Dead Heat Part 13

'You must know Gordon Ramsay very well to have got this,' Caroline said.

'Professional courtesy,' I said, smiling. 'We chefs stick together.' What a load of rubbish, but better than telling her that I had needed to beg for this table. Perhaps the ten-grand lawsuit would have been cheaper in the long run.

'Is he nice?' she asked. 'He always seems so rude on his TV programmes.'

'Very nice,' I said. 'He just puts on an act for the television.' In truth, I had never actually met Gordon Ramsay but I wasn't going to tell Caroline that, not yet anyway.

'So,' I said, changing the subject, 'tell me about what you do.'

'I make music,' she replied. 'And you make food. So you sustain, and I entertain.' She smiled at her joke. It transformed her face. It was like opening the curtains in the morning and allowing in the sunlight.

'Isn't music described as food for the soul?' I said.

'The quote is actually about pa.s.sion,' she said. 'There's sure no pa.s.sion in the human soul, but finds its food in music. 'There's sure no pa.s.sion in the human soul, but finds its food in music. I can't remember who said it, or even what it means, but it was carved on a wooden plaque in the hallway at my music school.' I can't remember who said it, or even what it means, but it was carved on a wooden plaque in the hallway at my music school.'

'Which school?' I asked.

'RCM,' she said. 'Royal College of Music.'

'Ah,' I said. 'And why the viola?'

'That stems from when I was at junior school. The music teacher was a viola player and I wanted to be like her. She was great.' Caroline smiled again. 'She taught me to enjoy performance. It was a gift I will always be grateful for. So many of my colleagues in the orchestra love music but they con't really enjoy the performance of it. It seems such a shame. For me, music is the performance. It's why I say that I make music, not play it.'

I sat and watched her. My memory had not been wrong. She was tall and elegant, not dressed tonight in black but in a cream skirt below a s.h.i.+ny silver wraparound blouse that raised my heart-rate each time she leaned forward. Her hair was very light brown, not quite blonde, and was tied, as before, in a pony tail.

A waiter came over and asked if we had decided. We looked at the menus.

'What is pied de cochon?' pied de cochon?' Caroline asked. Caroline asked.

'Literally,' I said, 'it means foot of pig. Pig's trotter. It's very tasty.'

She turned up her lovely nose. 'I'll have the lobster ravioli and then the lamb, I think. What's a morel?'

'A morel,' I said, 'is an edible fungus, like a mushroom.'

'Fine, I'll have the lamb with the morel sauce.' I was reminded of that previous mushroom sauce, the one that had probably made her ill. I decided not to mention it.

'And I'll have the pied de cochon pied de cochon and the sea ba.s.s.' and the sea ba.s.s.'

'Thank you, sir,' said the waiter.

'What would you like to drink?' I asked.

'I'd prefer red,' she said, 'but you're having fish.'

'Red is fine by me.' I ordered a moderately priced Medoc, at least, it was moderate for this wine list but, at this price, would have been by far the most expensive bottle available at the Hay Net. I would have to get used to London prices.

'So what made me ill?' she asked, getting sharply to the point. 'And how did you get my phone number? And how come you know so much about me?'

'Tell me,' I said, ignoring her questions. 'How come you were playing in a string quartet at Newmarket racecourse when you normally play for the RPO?'

'I play with with the RPO, not for them,' she corrected swiftly. 'It's a very important distinction.' the RPO, not for them,' she corrected swiftly. 'It's a very important distinction.'

It reminded me of my father, who always hated people saying that he had fallen off when he maintained that the horse had fallen and he had simply gone down with it. That distinction had been very important to him too.

'So why the string quartet?'

'Friends from college,' she said. 'The four of us paid for our tuition by playing together in the evenings and at weekends. We did all sorts of functions from weddings to funerals. It was good training. Two of us are now pros, while one of the others teaches. Jane, that's the fourth, is now a full-time mum in Newmarket. It was her idea to get us all together last week. We still do it when we can but, sadly, it's less and less these days as we all have other commitments. But it's fun. Except last week, of course. That wasn't fun not afterwards anyway.'

'Yes,' I said, 'I'm really sorry about that. But, if it makes you feel any better, I was dreadfully ill as well.'

'Good,' she said. 'Serves you right.'

'That's not very sympathetic.'

She laughed. 'Why should I be sympathetic to the infamous Newmarket poisoner?'

'Ah, but I'm not,' I said.

'Then who is?'

'That,' I said seriously, 'is the million-dollar question.'

I am sure that Bernard Sims would not have approved, but I told her everything I knew about the poisoning, which, after all, wasn't that much.

Our starters arrived halfway through my description of the dire effects of phytohaemagglutinin on the human digestive system, and I was sure that Caroline looked closely at her ravioli as if to spot any misplaced kidney beans.

Thankfully, my pig's trotter didn't actually look as if it would walk round my plate and it was absolutely delicious. I did so love my food but, because it was also my business, there was a degree of eccentricity about my appreciation of other chefs' creations. Call it professional arrogance or whatever, but I perversely enjoyed eating food that I knew I could have prepared better myself. Conversely, I felt somewhat inferior when I tasted something that I knew was beyond me, and this meal was. The pied de cochon pied de cochon with its poached quail's egg, ham knuckle and hollandaise sauce would send me back to my kitchen with increased determination to do better in the future. with its poached quail's egg, ham knuckle and hollandaise sauce would send me back to my kitchen with increased determination to do better in the future.

'So who do you think did it?' asked Caroline at last, laying down her fork.

'I think the more important question is why did they do it,' I said.

'And?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'That's what I have spent most of the past week trying to figure out. At first I thought it must be someone trying to ruin me and my restaurant, but I can't think who. There aren't that many restaurants near Newmarket and none that seem to be going bust because of me.'

'How about your own staff?' she asked.

'I've thought of that,' I said. 'But what would they hope to gain?'

'Maybe they want your job.'

'But I own the restaurant,' I said. 'If they put me out of business, there won't be any jobs to have, mine or theirs.'

'Maybe someone is jealous of your success,' said Caroline.

'I've thought of that too, but I can't think who. It just doesn't make any sense.' I took a sip of my wine. 'I have another wild theory but it sounds so daft.'

'Try me,' she said, leaning forward and giving my heart another lurch. Keep your eyes up, I told myself.

'I have begun to wonder if the poisoning at the dinner and the bombing of the racecourse are in some way linked,' I said. 'I know it sounds stupid, but I am simply searching for anything that might explain why anyone would purposely poison more than two hundred and fifty people.'

'How do you mean, they are linked?' she asked.

'Well,' I said, 'and I may be crazy, but suppose the dinner was poisoned so that someone wouldn't be at the races on the Sat.u.r.day afternoon so they wouldn't get blown up by the bomb.'

'Why does that make you crazy?' she said. 'Sounds eminently sensible to me.'

'But it would mean that, contrary to all accepted opinion, the bomb hit the target it was meant to. It would mean it was not aimed at the Arab prince, and all the newspapers are wrong.'

'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 as 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 a.s.sume 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, Sunday Times, no group has yet claimed responsibility.' no group has 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 favourite films and music. Without actually asking her outright, I deduced that she didn't have a current boyfriend, let alone the six-foot-six body-builder I had feared would eat me for breakfast. It seemed that, just like being a chef, playing the viola every evening did not a.s.sist 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 cla.s.sic 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 15 per cent.'

'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 you 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 pa.s.sable 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 are just down 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 for where the bomb went off?' she asked.

'I haven't managed to get that,' I said. '1 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 are either 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 racecourse catering company had only 'guests of Delafield Industries' in her paperwork, and William Preston, the racecourse 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.'