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were standing on the shelves, either in a store or in somebody’s larder, was impossible to calculate. There were bound to be some. Grainger’s temporarily took tinned pineapple, peaches and baked beans off their shelves and issued a statement offering to replace any that had been purchased from them in the previous three months. It made the headlines locally and was reported in the national press, lost somewhere between news that a Pop Idol contestant had had a boob job and the tomato that spelled out Allah is Great when cut in half.
    We were less successful in our attempts to talk to Sir Morton Grainger. He had a personal assistant – male – resident at Dob Hall, the Georgian pile near Hebden Bridge that he called home, who told us that Sir Morton would be passing through on Wednesday afternoon. Mrs Grainger – she held the title of Lady but preferred plain Mrs – was in London, where she had an architect’s practice.
    We made a list of all the dates but it was meaningless . Things could have been lying around for weeks. As Jeff Caton said, this was the only enquiry he’d everbeen on where there was no point in asking: “Where were you on…?” The forensics people started some experiments to see how quickly tinned fruit went mouldy, but we knew it would be of doubtful value.
    Wednesday morning Dr Hirst rang me. The name didn’t mean anything for a few seconds until he reminded me that I’d seen him at the General after the Ebola scare.
    “Sorry, Dr Hirst,” I said. “I didn’t recognise the name. We’re still working on the case but not making much progress.”
    “I know, I’ve heard the appeal, but there may have been a development.”
    “Go on.”
    “We had an admission through the night with all the symptoms of a severe stroke, but a brain scan was negative. She’s very ill – we’ve put her on a respirator – and in the light of what’s been happening I started wondering about botulism poisoning. I’ve given her a dose of the antitoxin serum and sent a stool sample for analysis, but a full diagnosis may take a day or two.”
    Twenty minutes later Dave and I were seated in the corridor outside the IC ward with Dr Hirst.
    “You work long hours, Doc,” Dave told him.
    “It’s not too bad,” he replied with a grin. “They let us use the coffee machine as often as we like. Can I offer you one?”
    “No, we’ll get out of your way,” I said. “So tell us about botulism.”
    “I suspect you know the general details,” he replied. “It’s caused by a little blighter called Clostridiumbotulinum, which normally lies dormant in the soil.” He paused as a grim-faced man carrying a bunch of carnations and leading a weepy little girl was taken into the ward. The door swung silently shut and he continued: “The bacterium thrives in conditions of low oxygen, such as in sealed cans, where it produces a nerve toxin which can be deadly.”
    “Sounds nasty. What can you tell us about the patient?”
    “Maureen Wall, a fifty-six-year-old widow. Started feeling ill last night. Blurred vision, slurred speech, difficulty swallowing. She telephoned her daughter in Ipswich who thought it sounded like a stroke and sent for an ambulance.”
    “Is she speaking?” I asked.
    “Barely.”
    “Will she live?”
    “She’s off the danger list, but it will take a long time for her to get over the paralysis.”
    “Do you want me to look for her last meal?”
    “It could be a big help.”
    “No problem. Do we have an address?”
    “Right here.” He produced a piece of paper.
    “And a key?”
    “It’s with the neighbour.”
    “Right. I could sign a search authority but it might be more polite to telephone the daughter.”
    “I’ve spoken to her,” Dr Hirst said. “She says do whatever’s necessary.”
    “You’re a treasure, Doc. If you ever want a career change we could use you. If we find something, who do we leave it with?”

    * * *
    It was the corned beef. The neighbour wanted to