Murder on the Green. H.V. Coombs
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I gave a tight smile. Vegetarian lasagne is so clichéd, but it seems to dog my footsteps. People like it and I can’t get away from it. When I die, it’ll be on my gravestone.
Here Lies Ben Hunter
He cooked a mean Vegetable Lasagne
‘Well—’ I brought out my tablet ‘—the fact that you’re celebrating with fire kind of conjures up a barbecue …’ I showed them photos of mini-burgers, marinated lamb kebabs, teriyaki-style chicken and tofu brochettes. ‘I decided to go with the fire theme with the salads, beetroot and lentil, the redness mirroring the fire.’
‘Cool,’ murmured Clare. She was giving me a rather ‘come hither’ look. Her eyes, surrounded by the dramatic mascara and eyeliner, smouldered. I felt slightly nervous. She leaned over the table to get a better look at the image on the screen and I averted my eyes from her low-cut blouse.
I tried to take my mind off things by looking around me at my surroundings. I had been in Esther’s kitchen before, using it for the aforementioned Feast of Imbolc. It was a massive room, extremely well equipped. The three of us were seated on stools around the centre island with which every large kitchen these days seems to be furnished. I had already made a small stack of plates and now I unzipped the cool-bag I had with me and plated up some of the salads. ‘This is a Lebanese dish, “moussakaat batinjan”; it’s a kind of aubergine stew.’
I watched anxiously as she tasted it. I’m a huge fan of the aubergine, but it’s a divisive vegetable.
Clare frowned at first and then her face brightened. She pushed her jet-black bird’s nest of hair away from her forehead. ‘I think that’s great.’
I felt immensely relieved. The other dishes all went down well.
‘And how much will all this come to?’ she asked. I tapped the tablet, seeking shelter in the white screen with the figures in black. I hate the whole business of asking for money. I find it embarrassing, ridiculously so.
The invoice I was quoting from had actually been prepared by Jess. She had seen my original quote and said, ‘Are you crazy? No wonder you can’t afford any staff. Give it to me.’
I propped the tablet up between Clare and me, creating a kind of shield while she frowned at the numbers.
‘It’s not cheap I’m afraid,’ I apologised (I could almost hear Jess’s exasperated voice: ‘FFS, man up, you’re not a charity’).
‘That’s not a problem,’ said Esther cheerfully. ‘Clare’s husband’s job is as a treasurer – he’s got loads of money.’
Clare rolled her eyes, then looked closely at the figures in front of her and nodded in agreement. ‘That looks fine,’ she said.
I was pathetically grateful. God knows why. When you compared my invoice to a lot of things – the work being done on my old Volvo, plumbing, that kind of stuff – it was perfectly reasonable. And they would certainly get their money’s worth. The witches of Milton Keynes were going to be very well fed; it would be a NoBWic do to remember.
‘Where’s the Feast being held?’ I asked. I wondered if it would be in her house and garden like Esther had done previously. Clare sounded wealthy. I knew vaguely that only large companies had treasury departments and treasurers so I was guessing that her house would be sizeable. Particularly in North Bucks where property was a lot cheaper than round here.
‘It’s going to be at the local cricket club.’ Clare smiled. ‘I thought we’d need space to do our rituals if the weather is bad. We can always use the pavilion. It might be the Summer Solstice but that’s no guarantee of anything. I’ll text you my address and postcode and you can come round a few days before – shall we say the thirtieth of May?’
I checked my calendar on my phone. ‘That’d be great.’
‘We’ll talk things over at my place …’ She pushed a hand through her hair. ‘Then we’ll go down … down to the cricket club …’ Clare batted her eyelashes at me, and I smiled nervously. She had managed to imbue the words ‘cricket club’ with a kind of lascivious air, as if a cricket club were some kind of orgiastic hot-house.
I stood up. ‘Ladies,’ I said, ‘it’s been a pleasure.’
As I left, I thought with relief of my impending stakeout of the porn shop on Monday. It would be a lot less scary than a meeting at Clare’s house.
I got up early the next day and drove to Byfield, the nearest big town, about half an hour by car from my place. I was at the station by seven-thirty. It was more or less an hour to Marylebone although there were faster trains that did it in forty minutes. The platform was already thronging with bleary-looking commuters, less than thrilled by the prospect of a day’s work in London.
I was feeling a mixture of emotions: the thrill of the chase (which one of Justin’s team would turn up to collect the money?), apprehension (there was obviously going to be a confrontation, possibly violent, certainly abusive) and a certain sense of worry (that the whole thing might be absolutely futile and nobody would show up).
On balance, I suspected that someone would come to collect the money. The fact that the payment was made on a Monday, a day that everyone in the team had off, was a strong indicator that he or she would come to pick up the cash. And it was a lot of money. What successful blackmailer would be able to resist going straightaway to grab that money-stuffed envelope?
The alley – it was called a mews, but it wasn’t – off Greek Street in Soho in the centre of London was a place that I knew relatively well. Not because I used to buy porn there, but because I used to work round the corner in an airless basement kitchen of a forty-cover restaurant that did steak and very little else.
I would stand, hunched over a chargrill in the tiny room, while the ticket machine spooled out infinite requests for fillet, ribeye and sirloin and the commis endlessly fried thin chips, or ‘pommes allumettes’ as they were rather pretentiously described on the menu, and plated up garnishes for me. After a week in there, no matter how much I showered and scrubbed myself raw, a faint, pervasive odour of charred meat clung to me wherever I went. My girlfriend at the time didn’t like it, but if I went anywhere that had cats or dogs, be it friends’ flats, parks or pubs, I attracted an interested animal audience.
Swings and roundabouts, I guess.
The shop front was whited out, the legend ‘EROS SHOP ADULT BOOKS, DVDS AND MAGS’ emblazoned in blue across the top. I wondered how it was surviving in this age of downloadable porn. I guessed it must have a predominantly elderly clientele. It was nine-thirty a.m. and the place had only just opened. There was a small independent café opposite with a window overlooking the porn emporium. I sat there with a good view of the door and ordered a cup of tea.
At ten o’clock I saw Justin enter the alley and stride into the shop. He was wearing a hoody to hide his long hair and sunglasses to help disguise his face. I waited and a few minutes later Justin exited the shop.
Time passed. I ordered more tea and watched several men enter the shop opposite. They fell into two groups: either furtive, looking around guiltily before going in, or feigning nonchalance. Nobody really wants to be seen to be going into a porn shop – it’s not something to feel proud about. I pondered this too. I was getting to do a lot of thinking today.
Once again, I wondered who the Judas figure would be. It was all too easy to imagine, the resentment building up inside as you worked your butt off in Justin’s successful restaurant while he got all the plaudits, the money, the beautiful wife, all the gifts the world could throw at him, and you were there slaving away for a comparative pittance. But now you could think, as you watched him, I’ve cut you down to size; I’ve got my revenge.
Was it Tom, the development