Dead Heat Part 7

Why did I suddenly get the feeling that I was being distanced here by Suzanne? Was I the one that the catering company was preparing to hang out to dry? Probably. After all, business is business.

'Fine,' I said. 'And if you can remember what you ate on Friday, let me know that too, will you?'

'Tony is a vegetarian,' she said, 'so he would have eaten whatever you had for them.'

'And you?' I asked. 'Would you have eaten the vegetarian dish?

'What was it?' she asked.

'Broccoli, cheese and pasta bake.'

'I can't stand broccoli, so I doubt it. Let me think.' There was a short pause. 'I think I had chicken. But I was so nervous about the evening I hardly ate anything at all. In fact, I remember being so hungry when I got home I had to make myself a cheese sandwich before I went to bed.'

Not really very helpful.

'Why do you want to know?' she asked.

'Just in case it was some of the food at the dinner that made people ill,' I said. 'Helps to eliminate things, that's all.' Time, I thought, to change the subject. 'Were all your staff all right on Sat.u.r.day?'

'Oh yes, thank you,' she said. 'Some of them were pretty shocked though, and one of my elderly ladies was admitted to hospital with chest pains after having been told by a fireman to run down four flights of stairs. But she was all right after a while. How about you? How did you get out?'

We spent some time telling our respective war stories. Suzanne had been in her office on the far side of the weighing room and she hadn't even realized there had been a bomb until she heard the fire engines arrive with their sirens, but it didn't seem to stop her giving a lengthy account of her actions thereafter.

'I'm sorry, Suzanne,' I said during a pause in the flow, 'I must get on.'

'Oh sorry,' she said. 'Once I start, I never stop, do I?'

No, I thought. But at least we had moved away from talking about food poisoning.

'Speak with you soon,' I said. 'Bye now.' I hung up.

I lay my head back on the pillow and wondered who Miss Caroline Aston was, and where she was. I could wring her b.l.o.o.d.y neck. Distress and loss of earnings indeed. How about me? I'd suffered distress and loss of earnings too. Who should I sue?

There was another letter from Miss Aston's lawyers waiting for me when I arrived at the Hay Net. It confirmed that she was suing me personally as well as the racecourse catering company. Great. I could wring her neck twice, if only I knew who and where she was. What did she think? That I had poisoned people on purpose?

I sat in my office reading and rereading the letter. I suppose I ought to find a lawyer to give it to. Instead I called Mark again.

'Send it to me,' he said. 'My lawyers will look at it for you and they will give you a call.'

'Thanks.'

I faxed it to the number he gave me and his lawyer called me back within fifteen minutes. I explained the problem to him.

'Don't worry,' he said. 'We'll deal with this.'

'Thanks,' I replied. 'But please let me know who this woman is so I can make a voodoo doll of her and stick pins in it.'

The lawyer laughed. 'Why don't you just poison her?'

'Not funny,' I said.

'No. Sorry,' he said. 'I'll be able to do a search and find her within the day. I'll get back to you.'

'I could wring her neck,' I said.

'I wouldn't advise it,' said the lawyer laughing. 'Suing is done in the civil courts and you can only lose your money, not your liberty.'

'Thanks, I'll try and remember that when you find her.'

He laughed again and hung up.

I wondered, what would I do if he did find her? Probably nothing. It just annoyed me that she wanted to claim damages from me for a minor bit of accidental food poisoning when the lovely Louisa had lost her life due to some deranged madman bringing his grudges two thousand miles from the Middle East to Newmarket.

Carl arrived and I shared the good news with him.

'Will they lock you up?' he asked hopefully.

'Sod off,' I said.

'Charming,' he said smiling. 'So the boss has returned in both body and mind. Shall we get this show on the road?'

'Indeed, we shall,' I replied, returning the smile.

There is a lot more to running a restaurant than cooking a few meals. For a start, the customers want a choice of dishes and they want them without having to wait too long. At the Hay Net we usually offered between eight and ten starters and about the same number of main courses. Some of the starters were hot and some were cold, but everything was prepared to order, and our aim was to have a dish ready for the table within fifteen minutes of the order being taken. Ideally main courses should be ready within ten minutes of the starters being cleared from the table, or, if no starters were ordered, within twenty-eight minutes of the order arriving in the kitchen. I knew all too well that, if a customer was kept waiting for longer than he or she thought reasonable, it didn't matter how good the food tasted when it arrived, only the wait would be remembered and not the flavours.

There were three of us who worked in the heat of the kitchen Carl, Gary and me while Julie dealt with the cold dishes including the salads and desserts. It was not a big operation compared to the large London restaurants but, at the height of the service, it was an energetic kitchen with everyone working hard. The plan was that the bookings were taken to stagger our busy dinner period over at least a couple of hours but our customers were notorious for not being on time for their reservations so sometimes we were madly rushed to get everything out on time.

Food is fickle stuff. The difference between vegetables that are just right and vegetables that are overcooked can be a matter of a minute or two. For a steak, or a tuna fillet, it can be much less time than that. Our clients, understandably, want their food delivered to the table when it is perfect. They also want all the servings for the table delivered at once, who wouldn't? They expect their food to be attractive, to be hot and to have an appetizing aroma. And, in particular, they want the food delivered in the same sequence as the orders were taken. Nothing, I had learnt, upsets the customers more than to see a party who ordered after they did being served ahead of them.

To the casual observer, the kitchen might appear a chaotic scramble but, in reality, it was only as chaotic as a juggler's hands keeping four b.a.l.l.s in the air at once. Appearances, in either case, are deceptive.

Needless to say, we didn't always get everything right but, overall, the number of compliments far exceeded the few complaints, and that was good enough for me. Occasionally someone would say that they weren't coming back but, usually, it would be someone I didn't want back anyway. I would just smile and politely show them the way to the car park. Thankfully those were few and far between. Most of my customers were friends and it was just like having them round to my house for dinner, except, of course, they paid.

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a delivery from my butcher. I used a man from Bury St Edmunds who slaughtered all his own meat. He had told me that he knew all his farm suppliers personally and he claimed that he could vouch for the wellbeing and comfortable life of every one of the animals, that is, of course, until he killed and butchered them. I had no reason to doubt his claims as his meat and poultry were excellent. A fine restaurant obviously needs a good chef but even the best chefs need good ingredients to work with, and so the choice of supplier is paramount.

The driver had almost finished stacking the delivery in the cold-room by the time the rest of my staff arrived at ten o'clock. Gary was all excited that the padlocks had been removed and went around the kitchen like a little boy allowed to roam freely in a toyshop. He was having one of his good days, I thought. He had the energy and the enthusiasm to be a good chef, even a great one, but I felt that he had to learn to be slightly less adventurous in his combinations of flavours. He was, like me, a great believer in using fruit with meat. Everyone was familiar with pork with apple, turkey with cranberries, duck with orange, gammon with pineapple and even venison with quince. The flavours complement one another; the fruit brings out the best in the meat and satisfies the palate. Gary was apt to choose exotic strong-tasting fruits and, to my mind, serve them inappropriately with meats of a delicate flavour such as veal or chicken. It was a matter that we had discussed at length, with pa.s.sion.

Ever since he had arrived a couple of years previously, I had attempted to have at least one dish on our menu of his design, and at the moment it was a herb-crusted red snapper topped with a roasted caramelized pear, over a light garlic mashed-potato base, with a pear reduction. It was a tasty and popular dish and it usually kept Gary busy throughout the service.

However, the bookings for lunch on that particular Tuesday were not spectacular and, during the morning, several calls to cancel left us looking very bare. More calls cancelling dinner reservations made the day look bleak indeed.

I called a short meeting of the staff in the dining room at noon.

'It seems that a combination of the bombing on Sat.u.r.day and the problems we had on Friday evening may result in a bit of a lean time this week,' I said. 'But I am sure that things will pick up soon. We will continue as normal and do our best for those that do come. OK?' I tried to sound upbeat.

'How about Louisa's job?' said Jean. 'And when is Robert coming back? Ray and I can't do the whole dining room on our own.'

'Let's wait and see how many covers we will be doing,' I said. 'Richard can help out in the dining room, as he usually does anyway when we're busy.' I looked at him and he nodded in agreement. 'I will call Robert and find out when he will be coming back. Anything else?'

'I spoke to the Whitworths,' said Richard. 'They said to thank you for the offer but they wanted to have the wake at home. And Beryl, that's Louisa's mum, said that she will do the food, if that's all right.'

'Of course,' I said and wondered if the Whitworths blamed Louisa's death on her job. I decided that I had better visit them. It would be the proper thing to do anyway.

'Do you know yet when her funeral will be?' I asked.

'Friday at two thirty, at the crematorium in Cambridge.'

d.a.m.n, I thought. I'd have to rearrange my lunch with Mark.

'OK,' I said. 'We will be closed all day on Friday. You can have the day off to go to the funeral if you wish. I will be there.' I paused. 'Is there anything else?' No one said anything. 'OK, let's get to work.'

In the end we did just four lunches, two separate couples who stopped while pa.s.sing. None of the six still booked actually turned up, and there were three more calls during lunch to cancel for the evening. That left us just twenty-four from what had been a full dining room, and I seriously doubted whether even those twenty-four would show.

I spent some time during the afternoon calling the clients who had made reservations on Friday to tell them that we would be closed and why. Most said they probably wouldn't have come anyway, but only two said rather tactlessly that it was because they had heard that you could get poisoned at the Hay Net. At one point, I had dialled a number and it was ringing before I realized that it was the Jennings' number I was calling. I was about to put the phone down when Neil answered.

'h.e.l.lo,' he said slowly, 'Neil Jennings here.'

'h.e.l.lo, Neil,' I said. 'It's Max Moreton from the Hay Net.'

'Ah yes,' he said. 'h.e.l.lo, Max.'

'Neil,' I said slightly awkwardly, 'I'm so very sorry about Elizabeth. Such a dreadful thing.'

'Yes,' he said.

There was an uncomfortable pause. I didn't know quite what to say.

'I saw her at the races on Sat.u.r.day,' I said, 'at lunchtime.'

'Really,' he replied, seemingly rather absentmindedly.

'Yes,' I went on. 'I cooked the lunch she attended.'

'Didn't poison her, did you?' I wasn't sure if he was making a joke or not.

'No, Neil,' I said, 'I didn't.'

'No,' he said, 'I suppose not.'

'Do you have a date for the funeral?' I asked. 'I would like to come and pay my respects.'

'Friday,' he said, 'at eleven, at Our Lady and St Etheldreda.'

I hadn't realized that they were Roman Catholics, but, then, why would I?

'I'll try and be there,' I said.

'Fine,' he said. There was another difficult little pause and I was about to say goodbye when he said, 'I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.'

'Sorry?' I said.

'If you hadn't made me so ill on Friday night,' he went on, 'I would have been in the box with my Elizabeth on Sat.u.r.day.'

I couldn't tell whether he was pleased or not.

CHAPTER 6.

Wednesday dawned bright and sunny. As a general rule I slept with my curtains open and tended to wake with the rising sun. However, for a few weeks each side of mid-summer, I tried to remember to pull them across my east-facing bedroom window to prevent the early brightness rousing me too soon from my slumbers. I cursed myself for forgetting as the sun peeped over the horizon at a quarter past five and forced its rays past my closed eyelids and into my sleeping brain. For the first time in nearly a week I had slept soundly and uninterrupted. That is, until five fifteen.

As I had feared, Tuesday evening had been a dismal affair at the restaurant. Just five tables had finally appeared and one of those was from pa.s.sing trade who couldn't believe their luck that we had s.p.a.ce for them. In fact, we had so much s.p.a.ce that they had twenty tables to choose from. It felt as if the kitchen was working in slow motion. Perhaps I should have been happy to have had a less tiring time after what had happened over the preceding days, but it seemed all wrong, and I could also feel the tension among my staff. They weren't happy either. They were worried about the security of their jobs, and the future. As I was.

Refreshed by a decent sleep and a vigorous shower, I resolved to do something to rectify the position the restaurant found itself in. I decided that it was no good sitting around just waiting for the business to pick up while it slowly died. What was needed was positive action. I thought about walking along Newmarket High Street with sandwich boards on my shoulders stating that Socrates would be safe at the Hay Net, there being no hemlock on the menu. Instead, I looked up the telephone number of the Cambridge Evening News Cambridge Evening News. Use a thief to catch a thief.

I reckoned that an evening paper would start work early so I sat on the edge of my bed in a towelling robe and called the news desk at a quarter to eight. I waited for some time until Ms Harding, the paper's news editor, finally came on the line.

'Yes?' she said. 'Can I help you?'

'Would you be interested in an exclusive interview with Max Moreton,' I asked, deciding not to reveal my ident.i.ty at this stage, in case she wanted to do the interview over the telephone. 'About both the food-poisoning episode of last week and the bombing of the racecourse on Sat.u.r.day?'

'What has Max Moreton to do with the bombing?' asked Ms Harding.

I told her that he was the chef for the lunch in the bombed boxes, and that he had been first on the scene immediately after the bomb went off, well before the fire brigade had arrived. She took the bait.

'Wow!' she said. 'Then, yes, please, we would love to have an interview with Mr Moreton.' An exclusive with a witness to the biggest national news story of the hour was like manna from heaven for a local newspaper.

'Good,' I said. 'How about at the Hay Net Restaurant at ten thirty this morning?'

'Hasn't that restaurant been closed down?' she said.

'No,' I replied, 'it hasn't.'

'Right.' She sounded a little unsure. 'Will it be safe?'

I stifled my irritation and a.s.sured her it would.

'And one more thing,' I said. 'Don't forget to bring a photographer.'

'Why do I need a photographer?' she asked.

I thought about saying to her: so she could rephotograph the restaurant sign, this time with 'OPEN FOR WONDERFUL FOOD' stuck across it. Instead I said, 'I am sure that Mr Moreton would be happy for you to photograph his injuries from the bombing.' stuck across it. Instead I said, 'I am sure that Mr Moreton would be happy for you to photograph his injuries from the bombing.'

'Oh,' she said. 'OK. Tell him someone will be at his restaurant at ten thirty.'