‘Alex, how good of you to pop round. It’s been far too long. Let me get you a drink,’ said Virginia, walking across to the cabinet. ‘Your favourite tipple is gin and tonic, if I remember correctly?’
Alex was impressed that she remembered, as they hadn’t seen each other since Lady Virginia had caused him to lose his place on the board some nine years ago. What he did remember was the last thing she had said to him before they parted: And when I say goodbye, I mean goodbye.
‘And how are the Barrington family faring now you’re back on the board?’
‘The company is just about through the worst of its troubles, and the Buckingham’s first booking period is going extremely well.’
‘I was thinking of booking a suite for the maiden voyage to New York. That would get them thinking.’
‘If you do, I can’t imagine they’ll invite you to join them at the captain’s table,’ said Fisher, warming to the idea.
‘By the time we dock in New York, darling, mine will be the only table anyone wants to sit at.’
Fisher laughed. ‘Is that what you wanted to see me about?’
‘No, something far more important,’ said Virginia, patting the sofa. ‘Come and sit down beside me. I need your help with a little project I’ve been working on, and you, major, with your military background and business experience, are the ideal person to carry it out.’
Alex sipped his drink and listened in disbelief to what Virginia was proposing. He was about to reject the whole idea when she opened her handbag, extracted a cheque for ￡250 and handed it to him. All he could see in front of him was a pile of brown envelopes. ‘I don’t think—’
‘And there’ll be another two hundred and fifty once the job is done.’
Alex saw a way out. ‘No, thank you, Virginia,’ he said firmly. ‘I would want the full amount up front. Perhaps you’ve forgotten what happened the last time we made a similar deal.’
Virginia tore up the cheque and, although Alex desperately needed the money, he felt a sense of relief. But to his surprise, she opened her bag again, took out her cheque book and wrote the words, Pay Major A. Fisher, five hundred pounds. She signed the cheque and handed it to Alex.
On the journey back to Bristol, Alex thought about tearing up the cheque, but his mind kept returning to the unpaid bills, one threatening him with legal action, the outstanding monthly maintenance, and the unopened brown envelopes waiting on his desk.
Once he’d banked the cheque and paid his bills, Alex accepted that there was no turning back. He spent the next two days planning the whole exercise as if it were a military campaign.
Day one, Bath recce.
Day two, Bristol preparation.
Day three, Bath execution.
By Sunday, he was regretting ever agreeing to become involved, but he didn’t care to think about the revenge Virginia would inflict if he let her down at the last moment and then failed to return her money.
On Monday morning, he drove the thirteen miles to Bath. He parked in the municipal car park, made his way across the bridge, past the recreation ground and into the city centre. He didn’t need a map as he’d spent most of the weekend memorizing every road until he could have walked the course blindfold. Time spent on preparation is seldom wasted, his old commanding officer used to say.
He began his quest in the high street, only stopping when he came across a grocer’s or one of the new supermarkets. Once he was inside, he carefully checked the shelves, and if the product he required was on sale, he purchased half a dozen. After he’d completed the first part of the operation, Alex only needed to visit one other establishment, the Angel Hotel, where he checked the location of the public telephone booths. Satisfied, he walked back across the bridge to the car park, placed the two shopping bags in the boot of his car and drove back to Bristol.
When he arrived home, he parked in the garage, and took the two bags out of the boot. Over supper of a bowl of Heinz tomato soup and a sausage roll, he went over again and again what he needed to do the following day. He woke several times during the night.
After breakfast, Alex sat at his desk and read through the minutes of the last board meeting, continually telling himself that he couldn’t go through with it.
At 10.30, he strolled into the kitchen, took an empty milk bottle from the windowsill and washed it out. He wrapped the bottle in a tea towel and put it in the sink before taking a small hammer out of the top drawer. He began to smash the bottle into pieces, which he then broke into smaller and smaller fragments, until he was left with a saucer full of glass powder.
After he’d completed the operation he felt exhausted and, like any self-respecting workman, took a break. He poured himself a beer, made a cheese and tomato sandwich, and sat down to read the morning paper. The Vatican was demanding that the contraceptive pill should be banned.
Forty minutes later, he returned to his task. He placed the two shopping bags on the work surface, took out the thirty-six small jars and stood them neatly in three lines, like soldiers on parade. He unscrewed the lid of the first jar and sprinkled a small amount of the glass powder on top, as if he was adding seasoning. He screwed the lid tightly back on, and repeated the exercise thirty-five times, before placing the jars back in the bags and putting them both in the cupboard under the sink.
Alex spent some time washing what was left of the glass powder down the sink until he was sure it was all gone. He left the house, walked to the end of the road, dropped into his local branch of Barclays, and exchanged a pound note for twenty shilling coins. On the way back to the flat, he picked up a copy of the Bristol Evening News. Once he was back home, he made himself a cup of tea. He took it into his study, sat at his desk and dialled directory enquiries. He asked for five London numbers, and one in Bath.
The following day, Alex put the two shopping bags back in the boot and once again set off for Bath. After he’d parked in the far corner of the municipal car park, he took out the shopping bags and returned to the town centre, entering each one of the establishments where he’d purchased the jars and, unlike a shoplifter, he placed them back on the shelves. Once he’d returned the thirty-fifth jar to the last shop, he took the remaining one up to the counter and asked to see the manager.
‘What seems to be the problem, sir?’
‘I don’t want to make a fuss, old chap,’ said Alex, ‘but I bought this jar of Bingham’s Fish Paste the other day – my favourite,’ he added, ‘– and when I got home, I discovered some pieces of glass in it.’
The manager looked shocked when Alex unscrewed the lid and invited him to examine the contents. He was even more horrified when he dipped his finger into the paste and drew blood.
‘I’m not the complaining type,’ said Alex, ‘but perhaps it might be wise to check the rest of your stock and inform the supplier.’
‘I’ll do that straight away, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you wish to make an official complaint?’ he asked nervously.
‘No, no,’ said Alex. ‘I’m sure this is just a one-off, and I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble.’
He shook hands with a grateful manager, and was about to leave when the man said, ‘The least we can do, sir, is give you a refund.’
Alex didn’t want to hang around, fearing that someone might remember him, but he realized that if he left without collecting the refund the manager might become suspicious. He turned back as the manager opened the till, took out a shilling and handed it to his customer.
‘Thank you,’ said Alex, pocketing the money and heading towards the door.
‘I’m sorry to bother you again, sir, but would you be kind enough to sign a receipt?’
Alex reluctantly turned back a second time, scribbled ‘Samuel Oakshott’ on the dotted line, the first name that came into his head, then left quickly. Once he had escaped, he took a more circuitous route than he had originally planned to the Angel Hotel. When he arrived, he looked back to make sure no one had followed him. Satisfied, he entered the hotel, went straight to one of the public phone booths and placed twenty one-shilling pieces on the shelf. He took a sheet of paper out of his back pocket and dialled the first number on the list.
‘Daily Mail,’ said a voice. ‘News or advertising?’
‘News,’ said Alex, who was asked to wait while he was put through to a reporter on the news desk.
He spoke to the lady for several minutes about the unfortunate incident he’d experienced with Bingham’s Fish Paste, his favourite brand.
‘Will you be suing them?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t decided yet,’ said Alex, ‘but I’ll certainly be consulting my solicitor.’
‘And what did you say your name was, sir?’
‘Samuel Oakshott,’ he repeated, smiling at the thought of how much his late headmaster would have disapproved of what he was up to.
Alex then rang the Daily Express, News Chronicle, Daily Telegraph, The Times and, for good measure, the Bath Echo. His final call before returning to Bristol was to Lady Virginia, who said, ‘I knew I could rely on you, major. We really must get together some time. It’s always such fun seeing you.’
He placed the two remaining shillings in his pocket, walked out of the hotel and returned to the car park. On the drive back to Bristol he decided that it might be wise not to visit Bath again in the near future.
Virginia sent out for all the papers the following morning, except the Daily Worker.
She was delighted with the coverage given to the Bingham’s Fish Paste Scandal (Daily Mail). Mr Robert Bingham, chairman of the company, has issued a statement confirming that all stocks of Bingham’s Fish Paste have been removed from the shelves and will not be replaced until a full enquiry has been carried out (The Times).
A junior minister at the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food has assured the public that an inspection of the Bingham’s factory in Grimsby will be conducted by health and safety officials in the near future (Daily Express). Bingham’s shares fall five shillings in early trading (Financial Times).
When Virginia had finished reading all the papers, she only hoped that Robert Bingham might guess who had masterminded the whole operation. How much she would have enjoyed having breakfast at Mablethorpe Hall that morning and hearing Priscilla’s views on the unfortunate incident. She checked her watch and, confident that Robert would have left for the factory, picked up the phone and dialled a Lincolnshire number.
‘Dearest Priscilla,’ she gushed, ‘I was just calling to say how dreadfully sorry I was to read about that unpleasant business in Bath. Such bad luck.’
‘How kind of you to call, darling,’ said Priscilla. ‘One realizes who one’s friends are at a time like this.’
‘Well, you can rest assured that I’m always on the other end of the line should you ever need me, and do please pass on my sympathy and best wishes to Robert. I hope he won’t be too disappointed about no longer being in line for a knighthood.’