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

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СКАЧАТЬ I said, ‘I brought a selection as examples.’

      I opened a container that held asparagus twists with puff pastry, assorted crostini on home-made ciabatta, home-made rye bread, duck rillettes, capers, beetroot gravadlax and celeriac remoulade. Oh, and a selection of vol-au-vents. I think the Seventies are due for a comeback; perhaps this was the effect of having the radio permanently tuned to the one station. I’d been listening to too much Slade on Beech Tree FM: ‘Merry Xmas, Everybody’ was still playing despite it being January.

      Miles Davis moodily trumpeted away in the background. Perhaps I should ask for some Slade. Or Mud, given the weather.

      Naomi leaned forward. ‘Oh, God, this so good,’ she said, nibbling a disc of rye bread with a very thin circle of goat’s cheese topped with a beetroot mousse. She filled my wine glass up, and said, ‘What then? I mean, after the canapés?’

      She stood up in a smooth, effortless gesture. All her movements were sinuously graceful and I noticed how flexible she was. She picked a cushion off the floor, bending over so I could see that she could place her hands flat on the ground. She adjusted the curtains, pirouetting like a ballerina to reach the draw-cord.

      ‘A buffet, I think. I’ve got a few ideas here,’ I said.

      I had printed off about twenty items which I thought we could narrow down to half a dozen. She took the paper and peered at it in the dim light of the living room.

      I was enjoying my evening out. It was nice to be in warm, pleasant surroundings. When I went upstairs at the Old Forge Café it was to yellowing, peeling wallpaper and silence. You could see where things had been before Mrs Cope moved out so it was like being haunted by the ghosts of dead chests of drawers and armchairs past. The radiators in my flat didn’t work very well and it was bitterly cold. Sometimes I slept in a jumper.

      I sat back and stared at the fire while Naomi went through my suggestions.

      The upstairs flat smelled indefinably of old lady (maybe that’s why it was so cold, her malign spirit still lingered). Not so Naomi’s lounge. The burning incense and the effect of the drink, the dim light, smell of patchouli joss-stick, was oddly evocative of student years a quarter of a century before.

      She returned to her seat, and tucked her slim legs underneath her so she was sitting on her heels, facing me. I looked at the long dark hair that framed a small face with very white teeth. Her attractive head was bent studiously over the sheet of paper.

      ‘I like the idea of the chicken and apricot tagine,’ she said. So did I, it was easy to make and practically foolproof. ‘We’ll need a vegetarian dish, about half the guests don’t eat meat.’

      ‘It’s on the other side.’ She turned the piece of paper over. ‘Do you like the idea of the smoked aubergine moussaka?’ I asked.

      ‘Yes, but it’s a bit too exotic for them,’ Naomi said, ‘as is the Caribbean jerk vegetable curry.’

      Oh, I thought. I was disappointed, I had thought both of those would be quite interesting and different.

      She put the paper down. ‘What about roast vegetable lasagne?’ she suggested.

      I groaned mentally. How dull was that!

      But I was enjoying my role as expert chef and problem solver. Then our cosy tête-à-tête was interrupted.

      The ear-splitting noise of a car alarm rent the night, drowning out Miles Davis’s trumpet on Naomi’s expensive Bose stereo system. Bet it wouldn’t have drowned out Noddy Holder.

      ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake …’

      Naomi glared irritably in the direction of the window. It wasn’t a very spiritual, yoga recommended look; she was very angry indeed. The moment was ruined. There was the sound of shouts from outside, somewhere on the green, and then a pounding on her front door. She jumped athletically off her chair, and left the room.

      I heard voices raised from the hallway: ‘It’s him isn’t it …?’ An angry male.

      ‘Calm down, Dave.’ Naomi, exasperated but very much in charge. I sat where I was, I didn’t think it my place to interfere with whatever was going on.

      ‘I’ll kill the bastard! Where’s he hiding!’ Then the door of the lounge flew open and an enraged figure of a man burst in.

      It was Whitfield. He was wearing very little, a white silk kimono open to reveal a hairy, flabby stomach and man boobs with a Union flag tattoo across his heart and a pair of saggy black briefs from which his large, hairy balls hung out on prominent display. He was an eye-catching figure.

      He saw me, jabbed an accusing finger. ‘You, what are you doing here! Was it you?’ He was trembling with rage, his eyes bulging. His balls too, come to that. Behind him, Naomi stood looking on helplessly.

      Was what me? I wondered, not unreasonably. The trouble was, Whitfield was not a man that you could reason with at the best of times, and right now, was obviously not the best of times. It would be fair to say he was enraged.

      I stood up. ‘Why don’t you calm down and …’

      ‘Calm down!’ he shouted in outrage, pointing a finger at me. ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? “CALM DOWN!” You bastard!’

      I wondered what on earth was going on in Whitfield’s mind. Maybe it was the drugs, weed-induced paranoia. Perhaps he’d like a vol-au-vent?

      ‘Just calm down, Dave,’ added Naomi, the chorus in a Greek tragedy.

      He advanced on me, like Nemesis, pop-eyed with anger, fists clenched, then tried to grab hold of my collar. All our advice to calm down had gone unheeded. His flabby builder’s tits bounced angrily, the Union flag prominent – ah, patriotism, the last refuge of the scoundrel.

      The time for discussion, I felt, had somehow slipped away. I didn’t think a vol-au-vent offer would help. Neither would the Tao Te Ching. So I hit Whitfield in the face twice, very fast and quite hard, once with my right which stopped him in his tracks and then a left hook, twisting my body so it landed with all the force of the top half of my body behind it. It slammed into the side of his head and knocked him down.

      Textbook! I thought proudly.

      He made an odd noise, like a loud groan, his legs buckled and he collapsed in a sitting position on Naomi’s oak coffee table. Fortunately it had been built to last and it withstood the fifteen stone or so of Whitfield crashing down on it.

      I rubbed my knuckles, the human head is quite hard.

      ‘My God,’ said Naomi. I wasn’t sure if she was impressed or shocked. Maybe she wasn’t sure herself.

      Whitfield got shakily to his feet. He looked angrily at me. I can’t say I was worried.

      ‘You’ve got celeriac remoulade all over your balls,’ I said, calmly.

      ‘Do what?’ He seemed confused. Perhaps it was because I’d nearly knocked him unconscious, perhaps it was the concept of celeriac remoulade.

      ‘It’s that stuff like coleslaw that’s hanging off your bollocks,’ I explained patiently. Perhaps СКАЧАТЬ