Gourmet Detective by Peter King

Author:Peter King [King, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-7723-2
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road

Chapter Eighteen

THE NATIONAL TELEVISION STUDIOS IN Acton Park were only a short walk from the tube station. The massive letters “NTV” hung above the gateway entrance to the parking area. They obviously expected all their visitors to arrive by car and when I walked across the street and presented myself at the glassed-in guard office which controlled the double-barred barrier, I received a questioning look from the commissionaire.

My name received no immediate recognition but I suppose they get lots of people there, many more famous than me. Eventually he found my name on his list though the way he said “Ah—by Mr St Leger” suggested that I wasn’t among the day’s celebrities and neither was Mr St Leger.

“Did you park your car across the road, sir?” he asked. “You can bring it in and—”

“I didn’t come by car.” I could see that I’d slipped a few more notches down the scale. “There a bad traffic situation on the A40,” I explained. “Or so they said on the radio.”

“Radio!” His lip curled in derision. “Radio! What do they know about traffic?”

“Oh, they’re often wrong, I know but—”

“Often? Not often right if you ask me—still who did you say you wanted to see, sir?”

“Miss Watkins.”

“Ah, not easy. She’s a hard one to find, she is…” he paused with his hand on the phone then through the window, he spotted someone and rapped hard on the glass.

A little elfin-like lady in a grey dress, black shoes and a red and white bandana holding her greying hair appeared and cocked her head on one side.

“Oh, Millie, take this gentleman up to the third floor west, would you? See if you can find Miss Watkins.”

She looked scornful. “Like looking for a blinkin’ will-o’-the-wisp, that is.” She studied me for a moment. “Well, orl right, let’s see what we can do.”

Crossing the yard, she cocked an eye upwards. “Looks like rain,” she commented cheerfully.

“Surely not,” I said. “That fellow after your news programme last night said it was going to be fine all day.”

“’im!” she said contemptuously. “Since when did ’e ever know anythink about weather?”

“Well, he sounds as if he does.”

“Reads it!” She cackled, holding up a hand to slow an approaching limousine so that we could cross unhindered. “Reads it, that’s all ’e does.”

“He seems to be accurate enough—”

“Then why did ’e come in this morning carrying ’is umbrella?” she demanded triumphantly. “Knows nothink about weather, he does. Proper shower if you arsk me!” She cackled at this then led the way into a large brick building. She tittered once or twice at her own witticism and I smiled encouragingly. We went along a lengthy corridor then up in a lift that hiccuped threateningly but finally deposited us on the third floor.

A long narrow passage seemed to stretch into infinity. Off it were dozens of doors each with a minuscule name on a card in a holder. Presumably this made frequent changes simpler.

Millie knocked at one door, poked her head in, called out a question then banged the door shut.

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