are they’ve all got the same colours if the distribution is haphazard.”
Masters nodded his agreement.
“Is that all, Sergeant?” asked Stratton.
“Yes, thank you, sir.” Reed began to repack his groceries. Masters got to his feet. “We shall be in touch again, Mr Stratton. Next time I’ll try to warn you of our arrival so that the female dragon at your door doesn’t start breathing fire.”
“Who? Nora?”
“The female commissionaire.”
“Lucinda! Peter, here, calls her Frau Krautworst, which he tells me is a good old German name, but which sounds a bit like Cabbage Sausage to me.”
Green looked across at Musgrove. “I reckon you and me think alike, mate. I’d got Katzenjammer in mind—from the old cartoons, you know.”
As Masters was leaving, he said to Stratton: “There is just one more thing, suggested by the pathologist. I don’t think we need to worry our heads about it at the moment, but he quite rightly suggested that we should investigate whether all the contaminated tins passed through the same warehouse.”
“The suggestion being that one of our distributing depots is infected with botulism?”
“We have to try to think of every eventuality. I personally discount that particular one on many grounds, not the least of which is your recognised high regard for cleanliness and hygiene. That is why I said we wouldn’t worry about it unless and until there are some indications which make it seem necessary.”
“Thank you. I must say the attitude you are adopting over this business puts Redcoke in your debt. It would be so easy for you to fling mud.”
Masters grinned. “If I were to do that I’d never hear the last of it. My wife is one of your very satisfied customers. If I were to jeopardise her marketing . . .”
Stratton smiled. “And I am supposed to attribute your natural courtesy and concern entirely to Mrs Masters’ shopping habits?”
“It’s as good a reason as any. There’s very little she does which does not find favour in my eyes.”
“Then, in addition to everything else, you’re a very lucky man, Chief Superintendent. If you ever feel like retiring from Scotland Yard, let me know, will you. I’d be grateful for the chance . . .”
Masters held up one hand. “Please leave it unsaid, Mr Stratton. I’ll see you again, no doubt.”
*
“What happens now?” asked Green as Reed drove them back to the Yard.
“See how Berger is getting on with reports from the various police authorities. If it looks as though he is getting no joy at all, instruct Keith Lake to deal with them from now on.”
“And if Berger is getting some leads?”
“Issue another instruction to the forces concerned. Ask them to investigate the background of every person affected by the Redcoke property deals, with a view to locating somebody, not too distantly connected with them, who is a scientist, technician, lab assistant or in any way connected with science and technology. We’d like details of employment and places of work etcetera, so that we can start investigating.”
Green nodded. “That’s going to cut it down to size. There won’t be many.”
“If any.”
“Whichever, it will at least be a manageable number.”
“Even if there’s nobody?” asked Reed.
“Yes, lad. When I was at school, we used to have to learn poetry by heart, not like now when kids don’t have to learn anything.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“We had to learn chunks by a chap called Yeats who wrote ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’. One bit, I remember, was that nobody gets old and crafty and wise. So if nobody gets old and crafty and wise, he’s not going to be much of a stumbling block for us, and if nobody’s not going to be a stumbling block, he’s going to be manageable.”
Green glanced at Masters as though inviting approbation for this blatant elision. Reed muttered: “Good God,” while Masters laughed aloud.
“What’s up?” asked Green blandly. “You’re always saying that nobody must ever be disregarded, and my old mum was always saying that Mr Nobody broke more cups and saucers in our house than anybody else. So if he can break pots we ought to be able to nick him for it.”
“Sorry I started this, Chief,” said Reed.
“I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds. I was anticipating a few words on nobody’s business being everybody’s business.”.
“Rubbish,” said Green. “You’re misquoting.”
“I’m misquoting?”
“Yes,” replied Green airily. “It’s unfair to try to make points by misquoting. What you should have said is �
�everybody’s business is nobody’s business’, and that doesn’t fit our present case at all.”
The car drew into the Yard car park and ended the chatter which, Masters realised, had been Green’s contribution towards keeping the party cheerful.
*
As they reached his office, Masters remarked that while Green and Reed were attending to the tasks already discussed, he would report to Anderson. “He’ll expect me to tell him where we’ve got to, and he’ll be pleased to hear that Redcoke has been so co-operative.”
Green grunted. “He’ll be pleased enough—on the basis that half a loaf is better than no bread.”
“The removal of the tins still in the shops does not warn or protect the customers who may have already bought infected ones.”
Green nodded.
“It’s as far as I dare go, Bill. I was ordered not to start a panic.”
“Right. And Stratton couldn’t have done more than he did. Nevertheless, it leaves me with a nasty taste in my mouth.”
“Let’s see if we can remove it,” said Masters. “It’s still quite early. If Anderson doesn’t keep me too long and you can get your bits and pieces sorted, we could be on our way well before lunch.”
Green, who, Masters knew, was bursting with curiosity as to their destination, made no attempt to ask where they were going. In fairness, Masters decided he had better tell the older man.
“We’ll be visiting the Isle of Wight, Bill.”
Green still held back his curiosity. His only remark was: “It’s high summer. We’re going to have a job getting a bed in any sort of decent pub.”
“Use your influence, Bill.”
“My influence?”
“You’ve always told me that you and Doris go there every year. You must be well known in the hotel you usually patronise. Ring them and say it’s vital.”
“The missus and I always stay at the Trust House in Ryde. Yelf’s Hotel.”
“Fine. See what you can do for us. Just for one night. Two at the most.”
“You’ll be lucky.”
“We could split up—two and two—if necessary.”
“Anything you say. Then I’ll ring Doris and ask her to bring my sandshoes over.”
The Longest Pleasure Page 11
