Stuart Pawson - Limestone Cowboy

The press were waiting there, swapping stories, flicking their cigarette stubs towards the Super's Rover, seeing who could land one on the roof. The hospital had gone into full defensive mode, issuing a statement saying that the Ebola scare was caused by a non-self-inflicted overdose of rat poison and they'd come flocking back like hyenas to a kill. They switched into professional mode as we emerged from the door and demanded to know how many deaths we'd covered up. I referred 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 win-dowsill 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 quite grasped the rules of perspective, or, I suspected, of going to the toilet. Charming, I suppose. Any dad would be proud to put his children's first scribblings on the wall. Nothing wrong with that. But Robshaw had had them framed, complete with non-reflective glass and card mounts, which I thought over the top. Alongside them was a photograph of the man himself, dressed in tennis whites and holding a trophy the size of a cement mixer. Another frame, silver this time, stood on his desk, its back to me, which no doubt held a picture of the aforementioned child. I decided to serve hiru a big one.

"It was very worrying for him," I said.''And for the staff at the hospital. The symptoms were similar to those for the Ebola virus, and for several hours the hospital was quarantined." Pow! Fifteen love to me.

At the word Ebola he jerked upright as if a small electric shock had passed through his chair and his mouth fell open.

"Ebola?"

We stayed silent.

"You mean… the outbreak at the General… that's what this is about?"

"Fraid so."

"Oh my God."

"How long do you keep your security camera tapes, Mr Robshaw?" I asked.

"A week."

"Would there happen to be one looking at the tinned fruit shelves?"

"No. Sorry."

I turned to Dave. "Any point in watching them?" I asked.

He shook his head, knowing that he'd be the one who had to do the watching. "No."

"The pineapple had been tampered with, Mr Robshaw," I said. "Somebody had made a determined effort to contaminate it." Dave produced the label from the offending tin and laid it in front of him and I went on: "We soaked the label off. There's a bar code on it so can you explain what that tells us, please?"

He relaxed when he realised that the offence had been beyond his control and typed the bar code numbers into his computer terminal. The new tin was similar to the one we'd taken from Carl Johnson's fridge, and Robshaw soon confirmed that the price of 432 grams of Del Monte pineapple rings had not changed for six weeks. The offending tin was still with forensics, but Dave had made a note of the numbers printed on the bottom and these were a couple of digits different from those on the new tin.

Robshaw drummed his fingers on the desk and after a few seconds pinned me with his best managerial stare in an attempt to regain the initiative. "Pardon me asking this, Inspector," he said, "but how do I know that this tin came from this store? As you have realised, all prices are indicated at the shelf; we don't use stickers on individual items."

Which saves you money, I thought, and makes it almost impossible for the shopper to check the bill when they get home. I said: "The victim says it came from here and we found a drawer full of your bags at his home."

"But no receipt?"

"No."

He let go with his forearm volley: "So you've no proof?"

I retaliated with a backhand smash. It's my speciality stroke. "He thought he was dying of Ebola. Why would he lie?"

"Good question," he admitted. Forty-thirty to the forces of law and order.

"So what does the code tell you?"

"Right. When I type in the numbers, or a checkout assistant scans it, the terminal is immediately connected to the stock record entry for that particular item." He rotated his flat-screen monitor so we could see the figures. "It identifies the product, retrieves the price and subtracts one unit from the stockholding. Each record entry has a maximum and minimum stock level specified and if necessary an order is automatically initiated. Batch numbers and sell-by dates are also stored, as shown on the base of the tin. That's about it."