two days later
Constance walked along Gosset Street, stopping to adjust her skirt as she crossed from one side of the road to the other. It was a bright morning and she strode out purposefully, trying at the same time to reflect on the conversation which had led her to make this journey.
Usually when she spoke to relatives of suspects, as she had today, the conversation followed a similar pattern: a panicked general enquiry about her availability, a barrage of specific questions (some sensible, some less so), tears and protestations of innocence (often at the same time) and an entreaty to pass on words of support and keep the concerned family member updated.
The call she had received this morning had been subtly different. The woman had provided basic information – the name of her husband, his profession and a request for Constance to meet him at Hackney police station at 2pm – but no detail about why he had been detained, which Constance would have to pick up from the officer on duty when she arrived. And the caller had seemed calm and composed. But Constance had detected the quiver in her voice. Despite her words, the woman had clearly been concerned.
After five more minutes of walking, she stood opposite the station, a cheerless building in need of modernisation and a place where she spent more of her life than she would ideally like. But that was the lot of a solicitor working in the criminal law field: hours on end spent in police stations. Even so, she had to admit that there was never a dull moment and her hefty and varied workstream was unlikely to dry up any day soon.
After a brief conversation with the duty officer, which provided scant details as to why Nick Demetriou had been brought in, Constance entered the interview room to find him seated at the table, his handkerchief covering his nose and mouth, his elbows splayed wide.
‘Mr Demetriou?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Constance Lamb, your lawyer. I spoke to your wife this morning.’
‘Oh.’
The handkerchief was folded and pocketed. Constance sat down, unpacked her tablet and switched it on.
‘Did I surprise you?’ she asked.
‘No, I…you look so young. And Lisa didn’t tell me you were coming.’
Constance accepted Nick’s explanation gracefully. She couldn’t be certain that his hesitant manner on her arrival, his exclamation of surprise, had anything to do with the colour of her skin. And even if it did, he would be in good company. She had been practising for almost ten years now, and she would be a wealthy woman if she had a pound for every occasion on which she had been mistaken for a member of the public or a defendant when attending court. This included errors made by other lawyers and court staff, even when she was formally dressed or carrying the relevant papers under her arm. She had learned to live with it. And Nick was clearly upset. No. She wouldn’t hold this against him.
‘Can you tell me what happened on Tuesday afternoon, in your own words?’ she asked, hoping this open and straightforward question would help Nick find his voice, particularly as she knew very little about why he needed a lawyer.
Nick shook his head. ‘I can tell you what happened on Tuesday afternoon, what I saw happen, but the rest is what I am worrying about. This is all such a big mistake.’
‘Why don’t you tell me about it? Then I’ll see what I can do to help.’
This was Constance’s customary follow up, if her stock starter for ten did not succeed; to emphasise that she was there to provide assistance. She wanted to instil trust in clients, so that they would relate all the salient points to her, including those they were worried about. Sometimes, they told her too much – information which could get them into trouble. Other times, although she stressed that she was on their side, they said little or nothing at all. On this occasion, she seemed to have found the right formula, as Nick began to talk.
‘I do most of the catering for Tanners’ Hall, near Haringey,’ he began. ‘Someone rents the hall from the manager, June, and wants food, June calls me up and asks me if I’m interested. If it’s something really special or a big event and I’m pressed elsewhere I say no, but most of the time I can help and it’s easy money, to be honest.’ He sighed. Clearly, this time around, things had been far from easy. ‘Then, about two months ago, June calls me and asks can I do a cold lunch for this week – Tuesday – says there’s going to be an event for around a hundred people. “Light lunch” is what we call it, how we price it. It sounded fine, so I agreed.’
Constance was pleased that Nick was being so communicative and, as his words came tumbling out, she struggled to keep up with her notes.
‘Then, after I agree, she tells me it’s only food for ten guests, that the others are coming to hear a talk after lunch and we’re not feeding them. I had to think hard, but I didn’t have anything else on that day. So, it was only ten people. I accepted it. But then, every week, I got a message that they wanted this and that and it started getting more complicated,’ he continued. ‘I have my usual suppliers, you see, and now they wanted all this special stuff: vegan and beef and some things hot and some grilled. And I offer Greek food. It’s my speciality. But no. She didn’t want Greek. She wanted “British” – whatever that is. In the end, I asked the customer to contact me direct and this woman – Diana Percival, was her name – she called. She seemed very nice at first, very polite. Anyway, I almost said no, because everything had to be this and that, but in the end I didn’t want to let them down. It’s important to me to keep my word.’
‘I understand,’ Constance interrupted, partly to slow Nick’s flow.
‘Usually, I just order the food from one supplier, or maybe two, and get it delivered,’ Nick said. ‘This time, I had to buy the food from all different places and I collected it up, prepared some dishes at home and I took it all to the hall myself. I employed staff – both kids I’ve used before, well only one in the end. So, they arrive. Brett Ingram – he introduced himself – Diana and the others; around ten of them altogether. They have lunch and then they go up on the stage. He’s talking when he gets ill, in front of everyone. Then he stops talking and he dies, right there. It’s crazy. People are screaming and crying. They all start running out and the ambulance men are pushing to get in. They said it was a heart attack, like that, so sudden. Just…chaos.’
‘What happened next?’
‘They put him, Brett Ingram, on a stretcher and took him away. The police came. I gave them my name and address. They were filming when he died – Brett’s people – and the police took the film away. Then they said I wasn’t allowed to clean up. I said I would be in trouble with June – it’s in my contract – but they said they would explain and that it was a “crime scene”. I didn’t really listen then, only when I got home, I wondered what they meant.’
‘What did you do when you got home?’
‘I called June myself, and good thing, because the police hadn’t. She was pretty upset. There was another booking for the evening, but she said she would cancel it. I was about to head off there to meet June today and see if I could get the rest of my stuff – not much, just a few knives and boards. Suddenly the police show up at my home, tell me I have to come here. Then they ask me lots of questions, saying that Mr Ingram was poisoned and that it was my fault! Saying that my food was no good, that I killed him with my food. That I could go to prison. That’s not true, is it? I have a wife, a sister, a family…’
Constance smiled at Nick.
‘You haven’t been charged with anything, for now,’ she said. ‘The police officer who brought you in told me they are doing more tests to establish how Mr Ingram died.’
‘So it’s not true then?’
‘It depends what the tests show.’
‘I bought the food. How can it be my fault if it looked all right, but it turned out to be bad?’
‘Didn’t you cook it?’
‘Some things, OK. Not the sandwiches. Or the fruit and veg. It’s just crazy. All of it.’
‘You were still responsible for serving the food to Mr Ingram. If, for example, you mixed together raw and cooked food, that could be a problem. Or, if you bought food from a supplier and you knew – or should have known – that they didn’t have a good hygiene rating.’
‘How’m I supposed to know what they do in their kitchens?’
‘You’re right, but you should check out your suppliers, on a regular basis.’
‘It was just a light lunch.’ Nick’s voice became strained and he reached for a cup of water on the table and gulped down the remains. ‘I only get paid £30 a head,’ he said. ‘After paying the staff, I make pennies.’
‘I can see that.’
‘What happens now?’ Nick slumped forward, resting his frame heavily on the table.
Constance contemplated her response. Nick was clearly agitated and she didn’t blame him. And she understood a little more now why Lisa, his wife, had been vague when they had spoken. She had probably not understood why the police were interested in her husband. And as for Nick, Constance appreciated that most caterers would not consider there was any risk of killing someone when going about their usual business. But Nick would have been well aware of the importance of good hygiene practices. That went without saying.
‘We’ll need to see what the results of the further tests are,’ she said, ‘but can you give me a list of all the food you provided that day – everything: names of suppliers and invoices and where it was stored? Also, who handled the food, the names of your staff?’
‘I don’t have that here.’
‘You can go home and send them on to me.’
‘I can leave?’
‘You’re not under arrest, but you need to stay around, at home, at work, not go on any trips.’
‘Who would go on a trip with all this hanging over their head? Look. What do you think? Will this come back to me?’
Constance wanted to reassure Nick, but she wouldn’t mislead him, especially not at this early stage. And she wanted him to take her request for information seriously and do as she had asked. She cast her mind back to her long-ago student days to locate the relevant information.
‘If the police are advised that your food killed Mr Ingram, however that happened, then you will be charged. It could be a health and safety offence, it could be an offence by your company. Both of those would result in a fine. But if the police feel that you were directly responsible for Mr Ingram’s death because you were grossly negligent in how you stored, prepared or served the food, then you could be charged with manslaughter.’
‘Manslaughter!’ Nick’s eyes were wide. ‘This is a nightmare. You know cooking is my dream. Food is my dream. Now a dream becomes a nightmare. Whatever happens, I’m done for. I’m a man-slaughterer. Or, if not, I’ll lose the contract with June and no one will ever want to eat my food again. We will lose everything.’
‘My advice is to go home and get some rest. Then send me those lists and invoices. And call me if the police ask to see you again.’
After Nick stumbled off down the road in the direction of the Underground, looking back over his shoulder more than once, Constance retraced her steps to her office, but with less enthusiasm than on her outward journey. Halfway back, she bought a sausage roll – she’d missed both breakfast and lunch – and sat down on a handily placed bench at the side of the road to eat it. The traffic slowed ahead of the nearby lights and she felt comforted to be a mere spectator, observing the vehicles passing by, transporting people to wherever they wanted to go. That was London: always moving. She felt a light touch against her leg and looked down to see a crop of miniature daffodils, blowing in the breeze, the last of the spring early birds.
Daffodils were not her favourite; there was something vulgar-looking about their trumpet shape, like the whole flower was tipping back its head and shouting. What was the message it was broadcasting today? Why help a man who values his livelihood above another man’s life? the diminutive blooms chorused. And Constance inclined her head to one side as she listened and the cars continued to pass her by.