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

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СКАЧАТЬ at him. ‘What?’

      ‘Your tower’s on fire, mate.’ Chris was known for being laconic, I found out later.

      Whitfield put his phone down, his back still resolutely turned to the window.

      ‘What are you on about?’ he said angrily. The other man pointed and only then did Whitfield turn round and look out of the window. ‘JESUS!’

      He leaped to his feet and was out through the door, running over the green in the direction of his house, helpfully indicated by a thick plume of smoke and the fire engine.

      Jess went over to the door and closed it.

      ‘Hello, Chris!’ she said, smiling. Obviously she wasn’t against builders in general, just Whitfield in particular. ‘Can I get you anything to eat or drink?’

      ‘Hello, Jess, I’ll have a cappuccino since I’m here.’

      He leaned his rangy, muscular frame against the counter and appraised the restaurant with that calculating air that builders have when it comes to property, then he turned to me. Now it was my moment to be appraised.

      In all truth there probably wasn’t an enormous difference, no unbridgeable gulf between me and Whitfield. I think that most bald men in middle-age generally look quite similar. Rather like babies tend to look the same to me. If I were a bank robber, when asked for a description, witnesses would shrug, ‘Bald bloke, forties.’ That more or less describes half of the country’s males of a certain age.

      If you were charitably minded you would say that I was powerfully built and had a certain physical presence. When I was young I’d been quite good-looking, model like, and although no longer in the head-turning business, I still got offers. But looks are, by their nature, ephemeral. Where I like to think I differed from the similarly shaped Whitfield, was a trace of warm sympathy behind my eyes and a general cheeriness that was undeniably lacking in the builder. Even the staunchest of Whitfield’s supporters would have to admit he was deficient in the geniality stakes.

      Jess handed Chris the cappuccino, and smiled warmly at him. Perhaps he’d repaired her uncle’s conservatory after Whitfield’s ravages.

      I offered him a biscuit from a batch I had made earlier. ‘Try one of these: langues de chat, I made them this morning …’ He accepted the biscuit, ate it suspiciously. Then his face brightened.

      ‘That’s good,’ he conceded, ‘can I have another one?’

      ‘So what’s happening with Shitfield’s tower, Chris?’ asked Jess, handing him another three biscuits. I winced internally; they’d taken ages to make, they were supposed to be a treat, not wolfed down by a hungry builder. They weren’t Hobnobs.

      ‘Burning nicely,’ said Chris. He smiled maliciously.

      ‘So did it happen by accident?’ asked Jess.

      ‘I doubt it.’ Chris sounded quite satisfied by that. He added, ‘Chinese Andy did the electrics, he doesn’t make mistakes. In my opinion, someone obviously doesn’t like Dave.’

      ‘Well, that narrows it down,’ said Jess sarcastically.

      Chris stood up, unfolding himself from the stool. He was very tall.

      ‘So what are your plans for this place?’ he asked me.

      ‘I have a long and detailed business plan,’ I said. ‘I’ve got global ambitions. In the meantime, I shall be introducing a limited range of hot food as specials …’

      ‘To supplement the sandwiches,’ added Jess like a loyal chorus.

      ‘Well, I’ll tell the wife,’ he said, ‘maybe come in for lunch. Nice to have met you …’

      ‘Ben,’ I said.

      He nodded. ‘Well, Ken, I’ll go and see how the Blazing Inferno’s getting on.’

      We watched him striding across the green, his long legs carrying him speedily towards the fire. I wanted to bring the subject of the langues de chat up but I didn’t want to offend Jess by telling her off. She had become invaluable.

      The previous day after service, she had seen me with pen and paper, a ruler and a copy of the menu.

      ‘Working out costings …’ I said.

      She pointed at the PC in the cubbyhole I call my office. ‘Why not use Excel?’

      ‘I don’t know how it works …’

      She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘Come on, Grandad, let’s see if we can drag ourselves into the twenty-first century. Do you know what a spreadsheet is?’ A deep sigh as I shook my head.

      ‘I know the word, but not what it actually means,’ I said.

      ‘Well, we’ll make a start today,’ said Jess. ‘Perhaps we’ll leave coding and website design for a later date, eh?’

      I didn’t want to upset her. I had seen her writing up some menus for me, watching her fingers flying over the keyboard, effortlessly touch typing. If the price of Jess included staying up late to make biscuits, so be it.

      ‘I won’t hand out your biscuits to just anyone,’ she said, looking up at me. I nearly jumped out of my skin, had she added telepathy to her other qualifications? (Waitress experience in the Marriott, Birmingham, IT skills, local girl and former county swimming team [freestyle] and formerly Bucks junior girls eight-hundred-metre finalist.)

      ‘Chris eats out a lot, and he’s very influential.’

      ‘Oh,’ I said.

      ‘I wonder if he did it.’ She spoke thoughtfully. ‘Whitfield stitched him up a while ago, owes him thousands. You don’t mess with Chris. He’s certainly capable of burning Whitfield’s pillar to the ground.’

      I shrugged. It was nothing to do with me.

      Famous last words.

       CHAPTER FOUR

       Friday, 8 January, early afternoon

      I thought of the burning pillar on the other side of the green. It was oddly disquieting. The contrast between the chocolate box, olde English village green and the heat, the smoke, the flames, the surprising noise that fire produces (a malignant crackling), had been unpleasantly intimidating. I put it out of my mind. Whitfield’s troubles were nothing to do with me.

      Nothing to do with me at all.

      I moved my mind back to work.

      Jess had gone and I closed the café for the day. I was cleaning down the kitchen, the radio, tuned to the local station, Beech Tree FM, ‘the station for the Chilterns’, playing cheesy old pop songs. As I mopped the floor, I thought about how things were going.

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