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 center. 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 dialed directory inquiries. 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 center, 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 favorite,” 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 toward 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 dialed 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 favorite 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.