A Taste of Death: The gripping new murder mystery that will keep you guessing

‘Oh, yesss! Ben, let’s party!’

‘Not that kind of party, Jess,’ I protested.

‘Oh, Ben, let us shed these constrictive garments and dance naked and worship the moon … tune in our auras … can you do asparagus, Ben, I love it so, oh, Ben, tell me you can! I want to dunk my spears in your …rich … creamy … Hollandaise.’ She sucked a finger suggestively, waggling her eyebrows.

It was my turn to raise my eyebrows.

At this point I grew slightly cross. ‘She’s a customer, Jess. It’s business, not a date.’

‘That woman is a man-eater, Ben, you should steer well clear of her.’ Jess’s voice was haughtily dismissive. ‘She made a pass at my dad once. Mummy was furious. She’s boycotted her yoga class ever since.’

‘Look, Jess. It really is none of your business, and, by the way, I’m not your dad …’ That was certainly true. Jess’s father did something – who knows what? – in insurance. She had told me where she lived, on the outskirts of the village; I had driven past a few times. My waitress lived in what might be described as a mansion, behind a well-kept hawthorn hedge and imposing security gates. I think Mr Turner was doing rather well, financially.

I couldn’t be sure, but I bet he had something to sit on in his living room other than a couple of upturned beer crates, like I did. Just an educated guess.

Mr Turner I certainly wasn’t.

‘Yes, it is,’ she said serenely, ‘this might be your business—’ she waved her arms to encompass the kitchen, and she emphasised the ‘your’ as if there was some doubt about it ‘—but as your employee it’s part of my duty to inform you of potential hazards, such as the man-crazy cougar in the Sweaty Betty leotard and leggings that is Naomi West.’

I made a placatory gesture. I didn’t want to upset Jess, even if she had seemed to have decided that she was running the place.

‘Well, Jess, if she makes a pass at me, I shall refuse ever to go to her yoga class. I’ll boycott it like your mum. That’ll teach her, she’ll never get to see my Halasana.’

‘Hmm,’ said Jess as she pulled off her apron and shrugged herself into her coat.

‘People who have seen my Halasana speak very highly of it,’ I said, ‘it’s truly amazing.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ she remarked adding, sotto voce, as she opened the kitchen door to let herself out into the yard at the back, ‘Bet she shows you her Down Dog.’

The door closed behind her.

Eight thirty found me ringing the door of Kiln House.

I, for one, was looking forward to meeting Naomi West.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_0fc2863f-b292-55d3-b5c4-3bb2db9c7182)

Monday, 11 January, evening (#ulink_0fc2863f-b292-55d3-b5c4-3bb2db9c7182)

I walked across the common in the driving rain. The ground squelched underfoot and freezing water ran into my shoes. I cursed myself for not having taken my car even though it was such a short distance. A couple of days ago the houses where she lived would have been lit up by the eerie blue light from Whitfield’s garden. No longer. I rather missed the obelisk.

It struck me that it was an odd village, the sex-addicted earl, the resident drug dealer, the misanthropic publican, and other social undercurrents of which I was completely ignorant. Still, I didn’t need to worry about any of that. I was neutral, I provided food, I was like a utility company, above the fray.

I rang the bell and Naomi opened the door.

‘Shoes, please …’ she said.

I gave her the box I was carrying to hold and balanced awkwardly on one leg, then the other, to remove my mud-covered footwear. Naomi watched my mono-legged teetering critically, it wasn’t very yogic. I bet she could take her shoes off elegantly, perhaps I should sign up for a class. I followed her into the hall. The house was more or less as I had expected: dimly lit, with wall hangings and several Buddhas, fat Chinese ones and slimline Thai. The living room was a profusion of Persian rugs and framed Chakra diagrams. Jazz music played discreetly in the background. Miles Davis, Kind of Blue. Incense was burning in a holder.

I wondered if it was really the kind of atmosphere for a business discussion.

After Jess’s lurid warnings, I was half-expecting, no, fully expecting Naomi to be wearing some kind of come hither clothing, something certainly provocative if not positively tarty. I was unsure about whether or not being seduced by a client was a bright idea but I had high hopes.

Maybe I was getting ahead of myself, I thought, as she gestured at a sofa and I sat down. She was wearing sensible black trousers and a baggy jumper, her hair tied severely back. She didn’t look like a cougar about to pounce. She looked like an attractive, intelligent, middle-aged woman. I felt a twinge of disappointment mixed with a sense of relief.

Naomi West did have a romantic aura about her. She was fine-featured with large, dark eyes. Time had given her just the right amount of lines. She also moved with a conscious grace which I conspicuously did not have. Her hair was long and dark and her fingernails short and shapely. They were painted red tonight, which gave me some hope. I think the expression is ‘clutching at straws’.

Before I’d left the restaurant earlier, I had taken my copy, much thumbed, of the Tao Te Ching, and opened it at random. I often do this when I think I need guidance. Well, as often as I can; I probably need guidance through most of my waking hours. My own thinking and planning abilities have often proved disastrous. The bit that I had read had basically told me to stick to the straight and narrow and not get sidetracked.

Well, that had seemed pretty obvious. I mustn’t deviate from the path of the catering menu to the flower-strewn bowers of dalliance.

No flower-strewn bower seemed on offer. Perhaps she would pounce later?

‘Thanks for coming,’ she said brightly and sat on a chair opposite me, a low coffee-table between us. ‘Now, the party, what did you have in mind?’

‘Canapés,’ I said, ‘I brought a selection as examples.’

I opened a container that held asparagus twists with puff pastry, assorted crostini on home-made ciabatta, home-made rye bread, duck rillettes, capers, beetroot gravadlax and celeriac remoulade. Oh, and a selection of vol-au-vents. I think the Seventies are due for a comeback; perhaps this was the effect of having the radio permanently tuned to the one station. I’d been listening to too much Slade on Beech Tree FM: ‘Merry Xmas, Everybody’ was still playing despite it being January.

Miles Davis moodily trumpeted away in the background. Perhaps I should ask for some Slade. Or Mud, given the weather.

Naomi leaned forward. ‘Oh, God, this so good,’ she said, nibbling a disc of rye bread with a very thin circle of goat’s cheese topped with a beetroot mousse. She filled my wine glass up, and said, ‘What then? I mean, after the canapés?’

She stood up in a smooth, effortless gesture. All her movements were sinuously graceful and I noticed how flexible she was. She picked a cushion off the floor, bending over so I could see that she could place her hands flat on the ground. She adjusted the curtains, pirouetting like a ballerina to reach the draw-cord.

‘A buffet, I think. I’ve got a few ideas here,’ I said.

I had printed off about twenty items which I thought we could narrow down to half a dozen. She took the paper and peered at it in the dim light of the living room.

I was enjoying my evening out. It was nice to be in warm, pleasant surroundings. When I went upstairs at the Old Forge Café it was to yellowing, peeling wallpaper and silence. You could see where things had been before Mrs Cope moved out so it was like being haunted by the ghosts of dead chests of drawers and armchairs past. The radiators in my flat didn’t work very well and it was bitterly cold. Sometimes I slept in a jumper.

I sat back and stared at the fire while Naomi went through my suggestions.

The upstairs flat smelled indefinably of old lady (maybe that’s why it was so cold, her malign spirit still lingered). Not so Naomi’s lounge. The burning incense and the effect of the drink, the dim light, smell of patchouli joss-stick, was oddly evocative of student years a quarter of a century before.

She returned to her seat, and tucked her slim legs underneath her so she was sitting on her heels, facing me. I looked at the long dark hair that framed a small face with very white teeth. Her attractive head was bent studiously over the sheet of paper.

‘I like the idea of the chicken and apricot tagine,’ she said. So did I, it was easy to make and practically foolproof. ‘We’ll need a vegetarian dish, about half the guests don’t eat meat.’

‘It’s on the other side.’ She turned the piece of paper over. ‘Do you like the idea of the smoked aubergine moussaka?’ I asked.

‘Yes, but it’s a bit too exotic for them,’ Naomi said, ‘as is the Caribbean jerk vegetable curry.’

Oh, I thought. I was disappointed, I had thought both of those would be quite interesting and different.

She put the paper down. ‘What about roast vegetable lasagne?’ she suggested.

I groaned mentally. How dull was that!