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target he would make if those shotguns were loaded.

  'It's fine. The dogs are safely inside. You go back and wait in the car.'

  PS Harris wanted nothing more than to obey, especially when his superior took a set of lock picks from his jacket and expertly opened the padlock of the outhouse.

  'Oh, we are so dead,' murmured Harris.

  'It's all right. Won't take a moment.'

  With that, DI Dalton pushed the door just wide enough to slip inside. The sergeant could make out that he was examining some chemistry equipment and adding an oily substance to a phial. When finished, the detective poked his head back round the door to ask, 'Did you know that this young man was studying chemistry?'

  'Got anything in there for palpitations has he?'

  The fuming silence on their return to the station warned DI Dalton against uttering another word, so he retreated back in his seat to watch the world go by until they arrived.

  As soon as he stepped through the door PS Harris could tell by the apprehensive look on PC Wren's face that the furious phone call from Gauvin had preceded them. The chief inspector had demanded to see him immediately.

  'I want to apply for armed response duties, Sir,' he declared before he could hear the inevitable reason for him being summoned.

  'I thought you hated guns, Harris?'

  'I do Sir. I just want to shoot myself.'

  There was a brief silence.

  'It was that bad, was it?'

  'That's not a man! He's a bandicoot!'

  'It's all right, Harris. Relax. I just want you to know that you won't be held responsible for anything he does. I can't explain now but, whatever else you do, don't let him out of your sight. You have permission to physically restrain him if necessary.'

  'That one would slip out of my grip and disappear through a crack in the floorboards.'

  'And Harris ..?' The chief inspector hesitated before asking confidentially, 'Do you think he's gay?'

  'Not by the way he's out there flirting with PC Wren. If he is, he's so far back in the closet he should be living in Narnia.'

  'Just wondered …'

  Surely nothing could go wrong during their visit to the Curry Palace. Mr Kapoor was a pillar of the community who could read the moods of others as easily as the Puranas. All the same, PS Harris felt tense as he followed DI Dalton through the faux Mogul entrance and past a life-sized image of Shiva.

  Although he had not been forewarned of the visit just before lunchtime opening, Mr Kapoor, a friendly man in his mid-40s barely taller than the DI but twice the width, bustled over from the bar at the far end of the restaurant to greet them.

  'Sorry to drop in on you unannounced like this, Mr Kapoor,' PS Harris apologised.

  'But of course you must if you believe I have poisoned customers, especially ones as illustrious as Mr Gauvin's son.'

  'Did you?' demanded DI Dalton. 'The man is a racist, and his eldest son was probably just as bad.'

  PS Harris' soul sank, even though the proprietor took the accusation in his stride.

  'It is true that Mr Gauvin is a very unpleasant man, but if I had done such a thing it would have been for the benefit of his wife, a wonderful woman with so much to put up with.'

  'What about his youngest son?'

  'A little strange perhaps, somehow detached from the tribulations of us minor mortals.'

  'You mean spaced out on drugs?'

  'Not ones I am familiar with, I assure you.'

  'DI Knowles ran all the tests and ruled out any contamination in Mr Kapoor's kitchen,' PS Harris reminded the DI. 'If Jonah Gauvin's death was due to a toxin, it could have been administered by anyone.'

  Mr Kapoor's face lit up as he realised something. 'Ah, of course! You are DI Dalton!'

  'Sorry,' the detective apologised. 'Most people want to hit me before I have chance to introduce myself.'

  'I understand that you come from the same town as my wife's mother. You must meet her.'

  DI Dalton hesitated as though caught out in some childish prank. 'Of course.'

  'A large Indian community lives there and they have this splendid temple,' Mr Kapoor explained to PS Harris.

  'Indeed they do,' agreed the DI, 'I have visited it on several occasions.

  Then, when PS Harris thought he had been disconcerted enough for one day, DI Dalton started to speak fluent Hindi, much to the delight of Mr Kapoor. He took the detective by the arm for a tour of his restaurant, its sumptuous fittings illuminated in the half light, ready to be turned up as lunch time approached.

  When they were out of earshot PS Harris asked the waiter setting tables, 'Know what that's all about, Nabin?'

  'I have no idea Mr Harris. I am from Bengal. Though I have a feeling Mr Kapoor's mother-in-law will enter at any second.'

  Though she did not speak English, Mrs Prasad was a formidable woman and her talent for managing the restaurant's presentation remarkable. There was never a stain on the starched napkins, wilting flower on the tables or mote of dust on the peacock feathers.

  Having completed the tour of his emporium, Mr Kapoor brought his visitor back. And just as the main lights went up Mrs Prasad appeared through the bead curtain that concealed the kitchen door. She immediately studied the restaurant for the slightest imperfection. Nabin flinched at the prospect of her spotting a misplaced fork.

  Inspection complete, her gaze fell on the visitors. She knew PS Harris well enough and nodded in acknowledgement.

  Then Mrs Prasad saw DI Dalton.

  She stood stock still for a moment, unable to look away. Her heavily made up eyes widened then, without explanation, she backed through the curtain and disappeared from sight.

  'I know she can be a bit odd at times,' said PS Harris when they had returned to the car, 'but I've no idea what that was all about.'

  If he had, it was obvious that DI Dalton wasn't going to explain.

  'Well, where to now, Sir?'

  DI Dalton steepled his fingers thoughtfully. 'I think it's about time I paid a visit to a local drug dealer.'

  It was inevitable he would get round to asking something like that. 'Cannabis or cocaine?'

  'The one least likely to cut our throats.'

  'That would be Tim, purveyor of legal highs, under the counter prescription drugs, and brewer of strange substances.'

  PS Harris knew it was a mistake to let DI Dalton go into the dilapidated basement by himself, but one glimpse of a policeman's boot through the skylight and the weasel would have fled out of the back door. And Tim was harmless enough, too mellow on his own potions to do much harm. Even his weedy superior could have pushed him over.

  The dimly lit steps led down to a rabbit warren of small rooms where odours, fragrant and peculiar, circulated from flasks and trays of drying substances.

  Tim, gaunt and woolly-hatted, was so focused on the preparation before him he didn't notice DI Dalton silently enter and look over his shoulder. The visitor at least had the good manners to wait until he had counted the drops from a pipette.

  'Interesting smell. Illegal high?'

  The pipette almost jumped out of Tim's grasp as he spun round, wondering how anyone could have entered without activating the alarm's pressure pad under the hall mat.

  He quickly recovered. 'Worm potion for the sister's dog. Who the hell are you?'

  'Just another copper, but don't worry about it. This is a social call.'

  Tim half believed him and didn't feel threatened by this small, stiff man in an immaculate suit and tipped back trilby. In the dim light he could have been taken for one of his more upmarket student customers.

  'What can I do for you?'

  DI Dalton took out his smartphone and showed it to him. 'He one of yours?'

  'Who's asking?'

  'Just a friendly pixie who doesn't carry handcuffs.'

  'I'll deny it if this is entrapment. But yeah, he cooks up concoctions and experiments with stuff. Studying chemistry he says, though seems to spend too much time away with the fairies to be a
ny good at it.'

  'Especially the green ones.'

  'Oh Gord. If he's brewing up wormwood and cutting my powders into that muck he's really asking for trouble.'

  'You have no idea.' DI Dalton slipped the smartphone back into his pocket. 'Now, I need something for a good night's sleep.'

  'See your doctor.'

  'I'm not allowed sleeping tablets.'

  'What do you think I've got?'

  'Something to scare off the night terrors.'

  'I've got a few Seroquel. They help customers having bad trips. I can't let you have more than 25 mg. Knowing my luck you might not wake up.'

  'Oh, blissful oblivion should be that easy.'

  Tim quickly summed up his customer. 'You're only getting two. You'll have to come back if you want any more.'

  DI Dalton took a £10 note from his wallet. 'I'll appreciate anything that calms the demon.'

  Tim reached for a box and removed a couple of tablets from it. 'And tell PC plod out there that his fat arse should lurk where the big dealers are.'

  'He frightens their big, unfriendly dogs.' DI Dalton handed over the money. 'Pleasure doing business with you, Tim.'

  'Well let's keep this between us.'

  'I won't tell if you don't.'

  PS Harris pretended not to notice the small sachet DI Dalton pushed into an inside pocket as he came out and manufactured a conversation to distract himself from what was really going on.

  'So Mrs Prasad comes from your neck of the woods then, Sir?'

  'Evidently. It's a large town. Somebody has to.'

  'PC Wren found this blog mentioning a young copper there. He dashed into a blazing house to save a family. It happened over 20 years ago and she couldn't find a name for him, though I suppose it would be on his death certificate somewhere on our database.'

  'They called him Maderu Verma.'