Devil's Breath

by G. M. Malliet

  As for Max, the plethora of makeup and hairpieces and artful whatnot in this room, the place where the victim last had lived, all confirmed his impressions of Margot: She had not been one to go gentle into that good night. She would fight the inevitable with every potion known to science. If the thought she had committed suicide ever had been considered, the state of this room put the lie to that. Margot would not have given in to despair. She would have lived to fight another day—given the chance.

  Had she fought the night of her death? Probably not. Probably she had been too incapacitated by her killer.

  And that struck him as the saddest thing of all.

  “Come on. Let’s go have a talk with the crew.”

  * * *

  Unsurprisingly, of the skeleton crew left behind to man the ship, no one knew anything, no one had heard anything, no one had seen anything or wanted to see anything, ever again. To a man, what they wanted was to go home.

  “I had a half-dozen people on board here interviewing each one of them, right after it happened,” Cotton told Max. “The notes are voluminous and you are welcome to see them all. But overall, the impression is of a terrified bunch of people who think we’re going to pin this on them because they’re ‘not nobs,’ like the guests are. A couple of them have shady backgrounds, but nothing that rises to the level of murder. Petty crime, juvenile stuff, nothing more violent than a shoving match at a rugby game.”

  “I guess if you stretch the definition of ‘nob’ I understand the fear. The guests are going to point to the crew, either directly or by innuendo.”

  “It’s happened already. The baron and baroness were quite quick to point out that the ‘servants’ must be behind it. Don’t you just love that? The ‘servants’? Where do they think they are? Downton Abbey?”

  Max could just hear them saying it, waving their cigarettes about. “Why am I not surprised? Anyway, where did the chef go to?”

  “He’s staying in the hotel, doubling up in a room with the sous-chef. I hear they do not particularly get along but since the boss, Romero, is footing the bill they are forced into proximity. As an employer, I’d say Romero is generous. Luckily the knives remain on board—although I do hear that the high-level chefs travel with their own set.”

  “Ring ahead to the hotel, will you? Tell someone on your team to let those two know we want to talk with them—and to make sure they stay put until we get there.”

  “The two of them together, do you mean?”

  “Yes. I want to see what happens when we bounce them off each other. Maybe they’ll give more away that way.”

  * * *

  The executive chef of the Calypso Facto, Zaki Zafour, had a comically mournful face with the long upper lip of a camel, a toothy, winsome smile, and thick lashes framing enormous brown eyes. He wore mismatched resort wear, a madras shirt and pinstriped slacks, in place of what was undoubtedly his daily standard gear of toque and chef’s jacket. The mismatching was perhaps a result of years in that uniform. In the same way do former military members make some strange sartorial choices, thought Max.

  While the yacht was flagged to the Cook Islands, it was crewed by people of all nations. The chef’s underling, sous-chef Angel Torres, was a less imposing figure, nearly half the height of the chef, with a compact, muscular build and a fighter’s stance. Max suspected that even on such a comparatively small yacht the man worked extra duty—that essentially he was the galley staff. His job title might encompass responsibility for provisions as well as slicing, dicing, and preparing food. Despite his short stature he appeared to be the brawn of the outfit; the chef, the brains.

  Zaki confirmed as much with his opening remarks.

  “When might I be allowed back into my own galley? I cannot be expected to plan meals when I don’t know when or even if we will be allowed on board. I need to buy fresh provisions while we are ashore but there is no point if everything will just be allowed to sit on a dock and spoil. Of course, I am aware of the sad occasion which causes this inconvenience. But even so I—”

  “We will be releasing the yacht soon,” Cotton told him. “As to when you may board again, that is up to your employer.”

  “There may also be a question as to who else will be joining you,” put in Max.

  “How so?”

  “When we determine who committed this crime, we will be able to release everyone not responsible for it. But will they be rejoining you on the Calypso Facto? I imagine some of them will prefer to leave the memories and the ship behind. And of course, Margot Browne will never be joining you again. Nor will her killer.”

  “Yes, poor lady.” The man’s large eyes were glazed with tears. It was an apparently authentic reaction, Max thought. So why did it strike him as superficial? Some people could cry on command. Most of them were actors.

  “You were fond of Margot, were you?”

  “Not particularly, no. I didn’t know her. But her death diminishes me, of course it does. Her death had nothing to do with the food, thank God, and so nothing to do with me.”

  Angel, standing beside him, nodded his head in woeful unison. Max turned to study him. Angel was a good-looking man, with the broad, flat nose of a tiger and the tiger’s wise, watchful eyes.

  Max could not help but think the somewhat stagey reaction was rehearsed between the pair of them. It was a bit too perfect. When, he wondered, had he become such a cynic? Perhaps Margot had endeared herself in some way, in spite of being a stranger to them. Bought them a little present or simply praised their cooking.

  “I understand there was a bit of a fuss the night Miss Browne died,” Max said.

  “Well, but naturally,” said the chef.

  “I meant before that. A ruckus of some kind was heard, coming from the galley.”

  “Ruckus?” Zaki stared straight ahead but Angel, less able to hide his reaction, allowed his eyes to slide sideways toward his boss. It was a telling glance, with a tinge of “I told you so” around the edges. Then Angel returned his gaze to Max, and then to Cotton, and back to Max, with the innocent expression of a choir boy. Max, with some experience of the lies choir boys sometimes told, knew that the more innocent the expression the larger the crime might be, although it would always amount to petty crime—telling the parents they were at rehearsal, for example, when they were actually in Staincross Minster for the matinee showing of Star Wars. Or of one of Romero’s blockbuster films.

  Thus Max met the look of celestial innocence and wonder with one of hardened episcopal steel. Angel let his gaze drift, until it finally settled onto the pattern of the room’s carpet. His colleague stepped into the silence, filling it with his soothing, melodious voice.

  “Ruckus?” he repeated. “I don’t know what you mean. Angel and I, we are a team. A well-oiled machine. It all goes smoothly. I create the recipes. He helps me fulfill my vision. I have won awards! Yes, I, a humble man from poor beginnings, I have become world renowned. I do not merely cook or bake, I create the masterpiece. Not the ruckus.”

  Max, who did not doubt they were a team—but a team of what?—now adopted what Cotton thought of as his saintly expression, the St. Max of Tudor face of endless patience and bounty. Cotton saw it coming and took a metaphorical step back to allow Max room to maneuver.

  “We have signed statements from witnesses that you were—how did they put it, DCI Cotton? Yelling and screaming at the top of your lungs?”

  Cotton, who had no idea, really, what statements Max was talking about, nodded sagely, letting his own features harden into an expression that could be used to mold a warrior mask. When it came to working as a team, he thought, he and Max could teach Zaki and Angel a thing or two.

  Angel lifted his gaze from the carpet. He seemed to have settled on Max as his confidant.

  “It was nothing, really. One of the items on the menu was spoilt and it had to be done over—my fault entirely.” Max doubted that but realized the politic wisdom of Angel’s adopting the role of sin eater.

  “What i
tem was that?”

  “I don’t remember, really. The sugar?”

  Angel turned to Zaki, as if he felt he had carried more than his share of the load now. Zaki gave him a brief glare, a zing of hatred that could almost be seen shooting across the space between the two men. He said, “It was a simple mistake. A mistake quickly rectified. As I said, we work as a team. And when mistakes are made—well, that is where my genius for improvisation is most allowed to shine.”

  It was a wonder, thought Max, that the ship had not sunk to the bottom of the sea with the weight of so many egos aboard.

  At an imperceptible sign from Max, Cotton took back the reins. “Fine, thank you,” he said. “We’ll have a word with Angel privately now.”

  It appeared all this was not going according to Zaki’s plan. The big brown eyes widened, the expressive eyebrows drooping with exaggerated dismay.

  “I must be present at all interviews involving my subordinate. It is…” Anxiously, absurdly, he drew on his genius for improvisation. “It is the law of the sea.”

  “You’re on dry land now,” said Cotton. “And this land is my land, in a manner of speaking. Thank you again, sir. We’ll talk with Angel alone now.” As Zaki still did not make a move to go, Cotton added sternly, “Good day to you, sir. We will be sure to commend you to Mr. Romero, and to the captain, for your cooperation today.”

  The soft soap worked where nothing else would, apart from using bodily force to evict him. Grudgingly, Zaki took his leave, allowing himself a final, warning glower at his sous-chef.

  When the door was firmly shut behind him, the two men turned to Angel Torres. Max said, “All right, then. Let’s have the truth now.”

  Chapter 22

  NO ANGEL

  “I’m glad it’s all coming out,” Angel Torres began. “I’m sick of living like this.”

  They heard a shuffling movement coming from outside the door to the hallway. Cotton held up a cautioning finger to silence the sous-chef. Then he crept toward the door and flung it open. Zaki Zafour stumbled into the room.

  “I think we’ll have to ask you to leave, sir,” Cotton told him. He pulled up his sleeve and to all appearances spoke into his wrist, instructing a member of his team in the incident room to come retrieve Zaki and escort him to the hotel lobby, where he was to remain for the duration of the interview.

  Max, captivated by Cotton’s new foray into high tech, made a mental note to give him grief about the smart watch at a later time.

  “You can’t do that,” said Zaki. “I know my rights.”

  “Actually, I think you’ll find I know your rights better than you do,” Cotton replied cordially. “It’s my job to know, after all.”

  Once Zaki had been extracted from the scene, Cotton returned to his place in front of Angel, who seemed pleased with these developments.

  “The man is a bully,” he told them. “It’s nice to see him put in his place.” Angel spoke good English with a soft accent. In answer to Cotton’s opening questions, he told them he was from Barcelona and had attended cooking school in Seville. He named a world-renowned establishment, adding, “They probably saved my life.” Max, via Awena’s knowledge of all things culinary, was well aware of the school’s history and fame. It had been started fifty years before by a priest with the aim of giving children from poor homes marketable skills, to help lift them from poverty and away from drugs. What had begun as a vocational school to employ street kids in low-level kitchen jobs had grown into a world-class establishment, turning out some of the finest gourmet chefs in Europe.

  “I’ve heard of the school,” Max told him. “It’s very well-known. Is that how Romero found you?”

  “It was actually Zaki who hired me. I think he had in mind someone who was desperate for the job and willing to—what is your expression?—turn a blind eye. He got both things wrong, as it happens. The man is an idiot in addition to being a bully.”

  “Your situation was not desperate, or you were not willing to ignore what you saw?” asked Cotton. He was busy taking notes.

  “Both,” Angel replied. “You do understand, if I tell you what I suspect—what I know in my heart, to be honest—I am out of a job. And I am only willing to say anything because I was planning to move on, anyway—come what may. Now with the murder … It is just so not worth it to remain.”

  “Understandable,” said Max. “Why did you answer, ‘both’?”

  “I come from a solid middle-class family. Most of the students these days at La Cocina de Santos come from such a background. It is years since students were recruited from off the streets by Father Mateo. Now people stand on line to get in. I would not be destitute. I would just disappoint my father. But Zaki, he plays the card—am I saying that right?”

  “Yes, I understand,” said Max. “Threats and intimidation to keep you in line.”

  Angel nodded eagerly. This man understood. He was reminded very much of the priest in his church back home, and for a moment he stopped to wonder why.

  “And the other side of ‘both’?” Max prodded.

  “I didn’t see anything. You have to understand that. I had suspicions only. But the more I got to know Zaki, the more I watched his manner, the more I understood that he was up to something, and that if something went down, he would try to toss me inside it. The man is a liar, completely without honor. And you can take my word for it or not. He will try to blame it on me—including this murder if it helps him in some way. Especially since that woman went overboard, I’ve been waiting, just waiting for him to try to, how you say, throw me under the bus. At the very least, if I tried to leave, he could give me a terrible reference. I know him. He would try to make it so I never got another job.” He shook his head, angry and frustrated. This weapon had been hanging over his head too long. “He is crazy,” he said with great finality. “A monster. Do not be fooled by the nice manners he puts on for you.”

  “And? Go on, please.”

  Angel drew a deep sigh, the sigh of a man who had fought the good fight and was giving up. “Just because I grew up in what is called a nice family doesn’t mean I don’t know drug use when I see it. Zaki is using for sure. So many of these guys are. And I also think maybe he does something more.”

  “Dealing. Smuggling.”

  Angel nodded. “But he had help. From someone else on board.”

  “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m afraid I do. Delphine.”

  * * *

  Some time later, Max and Cotton walked away from the room Angel had been sharing with Zaki. They decided to talk over coffee in one of the trendy cafés in Monkslip-super-Mare as they waited for the call from the police team searching the ship. This time, the searchers had a better idea exactly where and what to search for.

  As Max and Cotton left him, Angel was already busy packing—given leave to depart the premises, with the condition he keep himself available for further questioning.

  “I know what Angel means,” said Cotton as he and Max neared the busy quay. “About so many of these guys using. The kitchen of a high-end restaurant is a pressure cooker—no pun intended. A lot of them, taking themselves far too seriously, think they have to get high to get through the night.”

  “I know,” said Max. “As if the fate of the world hung on whether the soufflé collapsed or was a ‘masterpiece.’ But to do essentially the same job night after night, with variations … I suppose there is pressure in that. And some boredom.”

  A waitress seated them at a window table and took their orders. Next to them a couple sat having coffee. Max soon noticed the woman had a habit of thumping her fingers on the table for emphasis as she talked, like someone playing chords on a piano. She seemed to be angry about something. The body language of the man with her, his head turned away, said clearly that whatever it was about, he didn’t want to listen.

  “But Zaki had a nice cushy little job, if you ask me,” said Cotton. “He got to travel the world, and he never had more
than—what, a dozen people to prepare his gourmet meals for? I’m sure the crew ate whatever leftovers he told them they would eat on any given night.”

  “If anything, boredom might be the bigger issue.”

  “What? Unlike most of the crew, he had a private cabin, as well. I could try doing that for a living, if only for a while.”

  “That’s what I mean. It’s not for everyone. The same routine day after day, at least until the ship pulls into the next port. Maybe that’s why…”

  “Why he got into drugs? Perhaps. Or he just got hooked from the get-go. Some addictions are like that. And that would explain why—”

  He broke off as his phone vibrated. “That was fast,” he said. He answered, then looked over at Max and said, “Essex.” He listened closely, asking only a well-aimed question or two. Just before ringing off, he added, “And put a rush on those financials, would you?”

  Tucking the mobile back inside his jacket, he told Max, “Angel’s hunch was right.” He put a five-pound note on the table and led the way outside to where they couldn’t be overheard. There he said, “The safe room is stuffed to the ceiling with drugs. They’re estimating so far about fifty kilograms of cocaine alone.”

  “Some of it in the tins of icing sugar,” said Max. “I did wonder why there was so much sugar in a safe room … It got me to thinking: they’d all have been bouncing off the walls like toddlers if they’d been stuck in there in a real emergency.”

  “Yes. We’re quite sure it was a hunch, are we? That Angel didn’t just know all about it because he put the stuff there himself?”

  “I believed him,” Max said simply.

  “So did I.”

  “It was either a preemptive double-bluff, telling us about the drugs before we got suspicious of him, or he was what he appeared to be—a man caught in a net not of his own making. With Zaki for a boss, Angel could see for a long time where this was leading. Zaki would throw him in the soup, if you’ll pardon the expression, at the first sign of trouble. And how could he ever prove his innocence?”