At the centre of the crowd was a man lying on the floor. He was glistening with sweat and fingering a silver chain around his neck.
‘It’s the mayor,’ said a woman in a hat. She looked around the room. ‘What on earth has happened?’
‘Give him water — actually, fresh water.’ Shaw turned and beckoned to a waitress. ‘Get fresh water — don’t let them drink this lot …’ He picked up a carafe, held it to the light. ‘Bring bottled.’
They heard a distant siren and the sound of someone retching by the Christmas tree. A waiter threw open the window and the sound of the siren swelled.
Shaw jumped as someone put a hand on his shoulder. It was George Valentine. ‘I reckon the soup’s the culprit. I gave it a miss in the end. Shellfish — always a bad idea.’
‘What have you eaten?’ asked Shaw.
‘Melon. White wine. Bread — that’s all fine. Believe me, it’s the soup.’
Shaw nodded towards a table in the far corner by the tree, around which sat some of the locals from the Flask, including Freddie Fletcher and Sam Venn. Both were slumped forward. ‘Soups all round, by the look of it,’ he said. ‘So much for “good local fare”. Check ’em out, George.’
But before he could move they heard a scream, a woman’s voice, mangling a word.
Shaw picked his way through the tight-packed tables to get to her. She was young, about twenty, with blonde hair in a neat bob. She held an elderly man’s head against her shoulder, heedless of the bib of vomit that covered his shirt, tie and waistcoat.
She looked at Shaw. ‘It’s my grandad. I think he’s dead,’ she said, brushing hair back from the man’s face. Despite the red blotches on the old man’s cheeks, and the tear which welled and then spilt into his mouth from one of his closed eyes, the line of the lips was already lifeless, parted unevenly to show tobacco-stained teeth. Shaw had no doubt she was right: the last seconds of life, he thought, were as ugly as death itself.
23
A catering can of Olde Lynn Fish Soup stood on the long refectory table. In front of the table stood the council’s Chief Environmental Health Officer, Guy Poole. The can was unopened, a wraparound label showing a trawler of the Fisher Fleet. Shaw pushed it towards him. ‘It’s all yours, Guy, but I don’t advise cooking it up for the family.’
Poole was not the cliched pen-pushing bureaucrat of popular legend. Shaw knew him because he’d led a campaign group to save the dunes south of Old Hunstanton from erosion. He lived with his wife and three children in a houseboat at Brancaster Staithe. Like Shaw he never wore a tie, and like Shaw he loved his job. He had a reputation at St James’s for using the law flexibly, and avoiding legal proceedings if he could. But if he caught the scent of something genuinely rotten he’d spare no expense to get the culprit in front of a judge.
Poole took a note. ‘So — the numbers again?’
Valentine had the details. The DS’s skin was still a subtle shade of puce. He might not have had the soup, but the sight of fifty-odd people throwing up in concert had turned his stomach, and the smell was on the air — the sea-spray scent of oyster mixed with Parmesan cheese.
A uniformed PC delivered a tray of coffees from Starbucks and they took them over to one of the round dining tables. ‘There were a hundred and three for lunch,’ said Valentine. ‘Forty-two had the melon, sixty-one the soup — most of whom report nausea, vomiting, or just plain stomach pains. Three with no symptoms. Of those who had the melon, two reported feeling sick — but that was probably the sight of the rest of ’em chucking up. Dead man is a Charles Anthony Clarke — known as Charlie. Aged eighty-two. Granddaughter was with him — says he’s had a history of heart trouble.’ He paused, removed the lid from his coffee, took a micro-sip and got his breathing back under control. ‘Ex-serviceman, was Charlie — the whole table was old soldiers, sponsored by the Co-op, who coughed up for their tickets. As of an hour ago sixteen of the soup drinkers were still in the Queen Victoria — eight in intensive care, and most of those are OAPs.’ He flipped the notebook shut. ‘Otherwise, it’s a happy Christmas to one and all.’
Poole stood and walked away, speaking quickly into a mobile phone.
‘Fletcher and Venn?’ asked Shaw.
‘Fletcher’s not good — but we know his guts were shot anyway, it was only being a greedy pig that got him here,’ said Valentine. ‘Surprised he made it — but then he’d paid for his ticket, and there’s no motivation like getting your money’s worth. He’s one of the worst — but he’s not in danger. Venn was sick but went home under his own steam.’
The manageress came to the still-open double doors. She looked a generation older than she had done two hours ago. Jean had left after confirming that she would be paid for a full shift.
‘Local paper’s got someone on the doorstep, Mr Poole — and the Press Association’s on the line in the office.’
Poole pocketed his mobile, slumped back in his seat, then leant forward and picked up the can. ‘Right. Well, I think we can safely drop the makers of this stuff in the shite without further ado.’ He turned the can. ‘West Lynn Foodstuffs: Clockcase Cannery, West Lynn. Hmmm.’
‘What?’ asked Shaw.
‘Nothing — the place is closing down. Planning commit tee gave change-of-use permission a few months ago. Maybe their health-and-safety rules have gone by the board — who knows? People losing their jobs aren’t the best placed to run a tight ship.’
‘“Local fare for local people,”’ said Shaw, standing. ‘What do you think? Definitely the cans?’
‘My prime suspect,’ said Poole, smiling, turning the can, reading the small print. ‘Certainly sufficient grounds to shut them down while we do the tests. It’s a stroke of luck, having the unopened can. Manager says they ordered just enough — people were asked to indicate what they wanted when they bought their tickets — but on the day a few changed their minds and asked for melon, so they had this one spare. We can look at the empties, of course — but this way there’s no argument: if there’s something nasty in the can, there’s no wriggle room.
‘And seafood’s always tricky — packed with dodgy critters — oysters, prawns, scallops, you name it. Then there’s the can. We’ll get this one back to the lab for a once over. You do get the odd dodgy batch; maybe the seal’s rusted, maybe the vacuum’s failed.’
Poole stood, bracing himself for the press call.
‘Good luck with the reptiles,’ said Shaw.
All the windows were open now and they could hear the electronic whirr of cameras. The gloomy fogbound light filtering through the stained-glass windows was boosted by a TV arc lamp.
Poole walked to the door, can of soup under his arm, whistling.
Shaw and Valentine faced each other across the round table, listening to his footsteps fade on the grand staircase. The table had been cleared of cutlery, glasses and crackers but a reservation sign remained on a metal spike: THE FLASK.
Shaw covered his eyes with his hands and tried to refocus. He seemed to spend his life refocusing, and for the first time he thought how tiring that was.
‘OK. So Jean’s changed the game a bit,’ he said. ‘We’ve got suspects. They’re not new — but the picture’s getting clearer, sharper,’ said Shaw, his voice echoing under the hammer-beam roof. ‘Maybe,’ he added, still worried by all the details that didn’t quite fit.
‘Fletcher,’ said Valentine, helping himself to a glass of white wine from a bottle that had been left on a side table, running a paper napkin round the rim. ‘On the night of the wake he’s going around asking people where Pat Garrison lives. Maybe nobody knows, or they won’t tell him. So he waits, sees the kid leave early, decides to follow him home. Maybe that’s all he wanted to do — get the address that way, then plan a little surprise. Something nasty through the letterbox.
‘But once he’s out in the night anything could happen — the kid sees him, confronts him in the cemetery. Fletcher’s beered up — perhaps he’s not alone. There was a table full of skinheads in that room, although most were still there for the choir’s second session. They give him a kicking, cosh him with the hook, then chuck him in the grave.’