Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,3
by damaged?’
‘Bruised or torn. I didn’t know the supplier very well so I decided to order a few more than I normally would. In the end they were all fine and we cooked the lot. Then there was enough vegetarian for at least twenty, plus the vegan. That should be about thirty to thirty-five extra meals over and above the guests. That feeds my staff. If there are only a few vegetarians among the guests, then my staff have to eat more of that. Look, I really must go now, I’m late already.’
‘OK, Mr Moreton,’ she said. ‘Just one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Were you ill in the night?’
‘As a matter of fact I was.’ Horribly.
By the time I finally arrived at the racecourse the man from Stress-Free Catering was well advanced with the unloading of the truck.
‘Beginning to think I’d got the wrong day,’ he said sarcastically by way of welcome. He rolled a large wire cage full of crockery out on to the hydraulic tailgate and lowered it to the ground with a clatter. Perhaps he could use the tailgate to lower me on to a bed. I worked out that I had been awake for more than twenty-six hours and remembered that the KGB had used sleep deprivation as their primary form of torture.
‘Was it you who collected the stuff from last night?’ I asked.
‘No chance,’ he replied. ‘I had to leave Ipswich at seven and had to load everything before that. I’ve been at work since five thirty.’ He said it in an accusing manner, which was fair enough I suppose. He wasn’t to know that I’d been up all night.
‘Will it still be on the truck from last night?’ I could see that today’s was a much smaller version for a much smaller function, and there was no kitchen equipment.
‘Doubt it,’ he said. ‘First thing that’s done after a late function is to unload and steam clean the lot, including the inside of the truck.’
‘Even on a Saturday?’
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Saturdays are the busiest day of the week for us. Weddings and all.’
‘What happens to the waste food bins?’ I asked him. Perhaps, I thought, some pig farmer somewhere is getting the leftovers delivered for his charges.
‘We have an industrial-sized waste-disposal unit. You know, like those things in kitchen sinks only bigger. Liquidizes all the left-over food and flushes it away down the drain. Then the bins are steam cleaned like the rest. Why do you want to know?’ he asked. ‘Lost something?’
Only my stomach, I thought, and my pride.
‘Just wondered,’ I said. Ms Milne is not going to be happy. No kitchen to inspect and no left-over food to test. I wasn’t sure whether I should be pleased or disappointed. With none of the offending material to analyse it couldn’t be proved that my food was responsible for the poisoning, but, there again, it couldn’t be proved that it wasn’t.
‘Where do you want all this stuff?’ he asked, waving a hand at the row of wire cages.
‘Glass-fronted boxes one and two on the second floor of the Head-On grandstand,’ I said.
‘Right.’ He went in search of the lift.
As the name suggested, the Head-On Grandstand sat near the winning post and looked back down the track so that the horses raced almost directly towards it. The boxes here gave the best view of the racing and were the most sought after. The Delafield tractor makers had done well to secure a couple together for their big day.
I wandered past the magnificent Millennium Grandstand towards the racecourse manager’s office. The whole place was a hive of activity. Last-minute beer deliveries to the bars were in progress while other catering staff were scurrying back and forth with trays of smoked salmon and cold meats. The groundsmen were putting the finishing touches to the flowerbeds and mowing again the already short grass in the parade ring. An army of young men were setting up tables and chairs on the lawn in front of a seafood stall ready for the thousands of racegoers that would soon be arriving for their big day out. Everything looked perfect, and normal, it was only me that was different, at least that’s what I thought at the time.
I put my head through the open door of the manager’s office. ‘Is William around?’ I asked a large woman who was half standing, half sitting on the desk. William Preston was the racecourse manager and had been a guest at the function the previous evening.