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

I should know. It had cost me two years of my life and the destruction of all I held dear. I didn’t want to be Whitfield’s minder, I didn’t want to be anybody’s minder.

Then another two customers walked in and our conversation ended.

Jess and I watched through the Old Forge Café’s window as Whitfield walked back across the village green to his house which was beginning to look like a home counties war zone, the charred plastic pillar like a melted blue popsicle in his front garden, the car on his tarmacked drive now streaked with red. Some of it had splashed across the outside of the windows of his house. It looked quite sinister, the colour of blood. He moved slowly, stiffly, head bowed.

‘I feel a bit sorry for him.’

‘I don’t,’ said Jess, her eyes narrowing. ‘Prick.’

He must have really cocked up that conservatory of her uncle’s.

I went back to the beef and getting other things ready. I thought about Whitfield and wondered what sort of trouble he might be in that he required professional muscle to back him up. It must have been serious. I didn’t think he was the kind of man who would need help in that department. I was determined to keep out of any trouble.

The morning started slowly – some teas, coffees and cakes – then about twelve o’clock we started to get busy. It was shaping up to be a pleasant, if uneventful lunch, may be twenty to thirty covers, all fairly straightforward.

At half one, Jess came in to the kitchen, deposited some used crockery in the pot-wash area and leaned across the pass. She looked quite excited.

‘There’s a woman out there who wants to speak to you …’

‘But of course,’ I said, nonchalantly, wondering who it might be, ‘when you look like I do, Jess, you get used to it …What does she want?’

Jess said, ‘She says it’s personal.’

‘That sounds alarming.’ I slid a sea bream fillet on to a plate and carefully spooned over some beurre noisette and sprinkled chopped dill over it. Sometimes the simple things are best.

‘Table two please …’

As Jess picked up the plate, I asked, ‘What does she look like?’

‘Beautiful,’ she said.

Well, I thought, turning my attention to a dessert cheque, that was descriptive but unhelpful.

‘That’s a bit vague, Jess,’ I replied.

‘She’s very well-dressed, dark, kind of Italian looking. Great shoes.’

Perhaps it was Grazia magazine, perhaps it was Italian Vogue come to do a piece on England’s hidden villages. I doubted it. Faint alarm bells started to ring.

When I looked up, there was my ex-girlfriend on the other side of the pass.

‘Hello, Ben,’ said Claudia, ‘it’s been a while.’

CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_321e501c-58bb-5664-928c-b6d082ef34a7)

Wednesday, 13 January (#ulink_321e501c-58bb-5664-928c-b6d082ef34a7)

Later that day the butcher had called to let me know he had some good venison haunch, was I interested? Yes, I most definitely was. As I drove to the butcher’s in Byfield – my windscreen wipers on full, the car occasionally jolting badly as I hit yet another pothole in the road concealed by a puddle – I used the time to review the day.

Inevitably, the face of Claudia and all the attendant memories kept floating into my consciousness. To say my emotions were all over the place would be pretty accurate. Regret, for my past behaviour and what I’d lost; guilt, because I’d severed all ties with her, mainly out of cowardice. I hadn’t wanted to face her, to have an adult discussion. Basically I had run away. On the plus side, I guess I was pleased that she had come to see me.

And part of me was flattered that a woman as attractive, intelligent and successful as Claudia would even want to see me again.

But to be honest I didn’t know what to think.

I concentrated on what I could comprehend: food, rather than the mysteries of women.

Lunchtime service had been busy-ish. I could feel my takings growing. It was a good feeling.

Every night I had done my accounts with a meticulous attention to the bottom line. Not using Excel, sorry, Jess. I didn’t have much wriggle room. Money was tight. I had sold my one bed-roomed flat in Kentish Town/Tufnell Park borders in North London to finance the restaurant. It had just been enough. But I estimated that I now had enough money coming in to hire a kitchen porter, or in more normal speak, someone to wash up for me.

Now it looked as though I might be able to afford to share the load.

I mentioned it to Jess before she left.

‘So do you know anyone who might be interested?’

‘Maybe.’ She had another go at the question she had wanted answered all day long. ‘So are you going to tell me about her?’

I had endured four hours of Jess’s silent curiosity which had taken the form of hints and reminiscences about former boyfriends – ‘but he was like … way too clingy … do you know what I mean?’ – in the hope I would follow suit. She was obviously fascinated by my ex-girlfriend.

I put my chef’s knife down and said, ‘OK, Jess, her name is Claudia Ferrante, she’s Anglo-Italian, her dad’s from Ancona, that’s by the seaside, she’s an investment banker and we were together for four years and then we split up.’