Dead Heat

9

W e were seated at a table for two against the wall near the door. Let’s face it, it wasn’t the best table in the place. But Caroline was impressed nevertheless.

“I never thought you would manage to get a table,” she said when she arrived. “To be honest, if I had thought you actually could I wouldn’t have suggested it in the first place. I’m not at all certain that I really want to be here.” And she had a scowl on her face to prove it.

I wasn’t sure how to take that comment, but she had come, and that was all that was important to me at the time. Over the past couple of days, I had tried hard to recall the string quartet at the gala dinner. I could recall that they had all worn long black dresses with their hair tied back in ponytails, but, try as I might, I had failed to remember their faces. However, when Caroline had walked through the front door of the Restaurant Gordon Ramsay I had known her straightaway.

Securing a table had been harder, and very many favors had been cashed in and more still promised. “Sorry,” they had said on the telephone with a degree of amusement at my folly, “tables are usually booked two months in advance.” They hadn’t needed to add that less than two days was in “absolutely no chance” territory.

However, I was not a celebrity chef for nothing, albeit a very minor one. The world of cordon bleu cookery may be as competitive as any, with chefs happily dreaming of using their cook’s knives on the throats of their rivals, but, deep down, we knew that we needed them alive and well, not only to maintain the public interest in all things kitchen but also to be the guests on each other’s television shows.

Having sold my soul, if not exactly to the devil then to the keeper of his kitchen, and having made such promises that may be difficult, if not impossible, to honor, I was rewarded with an offer of “a small extra table fitted in to the already-full dining room at nine o’clock. But it might be close to the door.”

“That’s great,” I had said. On the pavement outside would have been fine by me.

“You must know Gordon Ramsay very well to have got this,” she said.

“Professional courtesy,” I said, smiling. “We chefs stick together.” What a load of rubbish, but better that than to tell the truth. Better than telling her that I had needed to beg for this table. Perhaps the ten-grand lawsuit would have been cheaper?

“Is he nice?” she asked. “He always seems so rude on his program.”

“Very nice,” I said. “He just puts on an act on for television.” In truth, I had never actually met Gordon Ramsay, but I wasn’t going to tell Caroline that, not yet anyway.

“So,” I said, changing the subject, “tell me about what you do.”

“I make music,” she replied. “And you make food. So you sustain, and I entertain.” She smiled at her joke. It transformed her face. It was like opening the curtains in the morning and allowing in the sunlight.

“Isn’t music described as food for the soul?” I said.

“The quote is actually about passion,” she said. “‘There’s sure no passion in the human soul, but finds its food in music.’ I can’t remember who said it, or even what it means, but it was carved on a wooden plaque in the hallway at my music school.”

“Which school?” I asked.

“RCM,” she said. “Royal College of Music.”

“Ah,” I said. “And why the viola?”

“That stems from when I was in elementary school. The music teacher was a viola player, and I wanted to be like her. She was great.” Caroline smiled. “She taught me to enjoy performance. It was a gift I will always be grateful for. So many of my colleagues in the orchestra love music, but they don’t really enjoy the performance of it. It seems such a shame. For me, music is the performance. It’s why I say that I make music, not play it.”

I sat and watched her. My memory had not been wrong. She was tall and elegant, not dressed tonight in black but in a cream skirt with a shiny silver wraparound blouse that raised my heart rate each time she leaned forward. Her hair was very light brown, not quite blond, and was tied as before in a ponytail.

A waiter came over and asked if we had decided. We looked at the menus.

“What is pied de cochon?” Caroline asked.

“Literally,” I said, “it means ‘foot of pig.’ Pig’s trotter. It’s very tasty.”

She turned up her lovely nose. “I’ll have the lobster ravioli, and then the lamb, I think. What’s a morel?”

“A morel,” I said, “is an edible fungi, like a mushroom.”

“Fine, I’ll have the lamb with the morel sauce.” I was reminded of that previous mushroom sauce, the one that had probably made her ill. I decided not to mention it.

“And I’ll have the pied de cochon and the sea bass.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the waiter.

“What would you like to drink?” I asked.

“I’d prefer red,” she said, “but you’re having fish.”

“Red is fine by me.” I ordered a moderately priced Médoc-at least it was moderate for this wine list, but, at this price, would have been by far the most expensive bottle available at the Hay Net. I would have to get used to London prices.

“So what made me ill?” she asked, getting sharply to the point. “And how did you get my phone number? And how come you know so much about me?”

“Tell me,” I said, ignoring her questions, “how come you were playing in a string quartet at Newmarket racetrack when you normally play for the RPO?”

“I play with the RPO, not for them,” she corrected swiftly. “It’s a very important distinction.”

It reminded me of my father, who always hated people saying that he had fallen off when he maintained that the horse had fallen and he had simply gone down with it. That distinction had been very important to him too.

“So why the string quartet?”

“Friends from college,” she said. “The four of us paid our tuition by playing together in the evenings and on weekends. We did all sorts of functions, from weddings to funerals, and it was good training. Two of us are now pros while one of the others teaches. Jane, that’s the fourth, is now a full-time mum in Newmarket. It was her idea to get us all together last week. We still do it when we can, but, sadly, it’s less and less these days, as we all have other commitments. But it’s fun. Except last week, of course. That wasn’t fun. Not afterwards anyway.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m really sorry about that. But if it makes you feel any better, I was dreadfully ill as well.”

“Good,” she said. “Serves you right.”

“That’s not very sympathetic.”

She laughed. “Why should I be sympathetic to the infamous Newmarket poisoner?”

“Ah, but I’m not,” I said.

“Then who is?”

“That,” I said seriously, “is the million-dollar question.”

I am sure that Bernard Sims would not have approved, but I told her everything I knew about the poisoning, which, after all, wasn’t that much.

Our starters arrived halfway through my description of the dire effects of phytohemagglutinin on the human digestive system, and I was sure that Caroline looked closely at her ravioli as if to spot any misplaced kidney beans.

Thankfully, my pig’s trotter didn’t actually look like it would walk around my plate, and it was absolutely delicious. I did so love my food, but, because it was also my business, there was a degree of eccentricity about my appreciation of other chefs’ creations. Call it professional arrogance, or whatever, but I perversely enjoyed eating food that I knew I could have prepared better myself. Conversely, I felt somewhat inferior when I tasted something that I knew was beyond me, and this meal was. The pied de cochon, with its poached quail’s egg, ham knuckle and hollandaise sauce, would send me back to my kitchen with increased determination to do better in the future.

“So who do you think did it?” asked Caroline at last, laying down her fork.

“I think the more important question is, why did they do it?” I said.

“And?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s what I have spent most of the past week trying to figure out. At first I thought it must have been someone who was trying to ruin me and my restaurant, but I can’t think who. There aren’t that many restaurants near Newmarket, and none that seem to be going bust because of me.”

“How about your own staff?” she asked.

“I’ve thought of that,” I said. “But what would they hope to gain?”

“Maybe they want your job.”

“But I own the restaurant,” I said. “If they put me out of business, there won’t be any jobs to have, mine or theirs.”

“Maybe someone is jealous of your success,” said Caroline.

“I’ve thought of that too, but I can’t think who. It just doesn’t make any sense.” I took a sip of my wine. “I have another wild theory, but it sounds so daft.”

“Try me,” she said, leaning forward and giving my heart another lurch. Keep your eyes up, I told myself.

“I have begun to wonder if the poisoning at the dinner and the bombing of the racetrack are in some way linked,” I said. “I know it sounds stupid, but I am simply searching for anything that might explain why anyone would purposely poison the food of more than two hundred and fifty people.”

“How do you mean they are linked?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, “and I may be crazy, but suppose the dinner was poisoned so that someone wouldn’t be at the races on the Saturday afternoon so they wouldn’t get blown up by the bomb.”

“Why does that make you crazy?” she said. “Sounds eminently sensible to me.”

“But it would mean that, contrary to all accepted opinion, the bomb hit the target it was meant to. It would mean it was not aimed at the Arab prince, and all the newspapers are wrong.”

“Why does it mean that?” she said.

“Because if someone was prepared to poison the food the night before the bombing, they surely would know by then that the occupants of the box to be bombed had been changed several days earlier. Also, I don’t think that anyone who was at the dinner would have been scheduled to be in the prince’s box, since the newspapers say that his entire entourage flew in on the morning of the race. However, seven people who were meant to be in the bombed box for lunch didn’t turn up on the day, and I know for a fact that at least three of those were missing due to being poisoned the night before.”

“Wow!” she said. “Who else have you told this to?”

“No one,” I said. “I wouldn’t know who to tell. Anyway, I would be afraid they would laugh at me.”

“But why would they?”

“Haven’t you read the papers?” I said. “The reports all week have been about the Middle East connection. Even the television reports assume that the prince was the real target.”

“Perhaps they have some information you don’t,” she said. “The security services must have something.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But according to the Sunday Times, no group had yet claimed responsibility.”

“But would they if the attempt failed?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Our main courses arrived, and we chatted for a while about more mundane subjects, such as our families, our schools and our favorite films and music. Without actually asking her outright, I deduced that she didn’t have a current boyfriend, let alone the six-foot-six bodybuilder I had feared would eat me for breakfast. It seemed that, just like being a chef, playing the viola every evening did not assist in the search for romance.

“I’m sorry to say it,” she said, “but most of the orchestral musicians I’ve met are pretty boring, not really my type.”

“What is your type?” I asked her.

“Aha,” she said. “Now, that is a good question.”

Indeed, it may have been, but, as she failed to give me an answer, I changed the subject. “Is the lamb good?” I asked her.

“Delicious,” she said. “Would you like a taste?”

We swapped mouthfuls on forks, her lamb and my fish. As we did, I looked closely at her face. She had bright blue eyes, high cheekbones and a longish, thin nose above a broad mouth and square-shaped jaw. Maybe she wasn’t a classic beauty, but she looked pretty good to me.

“What are you staring at?” she said. “Have I got morel sauce down my chin?” She wiped her face with her napkin.

“No,” I said, laughing. “I was just taking a close look at this person who is suing me so that I will recognize her in court.” I smiled at her, but she didn’t really smile back.

“Yes, that now seems rather a shame.”

“You could just drop the suit,” I suggested.

“It’s my agent who’s insisting on suing you. He doesn’t like not getting his commission.”

“Does he get a share of everything you earn?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “He gets fifteen percent.”

“Wow,” I said. “Money for old rope.”

“Oh no, he deserves it,” she said. “He negotiated my contract with the RPO, for a start, and he got me much more money than many agents would have managed. Also, I do solo work when I’m not playing with the orchestra, and he handles all my bookings and contracts. All I have to do is turn up and play.”

“He keeps you busy, then?”

“He certainly does,” she said. “I’m only free this week because I was meant to be in New York. To tell the truth, it’s been fantastic having evenings at home to veg on the sofa, watching the telly.”

“Sorry I disturbed your vegging by asking you out.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m loving this.”

“Good,” I said. “So am I.”

We ate for a while in contented silence. I really was loving this. A pretty, intelligent and talented female companion, a wonderful dinner and a passable bottle of Bordeaux. What could be better?

“So who are you going to tell of your crazy theory?” Caroline asked over coffee.

“Who do you suggest?” I said.

“The police, of course,” she said. “But you need to get your facts straight first.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Do you have the guest list from the gala dinner?”

“I do,” I said. “But it’s not really very helpful since it doesn’t list everyone individually. Quite a few tables were groups of ten, and only the host is named on the guest list, the others as guests of so-and-so. I obtained a copy of the seating plan too, but it’s the same thing. Only about half of the guests are actually named.”

“How about the guest list where the bomb went off?” she asked.

“I haven’t managed to get that,” I said. “I think the only person who probably knew the full guest list was the marketing executive of the sponsor company and she was killed in the explosion. It’s pretty easy to find out who was actually there, because they either are on the list of the dead or on the list of the injured. But I am more interested in the names of the seven people who should have been there but weren’t.”

“Surely someone must have the names of those who were invited,” she said.

“I have tried,” I said, “but no luck.” I had spent much of Monday morning trying to acquire the list. Suzanne Miller, at the racetrack catering company, only had “guests of Delafield Industries” in her paperwork, and William Preston, the track manager, had been even less helpful, with simply “sponsor and guests” on his.

“How about the sponsor company?” she asked. “Have you tried them?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think that they would be very likely to know who was invited, other than their own staff flown over from America. I think that MaryLou Fordham-that’s the marketing woman who was killed-I think she added the UK guests to the list after she was here, and after she knew who would be suitable. I remember that she was very cross beforehand when a couple of trainers from the town pulled out at the last minute. And I think I know who those two were anyway.”

“Can’t you ask them?” she said.

“I did ask one of them yesterday,” I said. I had called George Kealy. “But, as he said, it is difficult to know who else was invited to a party that you didn’t go to.”

“That’s true, I suppose,” she said. “How about the injured people from the sponsor company? One of them might know who was meant to be there.”

“I’ve thought of that too,” I said. “According to yesterday’s local newspaper, two of them are still in intensive care, and the others have already been flown home to America.”

I asked a passing waiter for the bill and winced only a little when it arrived. The same amount would have fed a good-sized family at the Hay Net, and a small army at a burger joint, but neither would have given as much pleasure as that dinner with Caroline had given me.

When I suggested that I should see her home to Fulham, she insisted that she would be fine if I simply put her in a taxi. Reluctantly, I hailed a cab and she climbed in alone.

“Can I see you again?” I asked through the open door.

“Sure,” she replied. “You’ll see me in court.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” I said.

“Well, what do you mean, then?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Another dinner? A trip to the races?” I felt like asking her to make a trip to my bed.

“What are you doing two weeks from Thursday?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I replied. Nothing, that is, except cooking sixty lunches and a hundred dinners at the Hay Net.

“I’m due to play a viola concerto with the orchestra at Cadogan Hall. Come and listen.”

“I’d love to,” I said. “Dinner after?”

“Lovely,” she said. She gave me a full-toothed smile with her broad mouth as the door closed and the taxi moved away. Suddenly, she was gone, and I was left on the pavement, feeling somewhat wretched and alone. Was I that desperate, I asked myself, that I would jump at the first girl that came along? Caroline was suing me for ten thousand pounds in damages, and maybe I should have been more careful not to have told her so much. Perhaps she would use what I told her against me. But there had been a certain rapport between us, of that I was certain. Even on Friday evening, on the telephone, I was pretty sure that we would get along, and I think we had. I wasn’t being desperate, I told myself. I was being sensible. But why, then, did I feel such an ache from not still being with her?

I hailed another taxi and reluctantly told the driver to take me to King’s Cross station, rather than to Tamworth Street in Fulham.

I CAUGHT THE last train to Cambridge with less than a minute to spare. I sat and pondered what I had discussed with Caroline, as the train pulled out of the station on the hour-and-ten-minute journey northeastwards.

Somehow, putting my thoughts into words had made them sound rather more plausible. However, I still felt that the authorities would dismiss my theories as highly fanciful. But were they any more fanciful, I wondered, than thinking that a Middle East terror group had attempted an assassination of a foreign royal prince on Newmarket Heath?

I didn’t really believe it. But if I was right in thinking that the dinner had been poisoned to prevent someone being blown up, then I could safely assume that the bomb had in fact hit its intended target. So what made Delafield Industries so special that someone wanted to blow them up on their big day out in England? Who would want to kill Elizabeth Jennings or Brian and June Walters, and why? Or was it the likes of Rolf Schumann and MaryLou Fordham who were the real targets?

I knew Delafield Industries made tractors and combine harvesters, but what else did they do? I resolved to look them up on the Internet in the morning, along with Mr. Schumann.

I lay back against the headrest and thought about more pleasant things like the evening two weeks from now, on Thursday, at the Cadogan Hall. In truth, I wasn’t a great lover of classical music. But I would listen to anything with huge pleasure if I was able to have dinner with Caroline afterwards. Even the thought of it made me smile, although it was more than fifteen whole days away and that seemed a very long time to have to wait to see her again. Maybe I could entice her to Newmarket somewhat sooner than that, like tomorrow.

The train pulled into Cambridge station at twenty-five minutes past one in the morning. As always on the late-night stopping service, I had to force myself to stay awake in order that I didn’t end up with the train at King’s Lynn, or wherever.

I had left my car in the Cambridge station parking lot, as was usual when I went to London for the evening. At five in the afternoon, nearly all the spaces had been full with commuters’ cars, but now my little Golf stood alone at the far end of the lot awaiting my return. I had drunk no more than half a bottle of wine throughout the evening, as well as having had a full meal with coffee. It had been nearly three hours since Caroline and I had finished the wine, and I reckoned that I was fine to drive, and well under the drink-drive limit.

I was slightly surprised to find my car wasn’t locked. The driver’s door was not fully shut, only half latched. I couldn’t actually remember leaving it like that, but, then, it wouldn’t have been the first time, not by a long shot. After so many years of misuse, the door needed a good slam to get it shut properly. The manager of my garage had often tried, at great expense, to sell me a new door seal, but I had always declined his offers on the grounds that the cost of the seal was only a fraction less than what the whole car was worth.

I had a good look around the car. I checked the tires, but they seemed all right. I got down on my hands and knees and looked underneath. Nothing. I even opened the hood and looked at the engine. I didn’t really know what a bomb would look like, so the chances of me spotting something amiss were slight, but nonetheless there were no suspicious packages I could see attached to the car’s electrical system or anything else. Perhaps I was becoming paranoid. It must be all this talk of conspiracy to poison and to bomb. However, my heart was thumping in my chest a little louder than normal when I turned the ignition key to start the engine.

It sprang to life, just as it should. I revved it up for a few seconds, but all sounded fine to me, with no clunks or clangs. I wiggled the steering wheel, but nothing untoward occurred. I drove forward a bit in the parking lot and then braked hard. The car stopped with a jolt, as was normal. I drove around in circles, a couple of times in both directions, pulling hard on the wheel. The vehicle behaved in exactly the manner expected. I was indeed paranoid, I told myself, and I drove home, uneventfully, although I checked the brakes often, and with some vigor, on all the straight bits of road.

MARYLOU FORDHAM’S LEGS, or rather the lack of her legs, made further unwelcome visits to my subconscious during another disturbed night. Surely, I thought, my brain should be able to control these episodes. Surely, it should realize, as soon as the dream starts was the right moment to wake me and put a stop to the misery. But, every time, the whole episode would play out, and, every time, I would wake with terror in my heart and panic in my head. My dimming memory of MaryLou’s face did nothing to lessen the horror evoked by her legless torso.

I tried to ignore the interruptions to my rest by simply turning over and trying to go back to sleep, telling myself to dream of happier things, like cuddling up with Caroline, but I would remain annoyingly awake for ages before the adrenaline level in my bloodstream dropped low enough to allow me to drift off, seemingly only for the dream to start again immediately. It was all very exhausting.

WEDNESDAY, when it finally arrived, was one of those May mornings to savor, especially in the flatlands of East Anglia: cloudless blue skies and unparalleled visibility. From my bedroom window, I could see the white-arched, cantilevered roof of the Millennium Grandstand at the racetrack, and, in the clear air and the sunshine, it appeared much larger and nearer than normal.

If only my life was as clear, I thought.

My cell phone rang.

“Hello,” I said, hoping it might be Caroline, which was stupid, really, since I hadn’t even given her the number.

“Max. It’s Suzanne Miller. I’m afraid I have some rather bad news. I’ve received a letter this morning from Forest Heath District Council indicating their intent to prosecute under section 7 of the Food Safety Act of 1990.”

Oh bugger, I thought. If they were prosecuting the racetrack catering company, who had been only the overseer of the event, they were sure to prosecute the chef as well, i.e., me.

“Do they say exactly who they intend to prosecute?” I asked.

“Everyone,” she said somewhat forlornly. “There’s letters for me individually and for the company. There’s even a letter for you here at the racetrack addressed to ‘Mr. Max Moreton,’ care of us.”

Oh double bugger. There was probably another letter at the Hay Net.

“What does your letter actually say?” I asked her.

She read it out to me. Not a single bit of good news to be found.

“My letter is probably identical to yours,” I said. “I’ll come and collect it, if you like.”

“Yes, please do. Look, Max, all the food was your responsibility, and I will have to say that. All I did was organize the venue. I’m not being convicted of serving food that was hazardous to health, not with my retirement coming up later this year. I’m not losing my pension over this.” She was in tears.

“Suzanne,” I said as calmingly as I could, “I know that, you know that, Angela Milne from Cambridgeshire County Council knows that. If anyone is taking the fall for this, it will be me, OK?”

“Yes, thanks,” she sniffed.

“But, Suzanne, I need more help from you. I need a fuller list of who was at the dinner, and the names of as many of the staff as you can manage. I also need the names of those invited to the Delafield box on Guineas day. If you can get me all that, then I will happily say that you had nothing to do with the food at the dinner.”

“But I didn’t have anything to do with it,” she wailed.

“I know that,” I said. “And I will say so. But get me the lists.”

“I’ll try,” she said.

“Try hard,” I said, and hung up.

I called the newsroom of the Cambridge Evening News and asked for Ms. Harding.

“Hello,” she said. “Are you checking to see if I’ll still be coming to dinner at your restaurant?”

“Partly,” I said. “But also to tell you some news before you hear it from somewhere else.”

“What news?” she said, her journalistic instincts coming firmly to the fore.

“I am to be prosecuted by the local authority for serving food likely to be hazardous to health,” I said in as deadpan a manner as I could manage.

“Are you indeed?” she said. “And do you have a quote for me?”

“Not one you could print without including a warning for young children,” I replied.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

“I assume that you would find out eventually, and I thought it better to come clean,” I said.

“Like your kitchen,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll take that as a compliment and put you down as on my side.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say that. My business is selling newspapers, and I don’t know whose side I am on until I see the way the wind is blowing.”

“That’s outrageous,” I said. “Don’t you have any morals?”

“Personally? Yes,” she said. “In my job? Maybe. But not at the expense of circulation. I can’t afford that luxury.”

“I’ll do a deal with you,” I said.

“What deal?” she replied quickly. “I don’t do deals.”

“I will keep you up-to-date on all the news I have about the prosecution of the poisoning, and you give me the right of reply to anything anyone says or does to me or the restaurant, including you.”

“That’s not much of a deal for me,” she said.

“I’ll throw in a guaranteed exclusive interview at the end of the proceedings,” I said. “Take it or leave it.”

“OK,” she said, “I’ll take it.”

I told her about the letters that had arrived at the racetrack catering offices. I also told her that I intended to mount a determined defense to the allegation.

“But people were made ill,” she said. “You can’t deny that.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t deny that people were ill. I was one of them. But I vehemently deny that I was responsible for making them ill.”

“Then who was?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But it wasn’t me.” I decided not to mention the kidney bean lectin. Not yet. Was that breaking my deal? No, I thought. It was just bending it a little. “If I do find out who was responsible, I promise you I’ll definitely tell you who it was.” I’d tell everyone.

“What am I meant to write in the meantime?” she pleaded.

“I would prefer it if you wrote nothing,” I said. “But if you must, then write what you like. But I get the chance to reply.”

“OK,” she said, sounding a little unsure. Time, I thought, to change direction.

“Do you have any further news about the people injured in the bombing?” I asked. “I read in your paper that most of the Americans have gone home, but two of them are still here in intensive care.”

“Only one now,” she said. “The other one died yesterday. From her burns.”

“Oh,” I said. “How many is that now?”

“Nineteen,” she said.

“You don’t happen to know what became of a Mr. Rolf Schumann, do you? He’s the chairman of Delafield Industries.”

“Hold on a minute,” she said. I could hear her asking someone else. “Apparently, he was air-ambulanced home to America over the weekend, out of Stansted.” And I hadn’t yet been paid for the Guineas lunch.

“Do you know what his injuries were?” I asked.

I could hear her again relaying the question. “Head injuries,” she said. “Seems he’s lost his marbles.”

“I hope you don’t write that in your paper,” I said.

“Good God no,” she said. “He’s suffering from mental distress.”

“How about the others who were injured, the non-Americans?” I asked.

She relayed the question again. “There’s a couple from the north who are still in the hospital with spinal injuries or something. The others have all been discharged from Addenbrooke’s. But we know of at least one who has been transferred to Roehampton.”

“Roehampton?” I said.

“Rehab center,” she said. “Artificial limbs.”

“Oh.” The images of missing arms and legs made another unwelcome visit to my consciousness.

“Look, I must go now,” said Ms. Harding. “I’ve got work to do.”

She hung up, and I sat on the end of my bed wishing that she hadn’t stirred my memories of the carnage, memories that had started to fade but which all too easily rose to the surface like a cork in a bucket of water.

I decided to cheer myself up by calling Caroline.

“Hello,” she said. “You’ve still got my number, then.”

“You bet,” I said with a smile. “I called to thank you for last night.”

“It should be me thanking you,” she said. “I had a great time.”

“So did I. Any chance I could entice you up to Newmarket for dinner tonight or tomorrow?”

“Why don’t you beat around the bush a little?” she said. “Why don’t you talk about the weather or something?”

“Why?” I asked.

“It might make you sound rather less eager,” she said.

“Do I sound too eager?” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said, laughing. “In fact, I think I rather like it.”

“So will you come?” I asked.

“To dinner?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Where?”

“At my restaurant.”

“I’m not eating on my own while you do the cooking.”

“No, of course not,” I said. “Come and watch me cook, and then we’ll have dinner together afterwards.”

“Won’t that be rather late?” she said. “How will I get home?”

I wanted to ask her to stay with me, in my bed, in my arms, but I thought it might not be prudent. “I will get you on the last train to King’s Cross or I will treat you to a night in the Bedford Lodge Hotel.”

“On my own?” she asked.

I paused for a long while. “That’s up to you,” I said finally.

There was an equally long pause at her end. “No promises and no strings?”

“No promises and no strings,” I agreed.

“OK.” She sounded excited. “What time and where?”

“Come as early as you like, and I’ll pick you up from Cambridge station.”

“Isn’t there a station at Newmarket?” she asked.

“There is, but you have to change at Cambridge anyway and it’s not great service.”

“OK,” she said again. “I’ll look up the train times and call you back. At this number?”

“Yes,” I said. I was elated at the thought of seeing her again so soon.

“What do I wear?” she said.

“Anything,” I said.

Even the prospect of being prosecuted under the 1990 Act couldn’t dampen my spirits as I skipped down the stairs. I laughed out loud and punched the air, as I collected my coat and went out to the car. Caroline was coming to dinner! At my restaurant! And she was staying the night! Pity it wasn’t going to be at my cottage.

The brakes of my Golf failed at the bottom of Woodditton Road.

I was feeling good, and my speed, probably like my expectation, was rather too high. I put my foot on the brake pedal and nothing happened. I pushed harder. Nothing. The car actually increased in speed down the hill, towards the T junction with Dullingham Road at the bottom. I suppose I could have been quicker in my thinking. I suppose I could have tried the handbrake, or maybe downshifted the gears to slow me down. I suppose, as a last resort, I could have turned the car through the hedge on the left and into the field beyond. Instead, I gripped the steering wheel tightly in panic and kept pushing the useless brake pedal harder and harder into the floor.

In a way, I was lucky. I didn’t hit a truck carrying bricks head-on like my father. My dear little car was struck by a fifty-three-seat, fully air-conditioned passenger coach, with individual video screens built in. I knew this because the Golf ended up on its side around the back of the bus, and I could read the details of their service, as advertised, in large white letters painted on a red background. Funny how the mind works. I remembered the words as my consciousness slowly drained away: fifty-three seats.