The Governor. Vanessa Frake

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СКАЧАТЬ 31 Don’t mess up the curtsey

      39  Chapter 32 Playing dead

      40  Chapter 33 My way or the highway

      41  Chapter 34 The beginning of the end

      42  Chapter 35 Curtains

      43  Chapter 36 Riot act

      44  Chapter 37 The past always catches up

      45  Chapter 38 Let sleeping dogs lie

      46  Acknowledgements

      47  About the Publisher

      LandmarksCoverFrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter

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Prologue

      Now

      The salty sweet smell of warm pastry rushes up my nose. I quickly pull the scalding-hot tray of scones from the oven and slide them onto the rack to cool off just as the phone rings.

      ‘Yep!’ I answer, hooking the receiver between my ear and shoulder while gently prodding the pastry to check it’s cooked through.

      It’s Paul, he manages the Angela Reed café, which is just off the main square in the picturesque town of Saffron Walden in Essex. Nice guy. He has a way about him that keeps the customers happy. Bites his tongue, unlike me, who can’t help saying what I think. That’s probably why I’m never front of house but spend my time downstairs in the basement, cooking. That, and the fact I love baking.

      ‘We’ve just had a woman come in who’s bought your entire batch of fruit scones,’ he exclaims. ‘How long until the next batch is ready?’

It was a bigger shock to me than anyone when I heard my culinary creations had become legendary in the town. Me, who has spent the best part of my life living off microwave meals, who wouldn’t have been seen dead attempting to make a gluten-free lemon and almond sponge. Just one of many on my repertoire these days.

      ‘I’m on it,’ I say, scooping the scones into a bowl and placing them in the dumb waiter. Door shut. Button pressed. Hey presto and then, all of a sudden, it strikes. Blood – everywhere, spraying across the kitchen surfaces, pooling on the floor. I scrunch my eyes shut, trying to push the memory away.

      ‘Alrighty, what next.’ I chat to myself, hoping that will keep me in the present. I grab a Pyrex bowl and get to work on making my signature cherry almond Bakewell cake.

      Butter and sugar – I start beating it together. I’m looking for a light and fluffy texture. The mixture clumps, sticking to the spoon like mud. I prise it off with my forefinger and thumb and begin again. Round and round I beat it, giving it some welly.

      I’ve been downstairs baking away since I began my shift at 8 a.m. My face is powdered with a dusting of flour. Dough is crusted into the corners of my fingernails. Upstairs it’ll be getting busy. Locals coming and going, picking up a slice of their favourite cake. Dropping in for their morning cup of coffee and a catch-up. Saffron Walden is a bustling market country town where gossip is rife.

      I’m the one secret no one knows about though.

The pressure is on to get my almond and cherry creation into the oven. Four eggs – I crack them one by one on the side of the bowl and mix them in. There it is again, hitting me like a tidal wave. All of a sudden, I’m back inside. Thrust into the industrial-sized kitchen in the bowels of the prison …

      The long chrome work surfaces were laden with platefuls of the day’s lunch. White stodgy baguette filled with coronation chicken with a sprig of lettuce and cucumber on the side and something very dodgy moving through the lettuce. The yellow strip light above was flickering; it was enough to drive anyone around the twist. It would be next year before anyone got around to fixing that. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the hotplate – the silver trolley we were loading up with lunches to take through to the wings. I looked exhausted, my under-eyes a bruised purple thanks to many a long shift.

      ‘Ready, ladies?’ I said. I had a woman who’d been done for arson and attempted murder on my left and a child sex abuser on my right. Today’s kitchen helpers.

      It СКАЧАТЬ