‘Yes, you were,’ said Albert, wondering if perhaps that was awfully convenient. After all, the word accomplice wasn’t one that had just been invented. Alan was friendly towards them, had been since Rex chased off his mugger and perhaps it was nothing but gratitude driving the event organiser to invite him in with a VIP pass. Albert had always been wary of coincidence though, and as he thought that thought, his eyes came to see the loose thread on the back of Alan’s jacket sleeve. Little tendrils of black cotton flapped with the motion of air where a button ought to be. Albert watched as Alan’s arm swung forward with the motion of his passage and then back again, giving him a clear shot of the line of buttons on his cuff. Where there ought to be four, there were only three.
Albert was asking the question before he even realised he’d decided to. ‘What was the money for, Alan?’
Gary shot his father a look, but Albert’s eyes were on the museum curator who flinched physically before composing himself and giving Albert a broad smile.
‘You’re talking about the contents of the briefcase, yes? Of course you are. It’s the prize money for the competition,’ Alan boasted proudly. ‘I know it’s more usual to give a cheque, but cash has such visual impact, don’t you think.’
‘It looked like more than ten thousand,’ Albert insisted.
Alan just tilted his head and turned down his mouth in a what-can-I-tell-you pose. ‘That’s how much it was. How the mugger knew about it, I have no idea. I’m just glad you happened along when you did.’
Alan hadn’t stopped walking, and content that he’d given an acceptable answer to Albert’s question, he went back to chattering, gushing about how this was the most successful annual competition they had ever held. He was already reconsidering his decision to only hold the reins once, he revealed. Since leadership could not return to Brian, perhaps it was Alan’s solemn duty to remain at the helm. His tone, when mentioning Brian became suitably sombre, yet only for a moment. Then he was back to chattering excitedly about planning next year’s event and wondering how they could ever make it bigger and better than this one. ‘It’s a shame poor Brian is gone,’ he joked at one point. ‘I would be doing myself a favour to hand the reins back to him rather than trying to top this myself.’
Albert didn’t think the man’s death was cause for amusement, not that he was really listening to what was being said; he was thinking about the button they found last night under the eggs in the refrigerated storage container and how it was exactly the same as the ones on Alan’s jacket. He felt an instant desire to broach the subject immediately, to grab Alan’s arm and twist it around to reveal the missing button, but at this stage what was he going to accuse him of? He was the organiser of the event and the man behind the world record attempt. All the button proved was that Alan had been in the container with the chilled ingredients.
Quelling his need to know more, Albert quickly forced a smile onto his face when Alan glanced his way. ‘The chaps have been working so hard to make up for lost time, they will all deserve a holiday once this is over.’ He made the comment because they were coming into earshot of the bakers.
Their mood, which had taken a few blows in the last day, was better than it might have been, but not as chipper as when Albert stumped up to buy the replacement ingredients the previous evening.
Alan called out to them, ‘Where’s my team of record breakers?’
Heads that had not been looking his way turned to see who was calling, and he got a few weary waved hands.
‘Are we still on track?’ he asked.
The question hadn’t been aimed at anyone in particular, and Albert had to wonder who might have stepped in to take over as their leader now that Beefy was out of the picture. Was Suzalls the next person to naturally gravitate to the top? She had seemed to be one of the more confident ones yesterday, speaking for the group when she had an opinion. Albert looked around for her, squinting a little when he couldn’t find her.
The baker nearest Alan, who one might have expected to answer, was looking about for someone else to field the question. Over by the mixing machines – three now not four, which wouldn’t be helping their efforts any – one of the chefs stopped loading ingredients and came forward.
He looked tired, and when he came close enough for Albert to read the name embroidered on his jacket, Albert knew why: he was Dave 2 and had been here since midnight.
‘Good morning, Mr Crystal,’ he acknowledged the organiser in a lacklustre I’ll-talk-to-you-but-I-hope-you-appreciate-you-are-stopping-me-from-doing-the-one-thing-you-want-me-to-do subtext.
‘How are things proceeding?’ Alan repeated his question. ‘Are you on track to have the pudding ingredients ready on time?’ The anxiety in Alan’s voice was palpable.
Dave 2 nodded. ‘Just about, yes. Those who didn’t work through the night, were here early this morning to lend a hand. We’re really short on people.’
‘Why?’ asked Alan. ‘I know you are missing Beefy, but surely you can cope with the loss of one member of the team.’ He said it in the way that managers everywhere use on workers when they have no idea nor interest in understanding how complex a task might be. The workers were supposed to do it
