The wardrobe didn’t really fascinate Mick, however. He’d seen enough of it. He went to the dressing table drawer and found a whole heap of magazines with titles like Inspiration, Teenage Lovers, Mirage. They were a good deal filthier than their bland tides suggested, but nothing particularly illegal.
Mick found a man’s wet-look G-string, a pack of condoms perilously close to their sell-by date, poppers, and a couple of ludicrous Polaroids that showed Slater naked. They might have been snapped by a partner but Slater could equally well have done them himself with the help of a self-timer. Mick considered stealing them. They might have been useful as negotiating points, but Mick didn’t want naked photographs of Slater in his pocket, and in any case Mick felt his negotiating position was pretty well impregnable. But he couldn’t resist having a sniff at the pair of ladies’ panties that had brought Slater such rapture. Mick took them from the drawer, held them to his nose and inhaled deeply. He could smell nothing. If they had ever been worn by a woman she was either very clean or it was a very long time ago that her juices had flowed.
Naturally Mick had no idea of what the Morel restaurant was actually like, nevertheless he tried to picture Slater having his meal. For no good reason he imagined a place straight out of forties Hollywood; the tables set in booths, waiters in evening dress, the women in strapless satin and a jazz combo playing in the corner. Mick had never been to such a place, wasn’t absolutely sure that they existed outside of the movies, but he thought they must exist in London, if anywhere. He wondered how long a meal there would take, whether professional restaurant critics ate quickly and lightly and then went home to write up the experience, or whether they had a good, long blow out and got completely ratted and only tried to remember it the next morning. It didn’t matter. It was only an item of curiosity. Whenever Slater got home Mick would be ready for him.
There was a neglected, dust-covered piano in the living room. The stool and the lid over the keys were solid with books and old magazines. Mick swept the debris away, opened the piano and played a few choruses of ‘Chopsticks’ before becoming bored. There was still a lot of time that had to be filled before Slater returned.
Mick sauntered into the kitchen and began to make preparations. He went to the refrigerator and transferred its contents to the kitchen table. There was butter, margarine, mayonnaise, some bacon, half a lettuce, a pint of stock, a tub of live yoghurt, some left-over curry, cottage cheese, salami, some bottles of Belgian beer. It wasn’t nearly enough so he turned to the freezer and removed frozen steaks, sausages, ready-made stews and sauces, little plastic boxes of pureed fruit. He gave each item a good bashing in the microwave until they were at least defrosted, probably half cooked, then he went to the cupboards. He was pleased that Slater was so well stocked.
Mick found exotic items like juniper berries, dried limes, star anise, cardamom seeds, cloves. He didn’t know what half the stuff was but he got it all out of the cupboards and arranged it on the table. There were much more mundane and familiar items too: bags of sugar and flour, macaroni, rice, lentils, all kinds of canned foods. Next came the pickles and preserves: anchovies, pickled walnuts, mango chutney, piccalilli, squid in brine, Gentleman’s relish. Finally he arranged the liquids, bottles of flavoured oils and vinegars, ketchup, Worcester sauce, Tabasco, soya and oyster sauce, Angostura bitters. The table looked full and abundant though there were some surreal juxtapositions. Mick wondered what kind of appetite Slater would have after his evening out.
Mick began opening things. He unscrewed the lids from jars and bottles, tore open boxes and packets, took a tin opener to the canned goods. Sharp, distinct, pointed smells began to rise from the table: sweet, acid, vinegar, meat, fish. He found a few cans of cat food, chicken and rabbit, plaice and cod, liver and hearts. Their smells were stronger than the rest of the foods, but not noticeably less appetizing. The odour of the cat food brought the three cats running to the kitchen, and Mick had his work cut out to round them up and keep them out, eventually pushing them into the dining room and closing the door on them. The scene was set. Mick had nothing to do but wait.
Slater came home a little before midnight. He travelled by taxi and he was alone as ever. Mick heard him make several drunken attempts to get the key in the lock of the front door, only succeeding at the fifth or sixth try. Having entered the house he went straight into the living room, poured himself a whisky and sat down to make a few notes about the meal he had recently finished. Mick was in no hurry. He sat in the kitchen and continued waiting but that soon became a very dull pastime. Before long he heard a gentle snoring that seeped out of the living room, and it annoyed him a great deal. The feast was ready. Where was the guest of honour? He took a bottle of HP sauce and hurled it at the kitchen wall. The impact was thick and wet, the viscosity of the liquid muting the sound of breaking glass, but he hoped the sheer violence of the smash was enough to rouse Slater.
Sure enough Slater woke up and dragged himself to his feet. He was used to hearing a few bangs and breakages around the place, that was the price you paid for living with three cats, and as he went into the kitchen he called their names, “Brulee, Caramel, Fraiche, what have you destroyed this time?”
He knew something wasn’t quite right, but he stood in the doorway for a while, still drunk, looking for the cats, peering under the table and round chair legs, and it took him a long time to realize that something had been going on in the kitchen. Then he looked up, saw all the food spread out, and simultaneously a voice behind him said, “Good meal?” and Mick slammed the door shut.
Slater turned slowly, with equanimity, and he managed to look at Mick without revealing any sign of surprise or alarm.
“It wasn’t a bad meal,” he said with abundant composure. “But I’ve had better. I’m sure you have too.”
Mick had to smile. Slater was quite a cool customer and he admired that, although too much cool could raise the stakes to a needlessly high level. If a man was too busy being cool he mightn’t realize just how serious you were about things.
Slater surveyed the kitchen more carefully and said, “I take it this isn’t one of your mainstream burglaries.”
“Very observant,” Mick agreed. “What did you have to eat at the Morel?”
Hesitating only for a moment, Slater said, “A spiced monkfish and lemon sole terrine, followed by pork loin stuffed with boudin noir.”
“Sounds good.”
“Competently cooked but lacking heart, I felt.”
“How was the atmosphere?”
“Formal, perhaps a little severe.”
“Did you have a dessert?”
“A tarte au citron which I found mundane, although I know that many diners claim to find it absolutely spectacular.”
“How was the wine list?”
“Good on the New World but a shade overpriced,” said Slater.
“Just as well you weren’t paying then. How was the service?”
“Efficient, if a little fussy.”
“Sit down,” said Mick.
Quietly, politely acquiescent, Slater sat down at the crowded kitchen table. He tried hard to focus. The drink was still clouding his system. Wasn’t the threat of danger supposed to make you instantly stone-cold sober? He tried to settle in his seat.
“I hope you’ve got room for a little something extra,” Mick said.
“Always,” Slater replied.
Mick took the gun out of his pocket and let Slater get a good look at it. Slater shivered, but still with enormous self-possession he said, “Unless you actually want to kill me, you’ll have no need whatsoever for the gun.”