Free A Murder in Mayfair by Robert Barnard Page A

Susan as well as myself. I chose something called Chicken Fiorentina, then went round the food section pickingup things I’d made a mental note I needed: marmalade, fresh peas, and a packet of frozen whole prawns. I went to the checkout, paid with a ten-pound note, then put all my bits and pieces into a plastic carrier bag. This is one of those Markses where you have to go back through the food section to get to the door, and I did this and tripped up some steps to the door out to the street.
    Suddenly an electronic bleep sounded, and before I realized what had happened a man in brown was at my elbow.
    â€œCould I look at your purchases, sir?”
    I suppose this or something like it is a common nightmare. For a politician it comes below being caught soliciting in a public lavatory, but it nevertheless ranks pretty high. I was led through to a little room with frosted glass and no connecting window to the main store. The security man pressed a button on the little table there, then began going through my bag. Luckily I had dropped the till slip in with my purchases, but it didn’t save me.
    â€œYou don’t seem to have put this through the till, sir.”
    He proffered toward me a packet of sticky toffee pudding.
    The whole thing began to take on the air of black farce. The young man, with his subuniform of brown trousers and epauletted shirt, seemed in his youthful solemnity like something out of Gilbert and Sullivan. At any moment he might be expected to burst into a patter song in which Gilbert would discover outrageous rhymes for sticky toffee pudding.
    â€œThat’s certainly not mine,” I spluttered, acutely aware of sounding pompous and unconvincing. “I’m not fond of sweet things, and I certainly wouldn’t eat anything as sickly as that.”
    The young man gave a dubious shake of the head, to show he wasn’t interested in my tastes, only my actions.
    â€œLook I’m an MP,” I said unwisely, “a government minister. We’re sometimes targets for people . . .”
    A righteous light came into his eyes.
    â€œYou’re not suggesting we should apply different rules because you’re a government minister, are you, sir?”
    â€œNo, of course not,” I said, aware that my voice was rising in timbre and volume. “But I am suggesting that people have a vested interest in embarrassing us or trying to bring us down, even.”
    More people had come into the little room, summoned by the buzzer. Two of them were in uniform, but one was a middle-aged woman with a sensible face, in street clothes.
    â€œIf I could say a word.”
    I looked at her with ridiculous apprehension, as if she was about to say she had seen me slip something into my bag. That sort of situation makes one unsure even of things one should be most certain of. She nodded toward the package of sticky toffee pudding.
    â€œI don’t know anything about that, but I was watching a woman in the food section. She was shabbily dressed, and had a large, floppy hat on. In any case I was watching her from behind, so I couldn’t see her face. I didn’t see her take anything, but I realize now she was following this gentleman fairly closely. He went to definite sections—the fresh vegetables, the jams, the frozen section. She went behind him. I saw him go through the cash desk, and while he waited in the queue I saw her leave off trailing him and going in the direction of this door. I didn’t see him or her after that—I was called away to look at a suspected young addict who was pocketing stuff.”
    And that, effectively, was that. She was quite convinced that I couldn’t have concealed anything so large in my trousers or my shirt pockets before going through the cash desk. The fact that the woman had been following me suggested a doubt as to whether I or she might have slipped it into my bag on my way out. Marks & Spencer is vigilant, but it