Val Mcdermid - Clean Break

We got out of the car and Gianni folded me into a bear hug, his tongue thrusting between my teeth. It felt like my tonsils were being raped. “What happened to dinner?” I asked as soon as I could get my mouth clear. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t think about having fun when I’m hungry.”

Gianni chuckled. “Okay, okay. First the food, then the fun.” He leered and gestured with his thumb toward a door at the side of the garage. “That’s my apartment over there. But we’ll go over to the house to eat. My boss has better food and drink than me.”

We walked over to the house, his arm heavy across my shoulders. We crossed a marble patio, complete with built-in barbecue and pizza oven, and entered the kitchen through tall french windows. It was like a temple to the culinary arts. There was a freestanding butcher’s block in the middle of the floor, complete with a set of Sabatier knives in their slots. Above it hung a batterie de cuisine. On the blond wooden worktops, there was every conceivable kitchen machine from icecream maker to a full-sized Gaggia. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the walls, while pots of fresh basil, coriander and parsley lined a deep windowsill to the side. “He likes to cook,” Gianni said. “He likes me to cook too, when we have guests.”

“Nice one,” I said. “Where’s the drink?”

He nodded toward a door. “Through there. There’s a wet bar in the dining room. It’s got everything. There’s white wine in the fridge, and red wine in the cupboard here. Why don’t you help yourself?” He moved toward me again and clutched me close, his huge hands cupping my buttocks. “Mmm, gorgeous,” he growled.

I reached round and let my fingers stray up and down his back. That way I stopped myself thrusting my thumbs into his eyeballs. “Tell you what,” I whispered. “I’ll fix us some cocktails. I might not be much good in the kitchen, but I’m terrific with a cocktail shaker.”

He released me and leered again. “I can’t wait to experience your wrist action.”

I giggled. “You won’t be disappointed, I promise you.”

I left him staring into a big larder fridge. He hadn’t lied about the wet bar. It did have everything. The first thing I did was dredge my phial of Valium out of the bottom of my bag. I’m pretty hostile to pharmaceuticals in general, but if I didn’t have the Valium, I’d have blackened stumps where my teeth should be. I tipped the tablets out. There were six. I hoped that would be enough on an empty stomach to knock Gianni out before I had to test whether I really did have the skills to stop a man in his tracks. I spotted a sharp knife by a basket of lemons and oranges, and quickly crushed the tablets with the blade. Then I took a quick inventory of the bar. What I needed was a cocktail that was strong and bittersweet.

I found the measure and the shaker sitting on a shelf behind me. A small fridge contained a variety of fruit juices and a couple of bags of ice. I settled on a Florida. Into a cocktail shaker I put three measures of gin, six measures of grapefruit juice, three measures of Galliano and one and a half measures of Campari. I tossed in a couple of ice cubes, closed the shaker and did a quick salsa round the bar with the shaker providing the beat. “Sounds good,” Gianni shouted from the kitchen.

“Wait till you taste it,” I called back. I chose a couple of tall glasses and scraped the Valium powder into one. I topped it up with about two-thirds of the cocktail mixture and stirred it vigorously with a glass rod. I poured the rest into the other glass and topped it up with grapefruit juice and a dash of grenadine syrup to make the colors match. I swallowed hard, picked up both glasses and walked through to the kitchen. Gianni was chopping red onions with a wide-bladed chef’s knife. “A very Italian cocktail,” I announced, handing the drugged glass to him.

He took it from me and swigged a generous mouthful. He savored it, swilling it round his mouth before swallowing it. “You’re right. Bitter and sweet. Like love, huh?” The leer was back.

“Not too bitter, I hope,” I giggled, moving behind him and hugging him from behind.

“Not with me, baby. With me, it’ll be sweeter than sugar” he said arrogantly.

“I can hardly wait,” I murmured. I wasn’t exactly lying. I moved away and perched on a high stool, watching him cook. The onions went into a deep pan with olive oil and garlic. Next, he chopped a fennel bulb into thin slices and added them to the stewing onions. He took a basket of wild mushrooms from the fridge, washed them under running water, patted them dry lovingly with paper towels and chopped them coarsely. Into the pan they went along with a torn handful of coriander leaves.

“It smells wonderful,” I said.

“Wait till you taste it,” he said. “There’s only one thing tastes better.” Time for another leer. The temperature was rising in more ways than one. The only good thing about that was the speed at which he was drinking his cocktail.

“No contest,” I said, watching him measure out round grains of risotto rice. He tipped the rice into the pan, stirred it into the mixture for a couple of minutes, then took a carton out of the freezer.

“Chicken stock,” he said, tossing the solid lump into the pan amidst much hissing and clouds of steam. He kept stirring till the stock had defrosted and the pan was bubbling gently. Then he put a lid on, set the timer for twelve minutes and drained his glass.

“How about a salad to go with it?” I asked hastily as he started to move toward me. “And I’ll mix you another drink, okay?”

His eyes seemed to lose focus momentarily and he shook his head like a bull bothered by flies. He rubbed his hands over his face and mumbled, “Okay.” I’d reckoned about twenty minutes for the drugs to take effect, but maybe the amount he’d had to drink on an empty stomach was accelerating things.

I’d barely got the cap off the gin bottle when there was a sound like a tree falling in the kitchen. I tiptoed back to the doorway to see Gianni spread-eagled on the marble floor. For one terrible moment, I thought I’d killed him. Then he started to snore like a sawmill on overtime. I ran across to the butcher’s block and picked up the knife. It took seconds to saw off the electric cable from a couple of the kitchen appliances. Tying him up took quite a bit longer, but the snoring didn’t even change in note while I was doing it. I took the black box out of his pocket and tucked it my bag.

I found the cellar door on the second try. A wide flight of stairs led down into the depths. One thing about marble floors is that they make shifting heavy loads a lot easier. I got down on my knees behind Gianni and shoved with all my strength. Foot by foot, we slid across the gleaming tiles to the doorway.

One last push sent him skidding over the first step, feet first. He bounced down the stairs like a sack of potatoes, still snoring. I staggered to my feet. For the first time, I was grateful that Gianni’s boss was security conscious. The cellar door had bolts top and bottom as well as a lock on the door. I slid the bolts home and leaned against the door to get my breath back.

When the timer went off, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Automatically, I turned off the gas under the pan. Now the adrenaline surge was slipping away, I realized that I was in fact ravenous. I shrugged. The food was there, I might as well eat. I didn’t think Gianni was going to be knocking at the door demanding his share in a hurry.

He might have been the world’s worst lecher, but he was a fabulous cook. I shoveled the risotto down, savouring every delicious mouthful. Now I needed coffee. It was going to be a long night. I wished I hadn’t chopped the lead off the Gaggia. A search of the cupboards eventually turned up a jar of instant and a Thermos jug. I brewed up and, armed with jug, mug and shoulder bag, I set off to explore.