A Taste of Death Read online

  ‘You know Craig Scott?’ the DI said. I cast around in my memory: Craig Scott the drug dealer. I almost called him that but stopped myself. Slattery would probably assume that I was one of his customers, that I’d killed him to wipe my slate clean of my coke-induced drug debts. If only it had happened at the King’s Head. I bet Strickland bought from him.

  ‘Yes, he was here for lunch,’ I said.

  Slattery nodded grimly. ‘Yes, he was,’ he said. The penny dropped.

  ‘He’s not ill?’

  ‘No,’ Slattery’s voice was accusing, ‘he’s dead.’

  ‘Oh.’ I raised my eyebrows, all sorts of possibilities flashed through my mind, lightning fast, but I think I had guessed what the DI was going to say before he said it.

  ‘How did he—’

  Slattery didn’t wait for me to finish my question.

  ‘He died of what looks suspiciously like food poisoning, which is why I am here with Ms Burke. Now, what exactly did he have to eat?’

  I was able to help there. The tickets containing the food orders are duplicates; one is kept by Jess for the bill, the other goes to me. After I’ve sent the food I impale the tickets on a vicious-looking spike that juts out of a block of wood.

  There were twenty-five tickets from lunch. They were still there, on the long slim, needle sharp piece of metal. I hadn’t got round to throwing them away yet. Craig Scott had been the only lone customer, I remembered Jess making a comment about him having no friends. I found his order. My heart sank, a starter of crab cannelloni, the only one I had sold that lunch, and a grilled chicken baguette with rice salad.

  It could hardly have been worse. Chicken and crustacea and cooked, reheated rice. A terrible triumvirate when it comes to food safety. Like in some kind of horrible word association test, the related food-poisoning ailments neatly zoomed up in my mind and clicked into place. There certainly wasn’t anything wrong with my memory, that was for sure.

  Chicken was represented by salmonella, surely that wasn’t fast-acting? The crab: shellfish are notoriously prone to contamination from sewage, could have been that? I think you can get cholera from them too, but South Bucks was not exactly famous for cholera outbreaks. Rice I could dimly remember was bacillus cereus. Three very high-risk foods.

  My heart sank. If only he had had a cheese sandwich.

  ‘Do you have any of these foods left over?’ asked Burke.

  I nodded, opened the relevant fridge and handed her the containers.

  ‘Oh, that’s very good, look,’ she said to Slattery approvingly, ‘clearly labelled, dated, day dotted, that’s excellent work, Mr Hunter.’

  Slattery’s frown deepened. Another thought struck me. Oh, Francis, I thought, did you get rid of those dead men’s fingers when you prepped the crab or are they in those cannelloni? Have we killed the drug dealer?

  ‘I’m not going to serve a compulsory shutdown order on you, it’s just a precautionary measure, you understand,’ Burke said brightly. ‘Overall I’m more than satisfied with the standards that you maintain in this kitchen.’

  Slattery looked mutinous, as if he could not disagree more. But it wasn’t his place to say anything.

  She carried on, ‘And, of course, it hasn’t been proved yet exactly what killed Mr Scott although the symptoms he was exhibiting – nausea, diarrhoea, cramps …’ She smiled at me. ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to spell it out.’

  ‘Terrible way to go,’ Slattery added. He was very eager to spell it out: ‘Agonising death.’

  Burke glared at him.

  ‘As I was saying before I was interrupted, all his symptoms bear the hallmarks of food poisoning and unfortunately you appear to be the only place where he ate. In hospital, before he lost consciousness, he even blamed you for his condition, although—’ here she looked at Slattery ‘—I assume that’s of doubtful relevance.’

  ‘Too early to say, isn’t it?’ said Slattery with a malicious smile. The smile suggested that anything that might possibly implicate me would be taken down and used in evidence.

  ‘So, what do you want me to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, it’s Thursday today, I’ll get these analysed over the weekend and let you know the results on Monday, but I would like you to voluntarily cease trading until then. Take tomorrow and the weekend off.’

  I nodded. That was going to cost a hell of a lot of money but what could I do?

  I watched them leave and closed and locked the door.

  I decided to be positive. Let’s assume neither I nor Francis had inadvertently killed Craig Scott. Make that a given. Presumably, then, it was the same person who had killed Whitfield. Even a place as weird as Hampden Green couldn’t produce two killers.

  But now I had to find the killer. Not only was the fate of my business at stake, but someone was trying to frame me.

  And that made me very angry indeed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Thursday, 21 January, late afternoon

  I went straight round to Naomi’s. It didn’t seem worth finishing my prep as I wasn’t going to be open the following day. She opened the door, practically naked. She was wearing a man’s shirt that reached to just above her knee, her hair was wet and the shirt had glued itself to her body. Not that I had noticed.

  ‘I thought you were coming round at nine,’ she said, looking slightly confused and certainly not best pleased. ‘I’m just out of the shower.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have phoned or texted, it’s just that some really weird stuff’s been going on …’

  ‘Well, go and wait in the living room while I get changed and you can tell me about it.’

  Later, Naomi, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt sat cross-legged on a sofa. She got herself a glass of Merlot from a half-full bottle and offered me one. Usually I would have said no, because I would have had prep to do, but not tonight, maybe not for a while, so I said yes. She poured out the wine and I poured out my story. She tutted her sympathy as I explained what had happened.

  ‘I’m sure that it’s nothing to do with you,’ was her comment. I concur, I thought. So we moved on to her ex-husband. I asked her questions and made notes on my tablet about Dave Whitfield.

  They’d got married about five years ago and split up three years later. Like many self-employed people, he was more interested in work than relationships. That’s what had sunk the marriage. Whitfield was one of those obsessive workaholics who can never switch off.

  ‘It’s not that he was a bad builder, or set out to rip anyone off,’ said Naomi thoughtfully, ‘it’s just that he hated turning work down, so he was always overstretched and as a result there were overruns all the time. That invariably meant delays and clients got annoyed. Then there was the added problem that he’d never back down, could never admit he was wrong.’ She sighed. ‘An apology often goes a long way, and it’s such a little thing, but he hated saying sorry.’

  As she talked I got the impression of a driven man who had come tantalisingly close to making it big. He had been involved in some high-end projects, and he was well respected. But the great pay day, the golden deal, always slipped through his fingers.

  ‘So what enemies did he have around here?’ I asked. ‘I heard he had fallen out with Chris Edwards, what was that all about?’

  ‘Well, that’s ancient history. Chris hired Dave to do the groundworks on a property he was extending. Dave gave him a definite date, but Dave being Dave had also given two other people definite dates and he was a fortnight late in starting and cost Chris a huge amount of money.’

  ‘How much?’

  Naomi shifted her weight on the sofa and re-crossed her legs on the other side. She looked effortlessly comfortable sitting in Padmasana, the Lotus position. I admired her amazing flexibility. I find it challenging enough to sit in an armchair and I certainly don’t look elegant.

  ‘I don’t know, thousands. But that’s ancient history, as I said. They kissed and made up.’

  ‘Did they?’ I was a bit disappointed. Chri
s was the only suspect that I had. I was sorry to lose him.

  ‘Yeah, in fact Dave said they were thinking of working together again. Business is business and Dave could make things happen. He did have vision. Chris is a good builder but he doesn’t dream the dream. Dave would take risks; sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.’

  ‘Any other enemies?’ I asked.

  ‘Only the Turner family,’ said Naomi. ‘Your waitress’s lot.’ Her voice was quite bitter.

  ‘I heard he made a bit of a mess of her uncle’s conservatory,’ I said. Naomi’s face darkened.

  ‘Is that what you heard?’ she said. I could see that she was annoyed. ‘John Turner screwed Dave royally on that. He changed the spec, claimed the work was sub-standard, wasn’t going to pay him, etc., etc. You should keep a close eye on that girl, Ben. She doesn’t like me either, she tried to ruin my business by claiming I was having an affair with her dad.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. I could hardly ask, ‘Were you?’

  She took a sip of her Merlot.

  ‘Oh, indeed. Camilla Turner, Jess’s mother was furious, Peter, that’s her dad, had tried it on with me, in your dreams, mate, I said—’ she shook her head ‘—these people, Jesus, Ben, they think they can do anything they want, get anything they want, just because they’ve been here a while and they’ve got money. They think they own the place. So yes, the Turners were certainly not Dave’s friends, but I can’t see them dirtying their hands by killing him.’

  ‘And do you know what projects he was working on at the moment?’ I pressed my head into the back of her armchair. Her living room, after my empty rooms upstairs, was wonderful. Warm, furnished (!), cosy. I was having trouble concentrating. Not like my Spartan existence on a mattress on the floor, my clothes in plastic crates. I must spend more time in Naomi’s house, I thought dreamily, it’s better than a holiday.

  ‘No, there is all his paperwork but it’s chaotic, believe me.’ She pulled a face. ‘Dave doesn’t have any close relations so I’ve got to sort all his stuff out, it’s a nightmare. I was his executor when we were married and we made wills and he never changed it, so I’ve got lumbered …’ She reached behind her head and twisted her long hair into a knot. It was a strangely intimate gesture.

  ‘My God, I’m having to go through it all at the moment – all his paperwork, he just chucked stuff into boxes. He’d fiddle his tax, claim for this that and the other, submit fraudulent invoices, so as far as the Inland Revenue are concerned he’s probably a pauper.’

  I stared at the ceiling. No cracks, not like mine. ‘How well did he know Craig Scott?’ I asked. The two deaths had to be linked. Hampden Green was definitely the strangest place that I’d ever lived but surely two deaths in such a short period of time had to be connected. So if he had been killed, rather than died of food poisoning, then there was almost certainly a connection with Whitfield.

  ‘Dave bought coke off Craig.’ Naomi pulled a face. ‘Dave could take it or leave it – well, I say that, but I know he was doing a gram a day maybe more; it’s a lot of money. And I’m sure it was making a mess of his head—’ she shook her own head ‘—but not enough to shoot himself. He had a very high sense of his own worth.’

  ‘So who would benefit from Dave being dead, I mean, there wasn’t a jealous husband around, was there?’ Cherchez la femme! I thought. That was the extent of my knowledge of detection.

  ‘Dave wasn’t one for womanising,’ said Naomi, shaking her head again. ‘Believe me, I know. He’d work, go to the pub, go home and sleep. A sympathetic barmaid was Dave’s idea of a perfect girlfriend, lager with benefits. He wasn’t really one for the joys of sex …’

  Naomi smiled shyly at the thought or the memory. I wished that I could be Naomi’s boyfriend. She was kind, sensitive, loyal, and intelligent as well as being highly desirable but I was too scared to say anything. I knew that she liked me – after all, she had said so – but I lived in fear of hearing those dread words: ‘I like you, but as a friend.’

  I didn’t want to be ‘friended’.

  I am also a shy man where women are concerned. Perhaps that’s why I enjoy making desserts so much, in the hope that in the same way a bower bird builds an elaborate nest to find a mate, some lovely woman would be entranced by my mousses or tiramisu or rum babas.

  Share my desserts, share my bed. I had to say that as a plan it really wasn’t working.

  I brought my attention back to Dave Whitfield.

  I asked, ‘So Dave wasn’t having an affair with someone?’

  ‘He was hardly likely to tell me, was he? I think you should have a word with Chris Edwards,’ said Naomi. ‘Don’t men tell each other stuff like that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, standing up, ‘nobody ever tells me anything.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Friday, 22 January

  It was twelve o’clock on Friday. I should have been beginning to see the restaurant fill up for lunch. Instead there was a sad note on my front door: ‘Due to unforeseen circumstances …’ How I’d hated putting that there.

  It was a strange sensation for me, not being in the restaurant, not one that I relished. I felt disassociated from life. It was hard to concentrate on anything, I kept thinking about the EHO and her tests. I was ninety-nine per cent sure they would exonerate me but there was still a niggling doubt at the back of my mind. I also had a paranoid worry in case Slattery somehow fitted me up. It was slightly mad, but I was feeling decidedly twitchy.

  Courtesy of Jess – fount of knowledge of all things local and sworn enemy of Naomi – I found Chris at the top of a ladder doing up the roof on a cottage that he was restoring. There was a lull in the rain and they were obviously making the most of it. He was replacing a whole section that was missing and you could see the timber frame that held the slates up.

  I waved at him and he smiled and climbed down the ladder with an easy grace. Then he crossed over to where I was standing via a walkway they’d made out of planks. Because of the rain, the building site was a sea of claggy mud. Their wheelbarrows would have sunk axle-deep in the stuff.

  He stood there in a plaid jacket old, torn jeans and work-boots, looking lean and elegant. Why do builders wear so much plaid? Do they all have Scottish ancestry?

  ‘Hiya, Ken.’ He still hadn’t got my name right, I thought with annoyance. He continued, ‘I heard about the Craig Scott incident, sorry to hear that you got the blame. Bet it’s nothing to do with you.’

  God, that got around quickly, I thought. A fatal poisoning. Just the publicity a restaurant needs. Hopefully, when it’s revealed it was nothing to do with me, that’ll go round just as speedily. Bet it doesn’t though.

  ‘It’s Ben,’ I said. Chris didn’t apologise. ‘That’s nice of you to say so. Chris, could I interest you in lunch? I’d like to pick your brains on something?’

  ‘What are you offering me? Not crab, I hope, Ken, sorry, I mean Ben,’ he laughed in a good-natured way, but there was an edge to it. I suddenly found myself wondering if I liked Chris. There was a certain contemptuous air about him, as if he was my superior, doing me a big favour whenever I spoke with him. That and the way he kept getting my name wrong. I was beginning to wonder if it wasn’t deliberately done to annoy me. If so, it most certainly was working.

  I actually found myself eyeing him up thoughtfully. I’d have to get in close, hook to the body, uppercut to the solar plexus area than bang! Headshot … Stop it, I thought. You’re in enough trouble already.

  A flashback to Whitfield lying dead by the stile. The figure running off in the distance. If only I had given chase. Had they been tall, my eyes measured Chris, six two, six three? But it had been dark, and raining hard …

  They had run quickly, they were fit …

  If only I could remember, if only I had been able to see them better. The rain in my eyes and the biting wind and the horrible mess that was Whitfield … But whoever it was could run … I think that would have excluded Craig, he’d have been too wrec
ked.

  How had he known that Craig had eaten the crab? Was it Francis again? I had called him the night before to tell him we were closed over the weekend.

  ‘I hope we’re not in any kind of a pickle?’

  His voice had sounded worried over the phone. A guilty conscience?

  ‘No, everything will be fine …’

  Or had it been Slattery? My money was on the DI. There was very little that I wouldn’t put past DI Slattery.

  I looked at Chris who returned my glance with what I thought was a certain amount of condescension. I remembered what Jess had said about him, ‘You don’t mess with Chris.’

  Chris and Whitfield had worked together, ‘Dave, could I have a look at your gun? Sure Chris …’ It was plausible.

  I smiled politely at him. ‘Steak, sourdough baguette with caramelised red onions on a bed of rocket and horseradish cream.’

  I decided not to tell him the crab had been impounded, pending analysis.

  He grinned. ‘I’ve got cheese and pickle sandwiches on sliced white. I’ll take you up on your kind offer,’ he paused, ‘so long as you don’t poison me.’

  I gave a tight smile, ha, bloody, ha, oh my aching ribs. ‘I’ll try not to.’

  He addressed the two workmen who were on the roof, shouting up to them, ‘You two carry on with those roof trusses, I’ll be back later, and Pete?’

  ‘Yes, boss?’

  ‘Make sure they’re secure, OK, not like last time.’ His voice was hard with warning and he suddenly looked very aggressive.

  ‘Sure, Chris,’ shouted Pete.

  ‘I’m surrounded by idiots,’ said Chris loudly as he turned away. Evidently I wasn’t the only one with employee problems. The two men carried on with the roof and Chris and I walked away, squelching through the Chiltern mud.