Stranded by Val McDermid

same to five other packets. Then she carefully opened the inner paper envelopes. Into each she mixed a tablespoonful of the powder from the jar.
    Under the light, the grey strands in her auburn hair glinted. Painstakingly, she folded the inner packets closed again and with a drop of glue she resealed the cardboard packages. She put them all in a shopping bag and carried it into the rear porch.
    She replaced the jar in the cupboard and went through to the living-room where the television blared. She looked strangely triumphant.
    It was after three when Maggie Staniforth closed the front door behind her. As she hung up her sheepskin, she noticed lines of strain round her eyes in the hall mirror. Sarah appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘I know you’re probably too tired to feel hungry, but I’ve made some soup if you want it,’ she said.
    â€˜You shouldn’t have stayed up. It’s late.’
    â€˜I’ve got nothing else to do. After all, there’s plenty of opportunity for me to catch up on my sleep.’
    Please God, not now, thought Maggie. As if the job isn’t hard enough without coming home to hassles from Sarah.
    But she was proved wrong. Sarah smiled and said, ‘So do you want some grub?’
    â€˜That depends.’
    â€˜On what?’
    â€˜Whether there’s Higham’s Continental Tomato Pickle in it.’
    Sarah looked bewildered. Maggie went on. ‘It seems that three people have died from arsenic administered in Higham’s Continental Tomato Pickle bought from Fastfare Supermarket.’
    â€˜You’re joking!’
    â€˜Wish I was.’ Maggie went through to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of orange juice as Sarah served up a steaming bowl of lentil soup with a pile of buttered brown bread. Maggie sat down and tucked in, giving her lover a disjointed summary as she ate.
    â€˜Victim number one: May Scott, fiftyseven, widow, lived up Warburton Road. Numbers two and three: Gary Andrews, fifteen, and his brother Kevin, thirteen, from Priory Farm Estate. Their father is seriously ill. So are two others now, Thomas and Louise Foster of Bryony Grange. No connection between them except that they all ate pickle from jars bought on the same day at Fastfare.
    â€˜Could be someone playing at extortion – you know, pay me a million pounds or I’ll do it again. Could be someone with a grudge against Fastfare. Ditto against Higham’s. So you can bet your sweet life we’re going to be hammered into the ground on this one. Already we’re getting flak.’
    Maggie finished her meal. Her head dropped into her hands. ‘What a bitch of a job.’
    â€˜Better than no job at all.’
    â€˜Is it?’
    â€˜You should know better than to ask.’
    Maggie sighed. ‘Take me to bed, Sarah. Let me forget about the battlefield for a few hours, eh?’
    Piped music lulled the shoppers at Pinkerton’s Hypermarket into a drugged acquisitiveness. The woman pushing the trolley was deaf to its bland presence and its blandishments. When she reached the shelf with the instant desserts on display, she stopped and checked that the coast was clear.
    She swiftly put three packs of blancmange on the shelf with their fellows and moved away. A few minutes later she returned and studied several cake mixes as she waited for the aisle to clear. Then she completed her mission and finished her shopping in a leisurely fashion.
    At the checkout she chatted brightly to the bored teenager who rang up her purchases automatically. Then she left, gently humming the song that flowed from the shop’s speakers.
    Three days later, Maggie Staniforth burst into her living-room in the middle of the afternoon to find Sarah typing a job application. ‘Red alert, love,’ she announced. ‘I’m only home to have a quick bath and change my things. Any chance of a sandwich?’
    â€˜I was beginning to wonder if you still lived