them to our press office, saying that a statement was being prepared. At one time I’d have exchanged banter with them, but nowadays anything off-the-cuff or irreverent would be videoed and shown on Look North.
“What’s he called?” I asked as we pulled out of the station yard. We were on our way to interview the manager of Grainger’s supermarket, where the offending tin of pineapple came from.
“Robshaw.”
“Is he expecting us?”
“Yeah, rang him first thing.”
“I haven’t read the lab report. What does it say?”
“It’s on t’back seat. The label had probably been soaked off and then replaced and stuck on with an insoluble glue, such as superglue. The remaining pineapple juice was a saturated solution of warfarin .”
“So how did it get in there?”
“While the label was off, two small holes – I think it says one point five millimetres – were drilled in the tin and the juice was probably extracted. After the poison was dissolved in it a syringe may ’ave been used to inject it back into the tin. The holes were then sealed with solder.”
“Holes drilled, solder…” I said. “Someone with DIY experience.”
“Yeah. The report says it would have been a fiddly job, getting the juice in and out.”
“Is that what it said: a fiddly job?”
“Um, no. Requiring patience and determination were the actual words. So what sort of a weekend did you ’ave. You’re still in a good mood, I notice.”
“Quiet. Caught up with a few jobs that desperately needed doing. Hey! I had a postcard from Sophie.”
“Huh. That’s more than we’ve ’ad. What did she say?”
“Just that Cap Ferrat was full of old people and I’d be at home there. Really cheered me up.”
“That sound like Sophie. What about Miss X? Did you see her?”
“No. She let me down.”
He glanced across at me. “What ’appened?”
“Nothing. I rang her and she said she’d prefer to call the whole thing off.”
“Is she in the force?”
“No, just the opposite.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well… we were getting along swimmingly until I told her I was a cop. Then her attitude changed.”
“So what does this one do for a living?”
“She’s a geologist.”
“A geologist? Where did you meet her?”
“At a rock concert.”
We’d arrived at Grainger’s and Dave steered into a space between a Toyota Yaris and a Skoda Fabia. I’m in the market for a new car so I’ve started noticing these things. I gathered up the paperwork from the back seat and we headed towards the automatic doors of the flagship store in Sir Morton Grainger’s ever-growing chain.
We did a detour to the tinned fruit section where I picked up a tin of Del Monte pineapple rings and then introduced ourselves to the customer services manager . Within seconds we were being ushered into the cramped, paper strewn office of Mr Tim Robshaw, Store Manager, as his name badge confirmed.
Handshakes all round, move papers off chairs, sit down. Expansive apologies for the mess. Would we like coffee?
“Is it me you want to interview or one of my staff?” he asked with a grin when we were settled, opening his arms wide in an extravagant gesture to demonstrate that his entire domain was at our disposal.
“You,” an unsmiling Dave told him.
Robshaw was a big man, aged about thirty, wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a company tie.
“H-how is he?” he asked, after I’d told him about the tin of pineapple slices and Carl Johnson bleeding from all his bodily orifices. He’d developed a perspiration problem and his face slowly turned to the colour of a tramp’s vest as he saw litigation looming large, blighting his prospects of advancement in the Grainger empire. One of those oscillating fans stood on the windowsill and every twenty-two seconds I felt a blast of cool air on my left cheek.
“He could be out today,” Dave said, “but it was touch and go.”
There were three drawings on the wall, done by an infant who hadn’t
“What’s he called?” I asked as we pulled out of the station yard. We were on our way to interview the manager of Grainger’s supermarket, where the offending tin of pineapple came from.
“Robshaw.”
“Is he expecting us?”
“Yeah, rang him first thing.”
“I haven’t read the lab report. What does it say?”
“It’s on t’back seat. The label had probably been soaked off and then replaced and stuck on with an insoluble glue, such as superglue. The remaining pineapple juice was a saturated solution of warfarin .”
“So how did it get in there?”
“While the label was off, two small holes – I think it says one point five millimetres – were drilled in the tin and the juice was probably extracted. After the poison was dissolved in it a syringe may ’ave been used to inject it back into the tin. The holes were then sealed with solder.”
“Holes drilled, solder…” I said. “Someone with DIY experience.”
“Yeah. The report says it would have been a fiddly job, getting the juice in and out.”
“Is that what it said: a fiddly job?”
“Um, no. Requiring patience and determination were the actual words. So what sort of a weekend did you ’ave. You’re still in a good mood, I notice.”
“Quiet. Caught up with a few jobs that desperately needed doing. Hey! I had a postcard from Sophie.”
“Huh. That’s more than we’ve ’ad. What did she say?”
“Just that Cap Ferrat was full of old people and I’d be at home there. Really cheered me up.”
“That sound like Sophie. What about Miss X? Did you see her?”
“No. She let me down.”
He glanced across at me. “What ’appened?”
“Nothing. I rang her and she said she’d prefer to call the whole thing off.”
“Is she in the force?”
“No, just the opposite.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well… we were getting along swimmingly until I told her I was a cop. Then her attitude changed.”
“So what does this one do for a living?”
“She’s a geologist.”
“A geologist? Where did you meet her?”
“At a rock concert.”
We’d arrived at Grainger’s and Dave steered into a space between a Toyota Yaris and a Skoda Fabia. I’m in the market for a new car so I’ve started noticing these things. I gathered up the paperwork from the back seat and we headed towards the automatic doors of the flagship store in Sir Morton Grainger’s ever-growing chain.
We did a detour to the tinned fruit section where I picked up a tin of Del Monte pineapple rings and then introduced ourselves to the customer services manager . Within seconds we were being ushered into the cramped, paper strewn office of Mr Tim Robshaw, Store Manager, as his name badge confirmed.
Handshakes all round, move papers off chairs, sit down. Expansive apologies for the mess. Would we like coffee?
“Is it me you want to interview or one of my staff?” he asked with a grin when we were settled, opening his arms wide in an extravagant gesture to demonstrate that his entire domain was at our disposal.
“You,” an unsmiling Dave told him.
Robshaw was a big man, aged about thirty, wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a company tie.
“H-how is he?” he asked, after I’d told him about the tin of pineapple slices and Carl Johnson bleeding from all his bodily orifices. He’d developed a perspiration problem and his face slowly turned to the colour of a tramp’s vest as he saw litigation looming large, blighting his prospects of advancement in the Grainger empire. One of those oscillating fans stood on the windowsill and every twenty-two seconds I felt a blast of cool air on my left cheek.
“He could be out today,” Dave said, “but it was touch and go.”
There were three drawings on the wall, done by an infant who hadn’t
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