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

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       CHAPTER NINE

       Wednesday, 13 January

      Later that day the butcher had called to let me know he had some good venison haunch, was I interested? Yes, I most definitely was. As I drove to the butcher’s in Byfield – my windscreen wipers on full, the car occasionally jolting badly as I hit yet another pothole in the road concealed by a puddle – I used the time to review the day.

      Inevitably, the face of Claudia and all the attendant memories kept floating into my consciousness. To say my emotions were all over the place would be pretty accurate. Regret, for my past behaviour and what I’d lost; guilt, because I’d severed all ties with her, mainly out of cowardice. I hadn’t wanted to face her, to have an adult discussion. Basically I had run away. On the plus side, I guess I was pleased that she had come to see me.

      And part of me was flattered that a woman as attractive, intelligent and successful as Claudia would even want to see me again.

      But to be honest I didn’t know what to think.

      I concentrated on what I could comprehend: food, rather than the mysteries of women.

      Lunchtime service had been busy-ish. I could feel my takings growing. It was a good feeling.

      Every night I had done my accounts with a meticulous attention to the bottom line. Not using Excel, sorry, Jess. I didn’t have much wriggle room. Money was tight. I had sold my one bed-roomed flat in Kentish Town/Tufnell Park borders in North London to finance the restaurant. It had just been enough. But I estimated that I now had enough money coming in to hire a kitchen porter, or in more normal speak, someone to wash up for me.

      Now it looked as though I might be able to afford to share the load.

      I mentioned it to Jess before she left.

      ‘So do you know anyone who might be interested?’

      ‘Maybe.’ She had another go at the question she had wanted answered all day long. ‘So are you going to tell me about her?’

      I had endured four hours of Jess’s silent curiosity which had taken the form of hints and reminiscences about former boyfriends – ‘but he was like … way too clingy … do you know what I mean?’ – in the hope I would follow suit. She was obviously fascinated by my ex-girlfriend.

      I put my chef’s knife down and said, ‘OK, Jess, her name is Claudia Ferrante, she’s Anglo-Italian, her dad’s from Ancona, that’s by the seaside, she’s an investment banker and we were together for four years and then we split up.’