Image description: The YeastEnders village of Walnutford, with baked-goods characters gathered in Almond Square outside The Queen Victoria Sponge.
“The person who started all of this.”
Parker Pastry’s words hung in the damp cellar beneath the burned-out bakery.
Fatbread held up the scorched photograph.
“That’s helpful, Parker. Any chance of a name?”
Parker stared at the scratched-out face.
“No.”
Sticky Nick folded his arms. “Can’t remember?”
“I remember perfectly.”
“Then that’s worse.”
Rye-vita took the photograph from Fatbread.
Five people outside the bakery. Fatbread’s uncle. A much younger Parker. Three others, including the figure in the centre whose face had been deliberately destroyed.
She turned it over again.
THE FIRST LAYER.
“What was the First Layer?” she asked.
Parker sighed.
“Before the Buttered Bunch. Before Bruno Brioche. It was a group of businesses that helped each other. Storage, deliveries, property. Completely legitimate.”
Nick laughed.
“Course it was.”
“At first.”
“And then?”
Parker looked around the blackened cellar.
“Then somebody realised controlling where things were stored and delivered meant you could control rather more than flour.”
Sharon Scone pointed towards the photograph.
“The person with no face?”
Parker didn’t answer.
Fatbread stepped closer.
“My uncle refused a delivery here. The bakery burned down that same night. Was that because of them?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve suddenly developed a very selective memory.”
“I’ve developed an interest in staying alive.”
Rye-vita examined the metal box again.
“There’s something underneath.”
A false bottom lifted away.
Beneath it was a yellowed delivery slip.
Fatbread read the address.
“Almond Square.”
Sticky Nick leaned over his shoulder.
“That’s not the Queen Victoria Sponge.”
“No,” said Parker.
Rye-vita pointed at the faded company name.
MARZIPAN STORAGE COMPANY. UNIT THREE.
Nick frowned.
“There isn’t a Unit Three in Almond Square.”
Parker went very still.
“There used to be.”
Back at the Queen Victoria Sponge, Peggy Cherry Bakewell was listening to Dot Crumble explain why moving the fruit machine three inches to the left had ruined twenty years of careful pub planning.
“It blocks my view.”
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
“It moved three inches.”
“That’s how trouble starts.”
The door opened and the group from Marzipan Lane returned.
Peggy took one look at them.
“Oh good. More trouble.”
Fatbread placed the photograph and delivery slip on the bar.
Dot adjusted her sugar-dusted glasses.
“Who’s that?”
Fatbread pointed to his uncle.
Dot ignored him and tapped the scratched-out figure.
“No. That one.”
Parker quickly picked up the photograph.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Dot stared at him.
“Then why did you grab it?”
Before Parker could answer, Ronnie Roly-Poly came through the door with Roxy Rhubarb.
“Bruno’s moving,” said Ronnie.
Rye-vita turned. “Where?”
“The old mill.”
Nick swore under his breath.
Peggy reached beneath the bar.
“No.”
Phil the Pudding looked disappointed. “You don’t even know what we’re doing yet.”
“Yes I do. Somebody says old mill, everybody disappears, then you come back covered in flour with another criminal organisation.”
“She’s got a point,” said Grant.
An hour later, Ronnie and Rye-vita crouched behind a stack of empty flour crates overlooking the mill office.
Inside, Bruno Brioche paced from one end of the room to the other.
The swagger was gone.
He checked his watch.
Then the door.
Then his watch again.
Ronnie whispered, “Never seen him nervous before.”
A car stopped outside.
Bruno immediately stood straight.
The office door opened.
From their hiding place, Ronnie and Rye-vita could see only the newcomer’s back. A long dark coat. Gloves. Nothing else.
Bruno didn’t smile.
Didn’t swagger.
Didn’t make one of his usual threats.
He simply stepped aside.
“Everything’s ready.”
The newcomer placed something on the table.
An old photograph.
Ronnie couldn’t see the front.
But she could see one scorched corner.
Bruno pushed the photograph away.
“What about Parker?”
A voice answered quietly.
“Parker should have stayed away from Marzipan Lane.”
Bruno nodded.
Then said the one word Ronnie had never expected to hear from the Brioche Boss.
“Boss.”
Blindman Makes 