Page 57 of A Box of Wishes
“Better?”
“Sometimes.”
“And if that happens, did you try to work out what tiny thing you changed that made it better?”
“Yes.”
“That’s how we work. We keep asking the same questions and pay attention to the minuscule differences in the answers. Not to trip anyone up, necessarily, but to find out what really happened.”
“DI Tarbert is here, because I’ve been talking to you for weeks now,” Ben said. “I’ve become accustomed to the way you see things. Last night’s attack is an escalation. We want to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
The explanation did the trick. Ryan calmed and listened. “I still don’t think that anyone has a grudge against me,” he said, his voice much softer now. “But please ask and I’ll try and answer.”
“Has anyone ever left a message on your bike?”
Ryan froze. Then he held up a finger. “Wait just one minute.” He disappeared into the back, returning a moment later with a crumpled piece of paper. “I’d completely forgotten about this,” he said, and handed the paper to Tarbert.
“When did you get it?”
“Friday. Not last week. The one before. That’s why I forgot about it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was coming down with a cold. I had a stinking headache and all I wanted was to go home and sleep. This paper was on the seat of my bike, weighed down with half a brick.” Ryan shrugged. “I just shoved it into my pocket, and then I forgot all about it.”
Tarbert inspected the sheet before handing it to Ben. “Is it normal for people to leave messages on your bike?”
“I wouldn’t saynormal. It’s happened once or twice. Advertising flyers, though I never understood why someone would bother to leave them on my bike. I mean, I’m right there. They can come in if they want to flog something.”
“Do you trade recipes with people?”
“Occasionally.” He slumped in the seat, palm rubbing his midriff. “If I’d really promised a recipe to someone and had forgotten to send it, they’d call me or send me an email. Sticking a sheet of paper onto my bike seat has to be the least effective way to contact me.”
“That’s probably true.” Tarbert tapped his pen on the table in a slow, steady rhythm. “What if it’s not a recipe for cake or pastry?”
Ben suddenly remembered an update from the Buckinghamshire drugs team about water samples contaminated with MDMA and the seeming rise of ‘hobby cooks.’ Ryan, without the benefit of Ben’s training, caught on a little bit later.
“You think they’re looking for a recipe for drugs? Like meth or something?”
“It’s possible.”
“How? How is that possible? How can anyone think I’d cook up that sort of shite in my kitchen?”
“I don’t think they do,” Tarbert said. “Not that you’re cooking. But you do have people come into your coffeehouse and put bits of paper into a box. What if someone dropped off a recipe?”
“That’s… ludicrous.”
“Is it? Have you never found anything unexpected in that box of yours?”
“No.”
“Never?”
Ben opened his mouth, but Ryan wasn’t done. “When I bought the box, I also bought the lock that holds it closed. I locked it the first time I set it up on the bar here. I’ve not opened it since.”
“How long have you had the coffeehouse?”
“Four years.”
