The Food Detective (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Taunton isn’t so very far from Porlock. Porlock’s a tiny place in Somerset, a Person from which interrupted Coleridge in the
middle
of that gorgeous poem,
Kubla Khan
. Tony and I – yes, we talked poetry as well as novels – used to joke that the stately pleasure domes referred to the breasts of a woman like me. Correction: like I was then. Not any more, of course. From the sublime to the pendulous.

It was a person from not Porlock but Taunton who interrupted Nick and me now. DCI Mike Evans, as it happens. At least he was the sort of man who phoned to find if it was convenient to
interview
a fellow professional. Or simply to make sure he was there to interview, Nick being the elusive man he was.

‘I told you he was on to you,’ I said, gathering my bag and coat. ‘And it’d do neither of us any good if I was found here. For God’s sake, Nick, get your memory back. Or find a psychiatrist with an explanation for your amnesia that’ll stand up in court.’

I went back to the White Hart by way of the farm supplying my meat, ready to tear them limb from organic limb. But as always, I went in quietly enough, ready to hear their explanation for the weird order.

Which was sickeningly familiar. The phone call from someone working for me.

I managed a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid F Drake doesn’t exist. Except in history, of course, when he was knighted. We’ve both been taken for a ride. What can you let me have now, to take away for tonight and the weekend? I’ll work out a proper order for next week and fax it through to you. In fact,’ I added grimly, ‘let’s agree a password, shall we? Any communication from me that doesn’t carry this password, ignore. Bartley Green.’

‘What if you’re in a hurry and forget it?’ Abigail asked.

‘You could phone me to check? Now, if you’re offering pork as well as beef …’

Given his dodgy stomach and his encounter with DCI Evans, Nick tucked into the pork with coriander seed and spiced rice with amazing gusto. So did everyone else who ordered it from the
specials board.

Robin approved, too. ‘It’s always nice to have a staple that looks after itself and doesn’t need individual cooking, isn’t it?’ he said, dropping an order for very pricey fillet steak on the counter. ‘Not like this. Very rare, he said, not just rare. Blue?’

‘Bleu,’ I agreed. ‘You might want to recommend one of my reserve bins of red to go with this. Sidle up as if you’re doing him a special favour.’

‘Am I?’

‘At that price he’d certainly like to think so. Vegetables or salad? Come on, Robin, you need to make it absolutely clear with each order. And fries or sautés.’

A house full of foodies, and hardly any beer-drinking locals. Well, that was what I wanted. Theoretically. But I’d have welcomed a chat with some of the locals, now folk hero Reg Bulcombe was the butt of their humour. Possibly. I surveyed my domain with satisfaction, however. Three couples were already waiting for tables, and I’d had to turn a party of five away on the grounds they’d have to wait so long I couldn’t guarantee them a full menu. But they booked for the following week, perhaps encouraged by the promise of a bottle of wine on the house.

Not from one of the reserve bins, however.

Robin, having politely shooed Nick upstairs to drink his coffee in my sitting room, was just seating the second of the waiting couples when Lucy erupted into the kitchen. ‘Mrs W – it’s only Mrs Greville. With a party of six. Won’t take no for an answer. Even slipped me a fiver to make it all right.’ She handed it over with hardly more than a swallow.

I patted her shoulder: nice to know she trusted me to make it up to her. ‘My job to turn her away, not yours,’ I said. ‘Keep an eye on that pasta, there’s a good girl – one more minute, and drain it. Table number seven.’

I don’t think Caro Greville recognised me in my chef’s outfit. The clogs seemed to exercise a particular fascination, or perhaps she simply didn’t want to meet my eye.

‘I’m most terribly sorry, Caro,’ I said, burying my Brummie vowels as deep as I could, ‘but you can see we’re absolutely full,
with people still waiting.’

‘Surely you can –’ she gestured, as if wafting away a few hapless diners. This side of her, new to me, was no doubt the one that Sue knew and loathed.

‘Nothing till ten thirty at the earliest,’ I said with firm regret. ‘And the choice will be very limited. As I’m sure you know, I get fresh produce daily: I’ve simply run out. But if you come tomorrow I can put your little advance payment towards the meal.’ I smiled. ‘Robin!’ A Roman empress wouldn’t have summoned a minion with more authority. ‘See if you can book in Mrs Greville and her party on another occasion, would you? Unless, of course,’ I added slyly, ‘you’d all be happy with sausage, eggs and chips? All organic, of course. Even the baked beans if you’d fancy those?’

So she couldn’t say I hadn’t tried to oblige. One or two of her entourage thought it might be awfully jolly to slum, but none wanted to wait even for that. Where they thought they’d get a meal in this part of the world at this time of night goodness knew – anywhere halfway decent was always fully booked on a Friday, and I didn’t think they’d fancy a motorway service centre, with or without Tom’s cooking.

In a re-run of the previous evening, the team sat down, shoes cast off, and drank chocolate.

‘Guess who I saw earlier,’ Lucy yawned. ‘Lindi. She said to say hello.’

‘The tits?’ Robin gestured.

‘The same. Say hello back if you see her.’

Lucy shifted in her chair. ‘She said she wasn’t very busy at Mrs Greville’s and she was wondering if you could offer her any hours, now she’s better. Funny, I never heard she was ill.’

I smothered a grin. ‘What do you two think? Do we need an extra pair of hands?’

Robin looked anywhere but at me. ‘We can manage.’

‘We could manage better with someone doing the washing up,’ I said. ‘It’d mean Lucy got more homework done, and could fit in her bell ringing. No, no – I just mean you’d go back to the hours you used to work, that’s all. And I’ve no intention of
getting
rid of you, Robin, either: I owe you both.’

‘Lindi, washing up? You’ve got to be joking, Mrs W!’

‘Not entirely, Lucy. Someone’s got to do it – which reminds me, I think the dishwasher’s just switched off – and why should it be either of you? Or, come to think of it, me? She’ll get a bit of a Cinderella complex, but I shall let her out into the bar too often for her to be a real martyr. Let’s go and empty that machine, then it’s more than time for bed.’

As before, Robin escorted Lucy home. As before, he was back in reasonable time, and as before, he locked up carefully.

I shouted goodnight from the kitchen. He popped his head round the door. ‘Leave it, Mrs W. It’ll still be there in the morning. I’ll sort it while you get the shopping in – or vice versa, whichever you prefer.’

‘It’s like going to bed on a quarrel,’ I muttered.

‘You sound like my mum,’ he said. He looked as if he meant to say more, but he shut his mouth firmly and flapping a hand, disappeared.

Nice kid. I flapped mine and heaved myself up to bed. Would the scales notice if I helped myself to a knob of cheese?

They would. Especially after the drinking chocolate.

The stairs creaked in agreement as I toiled up.

My flat was in darkness, but the door unlocked. I froze, ready to call Robin. Then I remembered that Nick had been relegated up here with his coffee. The chances were he’d simply fallen asleep. So I padded through to the living room, ready to startle him awake.

He was far from awake, standing in the window. ‘No lights!’ he snapped.

I joined him, falling over the Persian rug as my eyes adjusted. That’s another thing about ageing: your eyes slow down too. He pointed. Forget the lock: very, very quietly, someone was pulling on the outhouse door. A man. A big man. No idea who: he’d pulled an anorak hood up and drawn it tight. The door responded.

‘Camera!’ Nick said, holding out a hand as if I’d have it ready.

This time it was an occasional table I tripped over. And the rug
on the way back. ‘Here.’

‘Time exposure? Don’t want to risk flash. Put it on the sill so it won’t shake so much. Look, he’s switching on a torch. Go, Josie.’

Josie went. I took four or five, all of him bending over Robin’s bike. Still couldn’t place the face, damn it.

‘Computer enhancement,’ Nick murmured. ‘I’d say he’d been working on Robin’s brakes.’

‘Let’s stop him, then. Now!’ I was out of the flat and opening Robin’s door before I knew it. Robin was stark naked, dealing with a zit on his nose. ‘Get your shoes on. Your bike!’

I was out of the back door and across that yard before I knew it, hurling myself with all my might at the still preoccupied stranger. Four stone, nearer five, I might have lost, but I was still no lightweight. I’d smother the bugger into submission if necessary.

I might have been a flea for all the notice he took. He tipped me off and pulled the bike down on top of me. It slammed down on my hip, driving the other into the concrete floor. By now I could hear running footsteps – what the hell was the matter with my menfolk? – but I also heard the roar of a powerful diesel engine. No lights, of course. Except several blue flashes. Nick and the damned camera. A farewell kick at my shins and the stranger was gone, the car or van or whatever reversing with the sort of shriek from the tyres you expect on a kiddies’ movie.

By the time Robin, now sporting underpants, and Nick got to me, I realised the bike was hurting me quite badly. But I didn’t think it had broken anything – I should be thankful for my excess upholstery, not to mention the angle I was trapped at. All concern and solicitousness, they lifted the machine. I lay where I was, panting. ‘Did you get the number?’ I barked.

‘No lights. And I think they’d taped over the plates,’ Robin said, kneeling and dabbing at my knee, bleeding through laddered stockings.

‘I’ll get an ambulance,’ Nick said.

‘What the hell do I need an ambulance for?’

‘Internal injuries. Stay with her, Robin.’

‘Internal buggery. Just get me to my feet, nice and gently mind. Shit! I’m too old for this lark.’

And Robin was too young. And as for Nick – what sort of a man stands taking photographs when he could be practising a spot of citizen’s arrest on my intruder?

‘A man who has some hard evidence,’ he said, applying a tea towel full of crushed ice to my bum. ‘Unlike you and your hard fall. All you’ve got is bruises. We’ll have something for Evans and Co to go on, now. Whereas you – you’re lucky not to have been killed.’

‘I wouldn’t have so much as a scratch if you two had joined me.’

Robin wrung his hands.

‘OK, it’s hard to be brave with no knickers on. Go to bed, kid. The police’ll no doubt want to talk to you in the morning.’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said, managing a snarl, ‘that I want to talk to them. Seems to me everyone’s talked enough. I want to get the shit that did that to my bike. And to you.’

I allowed Nick to catch my eye.

‘She’s right, son,’ he said. ‘Nothing to be done now. I’ll call the police first thing. Are you sure you want more whisky, Josie?’ he added, as Robin, giving the same hand flap as before, shrugged himself off to bed.

I heaved myself upright. ‘I’ll tell you what I want. I want more whisky and I want the truth from you, Copper. What is there between your damned ears?’

Anyone taking that tone with me would have regretted it. Nick merely poured a good three fingers of whisky into my glass and sighed. ‘I don’t now about you but I’m ready for bed. A two hundred and fifty mile drive yesterday, a full day’s work today, including a visit from your friend DCI Evans, and now this. We’ll talk in the morning.’

I went for the bait, of course. ‘Evans? What’s he got to say?’

He poured himself the merest taste of malt. ‘Tell you what he reminded me of. One of those little dogs you see in the park, squaring up to a big one, legs all tightly braced.’

Not the sort of observation I’d have expected from Nick. He
was more perceptive than I’d thought. Though if anyone was going to be aggressive I’d have expected it to be him, not Evans. Wrong, Josie: Nick was passive-aggressive, wasn’t he? The sort of man who wore people down by sheer inertia. The sort who was so afraid of doing something wrong he ended up doing nothing at all. And what had caused it? Something, I’d bet a week’s
anti-ageing
treatments, to do with that Kings Heath siege.

‘And, once you’d squared up to each other, did you have a useful conversation? About your altercation with Tregothnan?’

‘Altercation! That’s a very long word for a very short exchange of words.’

This time I wasn’t drawn. ‘Which were about?’

He sank the last of his whisky, all two drops of it, and pressed his hand to his stomach.

‘Something that puts you in the frame?’ I pursued. Perhaps lightening up would be more effective. ‘If I’ve got to make a file in a cake, I need to know in advance.’

He responded blank-faced. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know a good solicitor in the area?’