Cold to the Touch

by Fyfield, Frances

  Sarah always looked at the pictures on the wall first, disappointed if there were none. She remembered the house of the man who had held the dinner party where Jessica had poured the soup. There had not been a single picture on any of the rag-rolled walls, which was rather a waste, as if the man had no taste to express. In this quiet, discreet, rich-feeling restaurant that felt more like a club and could supply pigs’ trotters and offal delicacies, muslin-wrapped meat puddings for sentimental old schoolboys and those who imagined they had discovered such things, there were several gently lit oil paintings and watercolours. They all featured boats and the sea. The one behind her at their corner table was a colourful depiction of men dragging nets into a boat that rocked precariously under a stormy sky.

  ‘You wouldn’t come here if you were a vegetarian,’ Mike said, looking at the menu. ‘Fucking foie gras all over the place. Specialités de la maison, meat, meat and more meat.’

  ‘Vegetarians wouldn’t apply,’ Sarah agreed. ‘But there is a fish option.’

  ‘Halibut steak in beurre blanc. Only the meatiest kind of fish.’

  The restaurant was designed to reassure a certain almost exclusively male clientele. The sort of place where a man might bring a mistress rather than a wife. It was on the far side of Charterhouse Square, thus close to Smithfield and the City, equally convenient for lawyers, bankers, et al. A place for the kind of man who preferred to dine out and who could use it as somewhere to close a deal or discuss a project with another man in private, whilst eating the kind of luxurious protein that would be forbidden at home. Fat, sleek men, seeking the solace and reinforcement of chateaubriand, unlimited fine wines and the company of their own kind. The prices were astronomical and yet the place was full. They were served by a beautiful, almost monosyllabic waitress who knew the menu by heart but whose otherwise limited command of English would prevent her from overhearing much. There was a chatty sommelier who was delighted to talk to a man with Mike’s cockney accent, which mirrored his own carefully disguised vowels. Mike would always find the weakest link; the one who was indiscreet, or bored or scared. It was a talent they shared.

  It was definitely the sort of place where you were not allowed to pour your own wine. The sommelier hovered, filling the glasses half full only as necessary, while making it clear that they were the favoured customers for the night.

  ‘No wonder,’ Mike said to Sarah. ‘There’s only one decent woman in the house and that’s you. The other two is floozies. We’re the only ones who look as if we might be celebrities. I reckon that wine waiter fancies me.’

  The place had an aura of success. The weak link in the wall of discretion was the bored wine waiter. The room, with its wide-spaced intimate tables and perfect acoustics for secrets, began to clear at about ten. The sommelier suggested a sweet wine to follow, and both of them agreed. Sarah had eaten fish and Mike had demolished steak tartare, something she loathed. Between mouthfuls, Sarah paused to wonder what terrible mayhem Jessica might have wrought in here. She could have ruined this business single-handedly – no, perhaps not – but she could certainly have done a lot of damage.

  ‘Sit down and have a drink, why don’t you?’ Mike said to the sommelier. Such a diplomat. ‘If you want us to have this fucking Sauternes, at least sit down and fucking drink it with us.’

  The place was almost empty by now. Sarah gazed at the picture on the opposite wall. It was a seascape, with a battle scene. More storms, more ships at war with cannons firing and men jumping overboard, with a shredded Union Jack on the winning vessel and a lot of bodies in the sea. Maybe there was never a nautical theme here: maybe the artwork was simply about winners and losers. The sommelier sat willingly, a small bantam-like man with a flushed face and a wide smile.

  ‘So who owns this joint, then?’

  ‘Big man. Loves the place. Doesn’t want to be famous. He’s always here for lunch if you want to see him, not always around for the evening sittings, although he always comes back at the very end to sort out the takings and check the tidying-up, and then he hangs around until he goes out and buys the meat. Leaves us alone, pays well. He knows what works, only he likes to do the buying. He’s always front of house at lunch because lunch is the most important thing here. He and the chef look after small private parties on Sunday evenings for regulars when I’m not here. Likes to charm the pants off the lunchtime punters because they’re mostly as old as him. Leaves most evenings to me.’ He preened. ‘But he always comes back later.’

  ‘The owner buys the meat?’ Sarah said pleasantly.

  ‘Big time. Buys for other people, too. Always goes around three in the morning, the best time he says, the prices start to come down. Likes to go in person, look at it, feel it, touch it, that’s why it’s so good. He loves the look of it. Only he’s got the sense to leave veg to someone else, and wine to me.’

  ‘Ever any trouble with the customers?

  The sommelier sniggered. ‘Not really, good as gold they are. He charms them, see? Money back if not satisfied and so it should be, these prices, but they are satisfied. Quiet. He did have a bit of trouble a while back with a female chef, who went and then kept coming back with a grievance, shouting and screaming and smashing glasses, saying you can’t treat me like this. I’m new here, don’t know the history, see what I mean? I reckon she was nutty. He got a bit cross about that. Pushed her out the back.’

  ‘I used to work in Smithfield,’ Mike said, leaning back in his comfortable chair as if he relaxed this way every evening. ‘Paid well before the taxman got in there. I reckon your job’s better. Does the boss have any particular supplier? Be nice to know where he gets his meat from. Could fancy buying some myself – not as much as I fancy your wine, though.’

  The sommelier grinned and winked. ‘Don’t know where he gets the meat from. Smithfield, anyway, he won’t let the chef choose, oh no. Has to do it himself. Walks over or calls a taxi, no room for a car here and he won’t drive. Likes to walk at night.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Sarah spoke breathily, disliking herself. ‘Absolutely fascinating. So the owner doesn’t do the cooking himself?’

  ‘Good God, no. He’s not Jamie Oliver. Chefs come and go.’

  ‘Well, I hope this one stays. Could we possibly meet him and present our compliments? I’d like to book up for a party if he’s here.’

  She was paying the bill as they spoke, adding a generous tip in cash.

  The sommelier, who doubled as cashier at this time of the evening, watched her hands and smiled into her wide-open eyes.

  ‘You want to see the kitchen too? Proud of it – follow me.’

  Sarah always wanted to go backstage, anywhere. Backstage at the theatre, the shop, the restaurant, the factory, anywhere where the real work was done and the real people dwelt. She had done many a messy job in her life, loved the kitchens which were the real heart of any building. She had admired Jessica’s talent for making food. It was so much less ephemeral than her own talent for making damaged men happy.

  The kitchen gleamed. It was in the process of being scrubbed down after the last orders had been delivered to the few remaining diners. She could see why there would be no hesitation in showing it off at this time of the evening rather than when it was in the manic stage of a fully booked house. The smell of food was masked by scents of detergent and steam, although the lingering smell of roasted beef was still detectable. That was the smell that always remained longest, along with an aftertaste of garlic: it would still be there in the morning, like the old smells of stale beer in a pub. A girl wearing an overall and with a paper hat covering her hair stood by a deep butler’s sink, battling with a huge pan that she lugged out of soapy water and dumped on the draining board with a bang. A chef would need strong wrists to shake that pan. It would make a useful weapon for stunning an ox, but an industrial kitchen like this contained many other weapons far more lethal. Mallets for tenderising meat, an even greater variety of knives for slicing, chopping, filleting fish, dicing vegetables, meta
l skewers with pointed ends, more implements than she would have seen in a butcher’s shop. The kitchen was full of sharp stainless steel edges and the floor was durable non-slip stone. Everything steam-cleaned every night, the wine man said.

  The chef sat at a small table at the far end of the long narrow space, next to the exit door, which was open. Sarah could see a small chilly yard, with neatly stacked and sealed rubbish. He had his back to them and was writing in a grubby book. Above his bare head there was a cork board, festooned with the orders for the evening alongside numerous other bits of paper, invoices and notes stuck in there with pins. Sarah was trying to read the invoices as they approached, looking for the names of suppliers. The light in here was bright enough to read small print. There were no dark corners: no rat, no cockroach, no crawling beetle could survive the exposure of this bright light and the rigours of steam-cleaning.

  ‘Someone to see you, chef.’

  The man put his hands over his head as if to ward off a blow, groaned and turned round. There was a smouldering cigarette in an ashtray on his desk, alongside a tumbler of brown liquid. Close to, he had brandy breath. He was one of the ugliest young men Sarah had ever seen. His face was as pale as uncooked pastry, his hair was lank with sweat and his white hands trembled slightly.

  ‘You can see why we don’t put him front of house,’ the sommelier whispered spitefully. There was another agenda here. The sommelier hated the current chef and was taking a delight in introducing him in what was clearly not his finest hour.

  ‘Lovely meal,’ Sarah said. ‘Just wanted to congratulate you.’

  ‘Thanks. ’S all right. Glad you liked it.’

  ‘He’s been like this all week,’ the sommelier whispered.

  The chef turned his face back to the wall and resumed writing. The illegal cigarette burned down slowly, more ash than stub, dripping off the edge of the ashtray. There did not seem much more to say. Sarah kept her eyes on the cork board, reading names of suppliers and companies with bright-eyed interest, wondering at the same time what the chef’s finest hour was with the certainty that it would not be first thing the next morning. Nor would he be the most obvious person to employ if looks counted for anything, which they did. He would not have the greatest choices and would need this job more than most. The sommelier slapped him on the back. He flinched.

  ‘You should go home, Jacques. You don’t have to wait for the boss. Shake the lady’s hand.’

  The chef turned and extended his hand to Sarah. She took it in both of hers, shook it firmly, feeling it warm and damp like the mixture for a pudding, smiling at the same time and thinking, This one was never Jessica’s dream man. He doesn’t buy the meat, he has no power or influence.

  ‘How long have you worked here?’ she asked, sounding like the Queen with a duty to ask only the most banal questions. He seemed to respond to the coolness of her hand and brightened slightly.

  ‘Not long. Few weeks. Not much longer. He won’t let me cook what I want. All they want in here is meat. But you can’t cross him. He knows best. I’ve got my lines.’

  The chef’s hand trembled as he turned back to the wall. The sommelier ushered them out the way they had come, into the more discreet gloaming of the restaurant room.

  The last duty of the evening was to sit and have the obligatory drink with the sommelier, whom Sarah had come to see as a vicious little queen with a power complex and an undernourished taste for gossip. God alone knew what he creamed off the proprietor, but it was the proprietor who interested her most.

  ‘Nice to work for, is he?’ Mike was saying man to man. ‘I mean life’s too short to work for a shit. I’ve done way too much of that myself. I mean you’ve got to respect the bloke who pays the wages. Otherwise, what’s the point?’

  The vicious little queen preened again.

  ‘I only work for the best,’ he said. ‘But,’ lowering his voice a little, ‘he might be getting a bit old for it. Pushing seventy or more. Some young Turk’ll buy him out one of these days. He’s getting on.’

  ‘Happens to us all,’ Mike said.

  Outside, they stood in the dark for a while and then began to wander their way through the back roads that led far from the morass of alleys towards the church of St Bartholomew and then into Charterhouse Square. Sarah remembered what she had read in the night in Celia Hurly’s library.

  This was where the cur dogs gathered with the sheep and the pigs. The drovers and dealers bought and sold their wives, too. The word ‘cur’ came to mean ‘scoundrel’: the men regarded their dogs as scoundrels, abandoned them here and left them to find their own way home, as far as the far north, hundreds of miles, with food paid for in advance, because the dogs would go back the same route, to the same places and the same inns where they had stopped on the way south, back to the innkeepers they had known, who let the cur dogs eat the entrails of the animals that had died on the way. The men ate the rest.

  The drovers were driven, cruel men, but if they did not get their livestock to market, they too would starve.

  She had memorised it in the way she could, repeated it to herself now, the way she would sometimes repeat a poem to steady herself.

  They sat on a bench in Charterhouse Square. Mike lit a cigarette, drew the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaled slowly.

  ‘Gotta face it, doll, you might have hurt my feelings. You only asked me out tonight because you knew I worked Smithfield once. You want an entry there, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You could have said so, doll. I thought you might have just wanted to see me. Buy me dinner and everything.’

  Sarah plucked the cigarette from his hand and drew on it, then handed it back.

  ‘I picked you for your looks, and the way you can talk to anyone. And because I’d rather it were you than anyone else, even though it was you who once set a fire in my house. I trust you and I don’t and I do, and I must. You know the dark side of me and I you. I love you more than most. You can help or not. Up to you. Shall we go home?’

  ‘For free?’

  She looked towards the sky and saw the penumbra of light surrounding the Smithfield market building.

  ‘Yes. It was usually free, if you remember. You smell so nice.’

  He laughed and touched her cheek.

  ‘Bet you say that to all the boys, but I believe you. Let’s go home and get warm and you can tell me the rest. We’ve got the whole weekend to sort it. We can’t do Smithfield until Monday.’

  Sarah began to cry, clutching the lapels of Mike’s coat. He detached her gently in a gesture she recognised and appreciated. She would prefer to be treated with pragmatic detachment than with obsession. Practical kindness was better than anything.

  ‘Up you go,’ he said, hoisting her away from the bench. ‘Told you the fucking countryside would do you no good. You’ll be telling me you’re shagging the vicar next. Let’s go home.’

  ‘I don’t know where home is,’ she said. He kissed her gently.

  ‘It’s where the heart is,’ he said. ‘Even if it’s only there some of the time.’

  It was much later when she told him more.

  ‘Daft bitch,’ he said. ‘Silly daft bitch. You’ve lost weight, you know.’

  ‘And you’ve got fatter.’

  ‘I never. Love that pendant you had on – what is it? Bit fierce, isn’t it? Yes, I know what it is. Could catch on.’

  Sarah had taken it off as she took off her clothes. A light ornament, capable of many uses, looking like an initial on the heavy silver chain she had found for it. An S-shaped hook, borrowed from Sam Brady, dipped and polished to a shine. A butcher’s hook, a weapon. An icon, something to touch for luck. Or use to strike.

  Exhausted by stumbling explanation, she found herself talking about a kitchen that gets a steam clean every night. Machinery to mop up pints of spillage and put it down the drain. There would never be any trace. That was where she was going, it has to be there. But Jessica’s man w
as never that chef, she wouldn’t have gone near him. I thought the Lover would be one of those powerful, emotional chefs who bought his own meat, but it’s the owner who buys the meat in Smithfield, but he’s too old. He can’t even drive. Way too old. Jessica liked prime specimens.

  ‘You’re never too old,’ Mike said.

  She dreamt of the sea.

  Wait until Monday. It was always better to wait.

  Wait and enjoy the waiting.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  There was a fine mist over the sea. The line fanned out either side of the cliff path, looking half-heartedly for traces of murder. For where a body had been kept or dragged, or preserved. They had been slow to get going, checking the abattoir first.

  Brady collected the small amounts of local beef he got from there as and when the orders were dressed, pigs on another day. Dressed, sanitised, hair singed away, cut into halves or quarters, never a whole carcass. They would help him load stuff into his van. He was fifty-six and could still move most of it all by himself. In the beef line, he sold neck, chuck, forerib, sirloin, rump, topside leg, leaving neck and breast for sausage. He had no use for heads, feet and tails, although he kept the odd pig’s head for a customer. There was no time in this shop for making brawn out of brains or pet food out of beasts’ cheeks. Everything that came from the abattoir was already beheaded. He kept a few bones for dogs.

  There had been ice houses in the shallow reaches of the cliffs, where people had stored meat in winter years ago. Celia Hurly knew about these because her husband had known of them: so had her daughter. There was no map: they were randomly placed, family-owned. Small outdoor larders, fashioned from the shallow caves that were formed out of the fissures in the clay, packed with perishable food to preserve it during the long days of Lent. The ice houses were found in the areas where the sun never reached, the coldest places. Apart from the local historian, the only other people who knew about the ice houses were the children who had played in them.