Murder on the Green. H.V. CoombsЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Eight

      ‘I’m thirty-eight,’ Justin said, and pulled a face. ‘Terrible isn’t it! And I started working in a kitchen when I was fourteen – that’s twenty-four years, my God, nearly a quarter of a century.’

      He stood up and walked restlessly around the large study. He gazed up at one of the lurid nudes, and continued speaking.

      ‘My mama was from Le Marche, by way of Scotland, but I was born in England, where I lived, so my Italian was quite poor as a child.’

      I nodded. That explained his slightly odd pronunciation, mainly Italian but with certain definitive London vowel sounds.

      ‘We moved back to Italy where her family were originally from, back in the day. I was twelve. My parents were looking after holiday homes for British owners. I got a part-time job when I was at school as a pot-washer, my first kitchen job – you don’t really need much language. And then I got promoted. You can understand that.’

      ‘Indeed I can,’ I said. That’s more or less how Francis had ended up being a chef for me. The big difference being that he had no talent and Justin was a genius.

      ‘Now,’ said Justin, tearing his gaze away from the painting and looking at me, ‘the thing was, the restaurant that I was working in was amazingly good, though I didn’t know it at the time. Who knows anything when they’re a teenager? Besides, I had other things to worry about …’

      He rested a hand on Aurora’s shoulder and she patted it then kissed it.

      ‘And I rose through the ranks. Well, it was a small place, thirty covers max, and great regional cooking. Fifteen years later when I got my place in London, I re-created her menu. She was dead by then and I stole all her recipes.’

      He paused and stared into space. ‘I mean all of them,’ he confessed. ‘That first TV series, that was all her stuff, and I passed it off as my own. My signature dishes, the zabaglione, the saltimbocca with a twist, they’re hers. And my first cookery book …’ He shook his head sadly, got up, went to the safe in the corner, (of course, there had to be a safe, here in the lair) and spun the dial this way and that. It clicked open and he reached inside and returned with a paperback book.

      I examined it. Mia Cucina by Alessandra Bonini. Its spine was cracked, the pages were yellowed, the typeface looked ridiculously old-fashioned and the cover was faded. It was hard to believe that behind all the glossy footage on TV of Justin making gnocchi, twirling the crank handle of the pasta machine as he turned pasta dough into lasagne, chopping onions with amazing speed (he was incredible with a knife and I should know; I was good but he was awesome), lay this long-forgotten book.

      I flipped through the pages, which were heavily annotated in biro and pencil. There was hardly any white margin left.

      ‘That’s her book. Long since out of print, the publisher no longer exists.’ He pulled a face. ‘If you look at Justin does Italy, it’s pretty much the same book. I just translated it. More or less the same recipes in the same order.’

      ‘So that’s it? You nicked a load of recipes? It’s hardly the crime of the century.’

      It didn’t seem a blackmailable offence. Not in cooking. Everything is based on everything else. Even molecular gastronomy techniques, foams, gels et cetera are not exactly copyright. Nothing is new under the sun.

      ‘It is when your name is Justin McCleish … and, just for your information, stealing published recipes is a very big deal indeed.’ It was Charlotte, his agent, who had slipped into the room unnoticed by me. ‘For one thing, aside from being sued, no reputable publisher would ever touch him again with a bargepole.’

      ‘Oh,’ I said, suitably chastened. I felt I had not made a very good impression on her. I made a mental note to work harder on my intellectual side. Next time I would bring a book, show her that I could read. A difficult book. Jacques Derrida, he’d do. He was a dead French intellectual. God knows what theories or philosophy he had propounded. Jess would doubtless fill in the blanks.

      ‘Justin isn’t just a chef …’ she said.

      ‘Isn’t he?’ I was confused momentarily.

      ‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘he’s also a brand. And the brand is integrity.’

      I looked across at Justin who seemed a lot more relaxed now he had Charlotte to do his speaking for him.

      ‘Most of the people who watch Justin are never going to cook what he’s showing them.’

      ‘They’re not?’ I felt somehow disappointed.

      ‘No, they like what it represents. These are people who haven’t got the time or the inclination to cook, but they do like Justin – he’s Mr Nice Guy.’ Charlotte warmed to her theme, her eyes flashing behind the thick lenses of her glasses.

      ‘If they thought he had stolen some old woman’s heritage, it would be terrible for Justin, a real game changer and not in a good way.’

      I began to see what she meant, and it complicated things a lot. I frowned.

      ‘So, discretion is in order?’

      ‘Absolutely. I, we, do not want the police involved, nor the media.’

      It seemed a bit of a tall order.

      ‘So tell me the mechanics of the blackmail,’ I said.

      Charlotte looked at Justin and he handed me a piece of paper. ‘These are the instructions for paying the money.’

      I examined it with interest. I had never seen a blackmail note before and I imagined something luridly old-fashioned, like words cut out of newspapers and magazines then stuck to a sheet of paper. How hopelessly out of date that was.

      Of course, it was nothing like that at all. It was prosaically boring.

      It was a piece of A4, the words printed in some nondescript font, telling Justin that he should take four thousand in cash in a plain brown envelope, go to the EROS Shop in Vantry’s Alley off Greek Street in Soho and ask to speak to Greg. He was to hand it over saying, ‘This is for Mick,’ and then leave.

      ‘How many times have you done this?’ I asked.

      ‘Three,’ said Justin. I sipped my Diet Coke and we looked at each other, evaluating.

      ‘In three months,’ he added.

      ‘That’s a thousand pounds a week,’ I said helpfully, for once managing a quick calculation. Justin was getting his money’s worth already.

      ‘It is indeed,’ he said before draining his latte.

      ‘Twelve thousand pounds!’ I marvelled.

      ‘You can certainly do maths,’ said Justin, drily.

      Charlotte leaned forward.

      ‘Now,’ she said, ‘this coming Monday is payday. I want you to follow Justin to the sex shop and then you can hang around outside and find out who “Mick” is.’

      I raised my eyebrows. ‘But, Charlotte, that’s assuming a lot of things. What if “Mick” is a third party, a go-between? I wouldn’t recognise him. What if he doesn’t even exist and the sex shop guy takes the money home and then gives it …’

      She cut me off with an impatient gesture.

      ‘If any of these scenarios happen, we’ll come up with an alternative plan. I’ll deal with what-ifs. You’re not being paid to think – that’s my job.’