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.”
