The Longest Pleasure

by Douglas Clark

  Berger drove this time. That left Reed, in the front passenger seat, free to turn to address Masters.

  “We’ve heard all about botulism in the sea and how it can survive in cold water, Chief. And we’ve heard how you and Mrs Masters weren’t allowed on the beach. Are you going to tie things up for us? Because, quite honestly, I can’t see how you can link the two well enough to have us all racing down to the Isle of Wight in the middle of a big case, longshot or no longshot.”

  “Oh, I dunno,” said Green. “It’s like in Test Matches. We’re having a rest-day in the middle. It’s a new innovation. Something to do with counterbalancing the unsocial hours that coppers have to work.”

  “You seem happy about it, anyway.”

  “Course I am, lad.”

  “You reckon the Chief’s guess will come off?”

  “I didn’t say that. But he has been known to be right before, and as there’s nothing else we can do in this case except play guessing games, I’ve no option but to go along with him, and like it.”

  “Gracious,” murmured Masters.

  Green helped himself to a Kensitas from a crumpled packet, ignoring Reed’s obvious expectation of being offered a cigarette. As he lit up, he glanced across at Masters. “Well,” he said, “are you going to tell us, or not?”

  Masters waited just a moment before he began. Then—

  “I told you that Wanda and I were ordered off the beach by a constable. Whilst I was having a word or two to say about his manners, his sergeant arrived.”

  “And proceeded to get it in the neck, too, I suppose.”

  “No. He had information.”

  “Ah! Lucky chap.”

  “He reminded me of something I think we were all aware of at the time it happened late last year.”

  “It?”

  “Bad weather that sank several small freighters . . .”

  “Got it,” grinned Green, his memory clicking into top gear. A Greek job called the Aeolian Sky, last November, sometime, off Dorset.”

  “Among others,” admitted Masters admiringly. “Several of them lost deck cargo and so, as you can imagine, a hell of a lot of material went into the sea in that general area. And among the jetsam there would have been food—tinned food—crates of it, for feeding the crew of those freighters, in addition to any cargoes of food they may have been carrying.”

  “Tinned food,” said Green softly. “Hundreds and hundreds of tins of ‘herrings in’ and pink salmon.” He turned to Masters. “I think I can guess the rest of the story. The Aeolian Sky was carrying canisters of poison, wasn’t she?”

  “That’s right. She went down in November, and while I was in the Isle of Wight in the spring with Wanda, there were reports of dead whales being washed up on the south coast and then—when the wind and tide were right for it—the canisters began to be washed up on the Isle of Wight beaches.”

  “The sergeant told you this by way of explanation for his constable kicking you off the beach?”

  “Yes. But he went further. He’d got the names of the poisons written down. They were arsenic trichloride, amino methyl propanol and phenyl benzanine.”

  “I don’t blame him for writing that lot down,” said Reed. “They’re a bit of a mouthful. Are they as nasty as they sound, Chief?”

  “As I understand it, they are chemicals used in manufacturing processes but are, nevertheless, highly dangerous. The Isle of Wight authorities reclaimed over nine hundred canisters of various sizes.”

  “Canned food and canned poison,” said Green, “all being washed up together.”

  “That is my point,” said Masters. “Firemen were employed to collect the poison canisters, but I learned that there were so many of them, of different shapes, sizes and sorts, that the authorities felt it safer to call in all the chemists and scientists they could lay their hands on to identify the poison canisters for the firemen to collect.”

  “I remember something of that,” said Green. “Didn’t I read that they’d rounded up the chemistry masters from the schools to help?”

  “Quite right.”

  Green nodded. “But we can forget the poisons, can’t we? Our only interest in them is that they attracted a number of scientists to beaches where tins of fish were being washed up.”

  “That is my longshot.”

  “And a very good one, too. Whether it comes off or not, it had to be tried,” said Green handsomely. “A scientist picking up a tin of salmon off the beach and putting it in his pocket for . . .” He turned to Masters. “For what, George? How would he know it was impregnated with botulism?”

  Masters shrugged. “I honestly can’t give you an answer to that, Bill. I don’t know whether he was aware of the facts of the Birmingham case and examined for a hole in the tin. I don’t know whether he had his plan in mind before he discovered the tin, or whether the tin put the idea into his head. As I have stressed repeatedly, this is a longshot. But I do know one thing that could be—or rather, might be—of interest.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries has a laboratory at Burnham-on-Crouch, and the scientists there were involved in tests on those dead whales that were washed up—to determine whether they had been killed by the Aeolian Sky’s chemicals or not.”

  Green shook his head. “You’re not suggesting that government boffins would be so stupid and criminal as to spread botulism, are you, George?”

  “The answer to that is no, I think not and I hope not. But when I was thinking this through last night, I was aware that we had agreed that our man would need a laboratory in which to operate. It was, if you like to regard it as such, one of the obstacles to my idea. And it was my job to try to demolish as many obstacles as possible so that I could determine whether or not this trip was not only feasible, but justifiable. So, when I remembered that the Min. of Ag. and Fish had been involved with the whales, I looked up to find out where they operated from. I was expecting a list of little offices all round the coast, but there, large as life, was the address of their laboratory in Burnham. I do not suggest they are likely to interest us in any way professionally, but you must admit it was a chance to get rid of one obstacle in my mind that I’d have been a fool to overlook.”

  “I know what you mean,” grunted Green. “And if it’s any comfort to you, I’d have done exactly the same.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed,” cut in Berger, “we are now approaching the ferry terminal.”

  “And about time, too,” said Green, certainly not deploring the lack of speed, but thankful to be out of the hated car.

  Chapter Six

  Green was thoughtful on the boat journey to the island. He stood on deck silent for some time, allowing the breeze to ruffle his hair and clothing, as though wrestling with some mental problem. Eventually he joined Masters who was sitting on a slatted seat on the lee side, smoking and watching the movement of the water as the tub-like vessel nudged its way towards Cowes.

  “George.”

  “Yes, Bill?” Masters moved to make room for Green.

  “We’ll be working on the Chief Constable of Hampshire’s patch. Is he going to like it?”

  “As to that, I can’t say, Bill.”

  “You didn’t phone him to say we were coming?”

  “No. But I’m not disregarding the courtesies. Bob Wigglesworth has sent a Home Office circular letter to all authorities.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Basically to warn them that there is a widespread botulism outbreak which could reach their patches and to be on the look-out and to liaise with Health Authorities if their drills for coping with such emergencies are a little rusty.”

  “Does it mention us?”

  “Anderson saw it and says it leaves us free to operate where we like. It apparently says that you and I are co-ordinating the enquiries . . .”

  “Into the criminal background?”

  “Lest there should be criminal activity is how it has been worded. All author
ities have been required to offer us full co-operation at any time during the investigation, which is of a national character, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “So nobody will mind us just dropping in?”

  “In theory, no. In practice . . .” He shrugged. “We’ll try to oil the wheels, Bill, and not to be too imperious.”

  “Good. But it has occurred to me that since you’d had one brush with these people . . .”

  “Of a very minor nature.”

  “But duly reported by PC Plod and his sergeant in case of repercussions.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And if, on top of that, this longshot of yours should fail . . .”

  Masters looked at him and grinned. “Bill, I believe you are anxious that I should not make myself look a proper Charlie—as indeed I would if, after being angry with some of their people, I then fell down on the job. Is that it?”

  “Something of the sort.”

  “What are you suggesting? That I play this low-key?”

  Green nodded.

  “Are you really frightened I’m making a nonsense of this?”

  “Not frightened you’re making a nonsense of it. I’m just frightened of the case itself. We’ve never had one like this before—as important as this, I mean, where we’re faced with tracking down a multi-murderer who may be killing people as we sit here. I said it was a bastard right from the beginning, and everybody else—you, Anderson, Doris, Wanda, everybody—says there’s need for speed. As if we didn’t know.”

  “What’s your point, Bill?”

  “There isn’t any case, George. Nothing to get to grips with. Even you recognise this. You must do, otherwise you wouldn’t have been rabbiting on about longshots as you have been doing all day, and although you often play hunches, not even you would have contemplated playing this one if there’d have been one single, solid fact to work on back home.” He held up his hand to stop Masters from interrupting. “I know you’ve made out a reasonable cause—not a case—for coming down here, but you as good as admitted that you had to disregard the obstacles or demolish them with bits of self-deception like thinking that the Min. of Ag. and Fish laboratory can be regarded as a possible centre for transferring the organisms. And look at us—all of us—behaving like kids on a school treat to fool ourselves we’re doing a good job or nearing completion. More self-deception, George.”

  “I agree with a lot of what you’ve said, Bill, but I don’t believe we are deceiving ourselves. We all know the state of play.”

  “It must be me getting old, then.”

  “And it’s not that either, Bill. I want to thank you for advising me to keep a low profile on the Island. I’ve been thinking it over, and I reckon you’re right. If any one of the coppers we’re going to visit thinks we’re looking for a tin or a canister which was taken from their beaches—and which they were supposed to prevent being taken away—they are going to be non-co-operative. They’re not going to like the idea of us laying the blame for this botulism outbreak on their carelessness and so they are going to be conveniently forgetful—convenient for them, that is—and this trip of ours is going to be abortive even though it may otherwise be exactly the right answer.”

  Green selected a bent Kensitas.

  “So what’s your plan, George?”

  “With your agreement, we won’t mention tins and canisters or the possibility of any of them having been smuggled off the beach. We will stick to personalities.”

  “The fact that we’ve come here at all will set them thinking.”

  “Let them think. I don’t suppose it will harm them. And, of course, we could be misjudging them, but we’ll give them no room to wriggle.”

  Green nodded.

  “You’re still not very cheerful, Bill.”

  Green flicked his half-smoked cigarette over the rail and watched it float down into the sea there to be extinguished only a second or so before a gull swept down on it. He looked round at Masters and said: “For a clever bloke, you’re a bit of a fool at times, George.”

  “What do I answer to that?”

  “Nothing. But you might just ask yourself why a normally cheerful bloke like me . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “Feels ghastly on board ship.”

  Masters stared for a moment, and then said: “I’m very sorry, Bill. I didn’t realise you were a poor sailor. We’re almost there, and the sickness disappears once you set foot on dry land, doesn’t it?”

  Green grinned weakly. “I once travelled to Ryde with Wanda.”

  “So you did. She never told me . . .”

  “She didn’t know. Any more than you did until I told you. Besides, she was better company.”

  “Oh, yes? And I suspect there was a flat calm?”

  *

  “I would like a word with Sergeant Gardam if that is possible. Or failing him, Constable Crowther, please.”

  The desk sergeant stood with his hands wide apart on the counter top which separated him from Masters. He appeared not to have noticed Green, Reed and Berger who hovered in the background.

  “Oh yes, sir? May I know the nature of your enquiry?”

  “Certainly. I met them when I was here on the island in the spring and I’d now like a word with one or the other of them.”

  “Personal call, it is, sir? If so I must tell you we don’t encourage . . .”

  “Strictly business,” replied Masters.

  The desk sergeant pulled the incident book towards him. “In that case, sir, if you’d please tell me . . .” He took the cap off a ballpoint. “What was it you wanted?”

  “To know the name of their Inspector.”

  The sergeant looked up, suspicion in his eyes. “And why would you want to know that, sir?”

  “It’s not an official secret, is it?”

  “No, sir. But if you’ve come to make a complaint . . .”

  “Nothing was further from my thoughts.”

  The sergeant took up his pen and started writing. “Name?”

  “Masters.”

  “Address?”

  “New Scotland Yard.”

  “New Scot . . .” The sergeant looked up. “Now see here, sir, if this is some sort of game . . .”

  “I assure you it isn’t, Sergeant. Here is my warrant card.”

  The sergeant looked at it. “If you’d said so in the beginning, sir . . .”

  “Why should I have done so? I didn’t want to make a complaint or report an incident. All I asked was to have a word with Gardam or Crowther, both of whom I met some months ago.”

  “You said official business, sir.”

  “To enquire the name of a superior officer.”

  The sergeant didn’t reply. He closed the book.

  “I can tell you his name, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Inspector Jasper.”

  “Thank you. Would you mind asking him if my three colleagues and I could have a few words with him?”

  The desk sergeant seemed to wake up to the fact that there was a team of four present. “There’s nothing wrong is there, sir? I mean . . .”

  “Sergeant, there is so little wrong that had you told me where I could have found Gardam or Crowther, none of this would have happened. Please tell Inspector Jasper we are here.”

  The sergeant lifted the phone, and inside a minute a uniformed inspector had appeared, ready to escort them to his office.

  “You know, lad,” said Green to Jasper, “your crowd are too neutral.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They’re not active in doing good. They don’t do any harm, but they don’t seem positive in trying to help. That desk sergeant of yours, for instance, was not obstructive exactly, but neither was he co-operative until the Chief Superintendent shoved a warrant card under his nose.” Green drew a chair up with his foot and sat heavily. “What I’m saying is that he invited the pulling of rank and then got nervous in case something was wrong.”

  Jasper carried a chair across
to Masters. “I’m sorry about that, sir.”

  “Don’t be. The DCI is merely giving you a bit of advice, much as I sent you a suggestion earlier in the year via Sergeant Gardam.”

  Jasper rubbed one ear. “I remember, sir. About warning the public about those nine hundred canisters of poison that we salvaged. Was that what you wished to see me about?”

  “First off,” said Masters. “Have you been told of the botulism outbreak on the mainland?”

  “An official warning came in yesterday.”

  “Did it mention that we were co-ordinating the investigation into its cause?”

  “It said a team from the Yard, sir. No names were given.”

  “Fair enough. But you were, I believe, instructed to give us any help we might ask for.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now then, Mr Jasper, we can go back to the time when you were fishing poison canisters out of the sea.”

  “Wait a minute, sir. What’s that got to do with a botulism outbreak on the mainland?”

  “Laddie,” said Green. “It’s a long, long story, which we haven’t got time to tell, or you to listen to. But we reckon there’s a likelihood you can help us.”

  “The two are connected, then?”

  “We think so,” said Masters. “Or should I say there is a possibility that they are.”

  Jasper looked bemused. Nobody appreciated more than Masters the almost impossible mental task of linking the salvage of poison canisters with botulism, without the details that went between. His problem was how much to tell the local man. Green had scented danger in saying much about the canisters themselves. It had been agreed that they would stick, as far as possible, to personalities. Masters decided to stick to the agreement.

  “Mr Jasper, we are looking for a scientist. We neither know his name nor his particular speciality, but we have reason to believe he was on the island at the time of the spring storms when the canisters were washed up.”