have a will, chef?”
“Of course.” His was fairly simple. To Arthur, he’d leave his Citroën and cookbooks. Patrick would get Le Cochon Rouge, should he still be sous-chef.
He wondered who should get Hamilton now.
“I heard someone broke into his cottage, twice,” said Dorothy. “Might have been looking for that will. There’s always a surprise will. Leaving everything to the maid, or the like. Or sometimes it could be a forgery . . . ”
Chef Maurice thought about Ollie’s stolen map. Surely Ollie wouldn’t have written his will on a map?
“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
“Of course.” His was fairly simple. To Arthur, he’d leave his Citroën and cookbooks. Patrick would get Le Cochon Rouge, should he still be sous-chef.
He wondered who should get Hamilton now.
“I heard someone broke into his cottage, twice,” said Dorothy. “Might have been looking for that will. There’s always a surprise will. Leaving everything to the maid, or the like. Or sometimes it could be a forgery . . . ”
Chef Maurice thought about Ollie’s stolen map. Surely Ollie wouldn’t have written his will on a map?
“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
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