Coveted: there was a good word. Albert thought the word in his head without considering why but then realised how well it fit. Was ten thousand pounds and the chance to make a lot more enough to kill for? It was discussed last night with the police, but they all knew it was. Each of them was a seasoned law enforcement officer and had seen more terrible crimes committed for worse reasons than a life changing amount of income.
Who would replace Alan on the judging panel? There was another question. He wandered forward into the competition hall, allowing himself to be amazed at the different things the bakers were doing. Yes, they were all going after the grand prize, but there were other categories to win as well as Alan argued yesterday. On the first table, the contestants, a husband and wife from the way they were bickering Albert judged, were crafting a swan from Yorkshire puddings. It was surprising how they could get the proportions so accurate using a floppy batter product. He moved on.
On the next table, he saw more of the sweet treats he tried yesterday, and then, to his great surprise, saw that the woman hand-piping whipped cream into her Yorkshire puddings was the lady from the very café by the station he’d eaten in.
Behind him, at the previous table, the bickering turned to an argument.
‘I thought you said the swan was done,’ snapped the woman.
‘It is, love,’ replied the man, not looking up.
His dismissive tone just made the woman more angry. ‘Then why does it only have one wing? Did the other fly away?’ she demanded.
The man stopped what he was doing, angrily putting his spatula down to glare at her. ‘What are you talking about, you daft old cow?’
Albert wasn’t sure whether it was the direct insult or the result of pressure from the competition, but the woman picked up the swan with a torrent of expletives and started tearing Yorkshire puddings from it to use as projectiles.
As a sudden sinking feeling arrived in the pit of his stomach, Albert’s head and eyes snapped downward to look at Rex.
The dog, happily chewing the last piece of the swan’s wing, swallowed, licked his lips, and gave his human a wag of his tail. ‘Whatever these things are, I like them.’
Albert quickly glanced around to see if anyone was looking and tugged the dog away on a very short lead just as the competition adjudicators were stepping in o save the man from his wife.
Circling away from them, he found Gary waiting for him at the entrance to the competition wing of the marquee.
‘Dad?’ prompted Gary, wondering what his father was up to this time. ‘The world record bakers are this way.’
Albert had been wandering around the competition hall for more than a minute, ideas running around his head. Given the time, the competitors he could see now were most likely the first heat of the day. They had still drawn a small crowd of onlookers, but that wasn’t what Albert was looking at. His eyes were drawn to one team, the one who yesterday he heard getting vocal about how they were going to win.
He tried to remember their names. However, before he could dredge them from his memory, Gary said, ‘I don’t believe it,’ in a tone that made Albert question what it was his son could not believe. He couldn’t stop his curiosity getting the better of him, and as his head turned to see where Gary was looking, he had to admit that he too, couldn’t believe it.
Talking to the jolly comedian, taking a short break from his monologue of Yorkshire pudding jokes, was Alan Crystal.
Missing Button
They were making their way through the crowd of people when Alan shook the comedian’s hand and started to move away.
‘He looks surprisingly well,’ observed Gary, echoing Albert’s thoughts.
Albert raised his free hand, ‘Alan Crystal,’ he called loudly. His voice carried but in the press of people, Alan wasn’t able to pinpoint where the shout had come from. It was enough to make him stop and look around for the source though, so when Albert called again, he was almost facing the right direction and raised his own hand to accompany the smile that spread across his face.
He looked very much the part of the ringmaster with a blazing red jacket and waistcoat above a pair of fitted black trousers. If his intention was to be easily spotted, he was wearing the right outfit for it.
‘Gentlemen,’ he greeted them. ‘So lovely to see you again. You may be marvelling at how rested and well I look following last night’s bout of unpleasantness.’
‘You do look fully recovered,’ Gary observed.
‘It would seem I accidentally ingested something that disagreed with me,’ Alan told them with a beaming smile. They gave me something to clear my system and I have to say, I haven’t had a night’s sleep that good in years. I awoke this morning feeling ready to take on the world, and in the mood to break a world record,’ he added.
Albert admitted, ‘Well, I must say I was not expecting to see you today.’
Alan started toward the world record attempt end of the marquee. ‘Shall we? I am led to believe you came to the rescue last night when poor Brian tried to put a stop to our most popular attraction. Terrible business of course,’ Alan changed his expression to one of a suitably sombre nature when discussing his opponent’s death. ‘I cannot imagine who would want to do him any harm.’
Albert and Gary both frowned. ‘You can’t?’ asked Albert. ‘I was only here for a few hours yesterday and to me it seemed there were several people who might wish ill of him, you included.’
Alan looked horrified
