The train pulled into Cambridge station at twenty-five minutes past one in the morning. As always on the late-night stopping service, I had to force myself to stay awake in order that I didn’t end up with the train at King’s Lynn, or wherever.
I had left my car in the Cambridge station parking lot, as was usual when I went to London for the evening. At five in the afternoon, nearly all the spaces had been full with commuters’ cars, but now my little Golf stood alone at the far end of the lot awaiting my return. I had drunk no more than half a bottle of wine throughout the evening, as well as having had a full meal with coffee. It had been nearly three hours since Caroline and I had finished the wine, and I reckoned that I was fine to drive, and well under the drink-drive limit.
I was slightly surprised to find my car wasn’t locked. The driver’s door was not fully shut, only half latched. I couldn’t actually remember leaving it like that, but, then, it wouldn’t have been the first time, not by a long shot. After so many years of misuse, the door needed a good slam to get it shut properly. The manager of my garage had often tried, at great expense, to sell me a new door seal, but I had always declined his offers on the grounds that the cost of the seal was only a fraction less than what the whole car was worth.
I had a good look around the car. I checked the tires, but they seemed all right. I got down on my hands and knees and looked underneath. Nothing. I even opened the hood and looked at the engine. I didn’t really know what a bomb would look like, so the chances of me spotting something amiss were slight, but nonetheless there were no suspicious packages I could see attached to the car’s electrical system or anything else. Perhaps I was becoming paranoid. It must be all this talk of conspiracy to poison and to bomb. However, my heart was thumping in my chest a little louder than normal when I turned the ignition key to start the engine.
It sprang to life, just as it should. I revved it up for a few seconds, but all sounded fine to me, with no clunks or clangs. I wiggled the steering wheel, but nothing untoward occurred. I drove forward a bit in the parking lot and then braked hard. The car stopped with a jolt, as was normal. I drove around in circles, a couple of times in both directions, pulling hard on the wheel. The vehicle behaved in exactly the manner expected. I was indeed paranoid, I told myself, and I drove home, uneventfully, although I checked the brakes often, and with some vigor, on all the straight bits of road.
MARYLOU FORDHAM’S LEGS, or rather the lack of her legs, made further unwelcome visits to my subconscious during another disturbed night. Surely, I thought, my brain should be able to control these episodes. Surely, it should realize, as soon as the dream starts was the right moment to wake me and put a stop to the misery. But, every time, the whole episode would play out, and, every time, I would wake with terror in my heart and panic in my head. My dimming memory of MaryLou’s face did nothing to lessen the horror evoked by her legless torso.
I tried to ignore the interruptions to my rest by simply turning over and trying to go back to sleep, telling myself to dream of happier things, like cuddling up with Caroline, but I would remain annoyingly awake for ages before the adrenaline level in my bloodstream dropped low enough to allow me to drift off, seemingly only for the dream to start again immediately. It was all very exhausting.
WEDNESDAY, when it finally arrived, was one of those May mornings to savor, especially in the flatlands of East Anglia: cloudless blue skies and unparalleled visibility. From my bedroom window, I could see the white-arched, cantilevered roof of the Millennium Grandstand at the racetrack, and, in the clear air and the sunshine, it appeared much larger and nearer than normal.
If only my life was as clear, I thought.
My cell phone rang.
“Hello,” I said, hoping it might be Caroline, which was stupid, really, since I hadn’t even given her the number.
“Max. It’s Suzanne Miller. I’m afraid I have some rather bad news. I’ve received a letter this morning from Forest Heath District Council indicating their intent to prosecute under section 7 of the Food Safety Act of 1990.”
Oh bugger, I thought. If they were prosecuting the racetrack catering company, who had been only the overseer of the event, they were sure to prosecute the chef as well, i.e., me.
“Do they say exactly who they intend to prosecute?” I asked.
“Everyone,” she said somewhat forlornly. “There’s letters for me individually and for the company. There’s even a letter for you here at the racetrack addressed to ‘Mr. Max Moreton,’ care of us.”
Oh double bugger. There was probably another letter at the Hay Net.
“What does your letter actually say?” I asked her.
She read it out to me. Not a single bit of good news to be found.
“My letter is probably identical to yours,” I said. “I’ll come and collect it, if you like.”
“Yes, please do. Look, Max, all the food was your responsibility, and I will have to say that. All I did was organize the venue. I’m not being convicted of serving food that was hazardous to health, not with my retirement coming up later this year. I’m not losing my pension over this.” She was in tears.
“Suzanne,” I said as calmingly as I could, “I know that, you know that, Angela Milne from Cambridgeshire County Council knows that. If anyone is taking the fall for this, it will be me, OK?”
“Yes, thanks,” she sniffed.
“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.”