by Anne Penketh
When, at last, they came up for air he said, “Welcome back.”
He steered her through the terminal towards the car park. He pulled one of her suitcases and she the other.
“I’ve got some good news, by the way.” She waited. “I’ve handed over the DeKripps case to the senior partner at the firm.”
“What, Smithson?”
“No, Hopkins.”
He paused, waiting for her to ask. But she didn’t need to. He’d done this so they could be together. She stopped dead. “You mean you’ve recused yourself? Your scruples got the better of you?”
“Not exactly. The boss called me and told me he was taking the case. It was as simple as that. You know, a high profile case like DeKripps …”
What difference did it make? The result was the same. “It means we can be together.”
“That’s wonderful! But aren’t you disappointed?”
“Of course not. It’s actually what I wanted. Although I’m jealous now, of course. Everyone wants a piece of you.” She smiled.
“You mean the ‘Widow Whistle-blower’? But why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I wanted to surprise you. But that’s not the only thing I have to tell you.”
“Oh come on, that’s not fair. What’s happened?”
“Barney was arrested last night.”
She let go of her suitcase which slapped onto the floor outside DeKripps’ Angeljuice bar.
“What do you mean, arrested? How come I didn’t know about this?”
“The time difference. Sorry. Then you were on the plane …”
“Of course. Not your fault. I’m sorry, I’m a bit tense.” She was so tired she could scarcely articulate. She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “This is the best news I’ve had in a long time.”
They emerged from the terminal into the clammy afternoon. As soon as they’d left the carpark and were driving in a middle lane along the highway she began to pepper him with questions about Barney.
“What’s the hurry?” he said. “If you’re not too tired, I’ve booked to take you out to dinner and I’ll give you the skinny tonight.”
They crossed the Potomac on the key bridge into Georgetown and stopped at an estate agent off M Street to pick up the keys to her new furnished digs. Then Mark accompanied her to the ground floor apartment in a small compound up the hill off Reservoir Road. She looked at him with slight apprehension as she turned two locks on the door and stepped inside.
“It’s a bit dark, isn’t it?” she said, switching on the lights and heading through the living room to the kitchen.
Their footsteps clicked on the parquet. While he flicked open the blinds and noticed the bars on the windows, she checked cupboards containing crockery and glasses. Pots and pans were in storage drawers under the counter.
She came through to the living room and sank into a shabby chic armchair which looked in need of new covers, stretching out her legs and yawning.
“Seems fine to me,” he said. “But what do I know?”
She went back into the kitchen and filled the kettle. He followed her, taking her hand and pushing her gently against the counter.
“Wait,” she said, touching his shoulder, “I’m sorry, I need to freshen up. Could you give me an hour or so?” What was she thinking? How long had she waited for this moment? Then, fleetingly, a shadow: Serge.
He’d already turned and was walking back towards the front door, when she caught him by the hand. “Come with me,” she said.
“You sure?”
“We didn’t check out the bedroom.”
*
It was only a few blocks to the restaurant. Susan floated on a cushion of air down the redbrick pavement past the clapboard townhouses and university buildings.
“Here we are,” he said, holding open the heavy wooden door.
“I know this place – it’s one of the best restaurants in town.”
“Haven’t we got something to celebrate?” he said, turning to grin at her as they followed the maître d’ to their corner table on the ground floor. “It’s not necessarily what I’d planned when I booked,” he added.
She wondered whether she would continue to smile stupidly at everything he said for the rest of the evening.
“So now put me out of my misery and tell me what’s going on,” she said, picking up a menu.
“First let’s order. Then I can tell you about the police investigation into the attack at Metro Center.”
“There’s progress? So that’s it.” There she was, smiling blissfully again. She wasn’t hungry, but she ordered some fish. She felt his knee under the table, pressing against hers.
He told her that police had isolated the CCTV images showing a bald man in an anorak who had deliberately shoved her in front of the incoming train. But then it had taken time to establish his identity and to connect the attacker with Barney, whom he had telephoned minutes before the crime.
“How did they know it was Barney?” Her brain was still fighting the jetlag.
“Right. He’s no fool. Barney had of course bought a new cell phone which he must have thrown away. In any case when the police searched his place they couldn’t find it. But he made one mistake. He bought it in a Georgetown phone store with his own credit card.”
“And that’s how they traced the phone to him?” Mark nodded.
So now her former boss faced potential charges of conspiracy for attempted murder in addition to those linked to food crime.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Susan heard Mark padding around in the kitchen, opening and closing the fridge door, as he prepared brunch. The smell of fresh coffee wafted along the corridor. Since moving in with him, only a few weeks after returning to Washington, one of her signal achievements had been to persuade him to ditch his stewed American filter coffee.
His phone sounded. Maybe it was a friend trying to persuade him to go for a run. It was something he did on Sunday mornings while she studied. But he’d promised her that today he would prepare her the most delicious blueberry pancakes this side of the Atlantic.
He came into the bedroom, where she was propped on a pillow consulting her tablet, trying to find a beachside place to rent for a few days when Lily visited with her new boyfriend. He was a doctor Lily had met online and sounded like a perfect match. Mark looked sombre.
“That was Aaron Steinfeld. You know, the class action guy?”
Why was he ringing on a Sunday morning? Mark cleared his throat. “It seems that the CEO of DeKripps has committed suicide.”
“Bubba? You’re kidding.”
“Is that what you call him? Yeah, well his wife found him hanged at home last night.”
“Hanged! Where? In Kansas?”
“Yeah, Topeka. Apparently he’d been depressed after the DeKripps share collapse.”
She put down her tablet in silence. She’d wanted to punish the corporation, but it had never crossed her mind that anyone would die. Let alone the boss with the smile and friendly manner who’d encouraged her at their video conferences. She’d actually liked him. But what if he was behind the Guilty Secrets scandal? What if he was the one to have ordered the smears and the attacks against her and her family?
She sank back while she digested the news. How could there be any room for doubt? DeKripps had tried to murder her. If she shut her eyes, she could still hear the screech of the Metro train braking, smell the sparks.
Mark sat on the bed beside her, put his arm round her naked shoulder where a faint red line was all that remained of the scar from her shoulder operation, and kissed her gently.
“It’s obviously going to be big news. Aaron must have been among the first to hear. It’s possible that journalists will try to contact you, of course.”
“I’m certainly not going to dance on Bubba’s grave.”
“No, you’re right. We should keep a low profile.”
“But just a second. What does this mean for the trial?”
She sat forward and took his hand
s. “I mean DeKripps has to be held responsible for what they’ve done, right?”
“It could certainly mean a delay. Let’s face it, this is a big deal. But I know what you’re worried about.”
She turned towards him. “Do you?”
“Yeah. Barney.”
She waited.
“Honey, I can guarantee you that Barney is going to jail. It might not be soon, but it will happen. I promise.”
She grabbed a robe and went into Mark’s den where he had his desk and a television. Dropping into a leather chair, she picked up the remote and turned to a news channel.
“Oh my God, Mark,” she leaned forward. “The flying circus is in Topeka.”
“Quick work,” he said, joining her. A blonde reporter was standing at the bottom of a long drive flanked by tall trees leading to a white mansion with a portico. They caught the end of her report—Bubba’s death was ‘not suspicious’ according to the police. But then she handed back to the studio where they were discussing the possible impact of the CEO’s death on the forthcoming DeKripps trial. One of the analysts described it as the ‘trial of the century.’
“I’ve seen enough,” she said, handing the remote to Mark who switched to mute.
“The trial of the century. Is that what you ordered, Ma’am?” he said, with a tug on an imaginary forelock.
“I want justice, that’s what. Immoral criminal conduct should be punished. And it’s pretty obvious that DeKripps must be the tip of the iceberg. Because all the food companies are at it. They’ve all been pouring harmful sugars into our food and think they can get away with it. The only difference, as far as I know, is that DeKripps crossed the line into crime. So if this doesn’t lead to tighter regulation, I don’t know what will.”
“Well, good luck with that in this town,” he said.
She knew he was talking about the lobbyists, the Congressmen in their pockets and the tight relationship between Big Food and the federal regulators.
“It has to be worth a try though, right?” She leaned over to kiss him. She could hear in the distance the tinkle of text messages dropping into her phone.
He grinned. “If you get arrested at a Congressional hearing, you’ll know who to call.” Did she really sound that much like Mimi?
“You know it’s over for DeKripps though, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. When companies are hit by scandals like this and there’s a shareholder stampede, they go belly up before you can say Enron. How many airlines do you know that survive a major crash? TWA, Swiss Air, they’re done.”
“So you’re telling me, as you’d say here, that DeKripps is toast?”
He laughed, straightening up. “Now what about some of those famous blueberry pancakes?”
She watched him disappear down the corridor, calling out, “And hold the sugar.”
She turned back to the muted TV where they were recapping the DeKripps story.
The last image she saw was Barney, his head bowed, being led from his Georgetown home by two uniformed police officers.
“See you in court, buster,” she said aloud, and switched off.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Food Fight is my debut novel and it’s dedicated to the memory of Sylvain.
So many old friends and new ones helped me in the writing and rewriting of this book. I thank particularly my first readers, Margaret Crompton, Janne Nolan and Catherine Taconet, for their frank critiques and encouragement. I’m indebted to Mike Gray, my Hampshire guide and sounding board.
Stanley Colvin and David Ferrera in the US gave me precious advice, as did Barry O’Brien, and Pat and Trevor Davies in the UK. Mary Friel, Gerard Spencer and Alan Newman kindly shared their expertise too.
My thanks also to Felicity Baker, Rupert Cornwell, Celia David, Anna Fifield, Becky Metcalfe and Claire Soares. The input from my brother, Graham, and Laure Crampont, helped me over the finish line.
And a big thank you to my agent, Annabel Merullo, for having faith at a critical time.
