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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ retreating to the Old Forge Café. Speculation had presumably run riot.

      A threesome that had got seriously out of hand?

      A food related debate that had become heated?

      Was I the kind of man you’d want to do your catering after last night’s lurid scene?

      ‘Well,’ she said, looking through the door into the restaurant, ‘now’s your chance to put theory into practice. Dave Whitfield’s just come in. You’d better go and spread some enlightenment.’

      I wondered what Whitfield wanted. I hoped it wasn’t revenge. I have to confess that nothing heartwarming sprang to mind. Unless it was maybe the remoulade recipe that he wanted, after all. But he wasn’t a dog, he wouldn’t have been licking his balls after he had got home.

      It was momentarily tempting to arm myself with the enormous plastic rolling pin that I had. It was the weight of a baseball bat; it would be like a Trident missile, a highly visible deterrent. I didn’t want any more brawling, particularly in my restaurant.

      I went through to meet him with a sinking heart. ‘Good morning,’ I said breezily, ‘and what can I get you?’

      Whitfield looked terrible. He had a half-closed eye, swollen and bruised, from where I had hit him but that wasn’t really the problem. I am sure in a lifetime devoted to rubbing people up the wrong way he had faced worse things than a damaged face. Rather, he looked like a man who has had the stuffing knocked out of him by life. He seemed depressed and shambling and hesitant. I could suddenly see what Whitfield would look like when he was old.

      In some ways I preferred the other, brasher version, even if he was hard work. He sat down heavily at a table.

      ‘Could I have a coffee, please, Americano?’

      ‘Sure.’ I busied myself behind the machine.

      Whitfield looked at me. ‘I just called in to apologise,’ he said.

      ‘That’s OK.’ I was extremely surprised, to say the least. Whitfield was not the kind of man who looked remotely like he was given to apologies.

      ‘No.’ He shook his head, the red and blue ink of his tattoos was very visible on his neck. ‘No, it’s far from OK. I was bang out of order. I was a bit pissed last night. But I’ve been under a lot of pressure. First of all someone sets my house, well, my obelisk, on fire …’

      It was probably the only time I had ever heard the word obelisk used in conversation. I was strangely impressed.

      ‘Then the next thing is, just as I’m going to bed, some c—’

      ‘Language!’ I warned him. ‘There’s a lady present.’ Jess had appeared behind the counter, hoping I rather suspect for Round Two of the Whitfield/Hunter match. She looked disappointed that no blows had been traded. She retreated to the kitchen.

      He rolled his eyes. ‘Well, some – muppet – throws paint over my Ferrari.’ He shook his head. ‘How can you do that to such a beautiful car? I mean, Jesus.’

      I nodded sympathetically.

      ‘Well, I ran after them, but they disappeared through Naomi’s gate. To be honest I thought it might be her. Or someone she’d put up to it.’

      ‘Why would you think that?’ I asked.

      Naomi didn’t look like the kind of woman to chuck paint over a car. Whitfield looked shifty. ‘Well, I do owe her a bit of alimony … I’ve had cash flow problems. We had a well – words were exchanged. So when I saw you there, I put two and two together and made five.’

      He sounded remarkably defensive, even though I hadn’t made any comment.

      ‘Anyway, I’m sorry I tried to hit you.’

      ‘That’s OK,’ I said, again.

      ‘I just wanted to say …’

      ‘No, it’s fine. Really.’ I carried on reassuring him. ‘Lots of people have tried to hit me over the years, it’s not that uncommon. I’m not sure why, I’ll work it out one day. Maybe I’ve got an annoying face.’

      DI Slattery certainly thought so.

      He shook his head, ‘Look, I know this sounds weird but I was well impressed with how you handled me, it was very, umm—’ he grasped for a word ‘—professional.’

      Everyone seemed more impressed with my ability with my fists than my ability to cook. It was kind of depressing. I’m a chef, not a bare-knuckle fighter.

      ‘Thing is,’ he adopted that kind of wheedling tone that people use when they are about to ask you for a favour that they know you don’t want to do, ‘I’m in a bit of trouble at the moment and I could do with some back-up …’

      ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘if it’s not cooking, I’m not interested.’

      ‘I’d pay.’ He paused. ‘Top dollar.’

      ‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said, ‘and I’d have to pay too. Violence can have a very high cost.’ That sounded a bit sententious, hoity toity as Whitfield would probably put it. But it was true.

      I should know. It had cost me two years of my life and the destruction of all I held dear. I didn’t want to be Whitfield’s minder, I didn’t want to be anybody’s minder.

      Then another two customers walked in and our conversation ended.

      Jess and I watched through the Old Forge Café’s window as Whitfield walked back across the village green to his house which was beginning to look like a home counties war zone, the charred plastic pillar like a melted blue popsicle in his front garden, the car on his tarmacked drive now streaked with red. Some of it had splashed across the outside of the windows of his house. It looked quite sinister, the colour of blood. He moved slowly, stiffly, head bowed.

      ‘I feel a bit sorry for him.’

      ‘I don’t,’ said Jess, her eyes narrowing. ‘Prick.’

      He must have really cocked up that conservatory of her uncle’s.

      I went back to the beef and getting other things ready. I thought about Whitfield and wondered what sort of trouble he might be in that he required professional muscle to back him up. It must have been serious. I didn’t think he was the kind of man who would need help in that department. I was determined to keep out of any trouble.

      The morning started slowly – some teas, coffees and cakes – then about twelve o’clock we started to get busy. It was shaping up to be a pleasant, if uneventful lunch, may be twenty to thirty covers, all fairly straightforward.

      At half one, Jess came in to the kitchen, deposited some used crockery in the pot-wash area and leaned across the pass. She looked quite excited.

      ‘There’s a woman out there who wants to speak to you …’

      ‘But of course,’ I said, nonchalantly, wondering who it might be, ‘when you look like I do, Jess, you get used to it …What does she want?’

      Jess СКАЧАТЬ