Cooking the Books (36 page)

We echoed her as we went out into the sunshine again. Poor old man.

‘And now,’ said Daniel, ‘for Mason and Co.’

Mason and Co had a newish office, impressionist prints on the walls and a decor of green and—what else?—cream. That Martha Stewart has a lot to answer for. The receptionist did not want to call Mr Mason and tell him that we were there, but Daniel, who had made his request for an interview in a very quiet voice, stared at her until she fidgeted, looked away, and hit the intercom. My beloved was possessed of righteous rage and that is not something that any receptionist school teaches its pupils to combat. We were directed to the second door. I noticed two other people in the waiting room who also apparently wanted to see Mr Mason. Two size-20 ladies in suits. They came into the office behind us.

‘Mr Mason,’ said Daniel, ‘we have something for you. Something that Lena lost.’

‘She’s resigned,’ Mr Mason told us. His healthy fat appeared to have solidified into something resembling Rocquefort. I had never seen a man look so unwell and be upright. Beside him Tony stood, bouncing slightly in his sneakers. Claire had been looking out the window. Now she saw me and paled, raising a hand to bite at her fingernails.

‘I know,’ said Daniel. ‘She has another position now.’

Daniel gestured to me and I produced the six sheets of engraved paper. I was about to hand them over—Mr Mason had stretched out a trembling hand for them—when one of the large women who had been waiting intercepted them.

‘What do you think, Mara?’ asked Daniel.

‘Oh, certainly,’ she said, riffling through the pile. ‘I’ll have to do some further tests, but they look like fakes to me.’

‘Fakes?’ demanded Tony angrily, after pausing a little too long.

‘But you knew that,’ said Daniel in that same dead-quiet voice. ‘You knew that your share issue and loans were secured on worthless paper. Nice engraving, though. A professional job. Did you do it?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Tony unconvincingly.

‘This is Detective Inspector Mara Shields,’ said Daniel. ‘From the Fraud Squad. And this is Ms Anna Dietrich. From WorkSafe. She’s going to investigate the persecution of your intern Lena. With particular attention to an internet stalker called GerGer.’

Claire started to gnaw the other hand. Then I actually internalised what Daniel had said.

‘Fakes?’ I exclaimed. ‘They’re fakes?’

‘Yes,’ said Daniel. ‘That’s why Pockets filed them in his corrupt documents stash. He knew they were fakes, too.’

‘But they had to get them back,’ I reasoned it out. ‘Someone else might have found them, examined them, and then their whole sandcastle would collapse.’

‘Precisely,’ said Daniel. He turned back to the accountants. ‘I can never prove,’ he went on, ‘that you arranged for poor old Pockets to be beaten so badly that he is presently dying. You deserve to go to jail for life for what you have done.’

‘Ridiculous!’ puffed Mr Mason, eyeing his visitors with loathing. ‘Get out of my office before I call the police!’

‘They’re here,’ said Mara Shields. ‘Have a look at this warrant,’ she added. ‘I’m going to need all of your records. This is going to take some time. And your trading ceases from this minute.’

Tony broke first. With an athletic spring, he dived for the door. And somehow fell over my foot, which I had inconveniently stretched out to ease a momentary cramp. He came a purler. He hit the floor so hard that a copy of Seurat’s
Grande Jatte
fell off the wall, revealing a hidden safe. Mara Shields’ eyes lit up.

‘Thank you, Corinna,’ she said to me.

‘My pleasure,’ I replied.

And there seemed to be nothing more to say. My last glimpse of Mason and Co was this: Tony still lying on the floor, imitating a rug; Mr Mason sagging back into his chair; Claire chewing her nails; and Mara Shields opening the safe to disclose a bundle of memory sticks within. And thus Lena and Pockets were as revenged as we could manage in a society which has forfeited blood feuds.

Drained, we stumbled into the street, hailed a taxi, and had ourselves conveyed home to construct some stiff drinks and order takeaway pizza. I needed alcohol, salt, grease and crunchy bits of burnt salami. And I got them. Horatio likes salami, too.

‘To Pockets.’ Daniel raised his gin and tonic.

‘To Pockets. May the Mother Ship convey him safely to paradise,’ I said.

We watched
Doctor Who
—I still cannot decide about the new one—and went to bed early. No more scouring of the streets for Daniel. He needed the sleep, and so did I. We snuggled together with our cat for company and comforted each other for loss and pain and loneliness.

And tomorrow there would be a tiger.

Six am. Daniel rose and made breakfast. Toasted English muffins, yum. I munched them and inhaled that first cup of coffee which scarcely seems to touch the sides and descended to let Bernie in. She was accompanied by Jason, who was carrying some of her boxes. They were discussing the difficulties of using medieval spices.

‘The trouble is, they used so many flavours,’ complained Bernie.

‘That was how you demonstrated that you were rich,’ I told her. ‘Come in. Watch out for the Mouse Police. They even used to gild cloves. With real gold. How did the gyngerbrede work out?’

‘Have a taste when we get to the studio,’ Bernie invited. ‘It’s got a really strong flavour. Might be too strong.’

‘Then cut the spices in half and try again. You might try another flavoured honey, too. What about lavender honey with lavender flowers sprinkled on it instead of cloves?’

Bernie instantly saw what I meant. She and Jason began on the day’s baking while discussing it. I got on with the bread. It was a nice peaceful morning. Most unusual.

I was thinking about poor old Pockets’ lonely death. Then again, he was sure that the Mother Ship had come for him, and perhaps that made him feel better. His Lemurians would not desert him. And perhaps that is all you can ask of any religious system . . .

We completed the baking without incident. Jason accepted his basket of goodies and departed for his own flat. His mood of acceptance had stayed. I was pleased. I hoped that the next time something happened he would not react so precipitately. He had doubted me so quickly.

Then again, I am hopeless with emotions and know nothing whatsoever about adolescent boys.

Bernie and Daniel and I loaded the trays and boxes into the van. This morning the driver was whistling an old Lulu song. I had heard it as a child. ‘
I’m a tiger, I’m a tiger
 . . .’ I sang softly. Oh yes. Today would contain a tiger. Which is not something you can say about most days.

The kitchen was keyed-up. Tommy was standing in the middle of the floor, clipboard in hand (that universally respected symbol of authority) making announcements.

‘You can go into the studio to look at the tiger,’ she said. This was sensible. The staff were going to do that anyway. ‘She’s due at ten,’ said Tommy. ‘So I want all the preparations done by then. Get on with it,’ she advised, and we scurried to our places.

It was a case of all hands on deck (as Patrick O’Brian would say) and I missed my midshipman as we cut, kneaded, chopped, mixed and whipped. Lance the Lettuce Guy had bought a Thousand Island–dressed salad from Uncle Solly on my recommendation and was still mulling over ingredients. Something made Uncle Solly’s dressing better than any other that he had tasted. There must be a secret ingredient.

‘It’s a sort of celery taste,’ he said. ‘You know, Corinna? Yet it has an overtone of smokiness. But you can’t smoke celery.’

‘I never tried,’ I admitted. ‘I know what you mean. I’ve asked, but he won’t tell me.’

‘Perhaps you should beg,’ suggested Lance. He was making an
anchoiade
for his salad of boiled eggs and spinach. His offsider was rinsing spinach leaves with wincing care. The speed of a really efficient kitchen is like one of those massive Victorian steam machines. It huffs and groans a lot but it turns out millions of widgets. Crunch, thump, puff. I stashed my pastry to cool down and turned my hand to grating carrots for Lance. Bernie was making savouries with the speed of sound. Each little toastie was topped with smoked salmon, whipped cream cheese and a sprinking of lumpfish roe. This was sustainable, unlike caviar. Her hands almost blurred over the trays. Breakfast was already out and my carrots were finished so I grabbed a tray and exited to feed some actors.

I felt better about them, knowing that I was going to leave them soon. And they really were decorative. There they flocked: Kylie and Goss in full makeup, nibbling scrambled eggs; Harrison condescending to feed Emily little bites of toast as she took up Ms Atkins’ hem; Elton, whom I now knew was too young to be Ms Atkins’ Zephaniah, drat it; Ethan, drinking night-black coffee; Tash, ploughing grimly through a bacon and egg sandwich as though she was due to be executed and wanted to die full. I asked her what was wrong.

‘Oh, Corinna, it’s you,’ she said. ‘Animals. Children are bad enough, but animals are the pits. I wish I hadn’t agreed to this. But one of the backers adores tigers.’

‘I was impressed with the tiger wrangler,’ I said. ‘Leonidas Cohen.’

‘The little man? Yes, I liked him more than his partner. This is costing us a fortune in insurance alone . . .’ She ate another bite of her sandwich. ‘And I don’t like guns on set.’

‘Why do we have guns?’

‘Not a real gun, a tranquilliser gun,’ she told me. ‘Over there, arguing with Ethan about sight lines.’

I saw the Great White Hunter, now bearing a rifle, gesturing at the set. Ethan was shaking his head.

‘He needs a clear line of sight so that if the tiger runs amok, he can shoot her with a tranquilliser dart,’ said Tash unhappily. ‘Ethan says he can’t stand where he wants to stand because he’d be in camera range. The tiger’s due at ten. Oh shit,’ said Tash, finishing the sandwich. ‘I have a bad feeling about this.’

‘Have some more food,’ I suggested. ‘Try one of these tomato and bacon muffins. My apprentice made them.’

‘Bernie?’ asked Tash. ‘She’s good. Ethan wants to take her to LA. Or so he says.’

‘No, my own apprentice, Jason. Do you really think Ethan will take Bernie to Los Angeles?’ I asked.

Tash shrugged. ‘He’s never promised anything like that to any of his other amours,’ she said. ‘He might really be smitten. Serves him right for working on a soap,’ she said vengefully. ‘I swear, the plot line is infectious. Have you heard the rumour that Ms Atkins’ lost child is working on the set?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And it might be true.’

‘Complications,’ sighed Tash. ‘Just what I need.’

I moved on. At least the muffins would be comforting.

I circled the rest of the cast, refreshing my tray as needed. Everyone was excited about the advent of the tiger.

‘Her name is Tabitha,’ I told Kylie and Goss. ‘She’s very tame, apparently.’

‘Oh, tigers are sooo cute!’ exclaimed Goss.

‘And sooo cool!’ agreed Kylie.

‘There once was a lady from Niger, who smiled as she rode on a tiger,’ I said. They had never heard of this, or limericks at all, I suspected.

‘Really? Could we ride on her?’ asked Goss excitedly.

I went on, hoping to restrain their excitement. If a tiger was indeed a cat, no one would get to ride on her. Not without considerable protest.

‘At the end of the ride, the lady was inside and the smile on the face of the tiger,’ I warned. They thought about it, brows wrinkling.

‘Oh, she wouldn’t eat us,’ said Kylie.

‘Not when we like her so much,’ added Goss.

I passed on. Some ignorance is invincible.

Ms Atkins was breakfasting in her room, as usual. No tricks marred her morning serenity. Thank God. Emily had completed her sewing to her satisfaction. Gordon and Kendall were excited. It must be fun to see your words turned into action. They were haranguing Ali about getting a microphone close enough to the tiger to record a purr. He was telling them that he had arranged the sound for many actors but there was nothing on a tiger on which to attach a throat mike, unless the tiger had pierced ears.

‘Besides, maybe she won’t feel like purring,’ said Ali sourly. ‘I wouldn’t, if I was asked to lie down at that infidel woman’s feet. Nice idea, guys, but can’t be done.’