R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

Wells shook his head. ‘Only you, Jack.’ Frost took a farewell sniff of the heady fry-up aroma which was trying to Pied Piper him upstairs. ‘Sod it! Tell him I’m on my way.’

The letter, handwritten in block capitals on cheap A4 paper, read:

I HAVE POISONED A BOTTLE OF SUPERSAVES OWN BRAND EXTRA STRONG MOUTHWASH, A BOTTLE OF SUPERSAVES ‘VINTNERS CHOICE’ WINE AND AN ECONOMY SIZE TIN OF SUPERSAVES HAPPYBABE MILK POWDER. TO IDENTIFY THEM, I HAVE MARKED THEM WITH A BLUE CROSS. YOU WILL NOT FIND THEM IN THE PROPER AISLE. I HAVE HIDDEN THEM AROUND THE STORE. GET TO THEM BEFORE YOUR CUSTOMERS DO OR YOU’LL HAVE DEATHS ON YOUR HANDS. INSTRUCTIONS TO PREVENT A RECURRENCE WILL BE SENT TO THAT SHIT BEAZLEY.

Henry Martin, the store manager, a man in his late forties, looked underpaid and overworked. His desk overflowed with papers and his in-tray spilled over. It reminded Frost of his own office. Skilled at reading typescripts upside-down, he squinted at a charming, red-inked, underlined memo to the manager from the store owner, Mr Beazley, which was headed ‘ARSE-KICKING TIME’ and began: ‘If that stupid useless prat who thinks himself a greengrocery manager…’ Frost nodded to himself. Typical Beazley. A bullying bastard. He had met him before and knew what an arsehole the man was.

Martin was pacing up and down the office in agitation, sucking nervously at a cigarette.

‘What do we do?’ he pleaded. ‘What the hell do we do? There’s no way we can shut the store down. The boss would do his nut.’

Frost gave a non-committal grunt and returned his attention to the blackmail letter. Beazley, the owner of the store, would do a lot more than his nut. ‘Do you have the envelope?’

Martin shook his head. ‘Why should we keep them? When the post is opened, envelopes are shredded.’

‘Great,’ said Frost. ‘Saves us the bother of finding out where it was posted.’

‘Of course it might be a hoax, but we can’t take the chance,’ said Martin, plonking down in his chair.

‘Then shut the store down until you find the marked items,’ said Frost.

‘If I shut it and it’s a hoax, I’ll be queuing up at the Job Centre before lunch.’

‘If it’s not a hoax,’ said Frost, ‘I’ll invite you and Mr Beazley to the post-mortems.’ He took a sip of coffee and shuddered. It tasted foul. Probably Supersaves own economy brand. He pushed the cup away and read the letter again.

‘… GET TO THEM BEFORE YOUR CUSTOMERS DO OR YOU’LL HAVE DEATHS ON YOUR HANDS.’ ‘My feeling is that this isn’t a hoax. But if you’re prepared to take a chance…’

‘I’ve got the staff out now, checking the aisles,’ said Martin, ‘and the check-out girls are keeping their eyes open just in case a customer has put one in their trolley.’

‘You should close the store down until you find the lot,’ Frost told him.

Martin looked horrified. ‘Mr Beazley would never allow that. We’re trying to contact him, but he hasn’t reached his office yet. If we shut down without his consent, he’ll be furious.’

‘It won’t make him happy if customers come in with dead babies as proof of purchase, asking for their money back,’ said Frost. ‘Kick everyone out and shut the flaming place down.’

‘But if it turns out to be a hoax…’

‘Flaming heck,’ said Frost. ‘Is that your theme tune?’ He moved to the window and looked down at the store, its aisles thronged with customers, mingled with hordes of red-overalled Supersaves employees searching the shelves.

There was a tap at the door and a thin, be spectacled man sporting a lapel badge reading ASSISTANT MANAGER came in, followed by a young, red-overalled assistant clutching two bottles to her chest. ‘We’ve found these so far, Mr Martin. One wine, one mouthwash.’ He took the items from the girl and handed them to the manager.

Frost groaned. ‘Why don’t you pass them round the store so everyone can have a turn mauling them about? I’d hate the blackmailer’s fingerprints to be nice and clear so we can find out who he is.’

‘Sorry’ flushed the assistant manager. ‘I didn’t think.’

Slipping a polythene bag over his hand to avoid adding any more fingerprints, Frost carefully took the items from Martin and placed them on the desk. ‘Where were they?’

‘We found the wine in the Grocery Warehouse, on a shelf by the door. The mouth wash was in the Household aisle.’

Frost unscrewed the cap of the mouthwash and sniffed. The smell was unmistakable. ‘Bleach,’ he said. ‘Well, one thing’s for sure – we can stop deluding ourselves it’s a hoax. This bastard means business.’ He turned to the assistant manager. ‘What about the baby milk powder?’

‘We’re still looking.’

‘Find it,’ ordered Frost, ‘and quick.’ He turned to Martin. ‘Shut the bleeding place down.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Martin. He turned to the assistant manager. ‘Close the store. Say there’s an electrical fault or something – we can tell Mr Beazley it was on police orders.’

Frost waited until the assistant manager and the girl had left. ‘They found the wine in the warehouse area. Who’s allowed in there?’

‘The warehouse staff and staff from the shop floor who help to unload and stack.’

‘Members of the public?’

‘Oh no. Staff only.’

‘Then it’s odds on it being an inside job. Can you think of any member of staff who would have a grudge against Supersaves?’

‘Every bleeding one of them,’ said Martin bitterly. ‘Me included. Mr Beazley is not the nicest person to work for.’

‘I’ve met him,’ sympathised Frost. ‘I wouldn’t work here for a thousand quid a day. Let me have a list of all employees – include those who have been sacked or left within the last month or so. We’ll run them through the computer.’ He read the letter through again. ‘It’s not dated. It came today, did it?’

‘I think so,’ said Martin.

Frost stared at him. ‘You think so? Don’t you flaming well know?’

‘It could have come on Saturday. We have limited clerical staff on duty at weekends. Head Office correspondence gets priority; other stuff is left unopened until Monday.’

‘Bloody brilliant,’ muttered Frost. ‘He says instructions to stop his actions will follow. I take it you would have told me if you had received a blackmail demand.’

‘We haven’t received it, and of course I’ll let you know when we do.’ Martin looked through the office window down to a store now devoid of customers. ‘I wish they’d hurry up and find that missing jar. Mr Beazley will be furious. He’s not renowned for his tolerance.’

Frost’s stomach rumbled to remind him he hadn’t eaten yet. ‘Do you serve breakfasts here?’ Before Martin could answer there was a tap at the door. His eyes brightened as the assistant manager came in.

‘You’ve found it?’

The man shook his head. ‘We’ve exhausted all possibilities, but we’re going over everything again.’

‘It could have been sold to a customer,’ said Frost. ‘We’ll have to get the media on to it to warn the public.’ He reached for the phone.

‘Hold it!’ said the assistant manager. ‘It might not be necessary.’ He pulled a computer printout from his overall pocket. ‘That baby powder is a brand-new line. We didn’t put it on the shelves until all stock of the old line had gone. It went on display late on Sunday, just before closing time. A box of twenty-four. I’ve checked and there are twenty-three left – only one has been sold, and that must be the adulterated one.’

‘So how does that help us?’ asked Frost.

Martin took over. He could see what the assistant manager was getting at. ‘We can check the printed receipts. When it goes through the check-out, the product is registered. If the customer paid by credit card we can easily get their name and address from the credit-card company.’