Part 4 (2/2)

There was a pause as if both of us were reliving the events at the racecourse.

'What shall we do about the restaurant?' Carl asked at length.

'I haven't even thought about it,' I said. 'I suppose the kitchen's still sealed. I'll start sorting it out tomorrow. I'm too tired now.'

'Yeah, me too. Didn't get much sleep last night. Call me in the morning.'

'OK,' I said. 'Call me tonight if you hear anything.'

'Will do,' he said, and hung up.

I spent the afternoon sitting in an armchair with my left leg supported by a cus.h.i.+on on the coffee table. I seemed unable to turn the television away from the news channels so I watched the same, not-new news, repeated time and time again. The Arab prince theory gained more credence throughout the day, mostly, it appeared to me, because there was nothing else to report and they had to fill the time somehow. Middle East experts were wheeled into the studio to make endless meaningless comments about a speculative theory for which they had no facts or evidence. It occurred to me that the TV companies were simply allowing several of these so-called 'experts' the opportunity to postulate their own extremist positions, something that would do nothing to calm the turmoil that existed in their lands. Violent death and destruction were clearly nothing out of the ordinary to many of them, and some even appeared to justify the carnage, saying that the prince might have been seen as a legitimate target by rebel forces in his homeland and the fact that innocents had died by mistake was merely unfortunate... you know, casualties of war, and all that. It made me very angry but I still couldn't switch it off, just in case I missed some new item.

At some point around five o'clock I drifted off to sleep.

I woke suddenly with the now familiar thumping heart and clammy face. Another encounter with the hospital trolley, the windowless corridor, the legless MaryLou, and the blood.

Oh G.o.d, I said to myself, not another night of this.

But, indeed, it was.

CHAPTER 4.

MaryLou didn't make it.

On Monday morning The Times The Times was delivered, as usual, to my cottage door at seven o'clock. Mary Lou's name was clearly there in black and white along with six of the others known to have died. The remaining victims had yet to be identified, or their next of kin informed. The current police estimate was that fifteen people had perished in the bombing, but they still weren't absolutely sure. They were still trying to piece together the bodies. was delivered, as usual, to my cottage door at seven o'clock. Mary Lou's name was clearly there in black and white along with six of the others known to have died. The remaining victims had yet to be identified, or their next of kin informed. The current police estimate was that fifteen people had perished in the bombing, but they still weren't absolutely sure. They were still trying to piece together the bodies.

I was amazed that anyone near those boxes could have survived, but apparently half of them had, although, according to the paper, many of the survivors had been badly injured and more deaths were expected.

As for me, my knee was definitely getting better and I had managed to hop upstairs to bed on Sunday evening, not that being more comfortable had been any more restful for my unconscious brain. I was beginning to expect the return of the windowless corridor like the proverbial bad penny. Perhaps now, the sure knowledge that MaryLou was dead would get through to wherever grey matter dreams originate.

I sat on my sofa in my dressing gown and read the reports through from start to finish. They ran to six pages but the information contained in them was sketchy and thin. The police had obviously not been willing to give journalists too many hard facts until they, themselves, were sure of the details. Sources close to the police were quoted without names. A sure sign of a reporter fis.h.i.+ng in the dark for information.

I made myself a coffee and flicked on the BBC breakfast news. More names had been released overnight by the police and a press conference was expected at any time. We were a.s.sured that it would be covered in full but, meantime, 'here is the sports news'.

Somehow, the weekend's sports results seemed somewhat inappropriate, sandwiched as they were between graphic reports of death and maiming at Newmarket racecourse. Karl Marx stated in 1844 that religion was the opium of the people, but nowadays sport in general, and football in particular, had taken over that mantle. And so I waited through an a.n.a.lysis of how City had defeated United and Rovers had trounced Albion before a return to more serious matters. Apparently a minute's silence had been observed before each of Sunday's games. This was not unexpected. A minute's silence might be observed at a football match over the death of the manager's dog. In fact, any excuse will be good enough for a bit of head bowing around the centre circle.

Did people really care about unknown victims? I suppose they cared that it was not them or their families who had been blown up. It is difficult to care about people one hasn't met and never knew. Outrage, yes, that such an act had been perpetrated on anyone. But care? Maybe just enough for a minute's silence ahead of ninety further minutes' shouting and singing at the match.

My wandering thoughts were brought back to the television as the Chief Constable of Suffolk Police was introduced at the televised press conference. He sat, in uniform, in front of a blue board bearing the large star and crown crest of Suffolk Constabulary.

'Our investigations,' he began, 'are continuing into the explosion at Newmarket races on Sat.u.r.day. I can confirm that, as of now, eighteen people are known to have lost their lives. Whereas next of kin have been informed where possible, there are still some victims whose families have, as yet, been impossible to contact. I cannot therefore give a full list of victims. However, I have the names of fourteen of those known to have died.'

He read them out slowly, pausing dramatically after each name.

Some I didn't recognize but others I knew all too well.

MaryLou Fordham, as expected, was on the list. So was Elizabeth Jennings, the tease. There was no mention of Rolf Schumann and, just when I was beginning to hope that Louisa had survived, the Chief Constable said, 'And, finally, Louisa Whitworth.'

I sat there stunned. I suppose I should not have been greatly surprised. I had seen the devastation in that room for myself and the surprise was that so many had lived, not that Louisa had died. But with Robert being alive, I had hoped against reason that Louisa was too.

The press conference continued but I wasn't really listening. I could picture Louisa as I had last seen her in a white blouse and black skirt, hurrying around the tables, doing her job. She had been a smart girl with, at nineteen years old, a great future. Having achieved better than expected results in her examinations, she had been toying with the idea of going to university. In the meantime, she had worked for me since September and had been saving to go away to South America with her boyfriend. How b.l.o.o.d.y unfair, I thought. Cut down with her whole life ahead of her. How could anyone have done such a thing?

Another policeman on the television was holding up a diagram, a map of the boxes in the Newmarket Head-On Grandstand.

'The bomb was placed here,' he said, pointing, 'inside the air conditioner in box 1 just above the main window at the front of the room. Consequently the bomb was between those people inside the room and those on the viewing balcony outside. We estimate that some five pounds of high explosive was used and this was sufficient to cause considerable structural problems within the building. The majority of those killed or injured were subject to blast damage, although one person lost their life as a result of being hit by flying masonry.'

In the wrong place at the wrong time, but so were we all.

The Chief Constable took over again.

'There has been some media speculation that the bomb was planted in an attempt to a.s.sa.s.sinate a foreign national.' He paused. 'Whereas it is too early for us to comment, I can confirm that the occupants of box 1 were switched with box 6 down the corridor. This switch had been made at the request of the new occupants of box 1 as they would then be able to accommodate a larger party in boxes 1 and 2 with the dividing wall folded away between them instead of having two separate rooms as originally allocated. The switch was made early last week. It would appear that the explosive device was detonated by a timing mechanism. We have as yet been unable to establish for how long the device had been in situ and therefore we have to consider the possibility that it was intended for a different target than that actually hit.' He paused again before adding, 'as part of the security check for the foreign national, the air conditioner in box 6 was opened and inspected early on Sat.u.r.day morning and found to be clear.'

Oh great, I thought.

The press conference went on for a while longer but it was clear that the police had no idea who was responsible, and seemingly no leads to act on.

My phone rang.

'h.e.l.lo,' I answered.

'Chef?' said a voice. 'Gary here. Are you coming to work?'

Gary was my sous-chef, my under-chef. My apprentice.

'Where are you?' I asked.

'At the Net,' he said. He always referred to the restaurant as 'the Net'. 'But I can't get into the kitchen.'

'I know,' I said. I looked at my watch: ten fifteen. Our normal start time was ten. 'Who else is there?'

'Ray, Julie and Jean are here, and the kitchen porters are somewhere around,' he said. 'Oh, and Martin's here too,' he added.

Martin, my barman, must have recovered, I thought. It was he who had gone to the hospital on Friday night.

'How about Richard and Carl?' I asked.

'No sign of them,' he said. 'Nor of Robert and Louisa.'

He obviously hadn't heard about Louisa.

'Tell everyone to go into the dining room and wait for me,' I said. 'Tell Martin to make some coffee in the bar machine.' He could do that without going into the kitchen.

'How about the milk?' he asked. It was in the cold-room.

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