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.
