Dick Francis - Dead Heat

“Where exactly are we going to sleep tonight?” Caroline asked after I had finally driven away from the disaster.

“Do you remember when I first talked you into coming to Newmarket, I promised you a night at the Bedford Lodge Hotel?” I said. “And the best-laid plans were somewhat disrupted by a certain car crash. Well, tonight, my dear, you shall finally have your night in Newmarket’s finest hotel.”

“I am honored,” she said.

“Don’t get too used to it,” I said. “They have a room only for tonight. They’re full tomorrow.”

“I have to be in London tomorrow night,” she said.

I hadn’t forgotten.

TO SAY Carl was pleased to see me would be rather an under-statement. He almost cried when I walked into the Hay Net kitchen at seven o’clock.

“Thank God,” he said.

“I won’t be much use,” I said, tapping the hard shell on my right arm.

“What did you do?” he asked. His shoulders sagged. His joy was rapidly turning to disappointment.

“Fell and broke my wrist,” I said. “Stupid. But I can still help a bit.”

“Good.” A little of his joy returned.

I didn’t bother to change. I just slipped one of my chef’s tunics over my shirt and set to work, assisted by Caroline, who did the two-handed jobs.

I wouldn’t exactly claim that the kitchen service was back to normal, but we coped with the seventy-two covers. I decided not to go out to the dining room at any time as I really didn’t want to be seen by any of the customers. The staff saw me, of course, but I asked them to keep it to themselves. I held up the cast and told them my doctor had forbidden me to work, and I didn’t want him finding out that I had. They smiled at me knowingly and promised to keep the secret. But did I trust all of them to do so?

Finally, the rush was over, and we had a chance to sit down. It had now been nearly two weeks since I had worked and I was out of shape. I slumped, exhausted, into my chair in the office.

“I never realized it was so hot in a kitchen,” said Caroline. Throughout the evening, she had gradually removed articles of clothing until removing any more would have been indecent. Marguerite, my mother’s distant widowed cousin’s fiery cook, who had first nurtured my love for cooking, had regularly worn nothing but a pair of knickers under a white, lightweight cotton doctor’s coat.

“You should try it on a blazing June day,” I said.

Carl came into the office from the bar with beers for us all. “OK?” he said to Caroline, handing her one.

“Lovely,” she said, taking it.

“Do you want a job?” he asked her, smiling. He had the look of a prisoner reprieved from the gallows. Seventy-two dinners was more than he would have been able to do alone, at least to any decent standard.

“I’ve already got one,” she said. “Although I might lose it if I don’t do some practice soon.”

“Practice?” Carl asked. “What do you do?”

In answer, Caroline reached down for the ever-present Viola and took her out of her case.

“I know who you are,” said Carl suddenly. He looked at me. “She’s the bitch that’s suing us.” We laughed. Even Caroline, the bitch, laughed.

“I’ll try and see about that,” she said. “Perhaps I’ve just been paid off.” She held up the beer and drank deeply, leaving a white mustache on her upper lip that she wiped away with her forearm. We laughed again.

I tried calling D.I. Turner. This was the fourth time, and once again I was told he was not available. I again asked if I could leave a message, but I was beginning to think that he wasn’t receiving them. I told the person at the other end of the line that it was really urgent. “Can I help?” this person asked. I started to tell him that it was about the bombing at Newmarket races. He told me that I should contact the Suffolk police, not the Special Branch. I told him that I feared my life was in danger, but I don’t think he believed me. He repeated that I should contact my local police station. So I did, and I asked for the senior officer on duty, only to be told that the inspector was out at the moment and would I like to leave a message. I sighed and said I would try again later.

Richard came into the office to say that most of the customers had gone and only one table remained, and they were having their coffee.

“Mrs. Kealy was asking after you,” he said to me.

“Were the Kealys here tonight?” I asked. “It’s not Saturday.”

“Last night and tonight,” he said. “Mrs. Kealy said something about wanting to support the restaurant after the difficult times with the poisoned dinner and all.”

How nice, I thought. I needed more customers like the Kealys.

“Most of the staff can go home now,” I said. “And you, Carl, if you like. I’ll lock up.” I wanted to be the last to leave so as not to be followed. “Richard, can you finish up?” He would ensure that the last table paid their bill, and then he would see them off the premises.

“No problem,” he said, and departed back to the dining room.

“Where are you staying?” Carl asked.

“We’re booked into a hotel,” I said.

“Which one?” he asked.

I wondered just how much I trusted Carl. “The Rutland Arms,” I lied.

I hoped he didn’t check. Moreton would not be on the guest list for tonight at the Rutland Arms. But, then again, Moreton wasn’t on the guest list for the Bedford Lodge either. I had booked our room in the name of Butcher.

“Well, I’m pooped,” said Carl, standing up. “I’m going home to bed.” The office usually doubled as a changing room, but, no doubt out of deference to Caroline, Carl took himself off to the gents’ to change out of his work clothes. I had always intended putting in a proper changing room, including a shower, but we had never quite got around to it.

Caroline placed Viola on her shoulder and played softly. It was wonderful. I watched her, and she stopped playing. “Don’t stop,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’m embarrassed,” she said.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “On Thursday night, hundreds of people will be watching you.”

“That’s somehow different,” she said. “They won’t be just two feet from my nose.”

I pushed my chair away until I was at least four feet away. “Better?” I asked.

She didn’t answer but again placed Viola on her shoulder and played sweet music.

Carl came back into the office, changed. Caroline stopped, and he smiled at her. “Someone’s left a cell phone in the gents’,” he said, placing it on my desk. “Silly bugger. I’ll deal with it in the morning. Good night.” He turned to leave.

“’Night, Carl,” I said. “And thanks for holding down the fort.”

“No problem,” he said, and departed. I couldn’t actually say to him tonight that he needed to work on his man-management skills. I would deal with that in the morning too.

“Are we off?” said Caroline.

“Soon,” I said. “We’ll wait until Richard has finished up and gone too.”

The forgotten cell phone on my desk rang. Caroline and I looked at it.

“Hello,” I said, answering it at the fourth ring.

“Hello,” said a male voice at the other end. “I think that’s my phone.”

“Who is this?” I asked.

“George Kealy,” said the voice. “Is that you, Max?”

“Yes, George,” I said. “You left your phone in the gents’.”

“Thought so,” he said. “Stupid fool. Sorry. I’ll come and get it, if that’s OK.”

“Sure,” I said. “But we’ll be locked, so knock on the front door.”

“Will do,” he said, and he hung up.

Richard came back in to report that all the customers had now gone, and he was going too. “Oh,” he said, turning back, “Jacek is still here. He wants a word with you. He’s waiting for you in the kitchen.”