“Don’t ask me,” he said. “And don’t tell me either. I don’t want to know.” He laughed again. I’d never come across a lawyer like him before. All the others I had met had been so serious. “Perhaps you should ask her out to dinner but taste all her food before she eats it.” He guffawed at his little joke. He was clearly enjoying himself hugely, and was still chuckling as he hung up the phone.
I wish I felt like laughing with him.
Gary came into the office. “There’s a bird here to see you. Says you would be expecting her.”
“Did this bird give you her name?” I asked.
“Harding, I think she said. From some newspaper.”
The news editor of the Cambridge Evening News. Since having received the information from Angela Milne, I was not sure if this was now such a good idea. Perhaps a low profile would have been the best approach. If I made too much of how clean and hygienic my kitchen was, would I be setting myself up for an even bigger fall if and when the papers reported that I had been cautioned, fined or imprisoned for “rendering food injurious to health,” as section 7 of the Food Safety Act of 1990 so concisely defined it? Well, it was too late now. If I didn’t see her after making the arrangements, then she would probably write something nasty about me or the restaurant and even more damage would be done.
She was waiting for me in the bar, thirtyish, with shoulder-length dark hair tied back in a ponytail. She was seriously dressed in a dark skirt down to her knees, with a white blouse, and she carried a black, businesslike briefcase. I bet she would have just loved to have been referred to by Gary as “a bird.”
“Ms. Harding,” I said, holding out my hand, “I’m Max Moreton.”
She looked at my hand for a moment, then shook it gingerly. Clearly, she believed that her health was in danger anywhere near me or my restaurant.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee?” I asked.
“Oh no, no thank you,” she said with just a touch of panic in her voice.
“Ms. Harding,” I said with a smile, “my coffee is quite safe, I assure you. Perhaps you would like to see the kitchen to satisfy yourself that it’s clean. I assure you, it is. But don’t take my word for it. Ask the local authority. They inspected it on Monday, and the inspector told me it was the cleanest and most hygienic kitchen he had ever visited.” It was a little bit of an exaggeration, but so what?
She didn’t seem totally reassured, but she did reluctantly agree to come with me into the kitchen.
“Did you bring a photographer?” I said over my shoulder as I led her through the swinging door from the dining room.
“No,” she said. “There wasn’t one available on such short notice, but I brought a camera. These days, all our reporters carry their own digital cameras. If they take enough shots, then one of them usually turns out to be good enough to print.” She looked from side to side as we went past the serving station, where the plated meals were kept under infrared lamps to keep warm before being collected by the waiters and waitresses and taken out into the dining room. She walked with her free hand up near her face, as if she might touch something and be contaminated if she let it down.
Oh dear, I thought, this is going to take more persuasion than I had imagined.
“This is the point at which the kitchen and dining room meet,” I said. “Kitchen staff on one side, waiters on the other.”
She nodded.
“Perhaps you might want to take a picture,” I prompted.
“No,” she said. “It’s fine. But what I really want to do is talk to you about the bombing.”
“OK,” I said, “we will. But I want that coffee first.” I could have made the coffee in the bar, but I was determined to take her through to my kitchen even if she wouldn’t take a picture.
We went on right to the back, where I had purposely placed the coffee machine that usually sat on the sideboard in the dining room. “Are you sure you won’t have a cup?” I said. “It’s freshly brewed.”
She spent a moment or two looking around her at all the shining stainless steel. The work surfaces were so bright she could have fixed her makeup in them, and the cooktops around the gas burners positively gleamed. I noticed her relax a fraction.
I held out a mug of steaming coffee. “Would you like milk and sugar?” I asked.
“Just a little milk,” she said. “Thank you.” I smiled. Round one to Moreton.
“Is all this stuff new?” she asked, putting her briefcase on the floor and taking the mug of coffee.
“No,” I said. “Most of it is six years old, although that stove”-I pointed to the one at the end-“was added a couple of years ago, to make life a little easier.”
“But it’s all so shiny,” she said.
“It has to be to pass the health inspection. Most domestic kitchens wouldn’t be allowed to cook food for a restaurant. There would be far too much dirt and grease. When did you last clean the floor under your refrigerator?” I pointed at the kitchen fridge we used exclusively for raw poultry.
She shrugged her shoulders. “No idea.” Round two to Moreton.
“Well, the floor under that fridge was cleaned yesterday. And it will be cleaned again today. In fact, it is cleaned every day except Sundays.”
“Why not on Sundays?” she asked.
“My cleaner’s night off,” I said. What I didn’t tell her was that I was the cleaner and I never worked on Sunday evenings. Carl ran the kitchen then, as I went home and rested after the busy Sunday lunch service.
She relaxed a little more and even rested her left hand on the work top. “So how come,” she said in an accusing tone, “if everything is so clean, you managed to poison so many people and had this place shut down for decontamination?” Round three to Harding.
“The food wasn’t cooked here, for a start,” I said. “The event was at the racetrack, and a temporary kitchen was set up there. But it was still as clean as this.”
“But it couldn’t have been,” she said. I didn’t respond. She pressed the point. “So why did all the guests get food poisoning?”
I decided not to mention anything about the elusive kidney beans, so I said nothing at all and simply shrugged my shoulders.
“Don’t you know?” she said in apparent amazement. “You poisoned upwards of two hundred people and you don’t know how?” She rolled her eyes. Round four to Harding. But we still were all square.
“I prepared that meal from basic ingredients,” I said, “and everything was fresh, clean and thoroughly cooked. I made everything myself, except the rolls and the wine.”
“Are you saying it was the bread that made people ill?”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “What I am saying is that I don’t understand how the people were made ill, and I stake my reputation on the fact that I would do exactly the same if I was preparing that dinner again tonight.” First knockdown to Moreton.
She came up punching “But there’s no doubt that people were ill. Fifteen were admitted to the hospital and one person died. Don’t you feel responsible for that?” It was a body blow, but I countered.
“There is no doubt that people were ill. But your paper was wrong to report that someone died as a result of the dinner. They didn’t. And what’s more, only seven people were admitted to the hospital, not fifteen.”
“Fifteen, seven-it doesn’t matter exactly how many. It doesn’t change the fact that some people were made so ill they needed hospital treatment.”
“Only as a result of dehydration.” I knew as I said it that it was a mistake.
“Dehydration can kill very quickly,” she said, pouncing. “My great-uncle died from kidney failure brought on by dehydration.” Second knockdown, this one to Harding.
“I’m sorry,” I said, recovering. “But I assure you, no one died from being ill due to my dinner. Perhaps I could sue you for writing that.” Moreton lands a right hook.
“Then why did a source at the hospital say that someone had?”