Cherringham - A Dinner to Die For

by Matthew Costello

  He saw Sarah. Smiled. Then, with a look to the woman behind the desk, the smile faded a bit.

  “Ian, this young lady–”

  Sarah thought: The receptionist is at that point in her life where nearly everyone looks young.

  Seeing the woman’s discomfort, Sarah jumped in.

  “Mr Carter, I–”

  “Ian, please. Mr Carter was my dad.”

  Sarah smiled back. The man seemed to wait patiently for whatever it was Sarah had to say.

  “I was wondering if I could talk to you about–” she fired a look at the woman behind the counter, back to flipping sheets of paper, tapping at her keyboard, but clearly watching what was passing for this morning’s entertainment.

  “Do you have an office where we could talk?”

  His grin broadened, arms flying out to encompass the whole open-space fish market. “You’re in it.”

  She nodded. “Okay. It’s about something that happened before Christmas. At a restaurant in Cherringham.”

  She felt his eyes locked on her.

  Blue they were, she noted. Strikingly so.

  “A case of food poisoning. Apparently, the seafood that night came from here?”

  And though those eyes stayed fixed on Sarah, any semblance of warmth vanished at those words.

  Ian Carter stood stock-still. Sarah could well imagine that asking the owner of a place like this about his fish being tainted… Would not go over well.

  She half expected him to take her arm and guide her to the door out.

  Instead: “Look, Ms–”

  “Sarah,” she said.

  “Sarah. Um, can I show you something?”

  “Sure. I mean, if it might help.”

  “A little knowledge,” he said, and now he did take her elbow.

  “This way. And watch your feet. Floor gets pretty wet in there.”

  *

  Ian stopped at one of the bays.

  “See these oysters? Little more than twenty-four hours ago they were in the sea.”

  He ran a hand over the pile, smoothing the ice.

  “From the sea, they went into the refrigerated hold of a trawler designed for seafood. Could be oysters, mussels, maybe seine nets full of Dover sole. You name it.”

  She realised that – like it or not – she was about to get an education in ocean-to-table seafood handling.

  “Those special holds are temperature controlled. Monitored constantly. Once on shore, they go immediately into another refrigerated compartment, this one on a truck. Now – for some trucks – there’s also an on-board computer to monitor temperature. You with me so far…?”

  He turned and moved deeper into the sea of stainless steel bays. Sarah felt chilled. The back of the warehouse was open, and she saw a truck there, back end open. Men bustling about.

  “From there, they go to the big seafood market in Birmingham. Our supplier. Best in the country, Maybe the world. Every fish, every oyster, treated like it was gold. They get my order…”

  They had been standing next to one bay with rows of cod; forlorn eyes looking up at the gleaming arc lighting overhead.

  “Same process. Monitored all the way until whatever it is arrives here – right now.” He pointed to the open truck being unloaded at the rear of the warehouse. “Right there.”

  And Sarah turned to see plastic bins fly down a conveyor from the open truck, and quickly into refrigerators on the floor.

  “Everything barcoded. Dated. Checked. Numbered.”

  He then turned to her. “There’s no way that someone got poisoned by anything I provided.”

  And Ian Carter stopped, and waited to see what questions his tour had left unanswered.

  “Look,” Sarah said, trying her best to be as understanding as possible, “I see the care you take. I get that…”

  “You know,” Ian said as they stood amidst the rolling containers flying out of the truck, “I didn’t think I was going to do this. Take over my dad’s business. I went to Uni. Had plans. But you know what they say about plans…”

  “I do indeed.”

  Ian nodded. “After my dad passed away, I had to take this on, and well, I suppose something about working here suddenly made sense. That’s my mum outside, by the way. I decided there are worse lives. And make no mistake: I take this very seriously.”

  She nodded, now almost hesitant to ask the next question.

  “Then how do you think the problem with the fish happened?”

  He stopped, looked around.

  “Only one way. All that careful monitoring of the temperature, the refrigeration, from sea to table? Someone must have done something that interfered with the order – after it left here. Someone got sloppy. Mixed up batches maybe. Didn’t follow the routines properly in the kitchen. Didn’t clear out the old stock.”

  “The chef at the restaurant says they were meticulous.”

  She saw Ian shrug, clearly not believing that. Then: “It was oysters they had, wasn’t it?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “And quite a number of people affected?”

  “More than twenty.”

  “Hmm. okay. One thing I don’t understand,” he said. “With oysters – if they’re bad you can tell. The smell. The taste. Even the look of the shell.”

  “The chef would have spotted it, yes?”

  “Had to. That many covers? Even if they were rushing to serve.”

  “You mean – it’s odd, right? How it happened?” she said.

  She saw him nod – as if up until now he hadn’t really thought it through.

  “You said everything is numbered, logged,” she said. “That all go on the invoices?”

  “Has to,” said Ian.

  “Can I see them?”

  Sarah waited while Ian clearly weighed up the pros and cons of this request. Then: “Don’t see why not. Come back to the front – they’ll be on the computer.”

  He turned and Sarah followed him back through the store area.

  “Do you mind if I ask you,” she reached out, and touched his arm, “the people here, your staff, are they all checked out? I mean past history and so on?”

  “To the extent allowed by law.”

  Sarah’s eyes had fixed on one man; muscular arms covered in swirls of tattoos, hurling icy plastic crates down the aisles.

  “So, the guys who work here, there’s no chance…?”

  “I see where you’re going with this,” he rubbed his chin, “but no. I’m confident in them. Not that they don’t have a pint too many some nights. But they’re good, hard workers who know how to work with my system, maintain my standards…”

  Better forget that idea, Sarah thought.

  “Okay, Ian, and thanks. You know – I wish I could buy some of what you have here – looks fantastic.”

  “Wholesale only, I’m afraid. And as you know – I’m a stickler for the rules.”

  Sarah nodded, then followed him back towards the front desk.

  As he opened the heavy door into the office, he stepped to one side.

  “Just hope this whole trip here doesn’t turn out to be a bit of a… red herring,” he said.

  Sarah looked at him and paused.

  “Red herring!” he said, then laughed loudly.

  “Very good,” said Sarah, heading over to his mother who sat by the computer.

  As the door shut behind her, she saw Ian through the glass, walking back into the warehouse, rubbing his hands together and still laughing.

  16. Secrets

  Jack finished his macchiato and looked around the busy café for one of the waitresses to deal with his check.

  By the front door, he saw the line of people waiting for beverages to take out – and among them… Anna Garcia in jeans and a parka.

  He got up from the table and walked over to her.

  “Anna. Good morning.”

  She turned, her face looking tired and pale, still smudges of smoke on her skin.

  “Jack – how are you? You okay?”r />
  “Hey, I’m fine. But you – the restaurant… You been up all night?”

  “Pretty much. Had to talk to the police. The fire guys. Wanted to see if there was anything to salvage.”

  “I’m guessing not?”

  She shook her head.

  He waited while she picked up her coffee. Then: “You want to walk back up there with me?”

  “Sure,” he said, opening the door and following her out onto the High Street.

  “You heard about Lady Repton’s dinner?” she said, as they walked side by side against the bitter wind up towards the Bayleaf.

  Jack could still smell last night’s fire on the wind.

  “I did,” he said. “She sure moves fast.”

  Anna nodded.

  “Yes, precisely what I thought. But it’s a big compliment to be asked – and, right now, I’ll take any compliments however they come.”

  “Can you do it? In time?”

  “Repton Hall has a big kitchen for conferences. I checked their website. Sure, I can do it. In fact – I’m going to do it brilliantly. I’m already running the menu in my head.”

  “I can believe it,” said Jack, smiling at her.

  Impressive, thought Jack.

  Knocked down – get up again.

  Like that in people.

  They reached the restaurant.

  Jack took in the wrecked building. Though the roof was still intact, the windows were all smashed and hollowed out. Furniture and kitchen equipment had been dragged out into the car park and piled up in a sodden mess.

  A couple of firemen were still raking debris. A fire truck was still parked in the restaurant car park. Oily, black water lay in pools.

  “What’s the plan today?” he said. “Maybe you should head home, get some rest?”

  “I’d love to,” she said. “But I’m waiting for Paddy. We’ve got Saturday to plan. I can use Lady Repton’s staff – but I need him at my side. He should have been here an hour ago.”

  Jack waited while she took out her phone and dialled a number, then listened for a couple of seconds, shrugged and put the phone back in her pocket again.

  “Been calling him all morning. Goes straight to voicemail.”

  “Guess he had a late night, like all of us.”

  “Paddy always shows,” she said, shaking her head. “This is just too bad. Trouble is – he lives just outside the village, and my car’s trapped in there, and I’d go get him, but–”

  Jack could see she was getting anxious, maybe focussing all that she’d lost into this one missed appointment.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “I’m parked just over there – why don’t you hop in and we’ll go together?”

  “Really?”

  “Least I can do.”

  Then she smiled and Jack felt his mood lift for the first time that morning.

  “Let’s go,” he said, taking her arm and going with her across the road to the little sports car.

  *

  Sarah slowly scrolled through the spreadsheet on the computer in Carter’s reception, checking the December invoices for the Bayleaf. One by one she noted the date, time, quantity – always oysters – and the name on the purchase order: Anna Garcia.

  She looked across at Mrs Carter, who sat sipping tea at the desk next to her. The old lady smiled and nodded. Sarah smiled back, then turned to her screen again.

  The warehouse door behind her opened, and Ian appeared.

  “Find anything?” he said.

  She sat back, shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Though to be honest I’m not even sure I know what I’m looking for. According to these, Anna came herself every day that week, bought the boxes, signed for them, took them away with her.”

  “Ah, right. I remember her now,” said Ian. “Came in sharpish when we opened… American woman, yes?”

  “New Yorker.”

  “Pleasant enough,” said Ian. “Actually – she was very particular about the oysters. Fussy even. Knew her stuff, that was for sure.”

  “You haven’t seen her since?”

  “I think after the… er… incident… she decided to purchase her seafood elsewhere. Understandable.”

  “Shame,” said Mrs Carter. “I liked her. Breath of fresh air, she was.”

  Sarah turned to her: “Oh – so you remember her too?”

  “We had a cup of tea, every morning together, just the two of us, while we waited for the order to be sorted. Had some very nice chats. Very nice.”

  Sarah smiled: “I should have just talked to you first Mrs Carter – didn’t need to go through the files at all.”

  “Well, that’s true dear,” said Mrs Carter. “And of course – those files don’t tell the whole story, do they?”

  “Don’t they?” said Sarah.

  “They only show the purchases on account, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Sarah, not sure where this was going.

  “If you wanted to see the cash purchases, you’d have to look in this book here.”

  Sarah watched as the woman opened a drawer in her desk and brought out an old-fashioned ledger.

  “But, Mum – did Anna do cash purchases too?” said Ian, now appearing just as interested in the ledger as Sarah.

  “Well no… she didn’t… obviously,” said Mrs Carter.

  “Ah,” said Ian.

  “But her employee did.”

  “Employee?” said Sarah.

  “Yes, employee,” said Mrs Carter. “That big fellow. The other chef. Chap with the red hair…”

  Sarah reached into her handbag, took out her phone and flicked through to the picture of the chef from Sheffield. She held it up.

  “Oh, yes,” said Mrs Carter. “That’s the one.”

  “Paddy Fitzgerald,” said Sarah.

  “Yes, Paddy. A man that big – shock of red hair – hard to forget. He came in on his own one afternoon that same week.”

  Sarah thought: Sometimes, ask enough questions… and you get lucky.

  “And what exactly did he buy, Mrs Carter? I don’t suppose you remember?”

  Sarah watched the old lady sit back in her chair.

  “Well, that’s the funny thing,” she said. “He bought a crate of oysters too.”

  Sarah looked at Ian, who seemed as intent as she was on listening to this.

  “In fact,” said Mrs Carter, “he insisted on paying cash. Asked me not to mention it to Ms Garcia. Said he’d made a mistake with the order. Wanted to make it up himself.”

  “So, um, Anna never knew there was an extra crate of oysters in the kitchen,” said Sarah, almost to herself.

  She looked up at Ian.

  He nodded, his face showing he understood what this meant.

  “So not a ’red herring’, Ian,” said Sarah, smiling.

  “No,” he said. “But very fishy – don’t you think?”

  “I certainly do,” she said, already reaching for her handbag and car keys and heading for the door.

  *

  Jack turned the corner into Charlbury Crescent and peered through the gloomy grey morning at the line of tiny identical houses.

  “Which number?” he said.

  “Forty-three,” said Anna. “About halfway down, I think.”

  About a hundred yards ahead, backed up to the front door of one of the houses, he could see a red VW saloon with the tailgate open and the passenger doors wide.

  A tall man in a hoodie appeared at the door of the house, lugging a big suitcase. Next to him, a young woman, carrying a cardboard box.

  “There he is,” said Anna as they drew closer. “But I don’t know who the woman is. And I don’t know why he’s packing up.”

  “I do,” said Jack, and he pulled in and parked sharply behind another car.

  He watched the woman load the box, then head back into the house. He’d only seen her a couple of times before, but she was easy enough to recognise.

  Izzy from the Spotted Pig.

  The waitress with the bad wor
k ethic.

  And the phone habit.

  “What’s the matter?” said Anna. “Why can’t you just drop me by the house?”

  Jack turned to her. “Anna – remind me about something,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “You didn’t hire Paddy.”

  “No. He was part of the deal when we started.”

  “Let me guess – kinda take it or leave it?”

  “Well… yes. But well-recommended, strong CV, and–”

  “He ever mention a girlfriend?”

  She shook her head. “No. Lived on his own. That’s what he said.”

  Jack looked back to the car, to Izzy.

  A departure in the works…

  “What’s going on, Jack?” said Anna.

  “Lot of pieces of jigsaw are just falling into place – and while they do, I think we should just sit here for a second… you okay with that?”

  He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and took it out, flicked it on.

  “Sarah.”

  “Jack. Bear with me – I’m in the car.”

  “Me too. Parked outside Paddy Fitzgerald’s place.”

  “You are? But that’s amazing. Guess what?”

  And Jack listened as Sarah told him what she’d discovered.

  When she’d finished, he told her about Paddy packing up – and Izzy helping him.

  “Can you wait until I get there?” she said. “I’m about twenty minutes from Cherringham. Don’t want to miss this.”

  But, up ahead, Jack saw Paddy shut the tailgate and climb into the car next to the woman.

  “Ah,” he said, “’fraid, even as we speak, events are moving ahead of us.”

  He turned on the engine, just as Paddy drove off the drive, turned onto the road and sped away.

  “Sarah. Paddy’s on the move. I’m going to tail him. I’ll get Anna to call you when we know where we’re heading.”

  “Anna’s with you?”

  “Gotta go. Can’t talk and drive. We’ll tell you where we end up.”

  “Great – I’ll be there.”

  He turned off the phone and handed it to Anna, then started the engine and kicked off down the road in pursuit.

  “Care to explain to me why we’re tailing my sous chef?” said Anna.

  Jack looked over, realising that all this would be news to her.

  “Because your sous chef, and his girlfriend there, are the cause of all your troubles, Anna.”