“But, Suzanne, I need more help from you. I need a fuller list of who was at the dinner, and the names of as many of the staff as you can manage. I also need the names of those invited to the Delafield box on Guineas day. If you can get me all that, then I will happily say that you had nothing to do with the food at the dinner.”
“But I didn’t have anything to do with it,” she wailed.
“I know that,” I said. “And I will say so. But get me the lists.”
“I’ll try,” she said.
“Try hard,” I said, and hung up.
I called the newsroom of the Cambridge Evening News and asked for Ms. Harding.
“Hello,” she said. “Are you checking to see if I’ll still be coming to dinner at your restaurant?”
“Partly,” I said. “But also to tell you some news before you hear it from somewhere else.”
“What news?” she said, her journalistic instincts coming firmly to the fore.
“I am to be prosecuted by the local authority for serving food likely to be hazardous to health,” I said in as deadpan a manner as I could manage.
“Are you indeed?” she said. “And do you have a quote for me?”
“Not one you could print without including a warning for young children,” I replied.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
“I assume that you would find out eventually, and I thought it better to come clean,” I said.
“Like your kitchen,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll take that as a compliment and put you down as on my side.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily say that. My business is selling newspapers, and I don’t know whose side I am on until I see the way the wind is blowing.”
“That’s outrageous,” I said. “Don’t you have any morals?”
“Personally? Yes,” she said. “In my job? Maybe. But not at the expense of circulation. I can’t afford that luxury.”
“I’ll do a deal with you,” I said.
“What deal?” she replied quickly. “I don’t do deals.”
“I will keep you up-to-date on all the news I have about the prosecution of the poisoning, and you give me the right of reply to anything anyone says or does to me or the restaurant, including you.”
“That’s not much of a deal for me,” she said.
“I’ll throw in a guaranteed exclusive interview at the end of the proceedings,” I said. “Take it or leave it.”
“OK,” she said, “I’ll take it.”
I told her about the letters that had arrived at the racetrack catering offices. I also told her that I intended to mount a determined defense to the allegation.
“But people were made ill,” she said. “You can’t deny that.”
“No,” I said, “I don’t deny that people were ill. I was one of them. But I vehemently deny that I was responsible for making them ill.”
“Then who was?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But it wasn’t me.” I decided not to mention the kidney bean lectin. Not yet. Was that breaking my deal? No, I thought. It was just bending it a little. “If I do find out who was responsible, I promise you I’ll definitely tell you who it was.” I’d tell everyone.
“What am I meant to write in the meantime?” she pleaded.
“I would prefer it if you wrote nothing,” I said. “But if you must, then write what you like. But I get the chance to reply.”
“OK,” she said, sounding a little unsure. Time, I thought, to change direction.
“Do you have any further news about the people injured in the bombing?” I asked. “I read in your paper that most of the Americans have gone home, but two of them are still here in intensive care.”
“Only one now,” she said. “The other one died yesterday. From her burns.”
“Oh,” I said. “How many is that now?”
“Nineteen,” she said.
“You don’t happen to know what became of a Mr. Rolf Schumann, do you? He’s the chairman of Delafield Industries.”
“Hold on a minute,” she said. I could hear her asking someone else. “Apparently, he was air-ambulanced home to America over the weekend, out of Stansted.” And I hadn’t yet been paid for the Guineas lunch.
“Do you know what his injuries were?” I asked.
I could hear her again relaying the question. “Head injuries,” she said. “Seems he’s lost his marbles.”
“I hope you don’t write that in your paper,” I said.
“Good God no,” she said. “He’s suffering from mental distress.”
“How about the others who were injured, the non-Americans?” I asked.
She relayed the question again. “There’s a couple from the north who are still in the hospital with spinal injuries or something. The others have all been discharged from Addenbrooke’s. But we know of at least one who has been transferred to Roehampton.”
“Roehampton?” I said.
“Rehab center,” she said. “Artificial limbs.”
“Oh.” The images of missing arms and legs made another unwelcome visit to my consciousness.
“Look, I must go now,” said Ms. Harding. “I’ve got work to do.”
She hung up, and I sat on the end of my bed wishing that she hadn’t stirred my memories of the carnage, memories that had started to fade but which all too easily rose to the surface like a cork in a bucket of water.
I decided to cheer myself up by calling Caroline.
“Hello,” she said. “You’ve still got my number, then.”
“You bet,” I said with a smile. “I called to thank you for last night.”
“It should be me thanking you,” she said. “I had a great time.”
“So did I. Any chance I could entice you up to Newmarket for dinner tonight or tomorrow?”
“Why don’t you beat around the bush a little?” she said. “Why don’t you talk about the weather or something?”
“Why?” I asked.
“It might make you sound rather less eager,” she said.
“Do I sound too eager?” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” she said, laughing. “In fact, I think I rather like it.”
“So will you come?” I asked.
“To dinner?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Where?”
“At my restaurant.”
“I’m not eating on my own while you do the cooking.”
“No, of course not,” I said. “Come and watch me cook, and then we’ll have dinner together afterwards.”
“Won’t that be rather late?” she said. “How will I get home?”
I wanted to ask her to stay with me, in my bed, in my arms, but I thought it might not be prudent. “I will get you on the last train to King’s Cross or I will treat you to a night in the Bedford Lodge Hotel.”
“On my own?” she asked.
I paused for a long while. “That’s up to you,” I said finally.
There was an equally long pause at her end. “No promises and no strings?”
“No promises and no strings,” I agreed.
“OK.” She sounded excited. “What time and where?”
“Come as early as you like, and I’ll pick you up from Cambridge station.”
“Isn’t there a station at Newmarket?” she asked.
“There is, but you have to change at Cambridge anyway and it’s not great service.”
“OK,” she said again. “I’ll look up the train times and call you back. At this number?”
“Yes,” I said. I was elated at the thought of seeing her again so soon.
“What do I wear?” she said.
“Anything,” I said.
Even the prospect of being prosecuted under the 1990 Act couldn’t dampen my spirits as I skipped down the stairs. I laughed out loud and punched the air, as I collected my coat and went out to the car. Caroline was coming to dinner! At my restaurant! And she was staying the night! Pity it wasn’t going to be at my cottage.
The brakes of my Golf failed at the bottom of Woodditton Road.
I was feeling good, and my speed, probably like my expectation, was rather too high. I put my foot on the brake pedal and nothing happened. I pushed harder. Nothing. The car actually increased in speed down the hill, towards the T junction with Dullingham Road at the bottom. I suppose I could have been quicker in my thinking. I suppose I could have tried the handbrake, or maybe downshifted the gears to slow me down. I suppose, as a last resort, I could have turned the car through the hedge on the left and into the field beyond. Instead, I gripped the steering wheel tightly in panic and kept pushing the useless brake pedal harder and harder into the floor.