gave him a contemptuous look before shaking his head vigorously. ‘If you do not believe me ask my sommelier, Jean-Claude. He
will say the same as I do. Charlie Marrick was a crook.’
‘You didn’t report it to the police?’
For the first time Fabrice Colbert looked embarrassed. ‘Maybe I should have told the police but …’
‘You took the law into your own hands?’
‘No … I …’
Wesley sat back and took a deep breath. The chef was on the defensive for once. Not a situation that he imagined arose very
often. ‘You have a blazing row with him onMonday. On Wednesday he’s found dead. Murdered. Where were you yesterday afternoon?’
‘I was here at Le Petit Poisson. Everybody will tell you … all my staff.’
‘All afternoon?’
Colbert frowned in an effort to remember. ‘I go out once. To Varney’s Vintages in Neston with my sommelier to order wine. We
used to use Varney’s but Charlie offered a better discount. I do not wish to deal with Marrick ever again. Not after he tricked
me. I could never trust him again so I return to Varney’s.’
‘Understandable,’ said Wesley. ‘I suppose your sommelier will confirm all this?’
There was a split second of hesitation, of uncertainty. Then the mask of confidence reappeared. ‘Of course. Please ask him.’
Wesley doubted whether Colbert used the word please too often – it certainly hadn’t been in his vocabulary during the making
of his TV series – and he felt a small glow of achievement. He stood up and Gerry Heffernan did likewise. ‘We may need to speak
to you again.’ He walked towards the door then he turned. ‘By the way, do you have quail and garlic potatoes on the menu at
the moment?’
Colbert looked quite offended and shook his head vigorously. ‘The
pommes de terre
with the garlic, yes. But quail is not in season and I use only the freshest of ingredients. I hope you do not suggest I
am using the frozen game. For a chef such as I …’
‘Of course not, Monsieur,’ said Wesley quickly, wondering whether the chef’s ruffled feathers were all part of an elaborate
act.
As they left the office Wesley couldn’t help feeling that there was an unease behind Fabrice Colbert’s arrogant bluster. He
didn’t bother seeing them off the premises – this job was left to the young waiter who had greeted them whenthey’d first arrived. But when they walked out through the kitchen, Wesley noticed a trio of chefs chopping vegetables with
sharp, vicious-looking knives.
Charlie Marrick had been killed with a thin, sharp blade. And Fabrice Colbert’s kitchen was full of the things.
Wesley and Heffernan walked back to the police station and Heffernan spent much of the journey telling Wesley about his son,
Sam’s, new job as a junior vet – how he was enjoying the work, particularly travelling round the farms. Wesley could tell the
boss was bursting with pride at his son’s achievements. His daughter, Rosie, however, was another matter – she was still doing
casual work, making no effort to find herself something permanent and getting under his feet.
As they walked down the High Street towards the Boat Float, Wesley couldn’t resist peeping into the sandwich shop as they passed.
Burton’s Butties offered – according to the freshly painted board outside – bespoke butties to the customer’s specification. The
lunchtime rush was long over and it looked as if the staff were cleaning up for the day. Wesley scanned the faces to see if
Steve Carstairs’s father was amongst them. But he couldn’t spot him. Perhaps he was in the back. Or somewhere else, sympathising
with his son about his suspension from duty – telling him his superiors were just a load of wankers … that he had done nothing
wrong beating up Carl Pinney. Wesley walked by quickly. He preferred not to think about Steve just then … or at any other time,
come to that.
When they arrived at the office Heffernan assigned two
will say the same as I do. Charlie Marrick was a crook.’
‘You didn’t report it to the police?’
For the first time Fabrice Colbert looked embarrassed. ‘Maybe I should have told the police but …’
‘You took the law into your own hands?’
‘No … I …’
Wesley sat back and took a deep breath. The chef was on the defensive for once. Not a situation that he imagined arose very
often. ‘You have a blazing row with him onMonday. On Wednesday he’s found dead. Murdered. Where were you yesterday afternoon?’
‘I was here at Le Petit Poisson. Everybody will tell you … all my staff.’
‘All afternoon?’
Colbert frowned in an effort to remember. ‘I go out once. To Varney’s Vintages in Neston with my sommelier to order wine. We
used to use Varney’s but Charlie offered a better discount. I do not wish to deal with Marrick ever again. Not after he tricked
me. I could never trust him again so I return to Varney’s.’
‘Understandable,’ said Wesley. ‘I suppose your sommelier will confirm all this?’
There was a split second of hesitation, of uncertainty. Then the mask of confidence reappeared. ‘Of course. Please ask him.’
Wesley doubted whether Colbert used the word please too often – it certainly hadn’t been in his vocabulary during the making
of his TV series – and he felt a small glow of achievement. He stood up and Gerry Heffernan did likewise. ‘We may need to speak
to you again.’ He walked towards the door then he turned. ‘By the way, do you have quail and garlic potatoes on the menu at
the moment?’
Colbert looked quite offended and shook his head vigorously. ‘The
pommes de terre
with the garlic, yes. But quail is not in season and I use only the freshest of ingredients. I hope you do not suggest I
am using the frozen game. For a chef such as I …’
‘Of course not, Monsieur,’ said Wesley quickly, wondering whether the chef’s ruffled feathers were all part of an elaborate
act.
As they left the office Wesley couldn’t help feeling that there was an unease behind Fabrice Colbert’s arrogant bluster. He
didn’t bother seeing them off the premises – this job was left to the young waiter who had greeted them whenthey’d first arrived. But when they walked out through the kitchen, Wesley noticed a trio of chefs chopping vegetables with
sharp, vicious-looking knives.
Charlie Marrick had been killed with a thin, sharp blade. And Fabrice Colbert’s kitchen was full of the things.
Wesley and Heffernan walked back to the police station and Heffernan spent much of the journey telling Wesley about his son,
Sam’s, new job as a junior vet – how he was enjoying the work, particularly travelling round the farms. Wesley could tell the
boss was bursting with pride at his son’s achievements. His daughter, Rosie, however, was another matter – she was still doing
casual work, making no effort to find herself something permanent and getting under his feet.
As they walked down the High Street towards the Boat Float, Wesley couldn’t resist peeping into the sandwich shop as they passed.
Burton’s Butties offered – according to the freshly painted board outside – bespoke butties to the customer’s specification. The
lunchtime rush was long over and it looked as if the staff were cleaning up for the day. Wesley scanned the faces to see if
Steve Carstairs’s father was amongst them. But he couldn’t spot him. Perhaps he was in the back. Or somewhere else, sympathising
with his son about his suspension from duty – telling him his superiors were just a load of wankers … that he had done nothing
wrong beating up Carl Pinney. Wesley walked by quickly. He preferred not to think about Steve just then … or at any other time,
come to that.
When they arrived at the office Heffernan assigned two
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