Dick Francis - Dead Heat

Oh shit! I thought again. That really won’t be great for business.

T rue to her word, Angela Milne moved mountains to get an inspection of my kitchen done late on Monday afternoon. The inspector, a small man in a suit with dark-rimmed glasses, arrived at about a quarter to five and stood in the parking lot, putting on a white coat and a white mesh trilby hat.

“Hello,” he said as I went out to meet him, “my name is Ward. James Ward.” He held out his hand and I shook it. I half expected him to inspect his palm to see if I had left some dirty scrap behind, but he didn’t.

“Max Moreton,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “I know. I’ve seen you on the telly.”

He smiled. Things might be looking up.

“Now,” he said, “where’s this kitchen?”

I waved a hand, and we crunched across the gravel towards the back door.

“Have you got the keys?” I asked.

“What keys?” he said.

Things were not looking up that much.

“The keys for the padlocks,” I said. “The two men who came and put this lot on last Saturday said the inspector, when he came, would have the keys.”

“Sorry,” he said. “No one told me.”

I bet my nonfriends, the bailiffs, didn’t bother to tell anyone. They probably tossed the keys into the river Cam.

“What do you suggest we do?” asked Mr. Ward.

“Do you have a crowbar?” I asked.

“No, but I have a tire iron in the car.”

It took several attempts, but the clasp finally parted from the doorframe with a splintering crack. No doubt it would be me that would have to pay for the damage as well as for the keyless lock.

The inspection was very thorough, with James Ward literally looking into every nook and cranny. He ran his fingers along the top of the exhaust hoods, looked for residue in the industrial dishwasher drains, and even poked a Q-Tip swab into the tiny gap between the built-in fryer and the worktop. It was clean. I knew it was clean. I left that gap there on purpose specifically for health inspectors to find and test. I had it cleaned out every day in case there was an unannounced visit.

“Fine,” he said at length. “Nice and clean all round. Of course, I will have these swabs tested tomorrow for bacteria.” He indicated the swabs he had placed in small plastic bags not just from the gap by the fryer, but also those wiped on the worktops, the chopping boards, the sinks and anywhere else he thought appropriate.

“But the kitchen is now open?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” he said. “I spoke with Angela Milne, and she was happy that you be reopened as long as I was happy with the kitchen, and I am, provided I don’t get any surprises from these.” He held up the swabs. “And I don’t think there will be. I’ve inspected lots of kitchens and this is one of the cleanest I’ve seen.”

I was glad. I had always been insistent on having a clean kitchen and not just to pass inspections. There was a note printed on every menu that invited my clients to visit the kitchen, if they so wished. Many did, and all my regulars had been in there at some time or another, and one individual in particular always made a point of taking his guests in to see me, or Carl, and Gary. I had toyed with the idea of putting a chef’s table in a corner of the kitchen to allow diners to watch us at work. But as my limited star had risen over the years, I did tend to be elsewhere for an increasing number of the service periods in any given week. Also, I knew that even now the customers were apt to complain and be disappointed if I wasn’t actually there in the flesh, so I decided it was probably less troublesome overall to keep the clientele eating in the dining room only.

I thanked James Ward, and saw him to his car and off the premises. Even though he was pleasant and helpful, there is something about health inspectors that gives all chefs the willies, so I was glad to see him depart.

Carl and I spent the next hour removing all the CLOSED FOR DECONTAMINATION stickers, which seemed to be stuck on with Super Glue. Then we tried our best to remove the remaining padlocks without causing too much damage to the structure of the building. At last, it was done, and we sat together in the bar and pulled ourselves a pint each.

“We reopen tomorrow, then?” Carl asked.

“If we have any customers left,” I said.

I showed him the newspaper.

“That’s all right,” he said. “No one who comes here reads that.”

“They will have done so today,” I said. “Like me, they’ll have bought it to read about those killed on Saturday. They’re all bound to have seen it.”

“Nah, don’t you worry, our regulars will trust us more than a newspaper.” But he didn’t sound very convincing.

“Most of our regulars were at the dinner on Friday and will know it’s true,” I said, “because they were throwing up all night.”

“Ahh, I’d forgotten that.”

“How about those you phoned earlier?” I asked him. “You know, to say we would be closed tonight.”

“Well, most said they weren’t going to be coming anyway.”

“Did they give a reason?” I asked.

“If you mean did they say they weren’t coming because we were akin to a poison factory, then, no, they didn’t. Only one person mentioned it, and she said that she and her husband wouldn’t have come only because they hadn’t fully recovered from a bout of food poisoning. Most simply said it would be inappropriate for them to enjoy an evening out while the bodies of those killed had hardly gone cold, or words to that effect.”

We sat in silence and finished our beers. The thought of the bodies getting colder in the commandeered refrigerated truck had been drifting around the periphery of my consciousness for most of the day.

I CALLED MARK WINSOME. I thought it was time my silent business partner knew that we might have a spot of bother ahead. He listened carefully as I told him the whole story about Friday night and also about the bombing on Saturday. He knew, of course, about the bombing but hadn’t realized how close his investment had been to biting the dust.

“I’m so sorry about your waitress,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s been very distressing for the other staff. I sent them all home this morning.”

“But you say the restaurant will reopen again tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t expect there to be much business, and not only because of the food-poisoning incident but because the whole area is in shock and I don’t think people will be eating out much.”

“So you might have a bit of time this week?” he said.

“Well, I think I should be here for those who do come,” I said. “Why?”

“I just thought it’s time you came to London.”

“What, to see you?”

“No. Well, yes, of course I would love to see you. But what I really meant was that it’s time for you to come to London permanently.”

“What about the restaurant?”

“That’s what I mean,” he said. “I think it’s time you opened a restaurant in London. I’ve been waiting six years for you to be ready and now I think you are.”

I sat in my office and stared at the wall. I had called Mark with considerable trepidation since I feared he might be angry that I had seemingly poisoned a sizable chunk of Newmarket society and damaged his investment. Instead, he was offering me…what? Fame and fortune, or maybe it would be humiliation and disaster. At the very least, Mark was offering me the chance to find out.

“Are you still there?” he said at length.

“Mmm,” I replied.

“Good. Then come see me sometime later this week.” He paused. “How about Friday? Lunch? At the Goring.”

“Fine,” I said.