Cooking the Books (35 page)

We translated the rest of the gingerbread recipe as we finished the baking. Bernie boiled a pot of honey as required, mixed in the pounded pepper, saffron, ginger and cinnamon with the breadcrumbs, and left it to set in one of the smaller baking dishes, scored into diamonds and spiked with cloves. I didn’t know what it would taste like but it smelt very festive.

In the back of my mind I was considering Mrs Dawson’s information. There had been something constrained in the way she had spoken. Did Mrs Dawson, who seemed so respectable, have a child that had been adopted out at birth as well? The ages did not match. Mrs Dawson was seventy at the least, and Ms Atkins was perhaps forty, so they would not have met in a maternity ward.

Harrison swanned into the kitchen to ask if by any chance we should have lamb’s lettuce, which his naturopath had recommended. As it happened, Lance the Lettuce Guy had the said herb, and supplied Harrison with a handful. His offer of Thousand Island dressing was rejected. As the young actor turned away I examined him. Gosh, he was beautiful. But was he any relation to the blue-eyed Ms Atkins after all? It seemed unlikely.

‘Corinna,’ he said to me, ‘have you heard about the tiger?’

I told him that I had.

‘It follows me,’ he said excitedly. ‘Right across the set. I’ll be in shot for minutes.’

‘So will the tiger,’ I reminded him.

‘But I’ll be the star,’ he said artlessly.

‘Enjoy your salad,’ said Lance the Lettuce Guy sardonically.

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully. That was good. I like uneventful. Daniel had arrived and was flitting about, chatting. No one played any tricks. The crew were arranging the filming of the last segments of the previous episode and rehearsing the advent of the tiger. A hiding place, shielded from the cameras, was prepared for Leonidas Cohen. All he had to do was call Tabitha across the set. All she had to do was to come halfway into the room, pause, then lie down at Ms Atkins’ immaculately shod feet. Then get up and slouch to Leonidas, who would reward her with anchovies. Then, presumably, she would get back in her travelling cage and be transported back to Werribee, to get on with lying in the sun. Her preferred occupation, apparently.

It seemed safe enough.

Meanwhile, it was coming on to lunchtime. I checked the menu for tomorrow. Lance would be making an
anchoiade
—anchovies did seem to be swimming into my life lately. Nothing unusual in the list. I waved to Tommy, farewelled Bernie, packed a picnic for the White family and found Daniel on the phone in the loading dock. I realised that I still hadn’t conveyed Mrs Dawson’s message. I decided that it could wait. Daniel looked very worried.

‘I just got a call from Spazzo. Pockets’ old friend. He wants to see me urgently. Can you handle Lena on your own?’

‘Of course,’ I told him. ‘See you at Insula later.’

Daniel kissed me and left in the direction of the city.

I was admitted to the pristine apartment block and rode the elevator to the home of Mr White.

There was another person in Mr White’s apartment. A tall saturnine man with paint stains on his T shirt and his hands. He was introduced as Penhaligon Roberts.

‘I’ve got one of your paintings,’ I said, shaking the spat- tered hand.

‘Really? Which one?’

‘
Winter
,’ I told him. It was a small oil study of a roaring fire in a hearth. In front of the fire was a sleeping black cat, stretched out, paws crossed over its nose. It was a lovely thing. One of the few original artworks that I owned.

‘They sold very well,’ he admitted. ‘And Shadow asked for her model’s fee to be paid in fish. Nice to meet you!’

‘Lunch,’ I said, offering the box.

Mr White and Lena led us into the kitchen and set about making tea. Lena looked better. I said so.

‘I feel much better now I’ve got out of that horrible place,’ she said. ‘But I’m scared about this interview.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ I said. ‘And anyone that Uncle Solly recommends is worth meeting.’

Lena assented and we sat down to eat Tommy’s leftovers. Though they hadn’t precisely got a chance to be left over quite yet. I noticed that the artist was wearing a T shirt on which the words feed my lambs could be discerned under the paint. I asked him about it.

‘Such a good idea,’ he said, wiping his mouth. Those little tarts were very crumby. ‘Piles of food gets wasted in Melbourne every night. And there are always hungry mouths. So we arrange that if a restaurant has leftovers, we can use them. Not scrapings from plates, of course. But when there is a whole pot of beef stew left over, we can use it. And we profit from other people’s misfortunes.’ He grinned. ‘Recently Frantic had a whole wedding feast prepared and then they had to give it to us.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Bride ran away with the best man,’ he chuckled.

I didn’t seem to be able to get away from weddings.

‘Then there was a complete dim sum banquet which had to be chucked out because the person it was designed for died suddenly. The Chinese would consider eating that food very unlucky. But the homeless thought the
bai pan
was fantastic. This is Tommy’s food, isn’t it?’ he asked.

‘It is,’ I said. ‘I’m her pastry cook at present. Do all of the restaurants donate to you?’

‘Most. The good ones. No good cook likes their productions to go to waste. Our only holdout is Simply Simon. Simon freezes his leftovers. Runs a very tight kitchen, I’m told. Still, there’s always one,’ he said, and took another pie.

Roger White was looking at Penhaligon with melting tenderness. It should have been ridiculous in a man of his age and weight but it wasn’t. This must be his dear friend who lived down the hall. Things had, at last, worked out for Roger White. I was pleased.

We finished lunch. Lena refused the slug of the good brandy which her father urged on her to elevate her spirits. I approved. It would not be a good plan to arrive at an interview reeking of cognac, even if it was good cognac.

‘Now, Lena dear, don’t worry,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Just smile and talk slowly. You can do it.’

He gave her a hug. We left.

I marched Lena through the city at her preferred pace, which was slower than mine. We did not talk much. When we arrived at the office block which contained Parmenter and Co she stopped, shook herself, and dragged in a deep breath. Determination was evident in both her chins.

‘You don’t have to come,’ she said.

‘Yes I do,’ I replied. ‘I have to introduce you.’ I wasn’t letting her go into this ordeal alone. Also, I wanted a look at Parmenter and Co. I trusted Uncle Solly but I wanted to see them for myself.

It was a pleasant office, with lots of leafy green things of the sort which Trudi was wont to sneak onto balconies when the tenant’s resistance was low. The decor was green and cream. Were there no other colours in the world? The receptionist showed us into a large office where two women were sitting behind a conference table.

Parmenter, I presumed, was the older lady with white hair and a twin set. Co, I assumed, was the younger lady with a severe bun and a nose ring. A tad incongruous. I like that.

‘You must be Lena?’ the older lady asked the younger of us. ‘And you would be . . . ?’

‘Corinna,’ I told her. ‘A friend of Uncle Solly’s.’

‘Ah, that man,’ said the younger lady. ‘Couldn’t you just take him home and cuddle him? I’m Deirdre Parmenter, and this is Rosemary Walker. Sit down, please. Lena, tell me why you want to be an accountant.’

Lena paused for so long that I was afraid she had forgotten how to speak. Then she said, ‘Order.’

‘Order?’ asked Deirdre.

‘Numbers,’ said Lena. ‘They are so neat. So satisfying. Simple. No emotions, no fuss. Just pure order.’

The two ladies looked at each other and Rosemary smiled. That was the point at which, I am convinced, Lena got the job.

‘Right,’ she said, and asked Lena about her studies, her experience, her background. When she mentioned Mason and Co, the ladies exchanged another look—one so profound that it ought to be called a Look. Horatio was very adept at the Look. It was a cat thing.

‘You’re better out of there,’ said Rosemary. ‘Monday start do you? Good. Usual pay, base grade until we find if we suit. Month’s trial. All right?’

‘Yes,’ gasped Lena.

We floated out of Parmenter and Co. Lena was in a hurry to get back to tell her father, so I let her go with good wishes and idled along. One problem solved. Fantastic. Now there was only the lost bonds and—of course—the actors.

I dropped into Reader’s Feast for a rummage among the new crime books. Then I wandered back to Insula for my gin and tonic and my rest. Things were working out. For a change.

Drink, rest, all very pleasant. I was about to open my new detective story when my mobile phone rang. I fumbled with it. I do not approve of mobile phones.

‘Ah, Corinna,’ said Daniel’s voice. ‘Can you join me at the derros’ camp?’

‘Certainly,’ I agreed. I found my straw hat, took a bag and my backpack, and strolled out into the sun.

Down the steps on the other side of the bridge and through the fine, disinfectant-smelling pines to the river bank. Most of the drunks were out, canvassing the streets for loose change. I met Daniel by the boathouse.

‘Here I am,’ I said.

‘So I see. Love the hat. So useful if we meet a hungry donkey. This way, I think,’ he told me, and I followed him along the bank. It was cooler by the water.

Renovations had been taking place. No wonder the council wanted to get rid of those unsightly old men. Since cities are no longer using their fresh water as a convenient way of disposing of toxic waste, river banks have become desirable. This was a nice place to stroll.

Apart from the ever-present danger of being run down by a lycra-clad bicycle fiend, of course. We avoided two of them, who flashed past without regard to mere pedestrians. Daniel was alert. I took his arm and could feel his excitement through the muscles.

‘Agreeable as it is to promenade with you at any time, what are we doing here?’ I asked.

‘Ah, philosophy,’ he teased. I shoved him gently.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Tell me! I’ve got a secret to swap,’ I hinted.

‘I spoke to Spazzo,’ said Daniel, leading the way along the river bank. ‘He confessed that he pinched the bonds from Pockets’ stash. And he told me where he put them. In here.’

We had stopped beside a decorative bench which the council had scattered along the bank of the Yarra. It was made of some kind of material which looked like porcelain, and had been painted with flowers. It also functioned as a box to contain council property, secured with a padlock.

It took me half a minute to snap back the padlock. At that expensive private girls’ school which had blighted my youth, they always told me I would learn skills which would stand me in good stead in my adult life. Well, they were right. That was where I had learnt to pick locks. The box creaked open and Daniel dived on a stack of papers. Mostly newspapers, but inside one were a number of sheets of carefully engraved paper. I examined them.

‘They are the bonds,’ I told my beloved. ‘Oh, well done, Daniel!’

‘I couldn’t have done it alone, metuka,’ he said, kissing me. ‘Right, now let’s lock that box again and I have a few phone calls to make. And will you come with me to see Pockets?’

I assented. I leafed through the bonds as Daniel made his phone calls. They were very pretty. Also very valuable. Their face value was more than a million dollars. I was suddenly scared. How could I carry this much worth through a city with pickpockets? I stuffed them down the front of my shirt, next to my skin. That was uncomfortable so I put them in my shoulder bag and clutched it to my chest. That would do.

I looked at the bench. The bench was decorative. I identified the flowers painted on it, and experienced an authentic cold chill. This bench had herbs. Rosemary, basil, roses and . . .

‘Look at the bench,’ I whispered to Daniel. He looked.

‘What about it?’ he asked.

‘That’s lavender,’ I said. ‘Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green. But you said that Spazzo pinched the bonds from Pockets. Pockets can’t have known where they were. Why did he give you that clue?’

‘Perhaps the Lemurians told him,’ said Daniel.

After that we were silent until we stood in intensive care, looking at the shell of a man, all festooned with wires and tubes.

‘Pockets?’ asked Daniel.

There was no answer. We stayed for a while, feeling helpless. Then Pockets opened his eyes. They were a pale watery blue in his grey face and seemed to be fixed on the far distance.

‘We found the bonds,’ said Daniel. ‘The men who did this to you will be sorry.’

‘The Mother Ship,’ murmured Pockets. ‘The Mother Ship has signalled. They are coming for me.’ And he fell silent.

Presently all the alarms began to beep and we were ushered into the waiting room. A harassed nurse came out of the cubicle.

‘No point in waiting,’ she said. ‘He won’t wake again, most likely. Poor old man,’ she added.