An Apple A Day
Created | Updated Oct 15, 2005
This is one of three short stories I have written featuring Detective Superintendent McNick, and I consider this to be the second best. The best is rather long, yes even longer than this bastard, and I haven't yet typed it up. I hope you like this one, in fact I'd be very happy if you just took the time to read it. If you've done that, it doesn't matter if you don't like it. Well, read on, and enjoy (hopefully)...
An Apple A Day
By Nigel Munson
It had been a tragic day for the Montgomerys. First there was the awful story in the Sun about Sir Graham’s affair, which he categorically denied ever happening, and then this. This horrible, untimely death. Sir Graham Montgomery and his wife, Elizabeth, had only one son. Craig was the most innocent of the family. The tabloids hadn’t yet tarred him with the same brush as his father, and he had been hailed as Britain’s best hope at the Olympics. Now he was dead. One minute he was discussing with his father whether or not the Sun’s article was true, the next he was on the kitchen floor, dead.
At least this would make the tabloids forget about the affair for a while, hoped Sir Graham, as he sat quietly in his study. He was writing a list of people that would have to be told; his wife was too upset to do it, and he had got as far as Craig’s girlfriend, whose name had escaped his mind. He was going to have to rewrite the will now. He couldn’t give half his estate to a dead man. Sir Graham’s mind was wandering now. He didn’t understand why that McNick had been asking questions; there was nothing suspicious about the death, Craig had just collapsed. Well, that was slightly suspicious. Why should a perfectly healthy young athlete just die like that? No doubt the Home Office was interested, Craig being the most famous British athlete at the moment. They probably told McNick to make sure everything was hunky dory, thought Sir Graham.
“So what killed him?” Detective Superintendent McNick asked the female pathologist who was leaning over Craig Montgomery’s body.
“Well I don’t know yet.” She said sharply. “He looks extremely healthy.”
“The last time I checked, dead bodies aren’t healthy.” McNick said grimly. The pathologist rolled her eyes.
“I mean there are no immediate signs of what killed him. It seems as if, and this is only based on what I’ve seen so far, as if his heart just stopped, and he died, just like that.” The pathologist clicked her fingers, rather distastefully, thought McNick. He thought back to the statement from Sir Graham. He had said Craig collapsed and immediately stopped breathing.
“That fits in with Sir Graham’s statement, but what caused his heart to stop? Was there foul play? The sooner I know the better; I have some real murders to solve, I can’t –”
“I don’t know yet. You’ll have to wait for the results of the tests we’ve done. If you want my professional opinion, I doubt this was murder. I’ve never seen a poison to cause the body to stop like that and not leave internal scarring. And there have been cases of perfectly healthy adults just dying. Like cot death, only with grown men and women. Of course, some illegal steroids have adverse side effects such as death –”
“Let’s wait until the tests come back. I don’t think the Montgomerys will want us theorising like that.”
McNick turned and walked out of the pathology department. He made his way to his office, thinking about Craig Montgomery. Why couldn’t deaths be more straightforward? Thirty years ago you either died because you were ill, or because you had been murdered. Or because you were taking something you shouldn’t. And if you were murdered it was usually pretty obvious; a knife in the back or a bullet to the head. It wasn’t like that anymore, though. You either got a really crude death, or something quite clever. Surprisingly, the clever criminals were easier to catch, because they had a motive, a reason to kill. They calculated their murders, and made them more personal, leaving a trail that was not necessarily easier to follow, but led clearly to a person – the murderer. McNick’s train of thought ended there, for he had reached his office. The moment he sat down at his desk his phone rang. He sighed tiredly as he reached to pick up the receiver.
“Hello? McNick’s office.”
“Hi sir, it’s Yardley. Are you busy?”
“I was about to get stuck in to some paperwork, but if you’ve got something more interesting for me to do, please tell me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s interesting, it’s more depressing. There’s been another death.”
“What do you mean another death? People die every minute.” McNick could almost hear Yardley’s eyes roll.
“Another athlete sir, Sharon Colt, the swimmer.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I were.”
McNick met DC Yardley outside the health club. They walked down to the gym while Yardley explained what had happened.
“She was having her daily workout. Ten minutes on the rowing machine, ten on the bike thing, ten on the treadmill.” Yardley pushed the door open to the gym. “She’d do that three times over everyday. She was on her third run on the treadmill when she died sir. She just collapsed mid-run. Got thrown off the treadmill. At first they thought she’d got her laces caught in it, but she was wearing slip-ons sir.”
“Slippers? Why on earth was she running in –”
“Slip-ons, sir. Shoes without laces, you slip them on.”
“Shoes without laces? On a treadmill? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Umm,” Yardley frowned, “not really sir.”
“What if they slip off?” McNick just wasn’t dropping this. “There’s only a thin line between slip-ons and slip-offs, Yardley. Do you wear them when you go to the gym?”
“I don’t go to the gym sir, you know that.” McNick frowned for a moment and then realised what Yardley was talking about.
“Oh yes, your little problem. But enough of this side-tracking, Yardley, did she die when she collapsed or when she got thrown off? Is this death in any way similar to Craig Montgomery’s death, or is it just coincidence that two Olympic athletes have both died on the same day?” It certainly seemed like a rather strange coincidence to McNick.
“Well sir, I’m not a pathologist, and I don’t want to jump to hasty conclusions, but both athletes were very healthy, and both just collapsed. From what I’ve heard, it seems likely that she died when she collapsed, not from the impact of the fall. Montgomery died when he collapsed, didn’t he?”
McNick said nothing. He was deep in thought. The Olympics were only a few months away, and two athletes were dead. Could this be some kind of sick sabotage? It was very clever if it was. Were more athletes going to die? How long did they have? McNick was going to have to answer these questions fast – the lives of Britain’s Olympians depended on it.
“Could it have been something she ate sir?” Yardley asked, bringing McNick out of his mind and back into the room.
“What? Umm, maybe, you might as well find out what she ate today.”
“I’ve already done that sir. Her instructor said Miss Colt ate the same thing everyday. Two rounds of corned beef and pickle sandwiches – brown bread, a pasta salad, some Ryvita –”
“Ugh.” spluttered McNick. Upon seeing the look he was being given by Yardley, he explained on his outburst. “Ryvita – it’s disgusting”
“Well, it’s all right with a bit of Marmite.” said Yadley. McNick began to feel rather nauseous.
“Marmite and Ryvita? Are you all there Yardley? Because if you’ve got some mental problem I’m not sure I want you working with me anymore.” Yardley frowned.
“I’m not the one who eats raw onions.”
“Just get on with what she ate today.”
“Where was I?” asked Yardley.
“Ryvita” McNick spat the word out.
“Oh yeah. She had some Ryvita, a Boost chocolate bar, and two Granny Smith apples from Pond Lake Grocers.” McNick’s eyes widened sharply.
“Say that again.”
“Err, two Granny Smiths from Pond Lake Grocers. Is that important?”
“You could say that. In Craig Montgomery’s bedroom there was a fruit bowl full of Pond Lake Granny Smiths.”
* * *
“I don’t know what you’re talking about Mr Langdon, and I certainly can’t see that it has anything to do with me.”
“Oh come on Jeff, Craig and Sharon both die on the same day, and you’re saying that you don’t know anything about it? Are the rest of in danger?” Jessie Langdon stared at Jeff Crewitt, who was shuffling nervously behind the counter.
“Look Jessie,” Crewitt began to empty the cash register, “just because you all buy your groceries from me doesn’t mean you’re in danger. If it had something to do with me,” Crewitt looked up at Jessie, “I’d know.” He shoved a handful of coins into a small plastic money bag.
“Why are you packing up?” asked Jessie.
“Because,” Crewitt said, taking a bunch of notes from the register, “I have a very bad migraine and I want to go home early.” Jessie snorted.
“You look perfectly fine to me. I think you’re doing a runner.”
“From what?” the grocer shouted. Jessie jumped. He didn’t know this small man could reach such a volume.
“All I’m saying Jeff, is that if anything happens to me, Darren or Paula, I will tell the press about your, how can I put it, special groceries.” Crewitt shook his head.
“And ruin your career? I don’t think so. Now, I’ve got to lock up, so could you, and don’t take this the wrong way,” he looked up at the tall athlete, “get out.” Jessie stared at the little grocer for a second, before walking out of the shop. Crewitt glared after him, and then went back to emptying the till.
Just as their car turned the corner, McNick and Yardley both saw a tall black man leave the shop they were headed for, and step into a car. He had driven halfway down the street before Yardley stopped outside the grocers. Yardley looked at McNick, who seemed to be thinking the same thing he was.
“Sir, that wasn’t Jessie Langdon, was it?”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Yardley.” McNick said as he unbuckled his seatbelt and opened his door. “Just because two national athletes happen to eat Pond Lake apples doesn’t mean that Pond Lake Grocers serves exclusively to Olympians.” He got out of the car and closed the door. “But, yes, I believe that was Jessie Langdon.” Why McNick didn’t just say that in the first place, Yardley didn’t know. He locked the car, and the two detectives walked to Pond Lake Grocers front door.
The door was locked. Yardley peered in, and saw the shadow of a man going into the back of the shop. He rapped on the glass.
“Go round the back.” ordered McNick. Yardley obeyed, and ran round the side of the building. McNick opened the letter box and shouted through. “Hello? Can you come to the door please Mr Crewitt. We just want to ask you a few questions.” McNick pressed his face to the glass, and knocked loudly. “We know you’re in there Mr Crewitt. Come to the door.”
Yardley was at the back of the building. He found the rear entrance, and tried to open the door. Just as he put his hand on the handle, the door swung open, to reveal a short man whose arms were full of files and plastic moneybags. He dropped everything at the sight of DC Yardley.
“Who the hell are you?” exclaimed Crewitt. Yardley chuckled.
“I’m Detective Constable Yardley,” he said, revealing his ID, “and the gentleman round the front is Detective Superintendent McNick.” Crewitt looked at Yardley in horror.
“What do you want?”
“We just want to ask you a couple of questions, that’s all.”
“About what?”
“We’ll come to that. Now, you couldn’t go and open the front door for the Super could you?”
McNick was getting slightly peed off by this Crewitt. It wasn’t that McNick was impatient, he just didn’t like waiting for things. He hammered on the door with his fist. There was no sign of life. He walked round to the side and shouted to Yardley, who, he presumed, was still waiting round the back.
“Has he come out your end yet Yardley?” He waited for a response. “Yardley?” No answer. “What’s he playing at?” McNick muttered to himself. He began to walk round to the back of the building.
Yardley and Crewitt arrived at the front door. Crewitt put his key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door.
“Sir, I found him. Sir?” Yardley frowned, looking round outside. “Sir?” Yardley sighed. “He’s probably gone round the back. You stay here.” he said, looking at the short grocer. “No, actually come with me, I don’t want you running off.” Crewitt rolled his eyes. He followed Yardley out of the shop and the two of them headed for the back.
McNick came through the open back door, wondering why it was open with no Yardley near it. He walked through to the front and leaned against the counter. Yardley had only been out of his sight for a minute, how could he have just disappeared? He wasn’t at the back, he wasn’t at the front, so where the hell was he? As McNick began to slip into one of his now far too regular thought-trances, he heard a sound come from the back of the shop. He stood back against the wall, next to the doorway he had walked through moments earlier. He’d have to act fast. The person in the back, whoever he was, may have done away with Yardley. It might not even be Crewitt. Maybe both of them had been dealt with. He glanced round into the corridor quickly. He caught a glimpse of a rather tall man with his back turned to McNick. He took another glance. The man began to turn around. McNick quickly came away from the doorway, pressing himself against the wall. He could hear the man’s footsteps as he walked towards the doorway. McNick braced himself, ready to apprehend the suspect. He would act as soon as the man came through the doorway.
The man’s foot appeared in the doorway. As the rest of the man’s body came through, McNick threw himself against the suspect. The two of them crashed to the ground, McNick landing on top of the suspect. He grabbed the man’s arms and held them down on the man’s back. He took out his handcuffs and spoke in his gruff arresting voice.
“You’re nicked.”
Yardley tried desperately to turn his head so that McNick could see who he was arresting, but he was pinned to the ground so hard that it was impossible for him to do so. Nevertheless, he tried to speak, but all the sound went straight into the ground.
“What was that son?” McNick asked, still in his gruff voice. He chuckled. “You want a lawyer?” He pulled the suspect’s head up so that he could speak, and promptly dropped the suspect’s head when he saw that it was Yardley. “Oh my god.” He froze for a moment, not knowing what to do.
“Eh oar!” Yardley screamed.
“What?” said McNick. Yardley lifted his head up.
“Get off!”
“Oh god, yes, sorry.” McNick leaped up, rubbing his hands through his hair in exasperation. Yardley managed to bring himself to his feet, and glowered at McNick.
“What the hell are you doing, sir?” McNick had his hands over his face in shock, and so his response was impossible to understand. “What? Take your hands away from your mouth.” McNick slowly took his hands away from his mouth, feeling - and looking - like a small child.
“I thought,” McNick began his somewhat useless explanation, “I thought you were the suspect, and that, and that you had done away with you and that you were going to come after me.” McNick stood there, a look so apologetic on his face that even Yardley couldn’t argue with McNick’s unintelligible answer.
“Look, the suspect’s right here.” Yardley pointed to Crewitt, except he didn’t. There was no sign of Crewitt.
“Where?” asked McNick. Yardley stared at the spot Crewitt had been standing in.
“He was right there. He must have done a runner when, well, you know when” McNick looked at the ground guiltily. “But he can’t have got far, sir. We can find him.” With that Yardley ran into the corridor. McNick stood still for a moment, wondering why Yardley hadn’t been angrier. He then slowly followed Yardley, yet again in a thought ridden stupor. Yardley ran straight out of the shop, but McNick took his time walking out, thinking about what he hade just done to Yardley.
He saw Crewitt crouching in a corner shaking nervously, except he didn’t, because he was in another trance. McNick stood there, staring at the terrified Crewitt, not noticing him, thinking about how stupid he had been. How could he have not realised that it was Yardley coming towards him? And why was he so rough with him? He wasn’t that rough when he knew for certain he was dealing with a criminal, so why, when he hadn’t even known who was coming towards him, had he been so heavy handed? And why was the man in front of him looking so scared? Who was the man in front of him? Why was McNick asking himself these questions inside his head? Why wasn’t he asking the frightened man who he was? And where was Yardley?
“Who’s Yardley?” McNick said, confusing his mind’s questions. “Where are you?” No, that still wasn’t it. “Who are you?” Finally, he had it.
“Crewitt.” whimpered the grocer, absolutely terrified by the policeman standing above him.
“You.” McNick had nothing but contempt for this man at the moment. If he had just come to the door like he was asked to, then none of this would have happened. He stepped forward, and pulled Crewitt up by his collar. At that moment, a disgruntled Yardley reappeared through the back door.
“Sir, what are – oh, I see, you’ve found Mr Crewitt.”
For whatever reason, Yardley’s voice triggered a response in McNick, which caused him to return to his usual, perceptive and clear minded self. He saw the frightened grocer in his hands, and realised who he was frightened of. He then had a thought that would prove to be one of the deciding factors in the success of the current investigation. He turned to Yardley and winked. At first Yardley thought that his commanding officer just had something in his eye, but the purpose of the wink was quickly revealed by what McNick said next.
“Shall I beat him up now or later?” Yardley gave a small, hardly noticeable smile when he realised the game McNick was playing. Good cop, bad cop.
“Sir, you know we don’t do that anymore.” Yardley gave McNick a look to confirm that they were on the same wavelength. Crewitt was not comforted by Yardley’s words.
“Anymore? You mean you used to beat suspects up?”
“Oh, all the time.” McNick told the grocer. “Still do when I get a chance.” He gave a nasty smile. Crewitt shivered.
“Don’t worry, Mr Crewitt, Detective Superintendent McNick won’t touch you. Or at least, he won’t while I’m here.” said Yardley. Crewitt shivered again, and this time didn’t stop shivering. “But we just want to ask you a few questions Mr Crewitt. Where shall we, err, question him sir?”
“Oh, in one of the store rooms Yardley, we don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Sir, let me remind you that we will be doing nothing other than questioning the suspect.” Yardley turned to Crewitt. “You have nothing to worry about. But I do think a store room is a good idea.” He looked around, and his eyes fell on a door a few feet down the corridor. He opened it. “In here?”
“That’ll do fine.” answered McNick. He grabbed Crewitt and shoved him down the corridor. He practically threw the terrified grocer into the back room, and sat him down on a sack of potatoes. The room was full of vegetables, and smelt strongly of earth. McNick didn’t see any point in delaying the questioning, and neither, it seemed, did Yardley, who was the first to speak.
“Now, Mr Crewitt, what do you know about Sharon Colt and Craig Montgomery?” Yardley and McNick stared at the grocer, waiting for a reply.
“Erm, they’re both national athletes, sorry, were national athletes. They both died today, God rest their souls.”
“Oh,” said McNick, “you’re a religious man are you?”
“I, err, I go to church when I can.”
“I wonder, did you go to church this morning to pray for mercy on your soul?” began McNick. “Because at the moment, I don’t see you going anywhere but hell. Or at least prison, which some people will tell you is just as bad.”
“What, what are you talking about?”
“What are we talking about?” It was Yardley now. “Shall I spell the situation out for you? Two hopeful, and young, Olympians both die within hours of each other, in exactly the same way. And if that wasn’t coincidence enough, both athletes happened to eat your apples, Mr Crewitt. We then see Jessie Langdon leave your shop in a hurry. Now, however incriminating it sounds so far, we were willing to keep open minds, that is, until I stopped you from running away from the police and your shop at three in the afternoon, which is pretty early for closing time on a Tuesday. That is what we are talking about, Mr Crewitt, and that is why we are here!” Yardley had got himself a bit worked up. He returned to the part he was supposed to be playing, the good cop. “Please Mr Crewitt, tell us what all this is about. Why are Sharon and Craig dead? And why did you try to do a runner? We haven’t charged you yet, so it will look a lot better if you talk now.”
“And you’ll look a lot better now, rather than when I’ve had a word with you.”
Crewitt looked at McNick in horror.
“Look,” he said, “they’re just customers of mine. They buy fruit and veg from me.” Crewitt shuffled uncomfortably on the sack of potatoes. McNick snorted.
“Yeah, and I bet they buy a couple of death sentences as well.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” exclaimed the grocer. McNick’s eyes widened.
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that! I am a policeman!” McNick leaned forward until he was right in Crewitt’s face. He spoke very low now, in his intimidating voice. “Now you listen here. I don’t have time to play games. You are going to tell me what you know about Sharon Colt and Craig Montgomery’s deaths, and you are going to tell me now.” He reached behind Jeff Crewitt, and picked up a potato and a carrot. He held them in front of Crewitt’s face, making gestures that made it reasonably clear that the potato was to represent Crewitt, and the carrot was McNick. He turned the carrot in his fingers until it was horizontal to the potato. He brought the carrot back, before slamming it into the potato. Crewitt had expected the carrot to break on impact, but it had not. It had gone straight through and out the other side, impaling the potato. This rather masculine show of power may have been laughed at by Crewitt under normal circumstances, but today it just made him need the toilet even more.
While McNick had been scaring Crewitt with his macho carrot trick, Yardley had received a phone call from the station. He now had a very grave look on his face. He beckoned McNick over with a movement of his hand, and whispered the sad news in McNick’s ear. McNick took a deep breath and cursed quietly. He turned sharply to Crewitt, who was rocking nervously back and forth on his potato sack.
“Did you just hear that Crewitt?” McNick asked. “Obviously you didn’t, but you probably knew it was going to happen, didn’t you?” shouted McNick.
“Knew what was going to happen?” whimpered Crewitt.
“Jessie Langdon has just collapsed at his friend’s house. He’s dead.” McNick stared at the grocer. Crewitt said nothing. He just stared at the wall in silence. At first it appeared that he was totally unmoved by what McNick had just said, but soon enough a large tear from his right eye dripped down his face. McNick didn’t notice that though. “Did you hear what I just said? Jessie Langdon, another of your athlete customers, has just died! Now are you going to tell us what’s going on, or do you want me to shove a carrot through your skull?”
Crewitt shook his head slowly. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Tears were pouring down his face now. He managed to get a few words out.
“I, I never, ever meant for this to happen. Oh god. What have I done?” McNick frowned.
“That’s what we want to know.”
“Tell us what’s been going on Mr Crewitt.” said Yardley, much gentler than McNick, who was still in bad cop mode. Crewitt rubbed his eyes.
“Um, I, I’ve been selling a number of athletes genetically modified apples.”
“What?” exclaimed McNick.
“The, er, the apples, they, they act like steroids and performance enhancing drugs, only, only they don’t show up on the drugs tests. Sharon, Craig and Jessie must have had adverse side-effects. They died from my apples.”
McNick and Yardley were speechless. Several athletes had been using performance enhancing fruit, and were now dead or about to die. The very thought of it was absurd, but that was the only thing that could have caused the athletes to die. Adverse side-effects. What a heartless euphemism.
“Okay, Mr Crewitt,” McNick was gentler now, “is this going to happen to all the athletes that have been eating the apples?”
“Probably.” Crewitt said, in what was almost a whisper.
“How do we stop it?” asked Yardley. “Please tell me there’s a way to stop it.”
“Erm, I, I’m not sure.” Crewitt said uneasily. He continued quickly when he saw the look he was getting from both policemen. “I mean, the people that supplied me with the apples said that if you want to come off the apples, you can’t do cold turkey, you’ve got to neutralise the effect of the apples with a diet of oranges and other citrus fruit. But I don’t know if that’ll save the athletes.”
“And that’s all you know. The people that supplied you, they didn’t tell you anything else?” asked Yardley.
“No, only details of which areas of performance get enhanced by the apples.”
“Who are the other athletes that have been eating your apples?” asked McNick. Crewitt gave the names of the other athletes, names which at the very least raised the policemen’s eyebrows.
“Who supplied you with the apples?” questioned McNick. Crewitt paused before answering that question. Both McNick and Yardley found his answer shocking, and hard to believe, but they had no reason not to believe him. The home office would be very interested, if a little appalled by the identity of Crewitt’s suppliers.
McNick took a deep breath. They now had to start picking up the pieces of Crewitt’s mess.
“Yardley, phone the station and tell them to get officers to all the athletes’ houses. And if the athletes aren’t at home, find them. And make sure the officers have a lot of citrus fruit on them.” Yardley began to dial the station’s number into his mobile. McNick took his own phone out “I have to make a phone call to the home office.” He looked through the contacts on his phone until he arrived at “HOME”, which came right after “HOME”. McNick was about to press the dial button when he remembered what they had told Crewitt about Jessie Langdon.
“Oh, by the way Crewitt, what we said about Jessie, it’s not true.” Crewitt looked up at McNick sharply.
“What?”
“It’s not true. We made it up so you’d talk. Jessie is still alive.”
“Thank god.” breathed Crewitt.
“Yes,” agreed McNick, “thank god indeed.”
All six remaining athlete customers of Jeff Crewitt were reached before the adverse side effects could take place. Most of them remained on a diet of citrus fruit for a good few years, for fear that the adverse side effects might creep up on them one day. They were all banned from athletics events for five years, but that was a small price to pay for their lives. Jeffrey Crewitt was charged with manslaughter and sentenced to four years imprisonment. He was also charged with selling illegal goods and sentenced to three years imprisonment, to be served simultaneously with the manslaughter sentence. He was also charged a hefty fine, which he never managed to pay completely. Detective Superintendent McNick and Detective Constable Yardley were publicly rewarded for their efforts, and received OBEs the next year. The foreign government that had supplied Jeff Crewitt with the apples was taken to court by the United Kingdom, but to no avail, and at quite a cost to the British taxpayer. The consequent rise in taxes was blamed entirely on the apple-eating athletes, whose houses were egged regularly for a number of months afterwards. As for Craig Montgomery and Sharon Colt, apart from a bit of graffiti on their graves, they were not blamed at all for any rise in taxes or other such discomfort that had been loosely related to the other athletes. The most important outcome of the whole performance enhancing apple catastrophe (sometimes referred to as PEACH) was, of course, the fact that the phrase “an apple a day keeps the doctor away” was never uttered again.
An Apple A Day
By Nigel Munson
It had been a tragic day for the Montgomerys. First there was the awful story in the Sun about Sir Graham’s affair, which he categorically denied ever happening, and then this. This horrible, untimely death. Sir Graham Montgomery and his wife, Elizabeth, had only one son. Craig was the most innocent of the family. The tabloids hadn’t yet tarred him with the same brush as his father, and he had been hailed as Britain’s best hope at the Olympics. Now he was dead. One minute he was discussing with his father whether or not the Sun’s article was true, the next he was on the kitchen floor, dead.
At least this would make the tabloids forget about the affair for a while, hoped Sir Graham, as he sat quietly in his study. He was writing a list of people that would have to be told; his wife was too upset to do it, and he had got as far as Craig’s girlfriend, whose name had escaped his mind. He was going to have to rewrite the will now. He couldn’t give half his estate to a dead man. Sir Graham’s mind was wandering now. He didn’t understand why that McNick had been asking questions; there was nothing suspicious about the death, Craig had just collapsed. Well, that was slightly suspicious. Why should a perfectly healthy young athlete just die like that? No doubt the Home Office was interested, Craig being the most famous British athlete at the moment. They probably told McNick to make sure everything was hunky dory, thought Sir Graham.
“So what killed him?” Detective Superintendent McNick asked the female pathologist who was leaning over Craig Montgomery’s body.
“Well I don’t know yet.” She said sharply. “He looks extremely healthy.”
“The last time I checked, dead bodies aren’t healthy.” McNick said grimly. The pathologist rolled her eyes.
“I mean there are no immediate signs of what killed him. It seems as if, and this is only based on what I’ve seen so far, as if his heart just stopped, and he died, just like that.” The pathologist clicked her fingers, rather distastefully, thought McNick. He thought back to the statement from Sir Graham. He had said Craig collapsed and immediately stopped breathing.
“That fits in with Sir Graham’s statement, but what caused his heart to stop? Was there foul play? The sooner I know the better; I have some real murders to solve, I can’t –”
“I don’t know yet. You’ll have to wait for the results of the tests we’ve done. If you want my professional opinion, I doubt this was murder. I’ve never seen a poison to cause the body to stop like that and not leave internal scarring. And there have been cases of perfectly healthy adults just dying. Like cot death, only with grown men and women. Of course, some illegal steroids have adverse side effects such as death –”
“Let’s wait until the tests come back. I don’t think the Montgomerys will want us theorising like that.”
McNick turned and walked out of the pathology department. He made his way to his office, thinking about Craig Montgomery. Why couldn’t deaths be more straightforward? Thirty years ago you either died because you were ill, or because you had been murdered. Or because you were taking something you shouldn’t. And if you were murdered it was usually pretty obvious; a knife in the back or a bullet to the head. It wasn’t like that anymore, though. You either got a really crude death, or something quite clever. Surprisingly, the clever criminals were easier to catch, because they had a motive, a reason to kill. They calculated their murders, and made them more personal, leaving a trail that was not necessarily easier to follow, but led clearly to a person – the murderer. McNick’s train of thought ended there, for he had reached his office. The moment he sat down at his desk his phone rang. He sighed tiredly as he reached to pick up the receiver.
“Hello? McNick’s office.”
“Hi sir, it’s Yardley. Are you busy?”
“I was about to get stuck in to some paperwork, but if you’ve got something more interesting for me to do, please tell me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s interesting, it’s more depressing. There’s been another death.”
“What do you mean another death? People die every minute.” McNick could almost hear Yardley’s eyes roll.
“Another athlete sir, Sharon Colt, the swimmer.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I were.”
McNick met DC Yardley outside the health club. They walked down to the gym while Yardley explained what had happened.
“She was having her daily workout. Ten minutes on the rowing machine, ten on the bike thing, ten on the treadmill.” Yardley pushed the door open to the gym. “She’d do that three times over everyday. She was on her third run on the treadmill when she died sir. She just collapsed mid-run. Got thrown off the treadmill. At first they thought she’d got her laces caught in it, but she was wearing slip-ons sir.”
“Slippers? Why on earth was she running in –”
“Slip-ons, sir. Shoes without laces, you slip them on.”
“Shoes without laces? On a treadmill? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Umm,” Yardley frowned, “not really sir.”
“What if they slip off?” McNick just wasn’t dropping this. “There’s only a thin line between slip-ons and slip-offs, Yardley. Do you wear them when you go to the gym?”
“I don’t go to the gym sir, you know that.” McNick frowned for a moment and then realised what Yardley was talking about.
“Oh yes, your little problem. But enough of this side-tracking, Yardley, did she die when she collapsed or when she got thrown off? Is this death in any way similar to Craig Montgomery’s death, or is it just coincidence that two Olympic athletes have both died on the same day?” It certainly seemed like a rather strange coincidence to McNick.
“Well sir, I’m not a pathologist, and I don’t want to jump to hasty conclusions, but both athletes were very healthy, and both just collapsed. From what I’ve heard, it seems likely that she died when she collapsed, not from the impact of the fall. Montgomery died when he collapsed, didn’t he?”
McNick said nothing. He was deep in thought. The Olympics were only a few months away, and two athletes were dead. Could this be some kind of sick sabotage? It was very clever if it was. Were more athletes going to die? How long did they have? McNick was going to have to answer these questions fast – the lives of Britain’s Olympians depended on it.
“Could it have been something she ate sir?” Yardley asked, bringing McNick out of his mind and back into the room.
“What? Umm, maybe, you might as well find out what she ate today.”
“I’ve already done that sir. Her instructor said Miss Colt ate the same thing everyday. Two rounds of corned beef and pickle sandwiches – brown bread, a pasta salad, some Ryvita –”
“Ugh.” spluttered McNick. Upon seeing the look he was being given by Yardley, he explained on his outburst. “Ryvita – it’s disgusting”
“Well, it’s all right with a bit of Marmite.” said Yadley. McNick began to feel rather nauseous.
“Marmite and Ryvita? Are you all there Yardley? Because if you’ve got some mental problem I’m not sure I want you working with me anymore.” Yardley frowned.
“I’m not the one who eats raw onions.”
“Just get on with what she ate today.”
“Where was I?” asked Yardley.
“Ryvita” McNick spat the word out.
“Oh yeah. She had some Ryvita, a Boost chocolate bar, and two Granny Smith apples from Pond Lake Grocers.” McNick’s eyes widened sharply.
“Say that again.”
“Err, two Granny Smiths from Pond Lake Grocers. Is that important?”
“You could say that. In Craig Montgomery’s bedroom there was a fruit bowl full of Pond Lake Granny Smiths.”
* * *
“I don’t know what you’re talking about Mr Langdon, and I certainly can’t see that it has anything to do with me.”
“Oh come on Jeff, Craig and Sharon both die on the same day, and you’re saying that you don’t know anything about it? Are the rest of in danger?” Jessie Langdon stared at Jeff Crewitt, who was shuffling nervously behind the counter.
“Look Jessie,” Crewitt began to empty the cash register, “just because you all buy your groceries from me doesn’t mean you’re in danger. If it had something to do with me,” Crewitt looked up at Jessie, “I’d know.” He shoved a handful of coins into a small plastic money bag.
“Why are you packing up?” asked Jessie.
“Because,” Crewitt said, taking a bunch of notes from the register, “I have a very bad migraine and I want to go home early.” Jessie snorted.
“You look perfectly fine to me. I think you’re doing a runner.”
“From what?” the grocer shouted. Jessie jumped. He didn’t know this small man could reach such a volume.
“All I’m saying Jeff, is that if anything happens to me, Darren or Paula, I will tell the press about your, how can I put it, special groceries.” Crewitt shook his head.
“And ruin your career? I don’t think so. Now, I’ve got to lock up, so could you, and don’t take this the wrong way,” he looked up at the tall athlete, “get out.” Jessie stared at the little grocer for a second, before walking out of the shop. Crewitt glared after him, and then went back to emptying the till.
Just as their car turned the corner, McNick and Yardley both saw a tall black man leave the shop they were headed for, and step into a car. He had driven halfway down the street before Yardley stopped outside the grocers. Yardley looked at McNick, who seemed to be thinking the same thing he was.
“Sir, that wasn’t Jessie Langdon, was it?”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Yardley.” McNick said as he unbuckled his seatbelt and opened his door. “Just because two national athletes happen to eat Pond Lake apples doesn’t mean that Pond Lake Grocers serves exclusively to Olympians.” He got out of the car and closed the door. “But, yes, I believe that was Jessie Langdon.” Why McNick didn’t just say that in the first place, Yardley didn’t know. He locked the car, and the two detectives walked to Pond Lake Grocers front door.
The door was locked. Yardley peered in, and saw the shadow of a man going into the back of the shop. He rapped on the glass.
“Go round the back.” ordered McNick. Yardley obeyed, and ran round the side of the building. McNick opened the letter box and shouted through. “Hello? Can you come to the door please Mr Crewitt. We just want to ask you a few questions.” McNick pressed his face to the glass, and knocked loudly. “We know you’re in there Mr Crewitt. Come to the door.”
Yardley was at the back of the building. He found the rear entrance, and tried to open the door. Just as he put his hand on the handle, the door swung open, to reveal a short man whose arms were full of files and plastic moneybags. He dropped everything at the sight of DC Yardley.
“Who the hell are you?” exclaimed Crewitt. Yardley chuckled.
“I’m Detective Constable Yardley,” he said, revealing his ID, “and the gentleman round the front is Detective Superintendent McNick.” Crewitt looked at Yardley in horror.
“What do you want?”
“We just want to ask you a couple of questions, that’s all.”
“About what?”
“We’ll come to that. Now, you couldn’t go and open the front door for the Super could you?”
McNick was getting slightly peed off by this Crewitt. It wasn’t that McNick was impatient, he just didn’t like waiting for things. He hammered on the door with his fist. There was no sign of life. He walked round to the side and shouted to Yardley, who, he presumed, was still waiting round the back.
“Has he come out your end yet Yardley?” He waited for a response. “Yardley?” No answer. “What’s he playing at?” McNick muttered to himself. He began to walk round to the back of the building.
Yardley and Crewitt arrived at the front door. Crewitt put his key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door.
“Sir, I found him. Sir?” Yardley frowned, looking round outside. “Sir?” Yardley sighed. “He’s probably gone round the back. You stay here.” he said, looking at the short grocer. “No, actually come with me, I don’t want you running off.” Crewitt rolled his eyes. He followed Yardley out of the shop and the two of them headed for the back.
McNick came through the open back door, wondering why it was open with no Yardley near it. He walked through to the front and leaned against the counter. Yardley had only been out of his sight for a minute, how could he have just disappeared? He wasn’t at the back, he wasn’t at the front, so where the hell was he? As McNick began to slip into one of his now far too regular thought-trances, he heard a sound come from the back of the shop. He stood back against the wall, next to the doorway he had walked through moments earlier. He’d have to act fast. The person in the back, whoever he was, may have done away with Yardley. It might not even be Crewitt. Maybe both of them had been dealt with. He glanced round into the corridor quickly. He caught a glimpse of a rather tall man with his back turned to McNick. He took another glance. The man began to turn around. McNick quickly came away from the doorway, pressing himself against the wall. He could hear the man’s footsteps as he walked towards the doorway. McNick braced himself, ready to apprehend the suspect. He would act as soon as the man came through the doorway.
The man’s foot appeared in the doorway. As the rest of the man’s body came through, McNick threw himself against the suspect. The two of them crashed to the ground, McNick landing on top of the suspect. He grabbed the man’s arms and held them down on the man’s back. He took out his handcuffs and spoke in his gruff arresting voice.
“You’re nicked.”
Yardley tried desperately to turn his head so that McNick could see who he was arresting, but he was pinned to the ground so hard that it was impossible for him to do so. Nevertheless, he tried to speak, but all the sound went straight into the ground.
“What was that son?” McNick asked, still in his gruff voice. He chuckled. “You want a lawyer?” He pulled the suspect’s head up so that he could speak, and promptly dropped the suspect’s head when he saw that it was Yardley. “Oh my god.” He froze for a moment, not knowing what to do.
“Eh oar!” Yardley screamed.
“What?” said McNick. Yardley lifted his head up.
“Get off!”
“Oh god, yes, sorry.” McNick leaped up, rubbing his hands through his hair in exasperation. Yardley managed to bring himself to his feet, and glowered at McNick.
“What the hell are you doing, sir?” McNick had his hands over his face in shock, and so his response was impossible to understand. “What? Take your hands away from your mouth.” McNick slowly took his hands away from his mouth, feeling - and looking - like a small child.
“I thought,” McNick began his somewhat useless explanation, “I thought you were the suspect, and that, and that you had done away with you and that you were going to come after me.” McNick stood there, a look so apologetic on his face that even Yardley couldn’t argue with McNick’s unintelligible answer.
“Look, the suspect’s right here.” Yardley pointed to Crewitt, except he didn’t. There was no sign of Crewitt.
“Where?” asked McNick. Yardley stared at the spot Crewitt had been standing in.
“He was right there. He must have done a runner when, well, you know when” McNick looked at the ground guiltily. “But he can’t have got far, sir. We can find him.” With that Yardley ran into the corridor. McNick stood still for a moment, wondering why Yardley hadn’t been angrier. He then slowly followed Yardley, yet again in a thought ridden stupor. Yardley ran straight out of the shop, but McNick took his time walking out, thinking about what he hade just done to Yardley.
He saw Crewitt crouching in a corner shaking nervously, except he didn’t, because he was in another trance. McNick stood there, staring at the terrified Crewitt, not noticing him, thinking about how stupid he had been. How could he have not realised that it was Yardley coming towards him? And why was he so rough with him? He wasn’t that rough when he knew for certain he was dealing with a criminal, so why, when he hadn’t even known who was coming towards him, had he been so heavy handed? And why was the man in front of him looking so scared? Who was the man in front of him? Why was McNick asking himself these questions inside his head? Why wasn’t he asking the frightened man who he was? And where was Yardley?
“Who’s Yardley?” McNick said, confusing his mind’s questions. “Where are you?” No, that still wasn’t it. “Who are you?” Finally, he had it.
“Crewitt.” whimpered the grocer, absolutely terrified by the policeman standing above him.
“You.” McNick had nothing but contempt for this man at the moment. If he had just come to the door like he was asked to, then none of this would have happened. He stepped forward, and pulled Crewitt up by his collar. At that moment, a disgruntled Yardley reappeared through the back door.
“Sir, what are – oh, I see, you’ve found Mr Crewitt.”
For whatever reason, Yardley’s voice triggered a response in McNick, which caused him to return to his usual, perceptive and clear minded self. He saw the frightened grocer in his hands, and realised who he was frightened of. He then had a thought that would prove to be one of the deciding factors in the success of the current investigation. He turned to Yardley and winked. At first Yardley thought that his commanding officer just had something in his eye, but the purpose of the wink was quickly revealed by what McNick said next.
“Shall I beat him up now or later?” Yardley gave a small, hardly noticeable smile when he realised the game McNick was playing. Good cop, bad cop.
“Sir, you know we don’t do that anymore.” Yardley gave McNick a look to confirm that they were on the same wavelength. Crewitt was not comforted by Yardley’s words.
“Anymore? You mean you used to beat suspects up?”
“Oh, all the time.” McNick told the grocer. “Still do when I get a chance.” He gave a nasty smile. Crewitt shivered.
“Don’t worry, Mr Crewitt, Detective Superintendent McNick won’t touch you. Or at least, he won’t while I’m here.” said Yardley. Crewitt shivered again, and this time didn’t stop shivering. “But we just want to ask you a few questions Mr Crewitt. Where shall we, err, question him sir?”
“Oh, in one of the store rooms Yardley, we don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Sir, let me remind you that we will be doing nothing other than questioning the suspect.” Yardley turned to Crewitt. “You have nothing to worry about. But I do think a store room is a good idea.” He looked around, and his eyes fell on a door a few feet down the corridor. He opened it. “In here?”
“That’ll do fine.” answered McNick. He grabbed Crewitt and shoved him down the corridor. He practically threw the terrified grocer into the back room, and sat him down on a sack of potatoes. The room was full of vegetables, and smelt strongly of earth. McNick didn’t see any point in delaying the questioning, and neither, it seemed, did Yardley, who was the first to speak.
“Now, Mr Crewitt, what do you know about Sharon Colt and Craig Montgomery?” Yardley and McNick stared at the grocer, waiting for a reply.
“Erm, they’re both national athletes, sorry, were national athletes. They both died today, God rest their souls.”
“Oh,” said McNick, “you’re a religious man are you?”
“I, err, I go to church when I can.”
“I wonder, did you go to church this morning to pray for mercy on your soul?” began McNick. “Because at the moment, I don’t see you going anywhere but hell. Or at least prison, which some people will tell you is just as bad.”
“What, what are you talking about?”
“What are we talking about?” It was Yardley now. “Shall I spell the situation out for you? Two hopeful, and young, Olympians both die within hours of each other, in exactly the same way. And if that wasn’t coincidence enough, both athletes happened to eat your apples, Mr Crewitt. We then see Jessie Langdon leave your shop in a hurry. Now, however incriminating it sounds so far, we were willing to keep open minds, that is, until I stopped you from running away from the police and your shop at three in the afternoon, which is pretty early for closing time on a Tuesday. That is what we are talking about, Mr Crewitt, and that is why we are here!” Yardley had got himself a bit worked up. He returned to the part he was supposed to be playing, the good cop. “Please Mr Crewitt, tell us what all this is about. Why are Sharon and Craig dead? And why did you try to do a runner? We haven’t charged you yet, so it will look a lot better if you talk now.”
“And you’ll look a lot better now, rather than when I’ve had a word with you.”
Crewitt looked at McNick in horror.
“Look,” he said, “they’re just customers of mine. They buy fruit and veg from me.” Crewitt shuffled uncomfortably on the sack of potatoes. McNick snorted.
“Yeah, and I bet they buy a couple of death sentences as well.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” exclaimed the grocer. McNick’s eyes widened.
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that! I am a policeman!” McNick leaned forward until he was right in Crewitt’s face. He spoke very low now, in his intimidating voice. “Now you listen here. I don’t have time to play games. You are going to tell me what you know about Sharon Colt and Craig Montgomery’s deaths, and you are going to tell me now.” He reached behind Jeff Crewitt, and picked up a potato and a carrot. He held them in front of Crewitt’s face, making gestures that made it reasonably clear that the potato was to represent Crewitt, and the carrot was McNick. He turned the carrot in his fingers until it was horizontal to the potato. He brought the carrot back, before slamming it into the potato. Crewitt had expected the carrot to break on impact, but it had not. It had gone straight through and out the other side, impaling the potato. This rather masculine show of power may have been laughed at by Crewitt under normal circumstances, but today it just made him need the toilet even more.
While McNick had been scaring Crewitt with his macho carrot trick, Yardley had received a phone call from the station. He now had a very grave look on his face. He beckoned McNick over with a movement of his hand, and whispered the sad news in McNick’s ear. McNick took a deep breath and cursed quietly. He turned sharply to Crewitt, who was rocking nervously back and forth on his potato sack.
“Did you just hear that Crewitt?” McNick asked. “Obviously you didn’t, but you probably knew it was going to happen, didn’t you?” shouted McNick.
“Knew what was going to happen?” whimpered Crewitt.
“Jessie Langdon has just collapsed at his friend’s house. He’s dead.” McNick stared at the grocer. Crewitt said nothing. He just stared at the wall in silence. At first it appeared that he was totally unmoved by what McNick had just said, but soon enough a large tear from his right eye dripped down his face. McNick didn’t notice that though. “Did you hear what I just said? Jessie Langdon, another of your athlete customers, has just died! Now are you going to tell us what’s going on, or do you want me to shove a carrot through your skull?”
Crewitt shook his head slowly. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Tears were pouring down his face now. He managed to get a few words out.
“I, I never, ever meant for this to happen. Oh god. What have I done?” McNick frowned.
“That’s what we want to know.”
“Tell us what’s been going on Mr Crewitt.” said Yardley, much gentler than McNick, who was still in bad cop mode. Crewitt rubbed his eyes.
“Um, I, I’ve been selling a number of athletes genetically modified apples.”
“What?” exclaimed McNick.
“The, er, the apples, they, they act like steroids and performance enhancing drugs, only, only they don’t show up on the drugs tests. Sharon, Craig and Jessie must have had adverse side-effects. They died from my apples.”
McNick and Yardley were speechless. Several athletes had been using performance enhancing fruit, and were now dead or about to die. The very thought of it was absurd, but that was the only thing that could have caused the athletes to die. Adverse side-effects. What a heartless euphemism.
“Okay, Mr Crewitt,” McNick was gentler now, “is this going to happen to all the athletes that have been eating the apples?”
“Probably.” Crewitt said, in what was almost a whisper.
“How do we stop it?” asked Yardley. “Please tell me there’s a way to stop it.”
“Erm, I, I’m not sure.” Crewitt said uneasily. He continued quickly when he saw the look he was getting from both policemen. “I mean, the people that supplied me with the apples said that if you want to come off the apples, you can’t do cold turkey, you’ve got to neutralise the effect of the apples with a diet of oranges and other citrus fruit. But I don’t know if that’ll save the athletes.”
“And that’s all you know. The people that supplied you, they didn’t tell you anything else?” asked Yardley.
“No, only details of which areas of performance get enhanced by the apples.”
“Who are the other athletes that have been eating your apples?” asked McNick. Crewitt gave the names of the other athletes, names which at the very least raised the policemen’s eyebrows.
“Who supplied you with the apples?” questioned McNick. Crewitt paused before answering that question. Both McNick and Yardley found his answer shocking, and hard to believe, but they had no reason not to believe him. The home office would be very interested, if a little appalled by the identity of Crewitt’s suppliers.
McNick took a deep breath. They now had to start picking up the pieces of Crewitt’s mess.
“Yardley, phone the station and tell them to get officers to all the athletes’ houses. And if the athletes aren’t at home, find them. And make sure the officers have a lot of citrus fruit on them.” Yardley began to dial the station’s number into his mobile. McNick took his own phone out “I have to make a phone call to the home office.” He looked through the contacts on his phone until he arrived at “HOME”, which came right after “HOME”. McNick was about to press the dial button when he remembered what they had told Crewitt about Jessie Langdon.
“Oh, by the way Crewitt, what we said about Jessie, it’s not true.” Crewitt looked up at McNick sharply.
“What?”
“It’s not true. We made it up so you’d talk. Jessie is still alive.”
“Thank god.” breathed Crewitt.
“Yes,” agreed McNick, “thank god indeed.”
All six remaining athlete customers of Jeff Crewitt were reached before the adverse side effects could take place. Most of them remained on a diet of citrus fruit for a good few years, for fear that the adverse side effects might creep up on them one day. They were all banned from athletics events for five years, but that was a small price to pay for their lives. Jeffrey Crewitt was charged with manslaughter and sentenced to four years imprisonment. He was also charged with selling illegal goods and sentenced to three years imprisonment, to be served simultaneously with the manslaughter sentence. He was also charged a hefty fine, which he never managed to pay completely. Detective Superintendent McNick and Detective Constable Yardley were publicly rewarded for their efforts, and received OBEs the next year. The foreign government that had supplied Jeff Crewitt with the apples was taken to court by the United Kingdom, but to no avail, and at quite a cost to the British taxpayer. The consequent rise in taxes was blamed entirely on the apple-eating athletes, whose houses were egged regularly for a number of months afterwards. As for Craig Montgomery and Sharon Colt, apart from a bit of graffiti on their graves, they were not blamed at all for any rise in taxes or other such discomfort that had been loosely related to the other athletes. The most important outcome of the whole performance enhancing apple catastrophe (sometimes referred to as PEACH) was, of course, the fact that the phrase “an apple a day keeps the doctor away” was never uttered again.
