The restaurant at Coopers Chase has seen many things over these last few years. It has seen a former High Court judge die while waiting for a banoffee pie. It has seen a row so blazing that a woman of eighty-nine eventually divorced her husband of sixty-eight years, and it has even seen a public marriage proposal, which was greeted with much fanfare at the time, and then quietly forgotten about when the man involved turned out to be already married. It has seen celebrations, wakes, new love, the parading of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and even a hundredth birthday, which ended in the police being called due to an incident involving a male stripper.
But it has never seen the sort of gathering currently sitting around the private table in the conservatory. Two of Britain’s most prolific drug smugglers, a multi-millionaire antiques dealer and her enormous Canadian husband, a professor of historical archaeology at Kent University, a heavily tattooed Polish builder and, at the head of the table, the proud hosts, a former nurse, a former spy, a former trades union official and an occasionally still-practising psychiatrist.
The subject of conversation is where they might all find a consignment of heroin. Introductions have been made. The conversation is interrupted from time to time by waiting staff bringing food, and it is agreed that at these points they are to pretend they are an organizing committee discussing a charity summer fête.
‘Now we each have our own reasons,’ says Elizabeth, ‘for being here. Mitch, you have had your heroin stolen, and your second-in-command shot dead. Though of course you might have shot Dom Holt yourself –’
‘I didn’t,’ says Mitch Maxwell.
‘Someone did,’ says Luca Buttaci.
‘Well, that’s why we’re here,’ says Ibrahim. ‘To discuss these questions frankly.’
‘Luca,’ says Elizabeth, ‘you have also lost out financially though, again, you would be a suspect both in the disappearance of the heroin and in the death by gunshot of –’
‘And a bouncy castle for the children,’ says Joyce, as three young waitresses bring in their starters. ‘They’re very reasonable to hire. We could charge fifty pence a turn.’
‘Two pounds a turn,’ says Samantha Barnes.
‘One fifty,’ says Mitch Maxwell. ‘Come on.
‘Don’t talk to my wife like that,’ says Garth, nodding his thanks to the waitress.
‘The absolute key will be no shoes on the bouncy castle,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Even with insurance we must –’
‘And the death by gunshot of Dom Holt,’ continues Elizabeth, as the last waitress departs.
‘I didn’t shoot no one,’ says Luca.
‘That’s a double-negative,’ says Ibrahim. ‘It might be better to –’
Ron puts his hand on Ibrahim’s arm. ‘Not now, mate, he’s a heroin dealer.’
Ibrahim nods, and tucks into his buffalo mozzarella.
‘Samantha and Garth,’ says Elizabeth. ‘You are here for a number of reasons. First, your expertise in this area. And, secondly, because you lied to Joyce and Ibrahim, when you said you’d never heard of Dominic Holt.’
‘We’re lying, are we?’ says Samantha. ‘Says who?’
‘Says Joyce and Ibrahim, and that’s good enough for me.’
‘You were definitely lying, I’m sorry,’ says Joyce. ‘I wish I’d had the prawns now, yours look very good.’
‘And, most importantly, you have a Code 777 block on your phone, which is exceedingly rare, so we suspect that Kuldesh called you on the afternoon before his murder.’
‘I bet Mitch and Luca do too,’ says Samantha.
The two men shake their heads. ‘We just throw our phones away,’ says Mitch.
‘So that’s why we wanted you here, Samantha,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Though I do wonder why you accepted the invitation? What’s in this little meeting for you?’
‘Such a good question,’ says Samantha. ‘We’re all being honest?’
‘As much as a table of liars and cheats can be, yes,’ Elizabeth replies.
‘There’s a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of heroin out there, and I’m betting …’ says Samantha, ‘… that we could have stalls selling jams and chutneys.’
‘And there could even be a competition for the best one,’ says Joyce. ‘Judged by a local celebrity. We know Mike Waghorn, the newsreader.’
The waitress has placed a new jug of water on the table and left.
‘And I’m betting that someone here is going to find that heroin,’ says Samantha. ‘And Garth and I wanted to sit and listen and see if we can pick up any clues as to where it is.’
‘And then steal it for ourselves,’ says Garth. ‘Just a bit of fun – it ain’t much money to us. But I figure we’re the smartest people around this table, so I like the odds.’
‘I once took an IQ test,’ says Ibrahim, ‘as a schoolboy, and I was –’
Ron puts his hand on his friend’s arm once again. ‘Let him think he’s the smartest, Ib. Plays into our hands.’
‘But I am the smartest,’ says Garth.
Ibrahim goes to speak, but Ron flashes him a look.
‘Nina is here because she is the last person we definitely know spoke to Kuldesh, and so is, naturally, a suspect; it can be proved, so sorry, dear.’
‘Not at all,’ says Nina. ‘I’d feel patronized if you left me out.’
