Death by Dark Roast

by Kate Adams

  Kathy spoke with such passion. Once she had finished talking, I knew I wanted to work with her and her sister.

  ‘So, how would you like to gain another customer and supply the coffee to one of the country’s finest historic houses?’

  The two sisters looked at each other, their eyes wide. Lucy was the first to speak.

  ‘We thought this might be what you were going to say, but… well, now you’ve said it out loud, wow! Yeah, of course. That’s amazing.’

  Kathy threw her head back and laughed. ‘Oh my God, suppliers to Charleton House. It’s incredible.’ She leaned over and flung her arms around me. I wasn’t expecting it and nearly fell off my chair, but I hugged her back. She was a different woman to the one I’d seen over the weekend.

  ‘But don’t you need to check with the Duke and Duchess?’ Lucy asked, looking concerned.

  ‘No, the Duchess never drinks coffee so wouldn’t be able to offer an opinion, and the Duke would never get involved with this level of detail. I sometimes run menus past them for their own events, but in the main they leave food- and drink-related decisions up to me.’

  ‘I feel like we should be drinking something other than coffee.’ Lucy stared into her empty mug.

  ‘Don’t worry, we will,’ I replied. ‘We’ll get the details sorted, then we’ll crack open the champagne. But for now, cheers.’

  I offered them my mug, they raised theirs, and in a chorus of ‘cheers’ we saluted our new venture.

  After I’d said goodbye to Lucy and Kathy, I made my way through to the kitchen. The café had quietened down and I felt I could leave my extremely competent team to it, so I tidied up the kitchen to look less like a bombsite and started to lay out some ingredients. Following the magnificent fail of the chocolate and beetroot muffins, I wanted another go at experimenting, only this time with a much safer recipe.

  After coffee, my favourite liquid to drink is gin – only much less liberally, of course – and I’d had an idea. I was about to get started when there was a loud rapping at the window, so I looked up and found myself face to face with Malcolm. I’d forgotten all about him and it was quite nice to see him. He wasn’t someone I’d choose to socialise with, but he was always friendly and upbeat.

  I opened the window.

  ‘Hello, Sophie, hope I’m not disturbing you?’

  ‘Not at all, I was just about to experiment. What are you up to?’

  ‘Not much, stretching my legs. I’m on my way to say goodbye to the Duke and Duchess; I’m heading off shortly.’

  ‘I thought you were staying all week.’

  ‘I was, but something came up in Paris. I’m getting the Eurostar later today, so sadly my little break has been curtailed. It was lovely while it lasted, if a little lively. Is murder a common event around here?’

  He laughed, a deep throaty laugh that I imagined being formed by long nights with whisky and cigars.

  ‘Fortunately not.’ I decided not to tell him about a murder that had taken place a couple of months earlier. ‘It certainly livens things up a bit, though.’

  He leaned through the window. ‘What delights are you whipping up, or is it top secret?’

  ‘Not at all: gin and tonic cupcakes. I thought they’d be rather nice for some of the events we hold. The Duchess has a few coming up with “ladies who lunch” types, and with it being summer…’

  ‘Sounds delicious. Shame I won’t be here long enough to try them, although I’m more of a whisky man myself. Mind you, cake of any kind hits the spot.’ He had stepped back from the window and patted his stomach. ‘As you can see.’

  As he gave another of his throaty laughs, I remembered his meeting with Guy and his interest in restaurants.

  ‘I believe food is a professional interest as well?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I might have got it wrong, but I thought I heard someone say you were interested in opening up a restaurant. Guy is advising you?’

  ‘A restaurant?’ He thought briefly. ‘Oh yes, of course. Well, not so much opening one myself, but investing in one back in Paris. I don’t know much about it so I do a bit of research whenever I can. Guy’s done this kind of thing in the past.’

  A restaurant in Paris. It all sounded rather romantic, but then anything associated with Paris ended up sounding romantic.

  ‘What sort of food? I ran a couple of restaurants in London over the years, I might be able to help. I’m happy to give you my email address.’

  He looked a little flustered; embarrassed, perhaps. Maybe it was a project he was trying to keep secret until more had been confirmed. I was exactly the same way; I hadn’t told any of my friends or family about the job at Charleton House until I’d been offered it and accepted.

  ‘Well, it’s sort of a mix. Fusion, I guess you’d call it. We’re still playing with ideas. Well, the chef is. As the owner, I’d just be the backing.’

  He didn’t seem very sure. I was used to working with chefs who had a very distinctive style, but I knew that wasn’t always the way.

  ‘Whereabouts in Paris will be it? It must have been hard to decide, there are so many beautiful neighbourhoods.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ It was as though he hadn’t heard my question. ‘Well, sorry to say I ought to be getting off. I want to say goodbye to the Duke and Duchess.’ He was stepping back from the window as he spoke. ‘It’s been an absolute delight, Sophie, hope to see you when I next stop by.’

  With that, he was off up the lane and out of sight.

  I made a start on measuring out the ingredients for the cupcakes, pouring in the two tablespoons of gin the recipe called for, then I reconsidered. I was much more comfortable with the sound of four tablespoons. When it came to boozy cakes, too much was a risk I was always prepared to take. As I worked, I pondered over Malcolm’s obvious anxiety to get away from me. What was it with men avoiding conversations? Both Malcolm and Guy had been keen to escape my company as quickly as possible. Maybe I’d made them uncomfortable. Maybe my questions were just a little too close to the bone.

  Chapter 11

  Unusually for England, the hot weather wasn’t showing any signs of letting up, so the next morning I welcomed the opportunity to escape my kitchens and head off into the Derbyshire countryside. My car windows were wound down and fresh air buffeted me as I blasted my way round the country lanes. I had spent the morning visiting one of my suppliers, a farm about twenty miles away that supplied all the bacon and sausages I used at Charleton House. It had turned out that the farmer was a bit of a history buff and enjoyed playing with interesting sausage recipes, and I’d been selling one that combined pork, beef, sage and nutmeg. Simple, but delicious and authentic, it had ensured I’d sold record numbers of sausage barms – or sandwiches – to staff in particular. Once I’d arrived, it had been fun to put on my wellies and get a short tour of his farm. The packet of sausages that were now sitting in a cooler in the boot of my car, destined for my own fridge, were a nice bonus.

  I swung the car round the tight bends, past farms and cottages selling honey and jams at their gate with an honesty box for money. The cottage gardens held wonderful displays of foxgloves, sweet peas and delphiniums that sang ‘English country garden’. Their scents wafted in through my window and I slowed down to admire them, their delicate pinks and cream colours easy on the eye.

  I crossed over some train tracks, drove down a steep hill and passed the sign for an industrial estate that was hidden in some trees down a lane. One of the company names on the notice board caught my eye: ‘Silver Bullet Coffee Roasters’. Of course, this was where Guy and Kyle had based their company and roasting operation. I wondered idly if they would all be at work, roasting more beans for their next event. In a split second I decided to turn the car round and drop in unannounced. It would be easy for me to claim I was interested in their operation. It wasn’t too far away from the truth, and maybe I would find out something more about Ben.

  I drove slowly down the pot-holed lane and event
ually came to a large clearing. There were five industrial buildings and a number of cars, vans and trucks scattered about, the red-brick walls and metal roofs of the buildings a million miles away from the artistic splendour and show of wealth that the architects of Charleton House had created. I drove slowly past them, looking for one that had a sign referencing coffee.

  There it was, on the third building along, next to some external stairs. I parked up the car and got out just as a man appeared from a large open door a few feet away.

  ‘Can I help you, love?’

  ‘I’m looking for Silver Bullet Coffee, I’m guessing they’re up there?’ I pointed up the metal staircase.

  ‘Sure are. I saw one of them around earlier, but he left about half an hour ago. Why don’t you wait upstairs? If he’s coming back, it’ll be open. I’m guessing you’ll be able to make yourself a coffee.’

  He laughed at his own joke as I climbed up the metal staircase to the door at the top. The man had been right: the door was unlocked and I let myself in, calling out as I entered, not wanting to take anyone by surprise if it turned out someone was still in there.

  No response.

  The Silver Bullet offices consisted of two large rooms, connected by a single door. The white walls shone as the sunlight bounced around the room. A couple of desks along one wall held a few untidy piles of paperwork and cables where laptops would be plugged in when someone was working there. On the opposite side of the room was a long, tall shelving unit, filled with cardboard boxes. A couple of the boxes were open and I could see they contained the bags that would go on to hold the Silver Bullet Coffee beans. A few of the empty coffee bags had fallen on the floor; a couple littered one of the desks. There were brown flecks here and there on the pale grey carpet, and the occasional pile of brown powder. I bent down to investigate more closely and realised it was coffee granules.

  It made sense. Some customers wanted beans they could grind at home, others wanted them ready ground, avoiding the fuss of that extra step. I for one always ground the coffee myself; I enjoyed playing an additional part in the process of getting the coffee into my cup, and it meant the room filled with the wonderful aroma of fresh beans.

  It looked as if the Silver Bullet guys packaged the coffee in here. I stepped through the door, expecting to see the roasting machine in pride of place and waiting to get to work on another batch, but there was nothing. No roaster; no sacks of coffee beans waiting to go in; no sign of a coffee operation at all. But I could tell from indentations on the carpet that large boxes had recently been stored in here, and there were some coffee beans scattered about.

  It didn’t make any sense. I knew that this was Silver Bullet’s registered office and warehouse; I’d looked the company up online as I often did with independent coffee roasters I came across. A small company like this wouldn’t be able to afford multiple locations, and if Guy and Kyle had a backer who did enable them to expand, they would have also had the money to make these rooms look a lot more welcoming. There wasn’t even a cheap inspirational poster on the wall, let alone empty coffee sacks with interesting designs framed and turned into art. I’d have expected maps of the world that showed where the beans had come from, perhaps a large version of their logo proudly displayed on the front door, but there wasn’t any of that here. Yes, there were all the bags that would later be filled with the coffee, but that was it.

  The offices were beginning to look like somewhere that had been abandoned in a hurry, like the company had collapsed, the bailiffs had been in, and Guy and Kyle could no longer pay the rent on the space and had just walked out. But I knew that wasn’t the case. They had a beautiful Airstream that they took around the country, an employee in the form of Ben – well, an ex-employee – and they were selling their reasonable if uninspired coffee very successfully. I was sure these rooms had not been abandoned. Besides which, the man I had spoken to outside had said that one of them had been here this morning. None of it made any sense.

  Returning to the first room, I started to flick through the paperwork on the desk. I was a bit unnerved by how little guilt I felt about that; I wasn’t sure if that made me a great snoop or a great detective! There were the usual letters from events companies about upcoming festivals, late payment letters for the rental of this industrial unit, and delivery notes for the boxes on the shelves. There was the receipt for the Airstream, which had been paid off in one lump sum twelve months ago. There was also paperwork relating to the Sheffield Roasting Hub. I’d heard of it before, but I quickly pulled the information up on my phone to refresh my memory.

  The Sheffield Roasting Hub was a coffee roasting facility where people could rent the space by the half day and roast their own coffee using the equipment provided. It was a great solution for small companies that couldn’t afford the huge financial investment of buying their own roasting equipment. I pulled some of the paperwork together – it looked as if Silver Bullet had stopped using the Roasting Hub roughly twelve months ago. That would usually mean that a company had finally been able to afford its own equipment, but not Silver Bullet. Or at least, there was no sign of it here.

  What were Guy and Kyle playing at? They weren’t using the Roasting Hub, they hadn’t bought their own equipment, and yet they had the money to buy an enormous, gleaming Airstream. The more unusual it seemed, the more uncomfortable I started to feel, and I decided it was time to leave.

  As I turned towards the door, I spotted a small piece of card on the floor. It was a business card for Bruce Keen from the Northern Bean Company. I was now doubly confused as I couldn’t imagine what Bruce had been doing here, unless he was planning on going into business with Guy and Kyle, which I found unlikely. One of the attractions for customers to companies like Silver Bullet was their independence and small-scale operation. Mind you, without any equipment, Silver Bullet’s operation was so small it was virtually non-existent.

  I stepped back out into the summer heat and down the stairs, my footsteps making the metal steps clang as I went. Next to the stairs was a large metal skip and I glanced inside as I went down, using my temporary bird’s-eye view. There were dozens of empty folded cardboard boxes inside. I was hoping that the Silver Bullet lads were planning on recycling them when I spotted something familiar on the side of one of the boxes. It was an image of a pile of coffee beans with three letters underneath: ‘NBC’ – the logo for The Northern Bean Company.

  I stopped a couple of steps from the bottom of the stairs and stared at the boxes. Silver Bullet’s coffee had tasted exactly like that of NBC – I’d used the same words to describe them both. That was because they were the same.

  Silver Bullet Coffee and NBC coffee were one and the same.

  As I stood there, staring into the skip, it all became clear. Guy and Kyle were decanting NBC coffee into Silver Bullet branded bags and selling it as their own, with a healthy mark up on the price because people were happy to pay more when they thought they were supporting a small local company. I was horrified by what they were doing, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this had some bearing on Ben’s murder. Was Ben in on it to the same extent as Guy and Kyle, assuming, of course, that as the owners of the company, Guy and Kyle were both happily behind this idea? Had Ben been supportive of the scheme, or was he a reluctant participant, in it solely to keep his job? Had he developed a conscience about what they were doing and been threatening to blow the whistle on the whole operation? That of course would put Guy and Kyle directly in the spotlight as having motives.

  On the other hand, Bruce must have been furious when he realised what was happening. I was sure he would have put it together in the same way I had. When had he visited and dropped the business card? I knew he’d been in the area on Friday and Saturday – surely this now gave him a motive.

  I started to feel distinctly vulnerable. The last thing I needed were any potential killers turning up and discovering that I was in on their secret, so I went back to my car. I was about forty minutes’ drive from Charleton H
ouse and that would give me some thinking time; I’d call Joe when I was back at the office.

  The route from the industrial estate to Charleton House took me past my home and the Black Swan Pub. I’d already decided on my next plan of action and I pulled into the car park.

  There were a few customers sitting in the beer garden, enjoying the sunshine and an early afternoon pint as I went in. It was nice to get inside, my eyes welcoming the rest after the glare of the sunshine, especially as I’d left my sunglasses in my office. I looked about for the landlord and found him wiping down a table in the far corner.

  ‘Steve, do you have a minute?’

  ‘Of course, can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No thanks, I can’t stop. This is going to be a bit of an odd question, but you know the two guys from the coffee company that have been staying here? Well, one of them was here for breakfast the day of the murder up at the house. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Of course, Kyle. The police were asking about him.’

  ‘Do you remember what time he left?’

  ‘Sure. Like I told the police, I saw him leave at about nine. I remember because I had a delivery arrive as he was leaving and the brewery is always dead on time. Sorry, that’s not a good way of putting it under the circumstances.’

  I smiled so he knew he hadn’t offended me.

  ‘That was quite late for breakfast.’

  ‘He wasn’t eating breakfast that late; he had it delivered to his room at seven. We started doing room service about six months ago. Just for breakfast, mind, and it’s been really popular. He did that each morning he was here. I took the tray up to his room at seven, then collected the dirty dishes after I saw him leave at nine.’