A Taste of Death: The gripping new murder mystery that will keep you guessing. H.V. Coombs

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ pointed out of the window. ‘On the green, the Kiln House.’ She stood up. ‘Eight thirty suit you?’

      ‘Fine, I’ll see you then,’ I said.

      She smiled at me and stood up, then moved lithely out of the restaurant. I went back into the kitchen. Jess stood at the fridge, her arms folded. Her expression was as cold as the machine that she was leaning against.

      ‘What!’ I protested. Judging by her face Naomi and I might as well have been kissing passionately in the restaurant.

      ‘So, eight thirty, her place.’ Her voice dropped an octave and she turned her head, shyly looking at me out of the corner of her eye. ‘Ohh, Ben, you’re so strong and masterful …’ She pushed her hand through her hair and stuck her chest out, the fabric of her blouse straining under the pressure. ‘Ohh, Ben, you must be born under the sign of the goat, Ben …’

      I started laughing, ‘Stop it, Jess, she’s not that bad. She only wants me to do a party.’

      ‘Oh, yesss! Ben, let’s party!’

      ‘Not that kind of party, Jess,’ I protested.

      ‘Oh, Ben, let us shed these constrictive garments and dance naked and worship the moon … tune in our auras … can you do asparagus, Ben, I love it so, oh, Ben, tell me you can! I want to dunk my spears in your …rich … creamy … Hollandaise.’ She sucked a finger suggestively, waggling her eyebrows.

      It was my turn to raise my eyebrows.

      At this point I grew slightly cross. ‘She’s a customer, Jess. It’s business, not a date.’

      ‘That woman is a man-eater, Ben, you should steer well clear of her.’ Jess’s voice was haughtily dismissive. ‘She made a pass at my dad once. Mummy was furious. She’s boycotted her yoga class ever since.’

      ‘Look, Jess. It really is none of your business, and, by the way, I’m not your dad …’ That was certainly true. Jess’s father did something – who knows what? – in insurance. She had told me where she lived, on the outskirts of the village; I had driven past a few times. My waitress lived in what might be described as a mansion, behind a well-kept hawthorn hedge and imposing security gates. I think Mr Turner was doing rather well, financially.

      I couldn’t be sure, but I bet he had something to sit on in his living room other than a couple of upturned beer crates, like I did. Just an educated guess.

      Mr Turner I certainly wasn’t.

      ‘Yes, it is,’ she said serenely, ‘this might be your business—’ she waved her arms to encompass the kitchen, and she emphasised the ‘your’ as if there was some doubt about it ‘—but as your employee it’s part of my duty to inform you of potential hazards, such as the man-crazy cougar in the Sweaty Betty leotard and leggings that is Naomi West.’

      I made a placatory gesture. I didn’t want to upset Jess, even if she had seemed to have decided that she was running the place.

      ‘Well, Jess, if she makes a pass at me, I shall refuse ever to go to her yoga class. I’ll boycott it like your mum. That’ll teach her, she’ll never get to see my Halasana.’

      ‘Hmm,’ said Jess as she pulled off her apron and shrugged herself into her coat.

      ‘People who have seen my Halasana speak very highly of it,’ I said, ‘it’s truly amazing.’

      ‘I’m sure it is,’ she remarked adding, sotto voce, as she opened the kitchen door to let herself out into the yard at the back, ‘Bet she shows you her Down Dog.’

      The door closed behind her.

      Eight thirty found me ringing the door of Kiln House.

      I, for one, was looking forward to meeting Naomi West.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       Monday, 11 January, evening

      I walked across the common in the driving rain. The ground squelched underfoot and freezing water ran into my shoes. I cursed myself for not having taken my car even though it was such a short distance. A couple of days ago the houses where she lived would have been lit up by the eerie blue light from Whitfield’s garden. No longer. I rather missed the obelisk.

      It struck me that it was an odd village, the sex-addicted earl, the resident drug dealer, the misanthropic publican, and other social undercurrents of which I was completely ignorant. Still, I didn’t need to worry about any of that. I was neutral, I provided food, I was like a utility company, above the fray.

      I rang the bell and Naomi opened the door.

      ‘Shoes, please …’ she said.

      I gave her the box I was carrying to hold and balanced awkwardly on one leg, then the other, to remove my mud-covered footwear. Naomi watched my mono-legged teetering critically, it wasn’t very yogic. I bet she could take her shoes off elegantly, perhaps I should sign up for a class. I followed her into the hall. The house was more or less as I had expected: dimly lit, with wall hangings and several Buddhas, fat Chinese ones and slimline Thai. The living room was a profusion of Persian rugs and framed Chakra diagrams. Jazz music played discreetly in the background. Miles Davis, Kind of Blue. Incense was burning in a holder.

      I wondered if it was really the kind of atmosphere for a business discussion.

      After Jess’s lurid warnings, I was half-expecting, no, fully expecting Naomi to be wearing some kind of come hither clothing, something certainly provocative if not positively tarty. I was unsure about whether or not being seduced by a client was a bright idea but I had high hopes.

      Maybe I was getting ahead of myself, I thought, as she gestured at a sofa and I sat down. She was wearing sensible black trousers and a baggy jumper, her hair tied severely back. She didn’t look like a cougar about to pounce. She looked like an attractive, intelligent, middle-aged woman. I felt a twinge of disappointment mixed with a sense of relief.

      Naomi West did have a romantic aura about her. She was fine-featured with large, dark eyes. Time had given her just the right amount of lines. She also moved with a conscious grace which I conspicuously did not have. Her hair was long and dark and her fingernails short and shapely. They were painted red tonight, which gave me some hope. I think the expression is ‘clutching at straws’.

      Before I’d left the restaurant earlier, I had taken my copy, much thumbed, of the Tao Te Ching, and opened it at random. I often do this when I think I need guidance. Well, as often as I can; I probably need guidance through most of my waking hours. My own thinking and planning abilities have often proved disastrous. The bit that I had read had basically told me to stick to the straight and narrow and not get sidetracked.

      Well, that had seemed pretty obvious. I mustn’t deviate from the path of the catering menu to the flower-strewn bowers of dalliance.

      No flower-strewn bower seemed on offer. Perhaps she would pounce later?

      ‘Thanks СКАЧАТЬ