The ambrosia project, p.1
The Ambrosia Project, page 1
Praise for the Burton & Lamb series
Abi Silver writes her years of legal experience into each of her courtroom thrillers
The Big Issue
Intelligently conceived and cleverly constructed – topical, relevant and engaging
Ted Childs, creator of Kavanagh QC
Abi Silver has carved a niche exploring the moral and practical issues thrown up by technology, and how the law responds. She is adept at turning complex legal debate into compelling legal thrillers...
Jewish Chronicle
An enjoyably elaborate and distinctive variation on the courtroom thriller
Martin Edwards
The Burton & Lamb series always provides excellent courtroom moments and a thoughtful exploration of an area of life where technology is likely to make a big difference in the not-so-far-off future
Crime Review
Silver expertly manoeuvres the pieces of her plot to craft a tense, intelligent mystery
Chris Simms
It is Abi Silver’s imaginative touches as well as her thorough legal knowledge that make her courtroom thrillers stand out
Jake Kerridge
Also by Abi Silver in the Burton & Lamb series:
The Pinocchio Brief
The Aladdin Trial
The Cinderella Plan
The Rapunzel Act
The Midas Game
Published in 2022
by Lightning Books
Imprint of Eye Books Ltd
29A Barrow Street
Much Wenlock
Shropshire
TF13 6EN
www.lightning-books.com
ISBN: 9781785633201
Copyright © Abi Silver 2022
Cover by Nell Wood
Typeset in Minion Pro and Brandon Grotesque
The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
For my father-in-law, John
who loved his food
To eat is a necessity, but to eat intelligently is an art
François VI, Duc de La Rochefoucauld
Ask not what you can do for your country.
Ask what’s for lunch
Orson Welles
Contents
prologue
PART ONE
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17
PART TWO
18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49
PART THREE
50 51 52
Acknowledgements
About the author
OTHER BOOKS
London, 13 April 2021
prologue
Nick Demetriou stood in the kitchen at Tanners’ Hall preparing lunch and contemplating the considerable challenges posed by a life in the catering trade. As he would happily explain to anyone who would listen, he was not just a cook. Rather he was both producer and director of a touring, repertory culinary show, often tasked with a gruelling schedule. Sourcing fresh, high-quality ingredients was just the beginning. After that, every step had to be carefully choreographed to ensure they each reached maximum potential; the chopping, squeezing, chilling, mixing, warming, roasting and positioning. Using stalwarts he could rely upon and introducing newcomers for colour and excitement. It was only when they all peaked simultaneously that the accolades flooded in. Yes, providing a first-rate service was no mean feat for any chef on any regular day.
Today, sadly, was more than a little irregular. Andrew, one of his usual servers, had excused himself with ‘flu’ at 9am this morning, far too late to find a replacement. So Nick had been forced to step in and roll up his sleeves – the most overqualified of understudies – which had made him resentful. After all, he did own the business. He didn’t want to be mistaken for staff.
Across the kitchen, a young woman was splitting cherry tomatoes with the tip of her knife, in the manner he’d shown her, and distributing the pieces evenly between individual salad bowls. ‘Eleni,’ Nick said. ‘Finish the salad and get it out into the hall.’
The girl looked up and frowned. Her gaze bypassed Nick and settled on the face of the wall clock, before she pinched her lips together, turned back to him and nodded.
Clearly, she was cross at being hurried. He’d asked her to ensure the salad was laid out on the tables at the back of the hall by 12, and her silent protest told him she was still ahead of her deadline. Nick almost said something, something to remind her that he paid her wages, that there were still endless tasks to complete, that any boss could change his mind. He wondered, fleetingly, if the girl would have challenged his authority in the same way, if he’d still been the proprietor of Giorgio’s, the best Greek restaurant in the whole West End. But then a crackling from underneath the grill forced him to check on the status of the halloumi and the moment to chastise Eleni was lost. Instead, he dabbed at his head with a freshly laundered handkerchief. He’d forgotten how stifling it could be in this kitchen.
He shifted the cheese to a chopping board, but before he began to slice it diagonally into narrow strips, he marched over to the back door, threw it open and took a deep breath. His young assistant didn’t seem to be suffering from the heat. In fact, Eleni, who had started to hum as she worked, shivered, as the cooler air swept in from outside.
Nick left Eleni and went to survey the hall. The lines of chairs facing the front and the arrangement on the stage were of little concern to him. No, he occupied himself exclusively with the three trestle tables, placed end to end, on which the display of food – his food – was taking shape.
As Nick had envisaged, the beef carpaccio took centre stage: paper-thin, marbled strips of pure tenderloin. It looked bare on the plate without any garnish of any kind, but those were his instructions, and the bossy woman – Diana Percival, personal assistant to Brett Ingram – had made it very clear she wanted them to be obeyed. Even so, he’d slipped some watercress dip into a separate dish nestling beside it.
On either side were the sandwiches, still sealed with cling film, thickly cut with succulent fillings and interspersed with soft and floury wraps. Then, he’d left a space for the mini burgers, which were next on his list to heat up. He and his wife, Lisa, had cooked them last night at home, using a meatball recipe handed down from his grandparents, which he had modified and updated. Not that he expected Diana, or any of the guests, to appreciate the history, but Nick felt proud to continue the tradition.
At this end of the table, he would place the halloumi, which he planned to serve with acres of rocket and a red onion relish, and next to the cheese he would arrange the individual salad bowls: cucumber, avocado, edamame topped with pea tips and the cherry tomatoes Eleni had been faithfully dicing. The only other missing savoury dish was the sweet potato pakoras. Damn! There was probably not enough time to heat them in the oven after the burgers. He might have to resort to the microwave if they were really pushed. Damn Andrew and damn his flu!
But Nick’s anger was extinguished when he viewed the creation Eleni had set down at the furthest extremity of the table. This was his exotic fruit platter (for sharing); a melange of the most desirable soft fruit on the market. Nick had purchased an orange-fleshed cantaloupe from Guatemala, a Cape pineapple, golden kiwi from New Zealand, mangos from the Caribbean and Chinese lychees. He had wanted Californian cherries too, to add drama, but they had been eye-wateringly expensive and now he looked, Eleni had worked wonders without them and the arrangement appeared enticing, sophisticated and most certainly exotic.
Nick returned to the kitchen and paused in the doorway to watch Eleni put the finishing touches to the salads. Sometimes, she reminded him of his sister, Maria. Not the Maria of today, but the vivacious youngster of happier times. Maria would have dry-fried the halloumi, two minutes each side until crisp and brown and then pressed the pieces into flat bread, with handfuls of fresh parsley and kalamata olives, drizzling her creation with freshly-squeezed lemon, laughing when the juice ran down her chin as she ate.
They didn’t look so much alike, Eleni and Maria. It was more the way Eleni’s eyes flashed with spirit when she spoke. That was classic Maria. And the gap between her front teeth, just like Maria’s, a gap that would fit a penny. Their mother had advised it was a sign of good luck, that Maria would always be blessed with good fortune. Nick had joked that it meant she was destined to talk too much and she’d dug him in the ribs.
And of course there was the pixie cut which Eleni sported. Maria had experimented with shorter hair once. It had been a moment of rebellion, an outpouring of teenage frustration, and Nick knew she had regretted it bitterly, although she would never have let on. He’d heard her crying in the night, lamenting the loss of her beautiful hair, and he’d whispered to her in the darkness. ‘No harm do
‘Mr Demetriou. Are you all right?’ Eleni had noticed him standing there.
‘It’s still hot in here; that’s all,’ he said, tugging at his shirt and opening a button. ‘And the clients will be arriving any minute.’
‘OK,’ Eleni said. ‘I’ll take these through now. I’ll wait to unwrap the sandwiches until just before people arrive though,’ she continued. ‘What’s next?’
‘If I finish the halloumi, can you get the burgers in the oven?’ Nick said, aware that he was still sweating, and hating himself for it. ‘Then we’re just left with the pakoras.’
‘No problem.’ Eleni treated him to her gap-toothed smile, as she picked up the tray of salad. ‘Don’t we need to label everything?’
Nick looked around him, then fumbled in his pockets. ‘I must have left them in my car,’ he said.
As Eleni left the room, he trotted outside to fetch the labels. He had thought he’d left them on one of the front seats, but he discovered that the pack had slipped down inside the passenger door. He had almost reached the safety of the kitchen once more when a shiny, black sports car drove into the car park and slid into the empty space immediately next to his.
***
Brett Ingram climbed out of his low-profile Porsche Taycan. He wasn’t someone who usually purchased expensive items, even though he could, but with the Porsche, it had been different. On his first test drive, six years back, he had been enthralled by the growl of the engine, the rumble that shifted to the steering wheel, then the driver’s seat and onwards through his entire body. He had bought one straightaway and driven it home via a circuitous route. There had been numerous occasions since then when he had manufactured a trip, with the sole aim of spending time behind the wheel of his extraordinary car.
These days, naturally, he had progressed to the electric version in which, despite valiant efforts, the manufacturers had been unable to replicate the authentic signature sound of its predecessor’s six-cylinder engine. Or that original exhilaration-inducing vibration. But that was always the case with progress of any kind. No point fighting it. Sometimes you had to make sacrifices for the greater good. He reached out and stroked his fingers back and forth across the smooth paintwork.
Diana, his PA, was already crossing the car park. He’d averted his eyes as she clambered out of the car. But now, pocketing his keys, he could study her unobserved. Diana looked good today, Brett thought. She looked good most days but today, all five-foot-eleven of her, clad in that tight, pencil skirt and fitted jacket matched with heels that sent her soaring above six foot, and a shade of lipstick which reminded him of a bowl of ripe plums, he could hardly resist her. But resist her, he would.
Not that Diana wouldn’t be willing. He’d tasted her disappointment when he had realised, halfway into today’s journey, that he’d forgotten her birthday. He had heard the same tremor in her voice, the same flicker of her otherwise professional expression when, from time to time – only when he was snowed under with work – he had sent her out to buy gifts for his girlfriends or asked her to arrange taxis to or from unfamiliar addresses. Diana had been gracious about his forgetfulness today of course, but some things could not be hidden. He told himself he would make it up to her, show her how much he appreciated her. He just couldn’t risk appreciating her in that way.
Brett looked around him. The front of the building had impressed him with its period red-brick façade and huge sash windows. Here at the back, the outlook was less inspiring. A large flat-roofed structure had clearly been added at some time in the last forty years, the painted lines of the parking bays were faint, the tarmac uneven and pitted and the sign announcing the venue to the world – ‘Tanners’ Hall. Since 1850’ – had been knocked sideways by a stray vehicle.
And as the wind blew into Brett’s face, he caught a faint whiff of decay. He noticed that one of the dustbins, around the far side of the building some twenty metres away, had been left open to the elements. That, then, was the most likely source of the unpleasant odour. How had Diana found this place? He couldn’t recall now. She had insisted on somewhere ‘low-key’, which certainly described the place he was looking at now. He’d given in of course. ‘As long as the right people come,’ he’d said.
‘With the cast you’ve invited, I can guarantee they’ll come,’ she’d replied.
He hung back, watching Diana walk towards a back door. She was right that they’d collected together an eclectic mix of speakers to suit their agenda. And what an agenda it was. He felt that familiar surge in his chest, the mix of anticipation and fear which preceded his greatest achievements. Any man who said he was never scared was a fraud and a fool. Yes, today, despite the inferior venue, marked the start of something huge, something with tremendous potential. Today heralded the beginning of the next phase for his company, Heart Foods, a phase which would catapult them into the food stratosphere.
‘Mr Demetriou? I’m Diana Percival. How nice to meet you.’
Brett heard Diana introducing herself to someone inside the building, in the tone she reserved for new acquaintances. He smiled to himself as he imagined her extending her hand and nodding her head, in her inimitable fashion. He followed her inside.
Diana had laid a sheet of paper down on a metal table in the centre of the kitchen and was ticking off items one by one, using her Heart Foods’ rollerball pen. A man with dark hair, grey around the temples, whom Brett assumed was the caterer, stood with his back to the door, leaning forwards to check on Diana’s work.
‘You won’t forget the labels, Mr Demetriou, will you?’ Diana said to the man, as if she was speaking to a schoolboy. ‘Remember, I said how important they were.’
In the car, Diana had muttered to Brett something about how she hoped the caterer would do what she’d asked. She had rolled her blue eyes then to reinforce her frustration. Here in the kitchen, Brett pitied the caterer, as he had no doubt the man would feel the full force of Diana’s wrath if he had not followed her instructions to the letter. You really didn’t want to cross Diana.
‘No problem,’ the caterer replied. ‘I was just getting them when you arrived.’
***
Once she had checked that Mr Demetriou had prepared everything she had ordered, Diana glided through to the hall itself. It was nothing like as imposing in real life as in the photographs, but that was always the way. Even so, the high ceilings gave a sense of space and, while the tiny windows meant there was little natural light in the hall, there were plenty of electric lights she could focus on the stage.
She sat down on the front row and spent a moment looking all around her. Yes. This would do. She hadn’t wanted a plush auditorium for this event. She had wanted functional and plebeian and, in that respect, it was more than adequate. For a brief moment she wondered what it would be like to stand up on the stage delivering the main address herself – and receiving the applause – instead of helping out behind the scenes. What was the expression? Always the bridesmaid, never the bride?
‘You must be Zoe.’ She looked up at the sound of Brett’s voice, echoing from the far end of the hall. He was greeting a young woman, no more than a girl really. She had pink hair, matching trousers and heavy, black-framed glasses. This was Zoe then, the carnivorous blogger, although Diana didn’t remember the glasses from Zoe’s avatar.
‘I’m so delighted you could make it.’ Diana heard the warmth in Brett’s voice. ‘Please help yourself to a drink. We have an assortment of fruit juices, wine and beer. Or is that not allowed?’ He watched Zoe with interest as she reached for a glass of water.
‘Do you know how many people are coming?’ Zoe asked.
‘I’m not sure, but at least a hundred. Diana can probably tell you.’ Brett gave a half-nod in her direction, to show Diana he knew she was there, but Zoe did not turn around. ‘She’s my PA,’ he continued, and Diana felt a surge in her chest at his words. ‘We’re hoping for press coverage and I’m sure you can help with the film too, and the feedback questionnaire I mentioned. How many followers do you have now?’
