Dead Heat

20

I retreated back from the door into the entrance lobby. Komarov and George Kealy followed.

Richard came out of the dining room, carrying a tray of dirty glasses from the last table. Komarov and I saw him at the same instant, and before I had a chance to shout a warning Komarov swung the gun around and shot him. The noise of the retort in the enclosed space was startling, and I jumped. A crimson star appeared on the front of Richard’s white shirt, and there was a slight look of surprise on his face as he pitched forward. The bullet had caught him in the center of his chest, and I was convinced he was dead before he hit the floor. The metal tray he had been holding clattered noisily to the floor and all the glasses shattered, sending hundreds of fragments in all directions across the stone tiles.

The gun came unerringly back to point at me, and I thought that this was it. He would surely kill me just as easily. Why shouldn’t he? He had tried twice before, why not a third time? The anger that I had channeled into my survival in my burning cottage rose again in me. I wasn’t going to just die without a fight.

Komarov saw the anger in me and read my intentions. “Don’t even think about it,” he said in almost perfect English, with just a hint of his native Russian accent that made the “think” sound like “sink.”

I stood my ground and looked at him. He was a thickset man in his mid-fifties, of about average height, with a full head of thick gray hair, well-coiffed. I realized I knew him from before. He had been George and Emma Kealy’s guest here at the Hay Net the first Saturday after the bombing. I remembered that George had called Emma to get going, “Peter and Tanya are waiting,” he had said. Peter and Tanya, George Kealy’s friends, were actually Pyotr and Tatiana Komarov, smugglers, bombers and murderers.

I found it difficult to believe that George was not the friendly regular customer I knew so well. I looked at him, but he didn’t seem to be embarrassed one bit by my predicament. He didn’t even seem shocked by what his friend had done to my headwaiter. I continued to stare at him, but he refused to look me in the eye. He simply appeared determined, and resigned to the necessity of such actions.

“I am going to kill you,” Komarov said to me. I didn’t doubt it. “But before I do,” he went on, “I want back what is mine that you have.”

“And what is that?” I said, finding it quite difficult to talk. My tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of my mouth.

“You know what I want,” he said. “You obtained it in Delafield.”

Oh dear, I thought. He must have spoken to Mrs. Schumann, or perhaps it was Kurt and his polo mallet-wielding chum who had paid her a visit. I didn’t want to think about what they might have done to that dear, devastated lady.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. I had raised my voice a little. I was very conscious that Caroline was still in the office, and I was trying to somehow warn her of the danger, although she had to have heard the shot and then the crash of the tray and the glasses. I had no doubt whatsoever that Komarov would kill her as easily as he had killed Richard. Or worse, he would use her for leverage to get back the metal ball. I thought about that ball. I didn’t actually have it with me, so I couldn’t have given it back to Komarov even if I had wanted to. It probably was still on Toby’s desk where I had left it, for him to show to his vet. And I had no intention of putting my brother or his family in danger again.

“George,” said Komarov, keeping his gun pointed straight at me, “go check that we are alone.”

George Kealy produced another pistol from his own pocket and went into the dining room. I could hear him going into the kitchen beyond. After a while, he came back. “No one else here,” he said.

“Check in there,” said Komarov, waving the gun towards the bar and the office beyond. The office actually sat between the bar and the kitchen, with a door at each end, and was more like a wide corridor than a proper room.

I went on staring at Komarov but slightly bunched my muscles, ready to try to rush him if George cried out that he had found Caroline. But he didn’t call out. He just came back and reported that we were all alone.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” said Komarov.

“In London,” I said.

“Where in London?” he asked.

“With her sister,” I said. “In Finchley.”

He seemed satisfied with the answer and waved his gun towards the dining room. “In there,” he said.

I had to step around Richard’s body. I looked down at his back. There was no exit wound; the bullet was still in his body. Did it make things better or worse? Neither. It was horrible either way.

I walked ahead of Komarov. Was he going to shoot me in the back? Unlikely. Not that I thought it would make any difference to him. Or, I suppose, to me.

“Stop,” he said. I stopped. “Pull out the chair, the one with arms.” I reached to my left and pulled the armchair away from the table. I realized that it was the Kealys’ usual dining table. I wondered if George noticed. “Sit down facing away from me,” said Komarov. I did as he said.

He and George moved around me so that they were again in front.

I heard someone crunching across the broken glass in the lobby behind me. I thought it must be Caroline, but Komarov looked over my shoulder and he didn’t seem alarmed. The new arrival was obviously his ally, not mine.

“Have you got the stuff?” he asked the newcomer.

“Yeah,” said a male voice. There were more crunching steps as the man moved nearer to my back. “Shame you had to shoot Richard,” he said.

I recognized that voice. Much suddenly became clear.

“Tie him up,” said Komarov.

The man who had been behind me walked around in front. He was carrying a dark blue canvas carryall.

“Hello, Gary,” I said.

“Hi, Chef,” he said in his usual casual style. There was not a chicken pox scab to be seen. But, then, there wouldn’t be. It had been so simple, and I had walked right into the trap. Gary didn’t have chicken pox, and, no doubt, Oscar hadn’t been going through my papers in the office and hadn’t stolen any of the petty cash. Komarov had needed me back at the Hay Net, and the best way to do that was to create a manpower crisis. Get Oscar fired through Gary’s false accusations, then simply get Gary to call in sick. Hey, presto, I came running. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

“Why?” I said to Gary.

“Why what?” he said.

“Why this?” I asked, spreading my arms out.

“Money, of course,” he said, and smiled. He seemed not to realize how deep he was in, or the danger.

“But I pay you good money,” I said to him.

“Not that good,” he said. “And you don’t provide the extras.”

“Extras?” I asked.

“Stuff,” he said. I looked at him quizzically. “Coke.”

I hadn’t figured him as an addict. Drugs and kitchen heat don’t normally go together. I supposed that it did explain some of his mood swings, as well as his current actions. A drug habit can be very demanding; cravings and addiction usually dispel all logic and reason. Given certain circumstances, Gary undoubtedly would do anything for his next fix, and George must have had quite a hold over him.

He took a roll of brown packing tape from the carryall and used some of it to bind my left wrist to the arm of the chair. Komarov moved off to the side, to make sure that Gary never came between me and the gun, but I had no doubt that Komarov would shoot Gary as easily as sneeze if he thought it was necessary to his plans.

Gary moved to my right wrist.

“Hey,” he said, “he’s got a plaster cast under this tunic.”

“Kurt claimed that Walter must have broken his wrist,” said Komarov. He came close to me. “You broke Walter’s arm,” he said into my face. Good, I thought. I wish I’d broken his bloody neck. “You’ll pay for that,” he said. Then he stood up and smiled. “But Walter always was such an impetuous boy. He probably tried to bash your brains in with a polo mallet.” He smiled at me again. “You might wish he had.” I felt cold and clammy, but I smiled back at him nevertheless.

Gary taped the cast to the other arm of the chair. Then he taped my ankles to the chair legs in the same manner. I was trussed up like a turkey waiting for the knife to cut my throat. Then Gary took some more stuff from his bag. It looked like putty-soft, white putty. It was in a long plastic bag and looked like a white salami. If possible, I felt even colder and more clammy. Gary had removed a couple of pounds of plastic explosive from his bag.

He taped the white sausage to the chair between my legs. Oh God. Not my legs. MaryLou’s legs, and the awful lack of them, haunted me still. Now, it seemed, I was to live my nightmare. Next, Gary delicately took a cigarette-sized metal tube from the bag and very carefully pushed it deep into the soft white explosive, like pushing a chocolate chip into an ice-cream cone. The tube had two short wires coming out of the top that were connected to a small black box. The remote-detonator system, I concluded. I sweated more, and Komarov clearly enjoyed it. For the first time, I became really terrified, absolutely certain that I would die, hopeful that it would be quick and easy and frightened to the point of despair that it would not. Would I be able to not tell him where the balls were? Would I be able to die without giving up that information? Would I be able to keep those I loved safe no matter what was done to me? The same questions that every Gestapo-tortured spy or resistance fighter had asked themselves more than fifty years ago. Neither I, nor they, would know the answer, not until the unthinkable actually happened.

“Where is it?” Komarov asked.

“Where is what?” I replied.

“Mr. Moreton,” he said, as if addressing me in a company board meeting, “let us not play games. We both know what I am talking about.”

“I left it with Mrs. Schumann,” I said.

George appeared slightly uneasy.

“I am informed,” said Komarov, “that that is not the case. Mrs. Schumann gave two of the items to you. One has been recovered, but the other has not.” He walked around behind me. “Mrs. Schumann should not have had any of the items in the first place. They have all now been recovered, other than the one you still possess.” He came around in front of me again. “You will tell me where it is, sooner or later.” He smiled again. He was obviously enjoying himself. I wasn’t.

There was a noise from the kitchen. It wasn’t particularly loud, but it was clear, like a metal spoon falling onto the tile floor. It must be Caroline, I thought.

“Can’t you do anything right?” Komarov said, cuttingly, to George Kealy. He was irritated. “Watch him.” He pointed at me. “If he moves, shoot him in the foot. But don’t hit the explosive or we might all end up dead. You”-he gestured towards Gary-“come with me.”

Komarov and Gary went from the dining room into the kitchen through the swinging door that was more often used by my waitstaff than by a gun-toting murderer. I prayed that Caroline would stay hidden.

George stood nervously in front of me.

“How on earth did you get involved in this?” I asked him.

“Shut up,” he said in reply. I ignored him.

“Why did you poison the gala dinner?” I asked him.

“Shut up,” he said again. I ignored him again.

“Was it so you didn’t have to go to the Guineas?” I asked.

“I told you to shut up,” he said.

“Did Gary add the kidney beans to the sauce?” I asked him. He didn’t say anything. “Now, that was really stupid,” I said. “Without that, I wouldn’t have worried. I wouldn’t have asked any questions.” And, I thought, I wouldn’t be here, tied up and waiting to die.

“Don’t you start,” George said. I must have touched a raw nerve.

“In trouble, are you? With the boss man?” I said, rubbing salt in the wound. He was silent, so I taunted him more. “Messed up, did you? Was George not such a clever boy after all?”

“Shut up,” he said, waving the gun towards me. “Shut up!”

“What does Emma think?” I said. “Does she know what you’re up to?”

He turned and looked towards the door through which the other two had disappeared. He was hoping for reinforcements, and I was obviously beginning to get to him.

“Was it Emma who prepared the poisonous kidney beans for you?” I asked.

“Don’t be bloody stupid,” he said, turning back to me. “The beans were only there to make her ill.”

“To make Emma ill?” I said, astounded.

“Emma was insistent that we go to that bloody box at the races,” he said. “I couldn’t talk her out of it. She and Elizabeth Jennings had been planning it for weeks, ever since we were first invited. I couldn’t exactly tell her why she shouldn’t go, now, could I?”

“So you poisoned the dinner to stop her going to the races?”

“Yes,” he said. “That damn Gary was only meant to poison Emma’s dinner and those of the Jenningses. Stupid idiot poisoned the whole bloody lot, didn’t he? He even made me ill, the bastard.”

“Serves you right,” I said to him, just as Caroline had said to me.

I supposed it was easier for Gary to poison the whole dinner rather than just three plates and then somehow ensure they went to the correct people. That would have involved a conspiracy with one of the waiters. The mass poisoning also gave him the excuse he needed for not being in the kitchen himself at the racetrack on the Saturday.

“But Elizabeth Jennings went to the races anyway,” I said to George. “How come?”

“I didn’t realize she was allergic to mushrooms,” he said. Elizabeth would have eaten the chicken without the truffle and chanterelle sauce. “I was sorry about that.”

Not so sorry, I thought, to have kept him away from Elizabeth’s funeral. Not so sorry to prevent him offering Neil Jennings his bloodied hand in comfort at the church door.

“You should have just left it,” he said to me, looking at me in the eye for the first time.

“Should have left what?” I said.

“You seemed so bloody determined to find out who had poisoned the dinner.”

“Well, of course I was,” I said.

“But I couldn’t let that happen,” said George.

I stared at him. “You mean it was you who tried to kill me?”

“I arranged it,” he said rather arrogantly. There was no remorse in his voice.

I had liked George. I had always considered him to be a friend, and yet he had apparently twice arranged to have me killed. He had caused my car to be written off, he had burned my home and all my possessions and here he was standing in front of me with a gun in his hand and murder on his mind. Last week, I had told Dorothy Schumann that lots of people were murdered by their friends. I hadn’t expected that fact to be so manifestly demonstrated quite so soon.

“But you weren’t very good at it, were you?” I said, again goading him. “I bet Komarov wasn’t too pleased with that either, was he? You couldn’t even bump off a country chef, could you? Can’t you do anything right?” I echoed Komarov.

“Shut up,” he shouted again. He was becoming very agitated. “Bloody Gary couldn’t organize a proverbial bloody piss-up in a brewery.”

“So it was Gary who tried to kill me?” I said.

He ignored me and walked over to look through the circular window in the door to the kitchen.

“Why did Komarov bomb the box?” I asked him, changing direction.

“I told you to shut up,” said George, waving his gun at me.

“Was Rolf Schumann the target?” I asked, ignoring him.

“I said shut up,” he shouted, walking right up to me and pointing the gun at my head from about twelve inches away.

I ignored him again. If I made him angry enough, then perhaps he would do me a favor by killing me quickly. “Why bomb the box?” I said. “Surely that was out of all proportion. Why not just shoot Schumann, if he wanted to kill him? Nice and quiet, down some dark alley in Wisconsin?”

“Komarov doesn’t do things quietly,” said George. “Make a statement, that’s what he said. Show everyone he meant business. Schumann was stealing from him, and Komarov doesn’t like thieves. An example had to be set.” George was clearly repeating to me exactly what Komarov had said to him.

Strange logic, I thought. Schumann was a thief, so Komarov tried to murder him, and killed nineteen innocents instead, including the lovely Louisa and the conscientious MaryLou, and all in such horrific circumstances. Komarov was truly evil.

There was a shout from the kitchen. Then a shot. I was frantic. Please, God, I prayed, let it not be Caroline who was shot.

George backed away from me and again looked through the circular window in the swinging door and beyond into the kitchen. There was another shot, then another, followed by more shouts. Pity we had no near neighbors, I thought. Someone might have heard the shots and called the police.

Komarov came back quickly through the door.

“There’s someone outside the back,” he said to George. “I think I hit them. Go out and finish them off. I’ve sent that Gary out as well, so don’t shoot him.” George seemed to hesitate. “Now, George.” George moved through the door, his body language screaming that he didn’t want to go. Messing about in the dark with guns was not really his scene. But he should have thought of that before he became involved with a man like Komarov.

“Now, Mr. Moreton,” said Komarov, coming right up to me, “where is my ball?”

I almost laughed. If my legs hadn’t been taped to the chair legs, I would have kicked him in his balls. Then he’d have known where they were. He seemed to spot my amusement and his anger rose. He clearly expected me to be frightened into submission. Little did he realize that I was.

“I will give you one last chance to tell me, then I will shoot your left foot,” he said. “Then I will shoot your right foot, then your knees, your wrists and your elbows.” As he spoke, he ejected the partially used magazine from his gun and snapped in another from his pocket. I assumed it was fully loaded. “Now, time is passing. For the last time, where is it?” He leaned down towards my face. I wondered if it would help if I spat at him. Perhaps he would become so angry that he would kill me quickly. I tried it. He just laughed and wiped his face with his sleeve. “That won’t help you,” he said. “You will tell me what I want, I promise you. Then I will detonate the bomb and blow you and your restaurant to smithereens.” His Russian accent made it sound like “smisereens,” but I understood his meaning. Another example to be set, no doubt.

He stepped back and raised the gun. I wondered how much it would hurt. I wondered if I could stand it, and whether I would be able to stand the pain of both feet, my knees, my wrists and my elbows. I just couldn’t tell him to go to East Hendred, to Toby and Sally’s house, with their three lovely children. Whatever happened, I kept telling myself, I must not talk. I must not rain death and destruction down on my brother.

Komarov aimed his gun at my right foot.

“Wait,” I cried. His arm dropped a fraction.

“Yes?” he said.

“Why do you need it back anyway?” I asked. “You must have more, hundreds more.”

“Why would I have hundreds?” he asked, clearly curious to learn how much I knew. What should I tell him? Did it matter?

“To put inside the horses,” I said. “Full of drugs.”

The effect was quite startling. He went very pale, and his hand shook a little.

“Who knows this?” he said in a higher pitch than usual.

“Everyone,” I said. “I told the police.” I didn’t expect this comment to save me; quite the reverse. But I hoped it might now be a quicker, less painful death.

“That was very careless of you,” he said, returning somewhat to his normal voice. “For that, you will die.” I was going to die anyway. No change.

He started to walk around behind me. Good, I thought, he is going to shoot me in the back of the head. Much cleaner, and much better not to see it coming. I would just be…gone.

As Komarov passed my shoulder, Caroline stepped through the open doorway and hit him squarely in the face with her viola. She swung the instrument through the air with both hands, using the neck and fingerboard as a handle. Such was the force of the blow that poor dear Viola was damaged beyond repair. Her neck was broken and her body shattered, but, more important for me, Komarov went down to the ground semiconscious. Caroline herself was both hyperventilating and crying at the same time.

“Quick,” I shouted at her, “get a knife.” She looked at me. “From the sideboard,” I shouted. “Top drawer, on the left.” She went straight to the sideboard and came back with a nice sharp, serrated steak knife. I didn’t usually give my customers steak knives, as I thought it was an admission that my steaks were tough, but we kept a few just in case. Thank goodness we did. Even so, Caroline had difficulty cutting through the tape around my wrist. But she managed out of sheer desperation, hurried along by the imminent reawakening of the terror at our feet.

Finally, she freed my left hand.

“Quick,” I said again. “Grab his gun and give it to me.”

Komarov had fallen, but he had not let go of his pistol completely. Caroline went down and grabbed it out of his hand just as he was beginning to recover. She gave it to me, smiled wanly and went on trying to free me from the chair. Suddenly, I remembered the explosive. Where was the remote-detonator switch? Was it in Komarov’s pocket?

Caroline sawed away at the tape around my legs, but she was too slow. Komarov was fully awake and watching, a line of blood running down from his nose, across his mouth and on down his neck. He put his hand up to his face and winced. I think Caroline must have broken his nose.

“Stay where you are,” I said, pointing the gun at him.

He leaned on the floor with his left elbow and put his right hand in his pocket.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” I said.

He pulled his hand out again, but I could see that he now held a small, flat black box with a red button in the center of it. Oh God, I thought, my legs. Would he push the switch? But he would surely kill himself as well. Should I shoot him? If I did, would he detonate the bomb? Would he detonate it if I didn’t?

I watched him, and I could sense that he was weighing up his options. If I had indeed told the police, his empire was about to come crashing down. Perhaps he could escape back to Russia or to South America, but maybe the escape routes had already been closed. Life imprisonment in a British jail would almost certainly mean just that, the rest of his life behind bars. There would be no parole for such an act of terrorism as the Newmarket bombing.

I quite suddenly sensed that he was going to do it. He was going to blow us all up and end it here.

I leaned down between my legs, grabbed the wires and pulled the cigarette-sized detonator out of the explosive. I threw it across the dining room. Komarov pushed the red button, but he was too late. The detonator exploded in midair with a harmless pop, like a very loud champagne cork exploding from the bottle.

Komarov looked cheated, and he was in a rage. He began to stand up.

“Stay where you are,” I repeated. He ignored me and rose to his knees. “I’ll shoot you,” I said. But he continued to rise.

So I shot him.

I was surprised how easy it was. I pointed the gun in his direction and squeezed the trigger. It wasn’t even as loud as I had expected, since the dining room was less confined than the lobby where Komarov had shot Richard.

The bullet caught him in the right leg, just above the knee. I hadn’t been aiming for his leg particularly. I was right-handed, but the cast had forced me to shoot with my left. I had simply pointed the gun at the middle of the target and fired. If I’d aimed at his leg, I would probably have missed. Komarov dropped the detonator switch, grabbed the wound with both his hands and fell back to the floor. Blood poured out of his leg, and I wondered if I had hit an artery. I didn’t particularly care about him, but he was ruining my dining-room carpet. I thought about shooting him again, in the head, to stop the bleeding. There had been so much blood-bright red, oxygenated blood. I decided to just let him bleed. At least the blood spilt here would not be from the innocent, and my carpet could be replaced.

Caroline was down on her knees behind me. She had finally cut through all the tape and I was free of the chair, so I went to her, keeping half an eye on Komarov and another half on the door from the kitchen. There were still George Kealy and Gary to contend with. Caroline cradled Viola in her arms and sobbed. It was only the four strings that were keeping the pegbox and the scroll attached to what remained of the body of the instrument. The neck and fingerboard had broken through completely, and the soundbox was cracked apart along its full length. The damage reflected the ferocity of the attack Caroline had made on Komarov. I was actually surprised that he had recovered from it as quickly as he had.

“Be careful, my darling,” I said. “There are still two of them about. I’m going to find them. Go to the office and call the police.”

“What shall I tell them?” she said, visibly in shock.

“Tell them there’s been a murder,” I said. “And the murderer is still here. That should bring them quickly.”

Caroline went through the lobby and into the bar beyond, gently carrying Viola’s remains in her arms.

Komarov was struggling to his feet. The bleeding from his leg had eased to a trickle, and I wondered if I should shoot him again. Instead, I grabbed him by the collar and thrust him ahead of me through the swinging door into the kitchen with the gun in the small of his back. If George Kealy was going to shoot me, he would have to miss his boss to do it. But the kitchen was empty. George and Gary must still be searching outside.

I pushed Komarov right across the kitchen and banged him up against the wall next to the stainless steel door of the cold-room. I bashed the back of his wounded leg with my knee, and he groaned. It felt good, so I did it again.

I used the lever handle to pull open the cold-room door and then I thrust Komarov in and sent him sprawling across the slatted wooden floor. The room was about ten feet square and seven feet high, with four food-filled wide stainless steel shelves running all around the walls, with a space about seven by four feet down the middle to walk. It had cost a fortune to install, but it had been worth every penny. I slammed the door shut. There was a push rod to open the door from the inside, to stop people getting trapped, and there was a place on the outside to affix a padlock, if desired. I didn’t have a padlock handy, so I slipped a foot-long metal kebab skewer through the hole, thereby imprisoning Komarov.

I went into the office to find Caroline standing by the desk, shaking. She was sobbing quietly and close to hysteria. I held her close to me and kissed her neck.

“Sit and wait here,” I said in her ear. “I have others to find.” I pushed her into a chair. “Did you call the police?” I asked her. She nodded.

I went back into the kitchen, and I could hear George Kealy outside the back door, shouting for Gary. I removed the skewer and held the gun up as I carefully reopened the cold-room. Komarov was still there, sitting on the wooden slats and leaning up against the bottom shelf. He looked up at me, but the broken nose, the bullet wound and the loss of blood had taken the fight out of him.

I could hear George coming back in through the scullery. So could Komarov.

“George,” he tried to shout, but it was little more than a croak.

I simply stepped behind the door and held it open as far as I could. I sensed, more than saw, George come into the kitchen and walk over to the cold-room. His gun appeared around the edge of the door, then withdrew when he spotted Komarov inside. Then he walked in and I slammed the door shut behind him. I quickly replaced the skewer.

I heard George pushing the rod to try to open the door, but the skewer held it closed with ease. He fired the gun, but there was about three inches of insulation between the stainless steel sides of the door and there was no chance of a bullet from a handgun penetrating that.

Now I only had Gary to deal with.

It took me a while to find him. He was leaned up against one of the trees on the far side of the parking lot. He was no trouble. In fact, he wouldn’t be any trouble to anyone ever again, except perhaps the undertaker. A fish filleter was embedded in his chest the full length of its thin, eight-inch, razor-sharp blade. There was virtually no blood, just a slight trickle from the corner of his mouth. The knife looked like it had pierced his heart and had probably stopped its beating almost instantly.

Who, I wondered, had done that? Surely not George Kealy. He wouldn’t have had the strength.

I spun around. There must be someone else here.

Caroline suddenly screamed from inside, and I hared across the parking lot, back into the building via the scullery door and through the kitchen. She was standing, wide-eyed in the center of the office, and she was not alone.

Jacek was standing in front of her, and he too was bleeding. Large drops of blood dripped continuously from all the fingers of his left hand onto the wooden floor below and made a bright red pool by his foot. Would this bloodletting ever end? I raised the gun, but it wasn’t needed. Before I could say anything, he dropped to his knees and slowly rolled over onto his back. He had been shot in the shoulder.

Jacek, the man I hadn’t trusted, the kitchen porter of whom I had believed there was more to than met the eye, had been one of the good guys all the time, and he had undoubtedly saved my life.

THE POLICE arrived, in the end. And an ambulance. Caroline had indeed called the emergency number but she had apparently been too shocked to make herself understood properly. The operator had finally traced the call and dispatched help.

First Jacek, then Caroline were conveyed to hospital. I was assured by the paramedics that they would be fine but that both definitely would be admitted overnight. Caroline was suffering badly from shock, and, it appeared, would again miss out on her stay at the Bedford Lodge Hotel.

The police who had arrived in the first patrol car had no real idea how to proceed, and, it seemed to me, they spent most of their time winding blue-and-white plastic POLICE-DO NOT CROSS tape around everything while they waited for reinforcements.

I tried to leave in the ambulance with Caroline but was prevented from doing so by a policeman, who took a break from his taping long enough to insist that I stay at the restaurant to make a statement.

So, instead, I went through the office and the bar to the lobby. Richard was still lying facedown on the stone floor. I moved some of the glass fragments and kneeled down next to him. I was sure he was dead, but I felt his left wrist just to make sure. There was no pulse, and his skin was already noticeably cold to the touch. How could such a thing happen to my caring, reliable headwaiter? I knelt there for a while, resting my hand on his back, as if I could give him some comfort in death, until one of the policemen came in and told me to please leave.

The police reinforcements, when they finally arrived, took the form of some senior plainclothes detectives, a firearms squad and the bomb-disposal team from the Army.

Understandably, none of them was too eager to open the cold-room door. There was still the issue of the loaded gun inside. They decided to leave the occupants where they were for a while to cool off, literally. Three degrees centigrade would have been pretty uncomfortable even if they’d been wearing thick coats, gloves and hats. As it was, it had been a warm late-May evening, and Pyotr Komarov and George Kealy had both been in shirtsleeves. Was I bothered?

The senior officer present interviewed me briefly, and I tried to explain to him what had happened. But it was complicated, and he seemed preoccupied with the men still in the cold-room. I would be reinterviewed, he explained, at the police station later. In the morning, I hoped, yawning.

Both the police and I were required by the bomb-disposal team to leave the building while they removed the explosive, so I sat on a white plastic chair on the gravel in front of the restaurant. One of the ambulance staff came over, wrapped a red blanket around my shoulders and asked me if I was OK.

“I’m fine,” I said. It reminded me of being at Newmarket racetrack on the day of the bombing. But, this time, I really was fine. The nightmare was over.