by Roger Keevil
Carey busied himself preparing a tray with coffee cups and a Georgian-style silver coffee pot, before delivering it to Copper's table. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Just the bill, I suppose. When you're ready.”
“Of course, sir.” Carey disappeared back towards the kitchen.
As Copper and Molly began to sip their coffee, their eyes caught one another's, and they smiled.
“Could we …?” They both began to speak simultaneously, and laughed.
“Go on, you first,” smiled Molly.
“I was just going to say,” said Copper, “I've really enjoyed tonight. Could we do it again some time?”
“I'd like that, Dave” was the welcome response. “It's been a lovely change from – well, you know, all the reality of every day – you know, work, and so on.”
“Tell me about it,” agreed Copper. “It's a treat to be able to escape once in a while.”
The crash of breaking crockery and the muted cry were faint, but all Dave Copper's senses were nevertheless immediately on the alert. “What on earth …?”
He did not have to wait long for an explanation, as a shaken-looking Carey Agnew appeared in the entrance to the rear hallway of the restaurant. “Somebody, please … there's been a horrible accident.”
“What's the matter?” Copper sprang to his feet.
“Someone had better call an ambulance,” spluttered Carey. “It's awful.”
Copper took control. “Look, sir – I'm a police officer, and this young lady is a nurse. What exactly has happened?”
Carey seemed to make an effort to pull himself together. “Thank goodness. You'd better come through and see. I think … I think she may be dead!”
*
“So where were you last night, guv?”
“Badger-watching.”
“Eh?”
“There is no need to sound so surprised, sergeant.” Inspector Constable's voice was terse. “And you can also close your mouth – the slack-jawed look does nothing for your image as an intelligent police officer.”
“Sorry, sir.” Dave Copper kept his tone carefully neutral, as the two detectives stood in the dining room of the 'Palais de Glace'. “So, badger-watching, eh? And this would be why we couldn't reach you?”
“Evidently.”
“Ah. Right.” A pause. “You know, guv, I had no idea that you were interested in that sort of thing. You never mentioned yesterday.”
Andy Constable sighed. Obviously an explanation of some kind would need to be volunteered. “My life is not the open book you evidently assume it to be, sergeant. I do do other things from time to time. And as it happens, one of the chaps in uniform is very into wildlife. We got talking in the canteen the other day, he said their group was going on a badger-watch because they thought that one of the setts might have a litter of cubs, and would I like to go along? Better than the endless murder mystery repeats on TV, I thought. Long story short, we all went out into the Forest last night, miles from anywhere, and I didn't get back until about three this morning.”
“I did try your mobile, sir.”
“Which I had switched off. Piercing ringtones and badgers do not mix particularly well. And I didn't switch it back on until this morning, which of course is when all the voice-mails popped up. Now, will that be all, sergeant, or are there any further details of the cavortings of said badgers you would like me to describe?”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir.” Dave Copper sounded abashed.
“Good. In which case, perhaps you would like to bring me up to speed. Who, what, where, when?”
Copper consulted his notebook. “The dead woman is Angelique Delaroche, sir. Age forty-one. Owner of the restaurant, or at least part-owner.”
“And what exactly happened?”
“It was about ten past ten last night. We … Molly and I … we were having coffee, and another few minutes and we would have been gone ...”
“How very fortunate that you were here on the spot, sergeant,” remarked Constable drily.
“Hmmm.” Copper did not sound at all convinced. “Not sure I agree with you, sir. And I know Molly wouldn't.”
“Put a bit of a dampener on the evening, did it?”
“It's not funny, sir,” objected Copper. “I had to get her to come and look, just to confirm that the woman was dead. It's not what you'd call the perfect end to a date, is it?”
“Probably not,” confessed Constable. “So what happened next?”
“I got them to call a taxi for her and sent her home, sir. You can talk to her later if you want, but she was with me the whole evening, so there's probably not a lot she could tell you that I can't.”
“You may well be right. But just in case we do need to speak to the young lady, I presume you have an address for this Miss …?”
“Codling, sir. Yes, I have.”
“Good. And so much for mixing business with pleasure. Right - to work. Where did all this happen?”
“Through here in the office, guv.” Copper led the way out of the dining room and along the short rear corridor towards the office. “It's here at the end on the right.”
“And what are these?” asked Constable, indicating the other doors in the corridor.
“The ones here on the right are the loos, and the third one is a sort of storage and utility room,” explained Copper. “The one on the left goes through to the kitchen. And that's the back door straight ahead.”
“Is that the only way in?”
“Apart from the front door, yes, sir.”
In Angelique Delaroche's office two ghostly figures flitted, white-overalled Scene-Of-Crime investigators who stepped aside deferentially as the detectives entered. The room was bare, devoid of the opulent furnishings of the restaurant's public rooms, with a workmanlike L-shaped desk incorporating a computer work-station, two plain metal-and-plastic upright chairs in front of the desk, an ordinary grey steel filing cabinet, and a wall chart which seemed to serve as a combined calendar and work schedule. The sole concession to any form of comfort was a deeply-upholstered swivel armchair in rich burgundy leather behind the desk. On the desk were scattered the usual array of items – a telephone, a holder for pens, paper-clips and reminder notes, a brass art-nouveau letter-opener, and a flexible-necked desk lamp. And immediately in front of where the user would sit, a large A2-sized tear-off pad, bearing the name of a well-known wine wholesaler, which served as a combined calendar and jotter, in the centre of whose otherwise unmarked white paper was a pale red stain.
“That's where we found her, sir.” Copper pointed to the armchair. “She was sitting there, slumped forward over the desk. And we had to sit her up in the chair, guv, to check on her, and that was when we could see that she'd been stabbed in the chest. That's where that stain came from – it must have leaked out from the wound.”
“Who found her?”
“Chap called Carey Agnew - that's the one who let you in this morning. He's the restaurant's head waiter. It was just after he'd brought us our coffee – he told me he normally took Miss Delaroche a coffee in her office around ten-ish, and apparently he walked in and found her in the state I saw. I heard a yelp and a crash where he dropped the coffee tray – you can see the mark from the coffee on the floor there, sir – and then he came rushing out to the dining room, and I was in here in seconds after that.”
“So, being the man on the scene, you took charge?”
“Well, I sort of felt I had to, sir. Obviously, I did try to get in touch with you ...”
“Don't worry, sergeant. I'm not criticising. I think it was extremely resourceful of you. Showing some initiative is going to do your prospects of promotion no harm at all.” Constable smiled. “At some point in the very distant future, of course. You're far too useful to me to let you take flight just yet.”
Copper looked at his superior in surprise. “Did I hear right, sir? Was that actually a compliment?”
The inspector cleared his throat. “Don't get too used to it.
And you might have started, but you haven't finished – so keep talking.”
“Right, guv.” Copper took another look at his notebook. “I reckon I did everything according to procedure, sir. I phoned it in – got SOCO here as soon as I could – the doc came and took a look at the victim and confirmed that she was officially dead, and he's had her taken away for autopsy, which he says he'll be doing this morning – that's about it, really. SOCO were here at the crack of, but they've mostly gone now, apart from these two.”
“Just finishing off now, sir,” intervened the shorter of the two, her face protruding from the surrounding white hood like the moulded face of a child's teddy. “We'll be out of your hair in a minute.”
“Fine. Anything else, sergeant?”
“I think that's everything, sir,” said Copper. “Oh, and I've got a list of all the relevant people who were here at the time, of course.”
“I wondered when you were going to get around to that,” said Constable. “So, shall we take a seat out in the restaurant, and you can give me the lowdown on who's who.” The pair made their way back to the dining room and, guided by Copper, seated themselves at the table he had occupied the previous evening.
“There's quite a few on the list, sir,” began Copper, “but fortunately we can pretty much rule out any of last night's customers because most of them went nowhere near the back corridor. But there are a couple that I'm sure we'll want to talk to, according to Mr. Agnew.”
“Such as?”
“There were two women here, who I gather are old friends or colleagues of Miss Delaroche's. In fact, I noticed her join them at their table for part of the meal, but I wasn't really paying that much attention, to be honest.”
“Understandable. And who are these women?”
“There's a Miss Ladyman – I gather she owns some sort of gallery. And the other one is a Mrs. Eagle. She's a solicitor.”
“Eagle? Eagle?” mused Constable. “Can't say I recognise the name. Anyone else?”
“One other woman, sir – a journalist by the name of Candida Peel, who apparently was here to do some sort of review of the restaurant. But here's an interesting snippet, sir. She wasn't eating alone. She was dining in the company of Miss Delaroche's boyfriend, a chap called Toby Rockard.”
“Oh yes?” Constable was intrigued.
“But it was all above board, according to Carey Agnew,” explained Copper. “In fact, I understand it was all arranged by Miss Delaroche herself.”
“How very generous of her. Well, we shall have to speak to the young lady for verification. I take it she is a young lady, sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And attractive?”
Copper hesitated. “Honestly couldn't say, guv.”
“Hmmm. I'll take that as a yes. And I'm assuming you have contact details for all these people?”
“Yes, sir.” Copper checked his notes again. “Addresses, and I've got all their mobile numbers. The gallery and the offices of the other ladies are here in town. I've had a quick word on the phone with all of them. And Mr. Rockard lives in Miss Delaroche's flat over the restaurant. I've checked – he's up there now. I said we'd want to speak to him this morning, so he said he'd wait in for us.”
“Is that the lot? Surely not.”
“Oh no, guv – I've got several more. There's the head chef, a chap by the name of Lamb – he's out in the staff shed at the back at the moment – and there's his sidekick, who was in last night, although he was out of the restaurant by the time it all kicked off. He's due in a bit later – Italian, I'm told. There's also a maintenance bloke, Mr. Key, who wasn't actually here at the time of the murder, but he turned up later in the midst of all the kerfuffle, and he might be useful for some background. And last but not least, there's the washer-up, who was here during the whole thing.”
“And who's he?”
“She, sir. Lady by the name of Violet Leader.” Copper permitted himself a small smile. “I think you'll like her, guv – she's quite a character.”
Constable was uncertain how to interpret his junior colleague's amusement. “Yes, well, I shall look forward to that. I think.”
“I'm afraid you'll have to wait a while for the pleasure, guv. Mr. Agnew seems to have taken it on himself to call her and tell her not to come in today, so she won't be here until Monday morning.”
“Right, then – we'd better make a start with what we've got.” The inspector got to his feet. “Any suggestions?”
“I reckon it might be politic to start with the chef, guv. Senior man, and all that. Plus I get the impression that he's got something of a short fuse, so he might not appreciate hanging about.”
“Well, Sergeant Copper, since you have so far been the de facto senior investigating officer, I shall bow to your superior knowledge. So, where is this staff shed?”
*
The detectives both jumped as the restaurant back door closed behind them with a slam. Andy Constable tapped on the wooden door in front of him and, in response to the ungracious 'What?' which followed, entered the staff shed in the rear yard of the 'Palais de Glace'. The shed was of the unremarkable type found in many a suburban garden, but furnished with a couple of rather shabby old-fashioned fireside chairs, a small table and some slightly battered dining chairs which had obviously been seconded from the restaurant, and a row of metal lockers evidently intended to hold staff personal belongings.
Oleg Lamb looked up from his hunched position in one of the armchairs. “And who the hell are you?”
Constable declined to be intimidated. “My name is Detective Inspector Constable, sir – I am the officer in charge of this case.” He proffered his identification. “I believe you have already met my colleague, Detective Sergeant Copper. And as I'm sure you must be aware, we need to speak to you about the events of last night.”
Oleg grunted. “Look, if you think I'm going to waste my time answering a load of fu... a load of damn stupid questions, you must be joking. I've got a kitchen to run.”
The inspector smiled bleakly. “Not, I'm afraid, this morning, sir. I think you have to put out of your mind any thoughts of operating the restaurant normally today, in the light of the circumstances. After all, we have Miss Delaroche's murder on our hands. And the sooner we can get on with our job, the sooner we will be able to allow you to get on with yours. Does that sound reasonable?”
In the face of Constable's evident quiet determination, Oleg gave a sigh of resignation. “Okay. What do you want to know?”
“Sergeant, perhaps you'd like to take a few details from Mr. … it's Mr. Lamb, isn't it?”
“That's right.”
“First name, sir?” enquired Copper.
“Oleg.”
Copper raised his eyebrows. “Would that be O,L,E,G, sir?” A nod in confirmation. “That's a bit unusual, isn't it?”
“Named after my grandfather, if you must know, sergeant.”
“I see. Foreign gentleman, was he?”
Oleg began to show increasing signs of impatience. “Yes, Russian, as it happens. Look, what does this have to do with anything? Do you think you're investigating some sort of international plot? Do you want my grandmother's maiden name? How about shoe size?”
“No, that's all fine, sir.” Copper conducted a swift retreat in the face of Oleg's belligerence. “And Lamb's as English as can be, isn't it, so I don't think we've got any worries there.” A level stare was the only reply. Copper cleared his throat. “So, sir, just to fill in some details, you're the head chef here at the restaurant, I believe. And that's been since when?”
“Four years, give or take.” Oleg reflected for a moment. “Yeah, about that. Four years I've been building up the reputation of this place, which is why we've got a Pirelli Diamond, which they didn't have when that idiot who was here before me ran it.”
“That certainly is quite an impressive accolade, Mr. Lamb,” intervened Andy Constable. “These things aren't easily given out. You must have been very proud.”
> “Well, yeah, I suppose.” Oleg seemed ill at ease with the compliment. His demeanour became almost humble. “But good food … well, it's important, isn't it? I mean, it's … it's what I do.”
“And I dare say Miss Delaroche was equally proud. She must have been delighted at your achievement.”
“You'd think.”
“And so I assume that relations between yourself as the man in charge of the, what shall we say, artistic side of things, and Miss Delaroche as proprietor of the business, were perfectly cordial. No problems in that quarter?”
“No. None at all.”
“I'm delighted to hear it, Mr. Lamb. One hears horror stories sometimes about wars between the kitchen and the front-of-house in restaurants. Good to know there was nothing of that sort going on here.” Constable turned to Copper. “Sorry, sergeant, I interrupted you, I think. Back to you.”
“I was just wanting to know a bit more about last night, sir,” resumed Copper. “Can you tell me, Mr. Lamb, when you last saw Miss Delaroche?”
Oleg frowned. “I can't remember exactly when I saw Angelique. Sometime last night, obviously, because she had this habit of coming in and out of my kitchen all the time during service, no matter how often I threw her out. Drove me mad. It breaks the concentration – I don't suppose you'd understand. And sometimes the timings can be absolutely critical.”
“Tell me about it,” murmured Copper to himself. “But you can't pin it down to an exact time? Well, perhaps one of your colleagues will be able to help us with that. And you yourself – did you spend the entire evening in the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“You didn't leave it at all?”
“No. I don't have time to go prancing off round the place when we're in the middle of getting food out.”
Constable took a guess. “So at what stage, Mr. Lamb, did you go, as you say, prancing off around the place?”
Oleg sighed. “Right at the end of the evening. In fact ...” Oleg took a closer look at Copper. “You … you were in last night, weren't you? I remember now, you were on table 6, weren't you? And I was just coming over to your table when Carey came out and said Angelique had been killed.”