Free A Murder in Mayfair by Robert Barnard Page B

doesn’t like unnecessarypublic fuss. The young man, still solemn, said he was sure there was no wrongdoing on my part, and he hoped I would be careful in the future. That was ambiguous if you like, but I didn’t feel I was in a position to argue or protest.
    There was no trip to the country that evening. I walked the mile or so back to my flat pondering, and I lay on the sofa for some time afterward, still pondering. It was lucky that the matter had come up so immediately, because such memories as I had of the trivialities of my shopping trip were still very fresh. I tried first of all to recollect other shoppers in the food section, but could manage no more than one or two: a smart, bejeweled old lady with ravenous eyes, a hungry-looking young student. I could put no face or form to the person described by the store detective: a shabby woman with a hat. But then she had been following me, so probably I wouldn’t have seen her. Where, I wondered, had she followed me from? The Ministry? Or had she encountered me by accident in the street?
    Was it in fact a woman, or a man dressed as a woman, aided by a large floppy hat? If I could get no handle on the person I tried to be more definite about the moment. The crucial time was between the cash desk and the door to the street. I could remember tearing a carrier from a small stack of them, loading in my four purchases, then setting off for the door. After that . . . after that I could remember only one tiny thing—one moment when I thought the bag had bumped against the side of one of the stands of sandwiches. That could have been when she slipped it in—though if she was an expert shoplifter and exceptionally light-fingered it could have been at any time. But very deft she must have been, because two sticky toffee puddings in a carton are not light.
    Sticky toffee pudding! I thought disgustedly.
    Whoever chose that to plant on me knew nothing about me. I do not have a sweet tooth: I have no taste for puddings, trifles,ice creams, sorbets—whatever. If I am out to dinner I either refuse them, or I toy with them. Any sugar I get comes from fruit and nut chocolate, which for some reason I relish. So maybe it was the slightly ridiculous nature of the pudding that made her choose it. If so perhaps I didn’t have too much to fear. If all this woman wanted was to make me into a figure of fun, then there was no reason to get worked up about her and her intentions.
    Then another thought struck me: what wonderful headlines the papers would have come up with if the matter had gone any further: THE STICKY-FINGERED MINISTER; MINISTER CAUGHT STICKY-HANDED. They would have had a field day in the popular press, left or right wing. I wouldn’t be the first politician whose career had foundered on a public guffaw. What kind of mind was it, what kind of twisted sense of humor, that could think up such a scheme?
    I shook myself. I was getting paranoia—the occupational disease of the politician.
    Nevertheless, the next day I told my driver to take me first to the Palace of Westminster. I know a lot of policemen there to talk to, but as luck would have it the first one I saw, taking a rest from dealing with the tourists on the pavement outside, was Geoff Marrit, whom I had spoken to on my first day in office as a minister.
    â€œâ€™Ullo, ’ullo,” he said, in parody-policeman style. “It is you today, is it? What can I do for you?”
    â€œIt’s a silly little matter,” I said, “but I thought it best to register it with the police here.”
    So I gave him a potted version of what had happened since we had last talked, omitting my fascination with my own origins. That, of course, was the only thing that gave the story any interest, and the thing that really suggested someone was directing my attention to those origins in some kind of spirit ofderision or revenge. I could tell from his expression as my narrative proceeded