by J. A. Lang
“Can’t imagine he had much to leave, though, always griping on about his bills and all. His cottage was a right mess, Annie said. Just a load of old plants and those mushrooms of his.”
Chef Maurice dropped his spoon and glanced up at the clock. It might not be too late . . .
“Patrick!”
“Oui, chef?” Patrick shut the walk-in fridge, having bedded down the salt-and-sage-rubbed pork belly for a good flavourful rest.
“Come.” He put a friendly arm around his sous-chef’s shoulder. “I have a special task for you that I think you will most enjoy . . . ”
* * *
Get hold of the truffles. Don’t mention the truffles.
Patrick tried to hold these two thoughts in his head as he hurried down through Beakley towards Ollie Meadows’ cottage.
It wasn’t stealing, Chef Maurice had said. They were doing the world of gastronomy a favour, even. What would a police station do with a sack of white truffles? Have them with weak tea and digestive biscuits?
Patrick’s thoughts took a detour through a land of savoury beignets drizzled in truffle-infused oil.
He wouldn’t have to lie, either, chef had said. Similar to using truffle shavings, it just paid to be economical with the truth. If someone came out and said “Is this bag of truffles we found in the fridge worth thousands of pounds?” he’d have to answer honestly. But it wasn’t his fault that a bag of white truffles looked a good deal like a bag of small, dusty potatoes.
His thoughts also drifted to a certain blonde policewoman. He’d seen her around and about the village, but working six-day weeks and spending all his free time developing new recipes, which he tried to slip onto the menu without Chef Maurice complaining too much, left him little chance to get to know his Beakley neighbours.
He took another mental detour to visit the fried-squid-and-piquillo-pepper starter he’d been working on lately.
All in all, Patrick’s head was so full of thoughts that his feet brought him all the way to Ollie’s back gate before he realised he hadn’t worked out what he was, in fact, going to say.
A freckle-faced young policeman looked up from examining the broken door lock.
“Can I help, sir?”
“I was wondering if I could have a word with, um, Miss”—he realised he had no idea what her surname was—“um, Lucy?”
“That’s PC Gavistone to you,” said a voice from inside the cottage, and PC Lucy appeared at the door. Her hair was straying from its bun, framing her face in a halo of wisps, and the state of her uniform suggested she’d spent the last few hours down on her knees in dusty cupboards.
“Well?” she demanded.
Patrick felt his throat dry up. A degree in molecular biology, a short-lived career in software development, then successive jobs in professional kitchens mostly staffed by large, sweaty men, had left Patrick in his early thirties with a resume containing a distinct lack of detail in the Talking To Women section.
Especially not attractive young women who carried their own truncheons.
“I’m, uh, I’ve come from Le Cochon Rouge, I’m the sous-chef there and—”
“Perfect!” PC Lucy smiled—but tigers smiled too, didn’t they? thought Patrick—and held up a hand. “Just wait there a moment.”
She disappeared into the cottage and came back with a small woven sack. The smell of truffles drifted out into the back garden, an unspoken accusation.
“I don’t suppose you know what these are?” she said sweetly, holding open the bag. “Being a chef and all?”
Get hold of the truffles. Don’t mention the truffles.
“Um, they could be Maris Pipers, they’re good for making mash and roast potat—”
“And I might be the Queen of Sheba.”
The smile vanished. PC Lucy held out a scrap of paper, covered in familiar loopy handwriting. Patrick had a sinking feeling.
“I found this in the sack. You know anything about this?”
Patrick took the note.
Cher monsieur Meadows,
I owe you payment for: 1 bag wild mushrooms, small. 1 bunch bananas, squashed (these I sat on when your table overturned on me). 1 truffle, large, white.
Please return from being missing soon, or I will require a new mushroom supplier.
M. Maurice Manchot
PS: Your kitchen floor requires a sweep. It is most unpleasant to sit upon.
Patrick tugged at the collar of his chef’s jacket, which had suddenly become dangerously tight.
“Well, we did make a banana soufflé yesterday, which seemed a bit odd for this time of year . . . ”
He trailed off as PC Lucy’s blue eyes bored into him.
“Tell Mr Manchot I’ll be along to speak to him later,” she said, eyes narrowed. “And tell him I’d appreciate it if he could refrain from eating all the evidence he removed from a murder investigation, too.”
Patrick thought about yesterday’s omelette breakfast.
“I’ll do my best. I guess I’ll be, um, going now . . . ?”
PC Lucy nodded curtly and swung around without a backwards glance.
At least, thought Patrick, he hadn’t mentioned the truffles. Which meant he’d achieved at least one of his two aims.
And she said she’d be along to the restaurant later. Giving him a second chance to attempt to interact.
He hoped he wouldn’t mess it up again. Given their meeting just now, he rather doubted he’d get a chance at a close encounter of the third kind.
* * *
The problem with Chef Maurice, thought PC Lucy later that evening, was the way that any situation he was involved in managed to slip through your fingers faster than a well-oiled ferret.
She’d stormed up to the back door of Le Cochon Rouge, bag of truffles in one hand, ready with a stern lecture about withholding information from the police and perverting the course of justice.
She’d expected him to posture, to wave his hands and argue his case. But the chef had seemed almost contrite, as much as one could tell under that giant moustache. He apologised profusely, the way only a Frenchman can, and invited her in for dinner.
They sat at the kitchen table and, somehow, over a glass of good white wine and truffle-covered linguine, she found herself handing over another large truffle from the sack—after all, what were they going to do with them down at the station?—in exchange for everything he had found out about Ollie’s missing dog and its mysterious rescuer.
“Tall, dark beard, in his fifties, possibly foreign,” she repeated, noting this down. Her head felt a little dizzy, and she wondered if she should have accepted the second glass of white Burgundy. Still—she glanced at her watch—she was technically off-duty.
“And they didn’t even get his name?”
“Mademoiselle Tara said it was something Spanish or Italian. Ending with an oh.”
Well, that narrowed it down. Tomorrow she’d have to go over there and check out the CCTV, if they even had it. She didn’t have high hopes on that count, though—animal rescue homes were not exactly a hotbed of crime, apart from the crime of abandonment, of course.
“More pasta?” said Chef Maurice, waving a fork at the pan. He was already on his fourth helping.
PC Lucy looked down at her large but empty plate and willpower failed her. Anyway, she told herself, she hadn’t eaten much all day, what with the new case and all.
“Was anything more of interest found at Monsieur Ollie’s home?”
“Not much,” she found herself saying, “apart from finding a few more stashes of cash around the house. He’d clearly been doing very well for himself lately.” She picked up a piece of truffle with her fork and stared at it. “Now I can see why. How much was he charging for these?”
Chef Maurice’s face darkened. “He had not offered me a single truffle! Quelle effronterie! I, who have bought from him since the first day of his entreprise. When I find out which chefs he has been selling to—”
“He did say he had something
new for us, chef.”
Lucy looked up. It was the sous-chef from earlier. She hadn’t caught his name, but now she had time to notice him properly, it struck her that he rather resembled a curly-haired Clark Kent. Perhaps a little less square-jawed, but as he scrubbed out a large stockpot over the sinks, with his chef’s jacket rolled up past his elbows, she couldn’t help but notice the muscles on his forearms gleaming in the soap suds . . .
She blinked. It must be the wine, she decided.
Chef Maurice was still on his tirade. “We should have been the first! It is an insult, an impertinence, a—”
“Can we even afford to have a truffle dish, chef?”
Chef Maurice glared at him. “That is not the point!”
Bzzzzz! PC Lucy pulled out her phone.
“PC Gavistone?” It was Alistair. “We’ve located the victim’s vehicle. It’s in the woods right behind Farnley village.”
“Understood. I’ll be right there.”
She stood up, and the kitchen swayed. Yep, that second glass had definitely been a mistake.
Chef Maurice jumped to his feet. “You must not drive, mademoiselle. Let me get my keys—”
A hand clamped down on his shoulder. “With respect, chef, not on your life. I’ll drive, uh, PC Gavistone where she needs to go.”
“It’s okay, you can call me Lucy.” Why was she grinning like an idiot? “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch—”
“Patrick.”
Patrick. Not Pat. She didn’t know why, but she rather liked that.
“Well, thank you, Patrick. I don’t know what got into me tonight. I don’t usually drink during the week.”
“Chef generally has that effect on people.” A wry smile passed over his face.
They found Chef Maurice standing by the front door, holding a tin of biscuits.
“You must eat more, mademoiselle,” he said sternly, staring her up and down. “It is not good for a young woman to, how do you say, have a look of hunger.”
She looked down at her waistline, surprised. She’d never considered herself at risk of sporting a waif-like look. Sure, the job kept her trim enough, though any beneficial result was possibly less due to exercise and more due to the Cowton and Beakley Constabulary’s minuscule budget, which stretched to cheap tea and one small box of assorted biscuits per week. And the Chief Inspector always nicked the chocolate ones before anyone else could get there.
He handed her the tin, then followed them outside, pulling on his hat and coat.
“Mr Manchot, this is an official police investigation,” she said, with as much gravity as she could muster on a full stomach of pasta and white Burgundy.
“This is my car, and that is my sous-chef,” said Chef Maurice, climbing into the front passenger seat. “Do we go or not?”
She sighed and climbed into the back.
“It’ll be okay,” said Patrick, revving up the engine of the little Citroën. “Chef can be quite unobtrusive when he wants to be.”
“And how often is that?”
“I’ll let you know if it ever happens.”
Chapter 9
PC Alistair stood in the road at the bottom of Farnley Woods, shielding his eyes from the approaching headlights. He motioned them down a short dirt track to a scrubby field, hidden by dense vegetation from the main road and the small huddle of cottages that made up the hamlet of Farnley.
PC Lucy jumped out and strode over to the abandoned car, which was currently overrun with police constables wielding torches.
Chef Maurice and Patrick stood off to one side, far enough from the reach of PC Lucy’s sharp tongue, but near enough to hear everything going on.
It appeared that Ollie’s car was disappointingly bare of clues to its owner’s sudden demise. There were a few empty plastic crates in the back, presumably waiting for the day’s mushroom find, a pile of old newspapers, and yet another pair of muddy boots. There was also a half-empty box of dog treats in the glove compartment.
Chef Maurice brushed a few biscuit crumbs off his coat. “Très intéressant,” he said, glancing around the overgrown field.
“Yes, chef?” Patrick tried not to stare as PC Lucy bent all the way over to inspect the back seat of Ollie’s car.
“There is a free car parking on the main road, just twenty metres from this place, but Monsieur Ollie chooses to put his car here. I ask why?”
“Guess he didn’t want people to know he was foraging here?”
“But Farnley Woods is a permitted ground. A bag of mushrooms, a basket of herbs, what is there to hide?”
“Poaching, then?”
“Bah, there is no money in the poaching of game. The businessmen from London, they come here to shoot many birds, but they do not want to get their hands dirty after. How do you think we have such good prices for pheasant?”
PC Lucy had now finished with the car and was conversing in low tones with PC Alistair.
“Come, I cannot hear.”
They inched closer, staring nonchalantly at the moonlit trees around them.
“Been round to three of the Farnley cottages already, miss, just before you arrived. None of them claim to know anything about the victim’s car.”
“Did they happen to know Ollie?”
“Only by sight, they said. And I got the feeling they didn’t like him coming round here.”
“How come? Because of the foraging?”
“Suppose so, miss. Some people think just because they live near some woods, they’re the only ones allowed in them.”
PC Lucy hiccupped discreetly. “Do you think any of them might be responsible for those notes he received?”
“Doubt it, miss. They’re all pretty old folk, quiet like, most of them were in bed when I knocked.”
She sighed. “Well, let’s not keep the last ones waiting, then.”
The sole inhabitant of Grove Cottage was at least fifty years younger than her neighbours. She had the pale look of a natural redhead, and her carefully manicured fingers played nervously with the silver leaf pendant around her neck.
No, she didn’t know anything about the car in the field. No one went up that way; she didn’t even know who owned that land.
“What about Mr Meadows? Did you know him at all?”
Mrs Kristine Hart’s eyes flickered, then she shook her head. “Not very well. He used to come round knocking sometimes, selling mushrooms and herbs when he collected more than he expected.”
“And when was the last time you saw him?”
Another flicker. “I don’t know, at least a couple of weeks ago, I think.”
PC Lucy looked down at her notebook. “What about your husband, Mrs Hart? Did he know Mr Meadows?”
“I don’t think so. Nick’s away on business most of the week.”
“Can we speak to him now?”
A faint smile. “I’m afraid he’s in Cologne at the moment. He flew out last Friday.”
Chef Maurice nudged Patrick. “Most convenient,” he muttered. “Monsieur Ollie, he was last seen on the Saturday.”
Patrick gave him a puzzled look. “So, just because her husband wasn’t here on Saturday, he must be involved in the murder?”
“Exactement!”
They were standing up against the window to the front lounge. Through the open curtains, they could admire Mrs Hart’s tasteful, stylish furnishings. A bold canvas of modern art hung over the fireplace, and the shelves were sparsely decorated with abstract sculptures. The only jarring note was a vase of drooping wild flowers on the mantelpiece. Chef Maurice would have expected a single orchid, or an unusual cactus, perhaps.
“Well, thank you for your time, Mrs Hart,” said PC Lucy, pulling out a card. “If you think of anything else, please do give us a call.”
After the door clicked shut, PC Lucy spun around to face them. Patrick took a quick step backwards.
“Mr Manchot! I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stand there making completely baseless accusations at members of the public.”
&n
bsp; “Ah. But if my accusations had a base—”
“Not then, either.”
They walked back to the car, PC Lucy two strides ahead.
“She lies,” murmured Chef Maurice.
“She wouldn’t do that,” said Patrick, aghast.
“Eh? Non, not Mademoiselle Lucy. The other. La belle Madame Hart.”
“I didn’t think she was that good-looking,” said Patrick, rather louder than necessary.
Back in the field, PC Lucy pulled out two more cards. “I need to head to the station now. I’ll get a lift with Alistair. Here’s my number, call me if you think of anything else. Call, Mr Manchot. Do not do. Please.”
Chef Maurice nodded affably. He was enjoying himself immensely. He had truffles to find, a new four-legged friend to train, and now a murder case to solve. Cooking was all very well, but he felt he could do with a little more mental stimulation at this point in life.
Besides, he thought, watching Patrick carefully place PC Lucy’s card in his wallet, he had his sous-chef’s love life to watch out for. If he could solve this case, it would surely raise his whole kitchen crew in PC Lucy’s esteem.
Autumn at Le Cochon Rouge was definitely looking up.
* * *
Early next morning, the truffle hunt resumed.
Chef Maurice left Patrick and Alf plucking the morning pheasant delivery out in the yard, surrounded by a slew of flying feathers, and loaded Hamilton into the back seat of his car. The little pig was once again kitted out in his anti-pig-walking-licence disguise.
They stopped in the village to pick up Arthur and Horace, who had been persuaded to forgo his post-breakfast snooze in order to protect his master from any murderous shotguns. Plus he’d heard there would be opportunity to chase, or at least lumber after, a few squirrels.
“Funny business, all this,” said Arthur, after Chef Maurice caught him up on the last night’s activities. “Abandoned cars, shootings, dead bodies in the woods. Not really what people come to the Cotswolds for. Visitor numbers will slump, mark my words.”
Chef Maurice waved a hand at the road. “Then why are there so many people here?”
The little clearing at the bottom of Farnley Woods was packed with cars, mostly of the type that rattled at over forty miles an hour and required a good thump to the bonnet to get started on a cold winter’s day.