Dead Heat Part 10

'Now then,' he said, once the first courses were served, 'where shall we have this restaurant and what style do you fancy?'

Why did those questions ring alarm bells in my head? Mark had stuck absolutely to his deal over the Hay Net. He had provided the finance but given me a free hand in everything else: venue, style, menus, wines, staff, the lot. I had asked him at the time to give me an indication of an overall budget for the setting up and for the first year of operation. 'More than half a million, less than a million,' is all he said. 'And what security?' I had asked him. 'The deeds to the property and a gentlemen's agreement that you will work at the venture for a minimum of ten years unless we both agree otherwise.' In the end I had used nearly all his million but his 50 per cent of profits for the past five years had paid back far more than half of it, and he still held the deeds. Over ten years, at the pre-poisoning turnover, the Hay Net would provide a very healthy return on his investment. I, of course, was delighted and proud that my little Newmarket establishment had proved to be such a success, both financially and in terms of 'standing' in the town. However, what had been more important to me than anything was my independence. It may have been Mark's money that I had used to set it up, and he ultimately owned the building in which it was housed, but it was my restaurant and I had made all the decisions, every one.

Did I detect in Mark's questions his intent to have a more hands-on role in any new London venture? Or was I jumping to conclusions? Did he not mean: where shall you you have the restaurant? Not: where shall have the restaurant? Not: where shall we we? I decided it was not the time to press the point.

'I would have a place like this,' I said. 'Traditional, yet modern.'

'It can't be both,' said Mark.

'Of course it can,' I said. 'This restaurant has traditional values with white tablecloths, good service, fine food and wine, and a degree of personal privacy for the diners. Yet the decor is modern in appearance and the food has an innovative nature with Mediterranean and Asian influences. In Newmarket my dining room is purposely more like one you might find in a private house, my food is very good but less imaginative than I would attempt here. It is not that my clients are less sophisticated than London folk, they're not. It's just that they have fewer restaurants to choose from and many come to eat at the Hay Net often, some every week. On that regular basis, they need to be comfortable rather than challenged, and they want their food predictable rather than experimental.'

'Doesn't everyone?' he asked. 'I'm having cod. Surely that's predictable?'

'Wait and see,' I replied, laughing. 'I bet you look at it twice and ask yourself if it's what you ordered. It won't be a slab of fish in batter with chips that you would get wrapped in newspaper at the local chippie. It comes with a ca.s.soulet, which is a rich bean stew, usually with white haricots, and a puree of Jerusalem artichoke. Would you know what a Jerusalem artichoke looks like? And what it tastes of?'

'Hasn't it got spiky leaves, that you suck?'

'That's a globe globe artichoke,' I said. 'A Jerusalem artichoke is artichoke,' I said. 'A Jerusalem artichoke is z z type of sunflower, and you eat the roots, which are tubers, like potatoes.' type of sunflower, and you eat the roots, which are tubers, like potatoes.'

'From Jerusalem, I a.s.sume.'

'Actually, no.' I laughed again. 'Don't ask why it's called the Jerusalem artichoke. I don't know. But it definitely has nothing to do with Jerusalem, the city.'

'Like the hymn,' said Mark. 'You know, did those feet, and all that. Nothing to do with the city. Jerusalem there means "heaven". Perhaps the artichokes taste like heaven too.'

'More like a radish,' I said. 'And they tend to make you fart.'

'Good,' said Mark, laughing. 'I might need my own train carriage home.'

Now, I decided, was the moment.

'Mark,' I said seriously, 'I will have absolute discretion in any new restaurant, won't I? Just like at the Hay Net?'

He sat and looked at me. I feared for a moment that I had misjudged things.

'Max,' he said finally, 'how often have I asked you how to sell a mobile phone?'

'Never.'

'Exactly. Then why would you ask me how to run a restaurant?'

'But you do eat in restaurants,' I said.

'And you use a mobile phone,' he countered.

'Fine,' I said. 'I promise I won't discuss mobile phones with you, if you promise not to discuss restaurants with me.'

He sat in silence and smiled at me. Had I really outflanked the great Mark Winsome?

'Can I have a veto?' he asked at length.

'On what?' I asked rather belligerently.

'Venue.'

What could I say? If he didn't like the venue he wouldn't sign a contract for a lease or a freehold. He had a veto on the venue anyway.

'If you provide the finance then you get a veto,' I said. 'If you don't, then you don't.'

'OK,' he said. 'Then I want to provide the finance. Same terms as before?'

'No,' I said. 'I want more than 50 per cent of the profit.'

'Isn't that a bit greedy?' he said.

'I want to be able to empower my staff with partic.i.p.ation in profit.'

'How much?'

'That's up to me,' I said. 'You get 40 per cent and I get 60 per cent and then I decide, at my sole discretion, to give as little or as much of that as I want as bonuses to my staff.'

'Do you get a salary?'

'No,' I said. 'Same as now. But I get 60 per cent instead of 50 per cent of the profit.'

'How about during setting up? Last time you took a salary from my investment for the first eighteen months.'

'But I paid it back,' I pointed out. 'This time I won't need it. I have savings and I intend to back myself with them as far as my salary is concerned.'

'Anything else?' Mark asked.

'Yes,' I said. 'Ten years is too long. Five years. Then I get tie chance to buy you out at a fair price.'

'How do you define "fair price"?'

'I can match the best offer, public or private, made by an independent third party.'

'On what terms?'

'The cost of the lease plus 40 per cent of their valuation of die business.'

'Fifty per cent,' he said.

'No. Forty per cent of the business value and 100 per cent of the lease.'

'How about if I want to buy you out?' he asked.

'It would cost you 60 per cent of the business value and I could walk away.' I wondered how much the value of the business might change if the chef walked away. But, there again, I could think of no circ.u.mstances in which he would buy me out.

Mark sat back in his chair and looked at me. 'You drive a d.a.m.n hard bargain.'

'Why not?' I said. 'I have to do all the work. All you have to do is sign a big cheque and then sit on your a.r.s.e and wait for the money to flood in.' At least, I hoped it would flood in.

'Do you know how many restaurants in London close within a year with huge losses?' he said. 'I'm taking quite a risk with my money.'

'So?' I said. 'You've got plenty of it. I'm gambling with my reputation.'

'For what it's now now worth,' he laughed. worth,' he laughed.

'You said to rise above it and have faith in myself. Well, I have. We won't close within a year, not even in two.'

He looked at me with his head on one side as if thinking. He suddenly leaned forward in his chair. 'OK, you're on,' he said, and stretched out his hand.

'Just like that?' I said. 'We haven't even found a place and we haven't started to draw up a budget.'

'I thought you said that was your job. I just write the cheque, remember?'

'How big a cheque?' I asked him.

'As big as you need,' he said, again offering his hand.

'Fine,' I said. 'You're on too.'

I shook his hand warmly and we smiled at each other. I liked Mark a lot. Even though his lawyers would have to draw up the contract, his word was his bond, and mine was mine. The deal was done.

I could hardly sit still for the rest of our dinner, such was my excitement. Mark laughed when his cod arrived. I had been absolutely right.

The chef came out of the kitchen and joined the two of us for a gla.s.s of port at the end of the evening. The previous year, he and I had been the judges of a cooking contest on daytime television and we now enjoyed catching up on our friends.h.i.+p.

'How's that place of yours doing out in the sticks?' he asked.

'Very well,' I said, hoping he didn't have copies of the Cambridge Evening News Cambridge Evening News delivered daily to his door. I also wondered if he would be quite so friendly if he knew that Mark and I had been sitting in his restaurant planning our move into his territory. 'How's business here?' I asked by way of conversation. delivered daily to his door. I also wondered if he would be quite so friendly if he knew that Mark and I had been sitting in his restaurant planning our move into his territory. 'How's business here?' I asked by way of conversation.

'Oh, the same,' he said, without actually explaining what 'the same' meant.

The conversation progressed for a while in a similar, noncommittal and vague manner, neither of us wanting to pa.s.s on our professional judgement to the other. The world of faute cuisine could be as secretive as any government intelligence service.

The need to catch the last train home finally broke up the dinner at eleven o'clock and Mark and I walked in easy companions.h.i.+p along the Thames embankment towards Waterloo station. We strolled past some of the lively pubs, bistros and pizza parlours that had transformed the South Eank. Late on this Friday evening, loud music and raucous laughter spilled out across the cobblestones towards the river.

'Where and when will you start looking for a venue?' asked Mark.

'I don't know, and as soon as possible,' I said, smiling in the dark. 'I suppose I will contact some commercial property estate agents to see what's available.'

'You will keep me informed?' he said.

'Of course.' We walked past an advertising board. A poster read 'RPO AT THE RFH' in big bold black letters on a white background. Thanks to Bernard Sims, I knew what RPO stood for - Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. 'What's the RFH?' I asked Mark.

'What?' he said.

'What's the RFH?' I repeated, pointing at the poster.

'Royal Festival Hall,' he said. 'Why?'

'No reason, just wondered.' I looked closely at the poster. The RPO, with, I presumed, Caroline Aston playing the viola, was due to appear next month at the Royal Festival Hall. Perhaps I would go and listen.

Mark and I said our goodbyes outside the National Theatre and he rushed off to get his lonely carriage home while I decided to walk across the Golden Jubilee footbridge to the Embankment tube station, north of the river. Halfway across I briefly leaned on the bridge rail and looked eastwards towards the tall City buildings, many of them with all their windows bright in the night sky.

Among the high rises, and dimly lit by comparison, I could see the majestic dome of St Paul's. My history master at school had loved that building with a pa.s.sion and he had drummed some of its facts into the heads of his pupils. I recalled that it had been built to replace the previous cathedral that had been destroyed by the Great Fire of London in 1666. Constructed in just thirty-five years, it had, amazingly, remained the tallest building in London for more than a quarter of a millennium, right up until the gla.s.s and concrete towers of the 1960s.

As I stood there, I wondered whether Sir Christopher Wren had ever believed that he had embarked on a project that was beyond him. Was I now embarking on a project that was beyond me?

I raised an imaginary gla.s.s towards his great achievement and made a silent toast: Sir Christopher, you managed it, and I can too.

CHAPTER 8.

'Kidney beans!'

'Yes, kidney beans, probably red kidney beans. According to the tests done on the customers taken to hospital, there was something called phytohaemagglutinin in the dinner and that s what made everyone ill. It's also known as kidney bean lectin.'

It was late Sat.u.r.day afternoon and I was having a meeting with Carl and Gary in my office prior to us opening for dinner. We didn't do lunches on Sat.u.r.day; too many of my clientele were away at the races.

'But there weren't any kidney beans in that dinner,' said Carl.

'That's what I thought,' I said. 'But, apparently, there were samples taken from sixteen different individuals and this stuff was in all of them.'

Gary and Carl looked at each other. 'Beats me,' said Gary.

'Where in the dinner could they have been?' asked Carl.

'That,' I said, 'is what I intend to find out. And then I'll find out who put them there.'

'Surely you're not saying that someone poisoned everyone on purpose?' said Carl.

'What else can I think?' I replied. 'Consider the facts. Loads of those who ate the dinner were ill, including me. Tests on sixteen of them show this phyto stuff in them. The stuff made them ill, and it only comes from kidney beans. Doesn't take a genius to conclude that there must have been kidney beans in the dinner. I know I didn't put any in the dinner. So, QED, someone else must have, and it must have been done on purpose to make people ill.'

'But why?' said Gary.

'I don't know.' I was exasperated. 'But it had to be done by someone who had access to the kitchen.'

'Loads of people had access to the kitchen,' said Carl. 'We didn't exactly have a guard on duty. There were all the kitchen staff from the agency, and all the waiters too.'

'And there were others from the racecourse caterers there as well,' I said. 'But, believe me, I intend to find out who it was.'