Part 4 (1/2)

'Tell him it's about the murder of Charles Marrick,' Wesley said to the man's disappearing back.

The waiter turned, his eyes wide. 'Murder?'

'That's right, mate. Murder,' Heffernan said with inappropriate relish.

There was no more argument. The waiter disappeared through a swing door, leaving the two policemen to wander into the restaurant.

The reports hadn't lied. Two walls of the room were taken up by ma.s.sive windows which gave a spectacular view over the river. The tables by the windows would be the most desirable and Wesley wondered if the diners were charged a premium for them. Probably. But then anyone who could afford to dine at Le Pet.i.t Poisson probably didn't care too much about a few extra pounds. The tables were well s.p.a.ced out and swathed in white linen straight out of a was.h.i.+ng powder advert. Nothing cheap and cheerful here. In fact it was all a little too perfect for his liking. He'd have felt awkward eating here.

The young waiter appeared in the doorway. 'Chef will see you now,' he said in a hushed voice, like a royal flunky about to show someone into the presence of the Queen herself.

They were led into a huge kitchen which looked as though it had been designed by the person responsible for Colin Bowman's postmortem room. The white tiles were polished to a dazzling s.h.i.+ne and you could use the stainless steel surfaces as a mirror in an emergency. White-clad acolytes were scattered around, chopping vegetables, mixing sauces and attending bubbling stockpots, and seated on a stool at the end of the room, flicking through a file, was the great man himself. Average height with luxuriant locks and a pristine white jacket with his name embroidered on the right breast, Fabrice Colbert looked the part. King of his kitchen. And a hard taskmaster.

He stood up and addressed one of the sauce makers. 'Damien. How many times have I told you? Taste the f.u.c.king thing. How can you get the seasoning correct if you do not use your sense of taste?'

'Oui, Chef,' barked the terrified Damien like a rooky private answering the sergeant major.

'Imbecile,' Colbert muttered to n.o.body in particular. 'Why must they always send me incompetent monkeys?' He swung round to face Wesley who instinctively took a step backwards.

'You wish to speak with me about Charlie?' He p.r.o.nounced Charlie the French way.

Wesley cleared his throat. 'Yes, sir. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?'

Colbert made a vague Gallic gesture with his hands and began to march towards a door marked 'Private'. Heffernan gave Wesley a nudge and they followed. It wasn't often Gerry Heffernan looked overawed but it seemed that Fabrice Colbert had rendered him speechless. Wesley, however, told himself firmly that he wasn't one of Colbert's kitchen hands and there was no way he was going to be intimidated by a jumped-up cook. He kept this thought in his mind as he entered what he a.s.sumed to be the chef's office and sat down without being invited. After a few moments of hesitation, Gerry Heffernan did likewise.

'I a.s.sume you've heard about Charles Marrick's death?' said Wesley.

'Oui. I hear it on the news this morning. C'est terrible.'

'Indeed.' He glanced at Heffernan who was staring at the chef as though he wasn't quite sure what to make of the man. 'When did you last see Mr Marrick?'

The chef didn't look so sure of himself now. 'Er ... it must have been Lundi ... Monday. Yes, Monday. I go to his house.'

'Mrs Marrick told us that you and Mr Marrick had an argument.' Wesley looked the man in the eye, waiting to see how he'd react.

The chef swallowed hard. 'Oui. C'est vrai. We quarrelled.'

Gerry Heffernan leaned forward. 'What about?'

There was a long silence. Colbert had been standing up, as though he hoped to get rid of his visitors as soon as possible. But now he took his seat behind the large oak desk covered with receipts, lists and menu plans.

He picked up a pen and turned it over in his long fingers for a while before he finally spoke. 'Charlie Marrick was a crook. Un voleur ... a thief.'

This captured Heffernan's interest. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean what I say. He was a thief. He stole from me.'

Wesley glanced at his boss. 'Can you be a little more specific, Monsieur Colbert? What did he steal?'

'My money ... and my good name. My reputation.'

This was like pulling teeth. Wesley tried again. 'Can you tell us the details? What exactly did he steal and when?'

Another long silence. Wesley wondered what the man was up to, dangling a piece of juicy information in front of them then refusing to elaborate. But eventually the chef spoke. 'He tricked me. We order wine from his warehouse ... the best vintages ... we have a discerning clientele here at Le Pet.i.t Poisson. We use his warehouse before and we never have trouble, but this time ...' He gave an expressive shrug.

'Go on,' Wesley prompted. He looked at Gerry Heffernan who was sitting attentively like a child being read his favourite bedtime story.

'My customers order expensive vintages. When they taste they send them back. My sommelier he changes the bottle ... the same thing. The wines are not what they claim to be on the label. The Chateau Margaux tastes like a vin de table. The Chateau Margaux is a vin de table. That Charlie Marrick ... he swap the labels.'

Wesley gave a low whistle. 'So you order expensive wines and he sends you cheap plonk with expensive labels.'

'That is correct. I am upset. My reputation the reputation of Le Pet.i.t Poisson is at stake.'

'You have proof of this? It wasn't just a bad bottle or two or ... ?'

'Oh non, Inspector. This is deliberate. Every bottle we open is the same.'

'Perhaps it was just a bad year,' said Heffernan, trying to sound as though he knew what he was talking about.

Colbert gave him a contemptuous look before shaking his head vigorously. 'If you do not believe me ask my sommelier, Jean-Claude. He will say the same as I do. Charlie Marrick was a crook.'

'You didn't report it to the police?'

For the first time Fabrice Colbert looked embarra.s.sed. 'Maybe I should have told the police but ...'

'You took the law into your own hands?'

'No ... I ...'

Wesley sat back and took a deep breath. The chef was on the defensive for once. Not a situation that he imagined arose very often. 'You have a blazing row with him on Monday. On Wednesday he's found dead. Murdered. Where were you yesterday afternoon?'

'I was here at Le Pet.i.t Poisson. Everybody will tell you ... all my staff.'

'All afternoon?'

Colbert frowned in an effort to remember. 'I go out once. To Varney's Vintages in Neston with my sommelier to order wine. We used to use Varney's but Charlie offered a better discount. I do not wish to deal with Marrick ever again. Not after he tricked me. I could never trust him again so I return to Varney's.'

'Understandable,' said Wesley. 'I suppose your sommelier will confirm all this?'

There was a split second of hesitation, of uncertainty. Then the mask of confidence reappeared. 'Of course. Please ask him.'

Wesley doubted whether Colbert used the word please too often it certainly hadn't been in his vocabulary during the making of his TV series and he felt a small glow of achievement. He stood up and Gerry Heffernan did likewise. 'We may need to speak to you again.' He walked towards the door then he turned. 'By the way, do you have quail and garlic potatoes on the menu at the moment?'

Colbert looked quite offended and shook his head vigorously. 'The pommes de terre with the garlic, yes. But quail is not in season and I use only the freshest of ingredients. I hope you do not suggest I am using the frozen game. For a chef such as I ...'

'Of course not, Monsieur,' said Wesley quickly, wondering whether the chef's ruffled feathers were all part of an elaborate act.

As they left the office Wesley couldn't help feeling that there was an unease behind Fabrice Colbert's arrogant bl.u.s.ter. He didn't bother seeing them off the premises this job was left to the young waiter who had greeted them when they'd first arrived. But when they walked out through the kitchen, Wesley noticed a trio of chefs chopping vegetables with sharp, vicious-looking knives.

Charlie Marrick had been killed with a thin, sharp blade. And Fabrice Colbert's kitchen was full of the things.