by Janet Neel
‘What’s he done? Knifed the washer-up?’
‘Not yet.’
He was not going to tell her, she understood, and he was quite unselfconsciously pleased to see her. They had had a brief affair six months before and she was in retrospect thoroughly shocked by herself, nor least because this clever, infinitely competent tough was, at twenty-six, two years younger than the youngest of her own difficult siblings. Matt had left his native New Zealand at twenty-one to live entirely on his own in a foreign land, unlike her pampered brothers, and it showed.
‘You want a drink while you wait? I get staff rates here.’
‘I’ll buy,’ she said firmly, needing to get control of this party, and followed as he strode across the restaurant.
‘Chef is under threat of dismissal?’ she needled, as he sat down.
‘No. It’s a commercial dispute. I need to eat. You may as well look at the menu too, I take it the brother is feeding you.’ He scanned down it rapidly.
She perched awkwardly on the seat, very conscious of him.
‘Have the lamb, it’s good.’
She looked up, startled to see a blond, solidly built man of about her own age, in immaculate white overalls and hat. Huge hands, she noticed, scrubbed clean with short, bitten nails.
‘Worth knowing,’ Matt observed. ‘Tony, this is an old friend, Francesca McLeish.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Tony Gallagher nodded to her, as royalty faced with a respectable commoner, but his attention was not with her. ‘A last word, Matt?’
‘Surely.’ Matt slid out of his chair and moved away. She watched them, interested; every line of Tony Gallagher’s body was tense, the big hands jabbing the air to make a point, in sharp contrast to Matt’s easy fluent body language. A head poked out of an unmarked door and Tony Gallagher went reluctantly, head still turned to instruct Matt.
‘An Irishman,’ she said, enquiringly, as Matt returned.
‘Father is. Was, rather. Died in a fight. Tony’s a good bloke. Does 150 covers at lunchtime every day. Between twelve thirty and two-fifteen.’
‘With help, I assume.’
‘Oh sure. But he’s the gaffer. Kitchen’s about a hundred degrees, the size of a couple of garden sheds.’ He signalled a waiter and, without consulting her, ordered a glass of the Chardonnay she drank for preference as an aperitif. She considered, for a moment, asking for something else, but decided it was more dignified to accept it.
‘Does Chef own the place?’
‘He has a small shareholding.’
‘Who owns the rest?’
‘The two girls who started it and their men. The girls – Judith Delves and Selina Marsh-Hayden – work it, the men are the money. That’s Judith, floor-managing today.’
‘Interesting to meet her.’
‘You won’t. She’s avoiding me. Sorry, got to see a man. I’ll be back.’
He went off towards the kitchen and she watched his back, acknowledging that she had been shaken up by the encounter. It’s sex, she thought, crossly; if you’ve slept with someone, even if you both gave each other up, your relationship with them is never quite simple again. And men, as the eldest sister to four brothers had every reason to know, were still close enough to their animal origins never quite to let go a woman they had once had. Even if they too, in their rational mind, felt the whole thing had been a mistake, they still did territory-marking things like order, without asking, what you had always drunk when with them. She sipped the Chardonnay, grudgingly, and was both disconcerted and pleased to discover that it tasted terrible. Not corked, she decided, sipping it again, nothing wrong with the wine that a bit less oak in the process would not have fixed, but this was familiar territory. She truly was pregnant, she realised, and for the next nine months all alcohol was going to taste like decayed fruit juice and go straight to her head.
‘Frannie, I’m sorry to be late.’
‘Tris. Not at all.’ She reached up to kiss her youngest brother, Tristram, last-born of the twins who had so disconcerted their mother and father twenty-eight years ago. Well, it must have been a very mixed moment for her mother, she thought in a flash of fellow feeling, twins when there were already three children, and the father was known to be a poor life risk. Indeed he had died when the twins were six, and even she, the eldest of the siblings, only twelve. She looked at her brother carefully; he had struggled with a heroin addiction for a couple of years and, though all hoped this was comfortably behind him, they still studied him closely when they saw him, looking for the tell-tale signs. But he looked well and cheerful, and she relaxed; months of touring had evidently not strained him and he had this prestige minor role at the ENO and a couple of concerts to occupy him. He would always be a musician and opera suited him better than the pop music world in which their formidable sibling Perry was a solidly established international figure.
‘How’s it going? You want to drink my wine? No, it’s perfectly nice and it’s paid for, I just don’t feel like it.’
‘Waste not, want not,’ Tristram said, cheerfully, and took it from her, glancing automatically round to see if he had been recognised. He had, it was gratifyingly clear, by just enough of the aficionados, and satisfied he turned his attention to her. ‘We need to eat a bit quickly, sister mine. I’ve got an understudy rehearsal.’ He looked at her under his eyelashes and she understood she was being slow.
‘Darling, who are you understudying?’
‘Guess.’
‘Not Cavaradossi?’
‘Well done. Not, you understand, that if old Alan develops a nasty – perish the thought – I’ll actually get to sing, not if they’ve got time to ship someone else in, but it’s a start.’
‘If old Alan drops dead in mid-performance they’ll have to use you.’
‘Yes, won’t they? Enough to tempt anyone to crime.’
‘No, Tris, please not. Do try and remember where I am married.’
He burst out laughing in mid-sip and was still blowing his nose when Matt Sutherland, looking like a giant question mark, arrived at their table. ‘Matthew, this is my brother Tristram.’
‘Well, of course it is. Sorry, I expect everyone says that.’
‘Yes, they do,’ Francesca agreed. ‘Even if only two of us are gathered. Bit less with Charlie but then, of course, he’s sort of blond where the rest of us are dark.’ She realised she was chattering, but something about the bright-eyed interest with which Tristram was watching Matt was unnerving her.
‘I know your mother, of course. I’m the Refuge’s solicitor,’ Matt said, hastily. Oh God, she thought, he really is young, a full two years younger even than Tris, our baby.
‘Yes indeed, I know just who you are,’ Tristram said, briskly, his interested look unswerving.
‘You’re working down the road from here, Fran says.’
‘That’s right. In a very small part,’ he added, elegantly.
‘Scarpia’s henchman. Never can remember his name. Polenta? Carpaccio?’
‘Matthew,’ Francesca said, crossly, as Tristram considered him, thoughtfully. ‘The character is, of course, called Spoletta.’
‘Close then.’
‘Not very. Does your client no longer need you?’
‘Not right now. Ah.’
They followed his gaze; every fibre of him pointing like a retriever. And no wonder, when you saw what he was looking at: the back view of a pair of superb slim long legs and a very short pleated crimson skirt and neat jacket topped by vivid blonde short hair. She was standing talking to Judith Delves, the blonde hair swinging elegantly as she moved her head. She turned suddenly, in response to something Judith had said, and gazed across the restaurant. The front view was even better, Francesca conceded, small straight nose, blue eyes, perfect skin. But short-sighted, she understood, ungracefully pleased to have found a flaw – the girl was squinting to see. Francesca followed the direction of her anxious stare and saw that a heavily built dark man, half risen from his chair, was urgently signalling
. The girl in the crimson suit lifted the flap on the reception counter with the ease of familiarity and disappeared, past Judith Delves.
‘That was Selina Marsh-Hayden, co-founder of this place,’ Matt observed.
‘Who absolutely didn’t want to meet the gent at that table.’
‘She didn’t, did she? He’s called Brian Rubin.’
‘A fellow restaurateur,’ Francesca said, smugly.
‘How did you know that, Wonderwoman?’
‘Don’t call me that. He was in the paper this morning. Owns the Gemini chain.’
‘Mm.’
‘And perhaps, who knows, wishes to buy this one here? And the other one they own across the river. To add to his little chain.’ Francesca was beginning to enjoy herself, watching Matthew fidget.
‘I’d forgotten you were so smart. I’ll stop interrupting your lunch and go and eat. Nice to meet you,’ he added punctiliously, nodding to Tristram.
He went away to join a table at the far end of the long room and she determinedly turned her attention to Tristram. There appeared to be a new and different girlfriend. English this time. She and her mother would wholeheartedly have welcomed any steady young woman of any nationality, but these qualities did not appear to be on offer; this one, too, in the fine tradition of all Tristram’s women, was beautiful, or near offer, and struggling to make her way in opera, and necessarily self-obsessed.
‘Nice place, this,’ he was observing, sunnily, the subject of his sex life concluded. ‘I thought I’d get Perry to take us all here. You know he’s coming in the back end of next week? He’s going to see the show and a quick understudy rehearsal, then take me and anyone else who’s interested – which is absolutely everybody of course – out to dinner afterwards. I thought here – it’s close.’
‘And very nice.’ Francesca had collected herself sufficiently to take in the glittering brass, the rapid, unobtrusive but not unfriendly service and the military precision with which the whole enterprise was run. The food, too, had been excellent, precisely cooked and flavoured. ‘It may not be so good if it’s going to be a part of a bigger chain.’
‘Well, it isn’t before next Thursday, presumably.’
‘This is true. Don’t wait, Tris, if you have to run. I thought I’d just sit here and have coffee and I can wait for the bill.’
‘Do you mind? Sorry, but I need to pee and I’ve only got ten minutes before we start again.’
She waved him off, with an elder sister’s easy command, and looked round to order a coffee and a bill. Both arrived, surprisingly, in the hands of the woman Matt had pointed out as one of the joint owners, and Francesca pulled herself together to say how much she had enjoyed the meal.
‘Thank you indeed. Look, excuse me, but aren’t you Francesca Wilson?’
‘Yes, I am.’ She considered the other woman. ‘I’m sorry, my mind’s a blank, I can’t remember where we met.’
‘At Gladstone’s Founders’ Day.’
‘Oh, no wonder. There were thousands there, weren’t there? Do you have time to sit down? Matthew Sutherland – who is an old acquaintance – says you and a partner started this place. It’s very nice.’
‘Thank you again. Yes, that’s right. I’m afraid I need to go and join the others for a meeting. I just wanted to say hello. And Tristram Wilson is your brother? He’s just booked about sixty people in for next week.’
‘That’ll be all right,’ Francesca said, amused, understanding why the owner of this nice place had done her the honour of bringing the bill personally. ‘Another brother – an unspeakably rich rock artist called Perry – is the host and will be paying. Or his studio is.’
‘Good heavens.’ Judith Delves stared at her and she grinned back. Not pretty, she thought, face too square and podgy, but a nice smile and a clear direct personality. And about her own age, thirty-four or so. Judith handed her the change, orthodoxly presented on a plate, and she packed it away, aware that her hostess was trying to say something.
‘You started here some years ago?’ she suggested, helpfully.
‘About four. Look, I don’t have any time now and I’m sure you don’t either, but might I ring you? At Gladstone? I just … well … I’d like to consult someone sensible and female, who has worked all her life.’
‘Of course,’ Francesca said, somewhat taken aback, and handed her her card as Bursar and Fellow of Gladstone. She could see Matthew Sutherland hovering and decided that discretion was the better part of valour; whatever the temptation to stop and gossip with him, there was still unfinished business there and she would be better to stay out of his way.
Judith Delves paused outside the office to compose herself. She and Selina had agreed to meet the rest of the shareholders and the potential purchaser one more time in the hope, as Michael had put it, smoothly, of finding a way forward. What he meant, she feared, was a way of getting her and Selina – or one of them – to agree, after all, to sell their shares. She heard footsteps behind her and turned; it was Michael, in full fig as a corporate finance star, in a beautifully cut dark suit, blue shirt and blue Hermès tie, the dark blond hair cut very short to conceal the fact that it was beginning to thin. Nothing, however, concealed the strong elegant bones of the face and the athletic ease of the way he moved, or the clear wide blue eyes. A very attractive man, she thought, her heart thumping, and she was unbelievably lucky to have attracted him.
‘Darling,’ he said, kissing her ‘Are we all wasting our time?’
‘I still want to hang on,’ she said, dry-mouthed and anxious.
‘Well, I know that, my love, I might wish it otherwise, but it isn’t news. What about Selina? If you are going to hang on you can’t afford to have her wobbling.’
He isn’t furious, she thought with a lift of the heart. He’s frustrated but he’s still going to be reasonable, and not give me up. ‘She was clear she wanted to hold on when I saw her this morning.’
‘Oh dear. Well, I would have liked to get both of us out of this, but if it is not to be … Well, I need to be back in an hour, so let’s just go in and see what’s what. Dinner tonight?’
‘Oh yes.’ She remembered, abruptly, that she was substituting for a sick night manager, but decided that whatever and whoever she had to pay to get that shift covered tonight, she would do it.
‘Good.’ He put his hand on her cheek and kissed her hard on the mouth, leaving her trembling. ‘Come on,’ he said, slightly breathless himself. ‘Let’s get this lot out of the way.’
They walked in, his hand in the small of her back, so she felt warm and supported, to a scene that could well have formed a tableau depicting ‘Failure’ or ‘Dissent’. Brian Rubin was on his feet, pink blotches sitting high on his cheekbones. Richard Marsh-Hayden was leaning against the window, forehead and both hands flattened against it, and Tony Gallagher was standing menacingly over a chair in which Selina Marsh-Hayden, perfectly made up, elegant legs stretched, was sitting, admiring her new pair of lizard skin shoes.
‘Afternoon, everyone. Is there coffee?’
The figures in the tableau moved; Tony Gallagher went heavily to the phone, Richard flung away from the window, and Brian Rubin greeted him noisily, claiming that he was glad to have another major shareholder present who knew what he wanted from one minute to the next.
‘I do know what I want,’ Selina said, sweetly, turning one ankle the better to admire the clasp on the shoe. ‘I told you, and there’s no point going on shouting. You’ve all had a go, and what I want is to carry on and work with Judith until we can float the company. Or until somebody offers us a very much better deal than they have so far.’ She smiled at them all, sweetly and implacably, and Judith was suddenly reminded of the seven-year-old Selina, refusing, equally serenely, to take any part at all in the Christmas play unless she was the Virgin Mary. She sneaked a look at Michael, who was plainly cross, but with Selina, not with her. Brian Rubin, curiously, was less angry; the bright colour had died down and he was considering Selina with wary in
terest. And Tony Gallagher was in a panic, sweating round his hair-line. She was just considering this phenomenon when Michael spoke.
‘Fine. Well, not fine but that’s your privilege, Selina. I think it’s probably not the right day to discuss it, but as a major shareholder and a director I have to say that I need to assure myself that our trading position is tenable. We all need to be clear about that, we’re all directors. Brian, as you can see, there isn’t a deal, perhaps you and I can be in touch next week.’
‘No point me staying here now,’ Brian Rubin agreed. He shook hands with a startled Judith. ‘I think you’re both making a mistake, Judith, Selina, but I’ve not got anything else to persuade you with.’ He picked up his jacket and banged his way out, and they listened while his steps died away down the stairs.
‘I’ll see you later,’ Michael said, kissing Judith, and nodding to Selina.
‘I’m going to get in touch with my solicitor,’ Tony Gallagher said, and left, thunderously, leaving Selina, Richard and Judith looking at each other.
‘Will you excuse us, Judith?’ Richard said, heavily.
‘Don’t bother,’ Selina said, calmly. ‘It’s not going to do the slightest good. Why don’t you go and play with your awful friends while Judith and I do some work.’
He went over to her, fists clenched, and Judith braced herself to intervene, but Selina stayed sitting, unperturbed, and just waited till he turned and went. The service lift rattled and Selina bestirred herself to extract the coffee and hand a cup to Judith, who found she had to sit down. Selina’s hands, she observed with admiration, were completely steady.
‘Right then, Judith,’ she said, brightly, ‘we’d better make a plan, hadn’t we?’
3
Detective Chief Superintendent John McLeish crept through the semi-darkness and blinked in the strong light, which revealed his brother-in-law’s recumbent body, red stains all over the wide-sleeved white shirt. He edged himself forward as Tristram stirred and turned slightly on to his side.