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 How hopelessly out of date that was.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.’
I wasn’t being paid to think, or cook.
‘Tomorrow we try this.’ Charlotte leaned forward and tapped my knee for emphasis. ‘I think you probably saw the blackmailer this morning when you met the team. It’s almost certainly why the payment is made on a Monday, which is not a working day for Team McCleish. I want a name; it’s your job to get it.’
‘And then what?’ I asked.
‘I’m coming to that,’ she said.
I looked at Justin, who shrugged.
‘All of this is Charlotte’s idea,’ he said, unhappily. She shook her head sadly, in a kind of motherly way, as though Justin was a teenager going through an awkward time and she was stepping up to the plate because he couldn’t or wouldn’t.
She looked at me through her unflattering glasses, and her eyes were hard.
‘There’s a lot riding on this. As I said earlier, if word of this gets out it could be quite a big news story. Top chef steals recipes. And would the estate of Alessandra Bonini be entitled to compensation? It’s something we could well do without.’
‘And you want me to find out the identity of the blackmailer …’
‘And reason with him,’ said Charlotte. ‘Reason with him a lot, to the extent that he might need medical attention and then point out that should he persist, complain or make a pest of himself in any way, shape or form, further reasoning of a more robust nature will take place.’ She paused and tapped the table for emphasis.
‘That’s why I want you to stake out the shop, why I haven’t done it myself,’ she said.
‘To be honest,’ I said truthfully, ‘I’m not keen on the idea.’
Not only had I felt I had renounced violence, which was a moral decision, I had already done time for GBH and was not keen on a course of action that might lead to me being banged up again. Charlotte frowned – it wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
‘What if it was Octavia?’ I pointed out. ‘I could hardly beat her up could I?’
Charlotte rolled her eyes. ‘Tell you what,’ she said, ‘call me when whoever it is shows up and I’ll give you further instructions. Would that help?’
‘I’m still not sure …’
Charlotte looked at me in a measured way; then she said something that made me change my mind.
‘You can have three months of blackmail payments to stop this nonsense. What do you say?’
‘Twelve thousand pounds?’ I said.
‘He’s good at maths,’ Justin contributed.
That would buy me six months of chef help. It was a deal-clincher in my view.
I stood up quickly. ‘I’ve always loved Soho,’ I said. I was suddenly very decisive. It was amazing how money could concentrate the mind. ‘And in prison I learned to be very persuasive. I’ll be in touch.’
‘I knew you were a reasonable man,’ said Charlotte. We shook hands.
‘Would you like to stay and have lunch with us?’ offered Justin.
‘I’m afraid not,’ I said, standing up. ‘I have to go and sort out things in my own restaurant, tell them the exciting news that they’ll be working with Andrea.’
From what I had seen of him it would be a hard sell.
Two days later I was selling Andrea to my unenthusiastic staff.
‘There’s a lot going on in a Bakewell tart,’ I said to Andrea as we stood in the kitchen of the Old Forge Café, while he bit dubiously into a slice. I looked at his sour, pallid face, and wished that Justin had employed a more amenable sous-chef. I could quite understand him lending me the most competent of his brigade but on reflection I think I would have preferred just about anyone to Andrea. He chewed, swallowed and said, ‘Non è male. Not too bad.’
It wasn’t as if I’d given him a piece of dung to eat, but the look on his face was far from ecstatic. Well, I thought huffily, what did Italy have in the way of desserts apart from tiramisu and ice cream?
To be honest, I didn’t really know the answer to my own rhetorical question. I am not an expert on ‘la dolce vita’. Panna cotta, I thought suddenly. I loved panna cotta, and that was Italian. But to be indifferent to my rather wonderful sweet pastry, the almond-y heaven of the frangipane and the raspberry jam, home-made by Esther Bartlett, one of my most enthusiastic customers, and a white witch to boot, well … perhaps she would curse him.
Andrea looked around my kitchen with grudging respect. It was a very pleasant kitchen to work in. Airy, large, pride of place given to my double Hobart combi oven, which had been more than just ruinously financially expensive, it had nearly cost me my life.
Andrea performed well. No surprise there, given his pedigree. He
