Tony Hill u Carol Jordan 08 - Cross and Burn

his son is to be left to the tender mercies of a pair of big old dykes. But until that happens, I think we need to hang on to Torin. It’s what he wants, and I think you in particular might be what he needs.’
    Paula gobbled some more chilli, suddenly starving. ‘I don’t seem to have much say in this.’ It was, they both recognised, an objection for form’s sake only. More a gentle demurral than a righteous protest.
    ‘Like you’re going to start walking away from doing the right thing. Now finish up that chilli and get on the trail of Carol Jordan.’
    Paula smiled. ‘I had an idea about that.’

43

    T he cuisine that Marco Mather had learned from his mother was one of the healthiest in the world. At its heart, the Southern Italian food was the diet of peasants, too poor for obscure or luxurious items. It was based on a handful of easily grown vegetables and herbs, olives and their oil, cheeses made from the milk of hardy goats and sheep, and small amounts of game and poultry. But like so many other aspects of modern life, it had become corrupted by money.
    That frugal but delicious diet had spread like a spare tyre to embrace all manner of richness. Estate-bottled olive oil used as a dip for enriched breads; cream and butter liberally added to sauces and ragus which contained more meat than their original creators would have eaten in a month; full-fat cheeses from grass-fed dairy cows; and an endless supply of tasty processed pig products. Italian food at its worst had become an invitation to obesity and furred-up arteries.
    It was an invitation that Marco had embraced. The food he created for their daily dinners was loaded with calories and cholesterol. Marie loved it, but she fought its effects by skipping breakfast and sticking strictly to so-called healthy options at lunchtime. Marco, working from home at his desk, had only his willpower to keep him from food during the day, and it generally let him down at least once between breakfast and bedtime. For a long time, his natural metabolism had kept his weight more or less under control. But as middle age crept closer, so the pounds were creeping on. His trousers were tighter and his thighs had begun to rub together as he walked.
    And so he’d decided to lose some weight. He’d read several articles online and watched a documentary on TV about a new regime of exercise that involved short bursts of intensive aerobic exercise. The results were little short of miraculous. For less than two hours a week, his heart would be healthier, his weight would reduce and he’d live longer. He’d always resisted exercise in the past because it bored him. But surely he could manage a few minutes a day without losing his mind? It would be worth it, if it allowed him to continue cooking and eating the food he loved.
    Marco had told Marie his plan, and she’d been delighted. She loved her husband and she hadn’t wanted to make him feel bad about himself, she said. But she wouldn’t mind if he lost a few pounds. So he’d ordered a state-of-the-art exercise bike and had it installed in the garage that morning. Now he was going to go for the burn. He hadn’t done any exercise since he’d given up squash a dozen years before but he was confident he’d nail this.
    He stripped to his boxer shorts, pulled on a pair of trainers and climbed aboard. He understood the importance of going flat out. He had to push himself to the very limit and go as fast as his legs could pump. He set the timer and started out, driving his legs up and down like pistons, pedalling as fast as he was able. In no time at all, his heart was hammering, sweat was bursting out in beads on his forehead and his breathing was ragged and painful. But he kept going. Surely to god he could exercise for five minutes?
    Marco drove himself on, pushing forward, convinced he would break through the pain barrier to some zen-like state. But his distress just kept increasing till a spasm of pure agony seized his chest and rippled through his upper body. His arms were on fire, his chest gripped by an iron band.
    He toppled from the bike, in the grip of a massive heart attack. Even if Marie had been there to summon the paramedics, it’s doubtful whether they could have saved him.
    And so, when a killer stole Marie Mather on the very street where she lived, there was nobody to notice she hadn’t come home. Nobody to report her missing. Nobody to add her name to the list of victims.
    Nobody to exonerate the man