Read Online More Than Meets the Eye by J. M. Gregson - Free Book Online
Authors: J. M. Gregson
Tags: Suspense
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usually worked on. All the same, if Peter Nayland had him down as an enemy, he wouldnât like to be in this Dennis Cooperâs shoes.
FIVE
H ugo Wilkinson was thirty-eight, a head chef with a wealth of experience. But he felt like a schoolboy as he waited outside Dennis Cooperâs office.
He had come ten minutes early for the appointment. He planned to say that he needed to be away quickly to ensure that the serving of lunches in the restaurant went ahead smoothly. That would show that he was conscientious.
It turned out to be a bad tactic. He was left waiting on his chair in the outer office for the full ten minutes. Whilst Cooperâs PA worked busily at her PC, Hugo became increasingly nervous. He wasnât used to nervousness, not in his working life. His hobby caused him plenty of anxiety, but that was another matter altogether.
Chefs were powerful people, and head chefs the most powerful of all. Whatever the official pecking order in a hotel or restaurant, everyone knew that if the head chef walked out the enterprise would be threatened with chaos; his departure would be followed by a plethora of customer complaints. Head chefs were allowed, even expected, to be temperamental creatures. They were given more rope than other employees.
All this passed through Hugo Wilkinsonâs mind as he sat on the upright chair in the outer office, crossing and uncrossing his legs. But he remembered his father telling him when he was no more than thirteen that if you gave some people enough rope they would hang themselves. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he might have used his position to hang himself. You had to be more politically correct when you worked for the National Trust than you did when retained by a private employer.
It seemed to Hugo warm and airless here, though the PA in her white blouse and others who arrived and departed seemed cool enough. Everyone who came into the room gave him a curious glance, though none of them spoke to him. Here was another aspect of this business, which he had not considered previously. The junior staff who entered and left this busy anteroom would be surprised to see him here, would speculate to their fellows about seeing the head chef waiting like a schoolboy outside the headmasterâs office. He told himself that they would merely think he was waiting to confer with Cooper about budgets and menus, but that didnât seem to help much.
He was sweating hard when Cooper eventually called him in. The curator did so with a professional courtesy, betraying no sign to any curious watcher that this senior employee was in trouble. His expression changed once the door was closed and the two men took their positions carefully on either side of the big desk. The curator studied him for a moment before he said, âAs I told you when I asked you to come here this morning, I have received a complaint. Complaints, in fact.â
âHeâs quick to take offence. He doesnât know how a kitchenââ
âComplaints from the public, Mr Wilkinson, not the man you insulted. Two visitors came to my office on the day. There have been three written complaints since then. There may well be more.â
Hugo licked his lips. He knew he hadnât a leg to stand on here. He needed to make the best plea of mitigating circumstances he could and then get the hell out of here. âWe were short-staffed and under pressure. These things happen.â
âThese things should not happen, Mr Wilkinson, whatever the circumstances. Do you dispute the facts of the case?â
This perpetual use of his title and surname was disconcerting him. Ever since heâd moved in here, heâd been âHugoâ to Dennis Cooper. Now the man was behaving like an old hanging judge preparing to put on his black cap. Hugo wanted this over and done with. He would do anything to accelerate that process. âNo, I donât dispute the facts. I called Shoab Junaid a
FIVE
H ugo Wilkinson was thirty-eight, a head chef with a wealth of experience. But he felt like a schoolboy as he waited outside Dennis Cooperâs office.
He had come ten minutes early for the appointment. He planned to say that he needed to be away quickly to ensure that the serving of lunches in the restaurant went ahead smoothly. That would show that he was conscientious.
It turned out to be a bad tactic. He was left waiting on his chair in the outer office for the full ten minutes. Whilst Cooperâs PA worked busily at her PC, Hugo became increasingly nervous. He wasnât used to nervousness, not in his working life. His hobby caused him plenty of anxiety, but that was another matter altogether.
Chefs were powerful people, and head chefs the most powerful of all. Whatever the official pecking order in a hotel or restaurant, everyone knew that if the head chef walked out the enterprise would be threatened with chaos; his departure would be followed by a plethora of customer complaints. Head chefs were allowed, even expected, to be temperamental creatures. They were given more rope than other employees.
All this passed through Hugo Wilkinsonâs mind as he sat on the upright chair in the outer office, crossing and uncrossing his legs. But he remembered his father telling him when he was no more than thirteen that if you gave some people enough rope they would hang themselves. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he might have used his position to hang himself. You had to be more politically correct when you worked for the National Trust than you did when retained by a private employer.
It seemed to Hugo warm and airless here, though the PA in her white blouse and others who arrived and departed seemed cool enough. Everyone who came into the room gave him a curious glance, though none of them spoke to him. Here was another aspect of this business, which he had not considered previously. The junior staff who entered and left this busy anteroom would be surprised to see him here, would speculate to their fellows about seeing the head chef waiting like a schoolboy outside the headmasterâs office. He told himself that they would merely think he was waiting to confer with Cooper about budgets and menus, but that didnât seem to help much.
He was sweating hard when Cooper eventually called him in. The curator did so with a professional courtesy, betraying no sign to any curious watcher that this senior employee was in trouble. His expression changed once the door was closed and the two men took their positions carefully on either side of the big desk. The curator studied him for a moment before he said, âAs I told you when I asked you to come here this morning, I have received a complaint. Complaints, in fact.â
âHeâs quick to take offence. He doesnât know how a kitchenââ
âComplaints from the public, Mr Wilkinson, not the man you insulted. Two visitors came to my office on the day. There have been three written complaints since then. There may well be more.â
Hugo licked his lips. He knew he hadnât a leg to stand on here. He needed to make the best plea of mitigating circumstances he could and then get the hell out of here. âWe were short-staffed and under pressure. These things happen.â
âThese things should not happen, Mr Wilkinson, whatever the circumstances. Do you dispute the facts of the case?â
This perpetual use of his title and surname was disconcerting him. Ever since heâd moved in here, heâd been âHugoâ to Dennis Cooper. Now the man was behaving like an old hanging judge preparing to put on his black cap. Hugo wanted this over and done with. He would do anything to accelerate that process. âNo, I donât dispute the facts. I called Shoab Junaid a
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