Requiem for a Dealer by Jo Bannister Page A

rather do the time. Anyway, it’s not the dealers we need. All right, nice bonus, wouldn’t say no, but what we need to stop these deaths are the people who’re manufacturing Scram. We need the factory.’
    â€˜Horsefeathers,’ said Deacon pensively.
    Voss had long ago decided that taking offence at his governor’s casual rudeness would be a full-time occupation. ‘Well, if you know a better way …’
    Deacon breathed heavily at him. ‘That’s what Forensics call it. Pay attention, Charlie Voss – you told me that! Horsefeathers: the German tranquillizer. That’s the long thin neck where we
could take the head clean off. It’s the vital component, it’s hard to get hold of, it only comes from one source and it has to be smuggled into the country. If we find out how they’re doing it we close them down like that.’ His fingers were a bit thick for snapping: he had to try twice, which rather spoilt the effect.
    â€˜Nobody’s going to share information like that with a bunch of teenagers.’ Voss blew out a disconsolate sigh that lifted his front hair. ‘One more thing. None of them remembered seeing Alison Barker.’
    Deacon was unimpressed. ‘There were a couple of hundred kids in that clubhouse – what are the chances you’d ask one who saw Alison?’
    â€˜That’s kind of the point,’ said Voss, ‘they were kids. Average age about sixteen. A girl of twenty-two would stand out.’
    â€˜Maybe,’ conceded Deacon. ‘So maybe she wasn’t at the party. But she got Scram somewhere. Maybe she knows someone on the inside – someone who’s involved in producing this stuff.’
    And he gave her some tabs without telling her what constitutes a safe dose? And she waited until she was alone before experimenting?’
    â€˜It doesn’t sound too likely, does it? Oh God,’ Deacon growled, ‘I’m going to have to interview her again, aren’t I?’
    â€˜Or I could,’ suggested Voss.
    Deacon eyed him suspiciously. ‘Are you going to bully her? Are you going to stand over her and shout a lot, and convince her the only way she’s going to get rid of you is by telling you what you want to hear?’
    Voss was a good policeman who was also a decent human being. He looked both startled and shocked. ‘Of course I’m not!’
    â€˜Didn’t think so.’ Deacon sniffed. ‘Better do it myself, then.’
    Â 
    â€˜Nothing?’ Either Alison Barker was genuinely taken aback or she’d anticipated this moment and prepared an expression for it. ‘There was nothing in the food except food?’
    â€˜Nothing,’ said Deacon. ‘Forensics knew what they were looking for and they looked carefully: they wouldn’t miss it.’
    â€˜I was so sure …’ Alison was still in hospital but out of bed and dressed now, waiting for the word to go home. A certain pallor
was all that remained from her brush with death.
    â€˜Do you remember what you ate that evening?’
    She tried to. ‘I didn’t cook. A cheese sandwich, I think, and a packet soup. Later I had a cup of tea and a biscuit.’
    â€˜Any alcohol?’
    â€˜A can of cider out of the fridge.’
    All of which accorded with the analysis of what was pumped from her stomach. Except that somewhere along the line she’d taken four tablets of Scram as well.
    â€˜A new can?’ asked Deacon.
    She didn’t understand, answered with a puzzled frown.
    â€˜I’m asking if you opened the can before you drank from it,’ Deacon explained patiently, ‘or if it was already open.’
    Alison tried to remember. It was several days ago now, it was a minor detail, and a lot had happened to her since. But she knew that it mattered. ‘It was open. I’d had some at lunchtime and sealed the can with clingfilm. It was a bit flat but it was OK.’