Murder Most Frequent: three more Inspector Constable mysteries (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 5)

by Roger Keevil

  “So what you appear to be saying, Mr. Lamb,” said Constable, “is that Sergeant Copper here is your alibi for the murder.”

  *

  “It's not that funny, guv,” protested Dave Copper, as the two detectives re-entered the restaurant.

  Andy Constable continued to chuckle quietly. “You'll have to forgive me, sergeant. We don't often get anything to amuse us in these cases. It just tickled me, that's all.”

  “Shall I just carry on with the investigation while you're having a good time, then, sir?” Copper sounded a touch huffy.

  Constable took pity on his colleague. “Right, then, Copper. Back to serious. And your remark about timings was not lost on me. I think if we can get the time-line right, quite a lot of things will start to fall into place. So let's ask some more questions. Who's first?”

  “The head waiter chap is probably closest to hand, guv. I think he was fiddling around in the bar when I last saw him.”

  “Then we shall hasten thither and seek him out.”

  Copper gave his superior a sideways look. “I swear if I told the guys at the station some of the things you come out with, guv, they'd have us both put away.”

  “The curse of a grammar school education, lad,” replied Constable airily. “I shall probably be quoting Keats at you before the case is finished.”

  Carey Agnew gave a start of surprise as the two officers materialised in the entrance to the small bar situated between the restaurant's dining room and the entrance to the kitchen. “Gracious, you almost had me jumping out of my skin there!” He carefully put down the glass of dark amber fluid he was holding. “We nearly had tawny port all over the place.”

  “Particularly fine vintage, is it, sir?” enquired Constable amiably.

  “To be honest, not especially … inspector, I think, isn't it? But good enough to charge a bit extra for. The thing is, once the bottle's opened, the ports and so on do oxidise after a little while, so I keep an eye on them to make sure they haven't gone off.”

  “Well, I apologise for dragging you away from your duties, sir, but we do need to have a talk about last night. Shall we sit down?” Constable led the way to a nearby table, seated himself on the banquette along the wall, and gestured to Carey to take a chair opposite, as Copper attempted to fade discreetly into the background behind him. “So, sir, you know who we are, and my sergeant has told me who you are – Mr. Carey Agnew, if I remember aright.”

  “That's correct, inspector.”

  “And you are the head waiter of the 'Palais de Glace'?”

  Carey bridled slightly. “I am Miss Delaroche's Maître d'Hôtel, inspector. I prefer not to use the term 'head waiter' – it really does not create the right impression for an establishment like ours. I mean, hers. I mean ...” Carey stopped in some confusion. “Oh dear … I don't really know what I mean. I don't suppose any of us know what will happen now, do we?”

  “I'm afraid speculation of that sort is rather outside our remit, Mr. Agnew,” replied Constable. “What I'm more concerned about is gathering a clearer picture of the people who are involved with the restaurant, and the exact circumstances of last night. So if you can give us an idea of precisely where you fit into the scheme of things …?”

  “I suppose you would probably say that I am the principal public face of the 'Palais de Glace', inspector,” said Carey. “I greet the guests when they arrive – once they've settled in, I go to each of the tables to tell them about the supper menu that we shall be offering them, and then I will usually assist them with their choice of wine and act as sommelier. Of course, I also supervise the waiting staff.”

  “Of whom there are many?”

  “That all depends on the number of guests we have.” There was a hint of evasion in Carey's voice.

  “And last night?” persisted Constable.

  “Just one waitress last night – Edna. Edna Cloud. She's one of our most experienced staff. As Mr. Copper here will recall, the restaurant was not exactly at capacity last night. But I had let her leave just before ten as there was so little left to do, so she had left the premises before ...” Carey seemed to be searching for words.

  “Before the discovery of the body.” Constable was blunt.

  “Yes. So I don't see that she could have had anything to do with it.”

  “We'll want her details in case we need to check anything with her – perhaps you could let Sergeant Copper have those. So, to summarise, you are the man in charge of the operation out in the dining room.”

  “I suppose you would have to say that, inspector,” said Carey. “My chief responsibility is to make sure that we keep up the traditional standards of the very best restaurants. I did spend some time working in France – I'm sure you're familiar with 'Maxim's'. Paris, of course.”

  “You've worked at 'Maxim's'?” Constable could not keep the surprise out of his voice. “Now that is very impressive, sir. Miss Delaroche must have been extremely pleased to have secured your services. How did that come about?”

  “Well, you know how it is,” replied Carey. “The restaurant business can be a very small world, and sometimes it is a matter of friends of friends, and personal recommendation.”

  “And on the subject of Miss Delaroche, how much did you see of her last night? I'm assuming that for the vast majority of the time, you would have been out here in the dining room.”

  “That's so, inspector,” assented Carey. “Of course, I have to go into the kitchen from time to time, but not for any protracted period. But in fact Miss Delaroche spent a large part of last evening in the restaurant. If there happened to be friends of hers dining here she would often join them for at least part of the meal, and then work later in her office.”

  “Which is where you found her dead body.”

  Carey gulped at the sudden brutality of the remark. “Yes. I normally took a tray of coffee through to her around ten o'clock every evening, so I did so last night, just as usual, but then ...” He broke off, seemingly unnerved at the recollection.

  “And I've already told Inspector Constable what happened at that point, Mr. Agnew,” intervened Dave Copper, “so I think we're fairly clear on events from then on.”

  Carey's hands were trembling. “I think, if you don't mind, inspector, I'd rather like a brandy. This is all very upsetting.”

  “Of course, Mr. Agnew. I quite understand. And we can easily continue this later.” With a nod of thanks, Carey disappeared back towards the bar, where the clink of glass was soon heard.

  Dave Copper took the vacated chair opposite his superior. “First to see her dead – last to see her alive, guv?” he murmured. “We've heard that often enough.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” replied Constable in similarly lowered tones. “Although we have not a sniff of 'why?', so no reason to think it. File him in 'pending', and we'll move on.”

  *

  “Right.” Constable rubbed his hands together. “The boyfriend next, I think, before we go charging off anywhere else. You did say he was somewhere on the premises, I believe.”

  “That's right, guv. There's a flat over the shop, so to speak.”

  “Accessible from in here?”

  “No, sir. There's a separate door to the staircase round in the side passage.”

  “Well, lead on, then.”

  In response to Copper's brisk knock, Toby Rockard opened the flat door and gave a small nod of recognition to the sergeant. His manner was subdued.

  “This is my senior officer, Detective Inspector Constable, sir,” explained Copper. “He's in charge of the case, and he needs to ask you some questions.”

  “Yes. You said. Look, is this going to take long? Only I've got an appointment this morning.”

  “In that case, we'll try not to keep you longer than we must, sir,” said Constable with quiet insistence.

  “I suppose you'd better come in then.” Toby stood aside to allow the two to enter, and threw himself down in his customary sprawl on the sofa. “Sit down if you w
ant to.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The detectives took the accompanying armchairs. “So, it's Mr. Toby Rockard, I understand from my colleague here,” began the inspector.

  “That's right.”

  “And you are …?”

  “I'm a freelance fitness instructor and personal trainer.”

  “No, Mr. Rockard, you misunderstand me. I mean that I gather that you and Miss Delaroche were … friends. In which case, of course, please accept my condolences.”

  “Thank you.” Toby did not seem disposed to be particularly forthcoming.

  Constable persisted. “And have you been friends for long?”

  Toby considered. “I suppose I first met Angie a couple of years ago, and I've been working with her ever since. As a client, that is. She was put on to me by some friend of hers – the usual thing that a lot of people do when they get to fortyish. Wanted to get a bit fitter, didn't have the time to get to the gym regularly, so the sort of as-and-when arrangement I can do suits them.”

  “So you became friends. And, may I assume, increasingly close friends?”

  Toby gave a snort. “Look, you don't have to beat about the bush. If you want to put it that way, I've been working out full-time with Angie for a year, okay?”

  Constable blinked slightly at the change of tone. “And it would be at that point that you moved into her flat to live with her?”

  “Yes.”

  Constable settled back into the comfort of the armchair. “Thank you for clarifying that, Mr. Rockard. I'm sorry if these questions seem intrusive, but we do need to get the complete picture. So, if I read the situation aright, we have a scene of very comfortable domestic bliss. Now, can we move on to the matter of yesterday evening. You were actually in the restaurant last night, I'm given to understand. Tell me, was this a regular occurrence?”

  “Not really, no. Quite often I'm working in the evenings. A lot of my clients have got full-time jobs, so the only way they can find time for a session is during the evening, plus of course, with Angie usually down here for at least some of the time, there's no point in me sitting around on my own up here like some sort of spare part.”

  “So how did last night differ, then, sir?” enquired Constable.

  “I'd had a cancellation,” said Toby, “and it so happened that there was someone from the press coming in to do a review of the restaurant, and so Angie said would I have dinner with this journalist woman. I suppose the idea was to make the meal a bit more of a social occasion so that she'd enjoy it more, rather than just work.”

  “A Miss Peel, I gather from my colleague here. Miss Candida Peel, I think, sergeant?”

  “That's correct, sir,” confirmed Copper.

  “And you spent the entire evening in her company, Mr. Rockard? And she in yours?”

  “Yes. Well, until we finished. And then she left to go home, and I came back up here.”

  “So you left the restaurant separately. I see. Tell me, sir, had you met Miss Peel before?” enquired Constable blandly.

  “Er, yes … once or twice, I think,” said Toby. “Why?”

  “No particular reason, sir. But it must have been that little bit easier if you knew the lady beforehand. Conversation-wise, I mean. I'm guessing you must have touched on the matter of the article she had been commissioned to write.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose we did. Not that I know a thing about food,” confessed Toby, “but I don't suppose that mattered too much.”

  The inspector looked Toby up and down. “No, sir. I don't imagine it did.”

  *

  As the detectives emerged once more at the foot of the stairs, they became aware of a voice raised in protest at the end of the side passage which gave on to the street.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous. Why can't I go in? Look, I've got a job to do, you know.”

  “I'm sorry, sir,” was the reply from the uniformed officer standing guard at the alley entrance. “So have I. I have my orders, and nobody is allowed in except authorised persons.”

  At a nod from the inspector, Copper went to investigate. “What's the problem, constable?”

  “Gentleman here says he needs to come in, sergeant. I've told him he can't.”

  The new arrival looked up at Copper. “Oh, it's you. Look, can you tell this chap I've got every right to come in. I've got work to get on with. Life doesn't stop just because there's been a murder, you know.”

  Copper looked over his shoulder at his superior, almost managing to suppress a grin as he did so at the man's choice of words. “This is Mr. Key, sir. I mentioned him to you.”

  “Of course,” acknowledged Constable. He took in the newcomer's waterproof jacket with its slightly over-tightened belt, the rumpled brown trousers, and the owner's rather prominent front teeth. “Well, I think under the circumstances, we'd better have him in. Let him through, officer. I'm Detective Inspector Constable, Mr. Key, and I'm conducting this investigation. So if you'd like to follow me, sir, we'll have a little chat inside.” He made his way in through the rear door of the restaurant.

  “Oh, by the way,” added Copper in an afterthought to the P.C., “there's another chef due in, name of Roni. We'll want to talk to him as well, so you can let him in when he turns up.”

  “Will do, sarge.”

  “Take a seat, Mr. Key,” said Andy Constable, resuming his former position in the dining room, as Dave Copper caught up with the two and seated himself alongside the inspector. “I believe from what Sergeant Copper has told me that you weren't actually present in the restaurant at the time of Miss Delaroche's death, but that you may be able to provide us with some helpful background information. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, inspector, that is so.”

  “And so I'm sure you'll be quite happy for my sergeant to make some notes.”

  “Oh yes. Anything I can do to help.” There was a note of eagerness in the nasal voice.

  “So, first things first. Mr. Key … and your first name is …?”

  “Alan, inspector. That's with just the one 'L' – it's so annoying when people spell it with two, but so many of them do, you know.”

  Constable resisted the urge to turn his eyes heavenwards. “And your job at the restaurant, Mr. Key?”

  “I do all the maintenance work around here. I would have thought your young man would have told you all this.”

  “He mentioned something of the sort, Mr. Key, but there wasn't really time to go into detail.”

  “Oh, it's a very important job,” preened Alan. “There's a lot to it – nobody appreciates how much goes into it. I mean, look at all the lights, for a start.” He waved an arm. “I have to check all the bulbs in them every single day, because Miss Delaroche wouldn't like it if any of them weren't working, and let me tell you, it's no easy job getting up to that big chandelier there. And then there's scuffs on the wallpaper and chips on the paintwork – it all has to be checked, you know, to make sure that everything is just so. And some of the things I could tell you about what I have to do to keep the loos up to scratch after we have hen parties in ...”

  “Yes, well, I don't think we need to go into too much detail in that respect,” interrupted Constable hastily. “Suffice to say that you have considerable responsibilities. And have you been working at the restaurant long?”

  “I've been here ever since it opened, about eight years ago. Of course, before that it was an old-fashioned draper's shop. I remember my mother used to come here to buy her knitting wool when I was a boy. That's years ago now, of course. Sometimes she used to bring me along, and I can still recall that funny sort of smell it had from all the different fabrics, and there was one of those compressed-air tube systems from the tills up to the office ...”

  “It's really rather more the present day that we're interested in, Mr. Key.” Constable sought to bring Alan back to the subject in hand. “You say you've worked for Miss Delaroche for eight years?”

  “Oh no,” contradicted Alan. “No, when it first opened as a restaurant it w
as started by a chap named O'Reilly. 'Colcannon's', it was called then. Irish themed, it was – something about thirty-seven different ways to serve potato.” He sniffed dismissively. “It never really took off. Went bust in a year. But then Miss Delaroche bought the place, and she just absolutely transformed it, what with the pictures and the Edwardian furniture and the velvet curtains and the crystal chandeliers and so on. I think that's where the new name came from – you know, 'Palais de Glace'. It's French for 'Palace of Crystal' … or is it 'Ice' … both, I think.”

  Constable took a look around. “I think I can see what you mean, Mr. Key. I imagine under the right conditions, the décor would be very impressive.”

  “Fabulous, some of the pictures are,” said Alan, warming to his theme. “Of course, they're all reproductions. Everyone likes that one of Marie Antoinette opposite the entrance.” He pointed to the large court portrait hanging on the wall which masked the bar area, directly opposite the front door. “'The Queen's Diamonds', it's called.”

  “Nice rocks,” commented Dave Copper. “The necklace, guv,” he added in swift response to Constable's quizzically-raised eyebrow.

  “Ooh, now that's very famous,” continued Alan. “Apparently there was a big scandal about it, and they say it was one of the things that led to the French Revolution. You see, one of the ladies-in-waiting was accused of stealing it, and then ...”

  The inspector felt it was time to come to the heart of the enquiry. “Be that as it may, I'm afraid the question of historical thefts is going to have to wait for another day. We need to talk about yesterday, Mr. Key. I'm aware that you weren't at the restaurant at the time of the murder, but I'd like to get a sense of the people concerned and the workings of the establishment. So tell me, what would your movements have been during the course of the day?”

  Alan sat up a little straighter on his upright chair, his knees together, his hands in his lap, rather like a schoolboy about to recite a lesson. “I was in just after nine yesterday morning. We usually get a wine delivery on Fridays, so I have to check all that and put it away in the wine store. That's just off the kitchen, you see.”