“Why does it mean that?” she said.
“Because if someone was prepared to poison the food the night before the bombing, they surely would know by then that the occupants of the box to be bombed had been changed several days earlier. Also, I don’t think that anyone who was at the dinner would have been scheduled to be in the prince’s box, since the newspapers say that his entire entourage flew in on the morning of the race. However, seven people who were meant to be in the bombed box for lunch didn’t turn up on the day, and I know for a fact that at least three of those were missing due to being poisoned the night before.”
“Wow!” she said. “Who else have you told this to?”
“No one,” I said. “I wouldn’t know who to tell. Anyway, I would be afraid they would laugh at me.”
“But why would they?”
“Haven’t you read the papers?” I said. “The reports all week have been about the Middle East connection. Even the television reports assume that the prince was the real target.”
“Perhaps they have some information you don’t,” she said. “The security services must have something.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But according to the Sunday Times, no group had yet claimed responsibility.”
“But would they if the attempt failed?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Our main courses arrived, and we chatted for a while about more mundane subjects, such as our families, our schools and our favorite films and music. Without actually asking her outright, I deduced that she didn’t have a current boyfriend, let alone the six-foot-six bodybuilder I had feared would eat me for breakfast. It seemed that, just like being a chef, playing the viola every evening did not assist in the search for romance.
“I’m sorry to say it,” she said, “but most of the orchestral musicians I’ve met are pretty boring, not really my type.”
“What is your type?” I asked her.
“Aha,” she said. “Now, that is a good question.”
Indeed, it may have been, but, as she failed to give me an answer, I changed the subject. “Is the lamb good?” I asked her.
“Delicious,” she said. “Would you like a taste?”
We swapped mouthfuls on forks, her lamb and my fish. As we did, I looked closely at her face. She had bright blue eyes, high cheekbones and a longish, thin nose above a broad mouth and square-shaped jaw. Maybe she wasn’t a classic beauty, but she looked pretty good to me.
“What are you staring at?” she said. “Have I got morel sauce down my chin?” She wiped her face with her napkin.
“No,” I said, laughing. “I was just taking a close look at this person who is suing me so that I will recognize her in court.” I smiled at her, but she didn’t really smile back.
“Yes, that now seems rather a shame.”
“You could just drop the suit,” I suggested.
“It’s my agent who’s insisting on suing you. He doesn’t like not getting his commission.”
“Does he get a share of everything you earn?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “He gets fifteen percent.”
“Wow,” I said. “Money for old rope.”
“Oh no, he deserves it,” she said. “He negotiated my contract with the RPO, for a start, and he got me much more money than many agents would have managed. Also, I do solo work when I’m not playing with the orchestra, and he handles all my bookings and contracts. All I have to do is turn up and play.”
“He keeps you busy, then?”
“He certainly does,” she said. “I’m only free this week because I was meant to be in New York. To tell the truth, it’s been fantastic having evenings at home to veg on the sofa, watching the telly.”
“Sorry I disturbed your vegging by asking you out.”
“Don’t be silly, I’m loving this.”
“Good,” I said. “So am I.”
We ate for a while in contented silence. I really was loving this. A pretty, intelligent and talented female companion, a wonderful dinner and a passable bottle of Bordeaux. What could be better?
“So who are you going to tell of your crazy theory?” Caroline asked over coffee.
“Who do you suggest?” I said.
“The police, of course,” she said. “But you need to get your facts straight first.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Do you have the guest list from the gala dinner?”
“I do,” I said. “But it’s not really very helpful since it doesn’t list everyone individually. Quite a few tables were groups of ten, and only the host is named on the guest list, the others as guests of so-and-so. I obtained a copy of the seating plan too, but it’s the same thing. Only about half of the guests are actually named.”
“How about the guest list where the bomb went off?” she asked.
“I haven’t managed to get that,” I said. “I think the only person who probably knew the full guest list was the marketing executive of the sponsor company and she was killed in the explosion. It’s pretty easy to find out who was actually there, because they either are on the list of the dead or on the list of the injured. But I am more interested in the names of the seven people who should have been there but weren’t.”
“Surely someone must have the names of those who were invited,” she said.
“I have tried,” I said, “but no luck.” I had spent much of Monday morning trying to acquire the list. Suzanne Miller, at the racetrack catering company, only had “guests of Delafield Industries” in her paperwork, and William Preston, the track manager, had been even less helpful, with simply “sponsor and guests” on his.
“How about the sponsor company?” she asked. “Have you tried them?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think that they would be very likely to know who was invited, other than their own staff flown over from America. I think that MaryLou Fordham-that’s the marketing woman who was killed-I think she added the UK guests to the list after she was here, and after she knew who would be suitable. I remember that she was very cross beforehand when a couple of trainers from the town pulled out at the last minute. And I think I know who those two were anyway.”
“Can’t you ask them?” she said.
“I did ask one of them yesterday,” I said. I had called George Kealy. “But, as he said, it is difficult to know who else was invited to a party that you didn’t go to.”
“That’s true, I suppose,” she said. “How about the injured people from the sponsor company? One of them might know who was meant to be there.”
“I’ve thought of that too,” I said. “According to yesterday’s local newspaper, two of them are still in intensive care, and the others have already been flown home to America.”
I asked a passing waiter for the bill and winced only a little when it arrived. The same amount would have fed a good-sized family at the Hay Net, and a small army at a burger joint, but neither would have given as much pleasure as that dinner with Caroline had given me.
When I suggested that I should see her home to Fulham, she insisted that she would be fine if I simply put her in a taxi. Reluctantly, I hailed a cab and she climbed in alone.
“Can I see you again?” I asked through the open door.
“Sure,” she replied. “You’ll see me in court.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” I said.
“Well, what do you mean, then?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Another dinner? A trip to the races?” I felt like asking her to make a trip to my bed.
“What are you doing two weeks from Thursday?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I replied. Nothing, that is, except cooking sixty lunches and a hundred dinners at the Hay Net.
“I’m due to play a viola concerto with the orchestra at Cadogan Hall. Come and listen.”
“I’d love to,” I said. “Dinner after?”
“Lovely,” she said. She gave me a full-toothed smile with her broad mouth as the door closed and the taxi moved away. Suddenly, she was gone, and I was left on the pavement, feeling somewhat wretched and alone. Was I that desperate, I asked myself, that I would jump at the first girl that came along? Caroline was suing me for ten thousand pounds in damages, and maybe I should have been more careful not to have told her so much. Perhaps she would use what I told her against me. But there had been a certain rapport between us, of that I was certain. Even on Friday evening, on the telephone, I was pretty sure that we would get along, and I think we had. I wasn’t being desperate, I told myself. I was being sensible. But why, then, did I feel such an ache from not still being with her?