Chapter 12
Apparently, the ‘swanky tartan’ budget didn’t extend to the staff quarters.
There weren’t even any stuffed animal heads on the walls, just lots of magnolia paint, with a poopy shade of brown below a rubber dado rail.
Grey carpet tiles, a bit curly at the edges, and patched in places with silver duct tape.
The kind of motivational posters that should get middle-management-types done for crimes against humanity.
‘EVERY DAY YOU DO YOUR BEST IS A GREAT DAY!’, ‘GET OUT THERE AND SHOW THE WORLD WHAT YOU CAN DO!’, and Roberta’s personal favourite: ‘A SMILE MAKES EVERYONE’S DAY – BE SOMEONE’S REASON TO SMILE TODAY!
’ Which, for some unfathomable reason, came with a photo of a piglet in a propeller beanie.
Roberta raised a fist and gave the door marked ‘HOTEL CHEF’ three knocks, loud and hard. Opened it without waiting for an answer and stuck her head in. ‘Hoy, Raymond Blanc, you’re up.’
It was an OK room, as rooms went. Nowhere near as large as the guests’ ones, and without any of the fancy fixtures and fittings.
The six-foot fat man pacing up and down the carpet tiles, smoking up a storm, didn’t help it feel any bigger.
His chef’s checked trousers looked about ready to burst, held up by a pair of red-white-and-blue braces.
A sweaty red T-shirt and jaunty white neckerchief.
A cliché of French posters graced the walls: the Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower, Toulouse-Lautrec’s can-can girls, blocks of cheese, and big bottles of wine .
. . But the end wall was solid bookshelves, overflowing with cookery books.
The hotel chef didn’t stop pacing as he glared at her on the way past, a Gauloise sticking out the corner of his rubbery-lipped mouth – the strong distinctive white smoke curling up around the waxed handlebars of his little moustache.
As if Hercule Poirot had swallowed a minibus.
‘Ow am I supposed to prepare dinner if I am cooped up in ’ere?
’ He waved his cigarette at her as he turned and paced past again.
‘I ’ave no fresh delivery, I ’ave people to feed that should not be ’ere, but nothing to feed them weeth, there is dirty-big padlock on my fridge,’ he paused just long enough to stamp his foot, ‘and I am stuck in this son-of-bitch room!’
Roberta smiled at him. ‘Oh, I’m sure we can work something out.’
For an overstuffed fat man, he was surprisingly light on his feet, pirouetting from fridge to stove to worktop and back again in a strange mesmerising wobbly ballet. His white chef’s jacket stretched tight across that massive belly.
He battered a net of carrots down on the stainless steel in front of him. ‘Zees is intolerable! It eez impossible to create ze culinary masterpiece for forty guests from nothing!’
Sergeant Moore flipped the page in his notebook. ‘Can we just get back to the subject in hand, please? Did you see anyone arguing or fighting with Sir Reginald?’
‘Carrots! All I have is carrots and what you Scottish call, “neeeeps”. Sacrebleu!’
‘Did you see anyone arguing or fighting with—’
‘Merde!’ The chef ripped the carrot bag open and dug out a fat handful. ‘A six-course meal is not something you can throw together with carrots and neeeeps!’
‘Did – you – see – anyone—’
‘I ’ave worked in two-Michelin star restaurants! I ’ave made demi-glace that would cause the Holy Father to weep for its beauty!’
Moore bit his top lip and turned to Roberta. ‘Honestly, I can’t—’
A pot slammed down next to the carrots. ‘CARROTS AND NEEEEPS! Where does that feature in Escoffier’s books?’
She tilted her head on one side. There was something . . . off about that statement. Something weird and out of place.
‘I ’ave a reputation to maintain! I am ze great Gérard de Larosière of Skirivour Castle Hotel, not some Greasy Reechard at Leetle Chef!
’ He yanked a peeler from a drawer and set about his carrots.
It was like watching a race car whizz past, he was that quick, denuding the pointy orange lumps and hurling them into the pot.
Sergeant Moore rapped his knuckles against the worktop. ‘Look, are you going to answer the bloody question or not?’
She leaned back against the stove and raised an eyebrow at him. ‘More importantly, are you going to tell us who you really are?’
The chef paused in his peeling, then went back to it at Formula 1 pace. ‘I told you: I am ze great—’
‘Only, your French accent’s a bit OTT, isn’t it? A bit put-on.’
His rosy cheeks flushed a darker shade. ‘Ow dare you eensult my noble—’
‘Say, “book” again.’
He grabbed another handful of carrots. ‘I don’t ’ave time for zees, I ’ave dinner to prepare.’
‘Go on, “Gérard”, humour me.’
A theatrical sigh. Then, ‘Book.’
And there it was.
‘See? You’re about as French as my knickers. It’s pronounced “book”, no’ “boo-wke”. That’s pure Brummie that is.’
Gérard stared at her, eyes wide, mouth an open, quivering pink hole.
Then he licked his lips. Looked left and right.
Waddled to the kitchen door and poked his head out into the dining room.
Came back again. And this time, his accent was one hundred percent made-in-Birmingham.
‘Yow can’t tell anyone, roight? I’ve made me livin’ out of being French.
You sound like this, no one takes you seriously in a professional kitchen.
You gorra be French to werk in a five-star hotel. ’
Roberta pointed at Moore’s notebook. ‘Name?’
‘Nah, it really is “Gérard de Larosière”. Changed it by deed poll from Tony Heppelthwaite.’
‘All right, Tony, here’s the deal: you want to keep on being French, that’s fine with me. Couldn’t give a monkey’s hairy toss. But you don’t tell us everything we want to know – and I mean everything – you’re up the Grand Union Canal without a paddle.’
He deflated a bit, shrinking by at least two inches. Then nodded. ‘Go on, then.’
Sergeant Moore had another go. ‘Did you see anyone fighting or arguing with Sir Reginald?’
‘To his face? Naw. Everyone acts like his farts smell of Malibu-and-Coke to his face. Behind his back, though? Surprised he could sleep lying down for all the knives in it.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Now yer askin’. See, he didn’t do himself no favours with this goldmine thing.’
Roberta ran a finger along the cooker controls. Keeping her voice all light and innocent. ‘You had money in his investment scheme?’
‘Investment scam, more like.’ The bitterness positively dripped from his voice.
‘I was savin’ up for me own place – nice little B&B.
Do me own meals and that. Just me and me mate, Baz.
Well, boyfriend.’ Gérard leaned forwards on the countertop, gesturing with the peeler.
‘I wanna get married, but he won’t commit, you know?
Only Sir Reginald Bradbury-Bleedin’-Scott talks us into sinking most of our stake into this goldmine he’s frontin’.
Gonna make a fortune, ain’t we?’ For a moment, Gérard inflated .
. . then deflated again. ‘Only it didn’t werk like that.
Turns out the guy runnin’ the goldmine’s wanted on an international arrest warrant and the National Crime Agency’s seizing all his assets. And that means all our money.’
He stared at the pile of unpeeled carrots in front of him, grabbed the knife and hacked at them with bared teeth and homicidal abandon. Dumped the knife and grabbed a meat-tenderising hammer from the drawer, whacking away till there was nothing but bright orange mush left.
Puffing and panting, he put the hammer down again and pulled on a posh voice. ‘“So sorry, old bean,” says Sir Reg, “it’s completely out of my hands. I had simply no idea he was a bad egg.”’ Back to normal for, ‘Yeah, right. Bet he got to keep his commission, though.’
Roberta sighed. ‘The rich get richer.’
‘And the poor saps like us get screwed over. Every single time.’ Gérard leaned forward again.
‘You know, I know I shouldn’t say it, cos you’re the bizzies and everything, but I’m glad he’s dead.
Waltzing round here, like there’s a silver spoon up his arse and he’s doin’ us a favour lettin’ us sniff it.
’ Gérard marched over to the fridge and returned with a net of neeps.
Dug one out and bashed it down on the chopping board.
‘Come the revolution?’ The knife whistled down, bisecting the neep neatly in two.
Sergeant Moore raised a fist in salute. ‘Right on, comrade.’
And Gérard pulled the same face he’d done when Roberta rumbled him for an undercover Brummie. ‘I’m norra bleedin’ Communist! I voted Conservative last five general elections, thank you very much.’
‘But—’
‘We’re nor all toffee-nosed tossers, you know!
Some of us believe in small government, personal responsibility, and people actually werkin’ for a living.
’ Another neep got its napper cleaved in two.
Then Gérard went a bit misty-eyed, staring off into space.
‘What amma gonna do about dinner? There’s leftovers from the weddin’, but someone’s been at those.
You should see the state of that roast beef – looks like a wolverine’s been chewin’ it. ’
Sergeant Moore took a sudden interest in his notebook.
Roberta cleared her throat and picked at her fingernails.
Yeah . . .
She put on that innocent voice again. ‘I wouldn’t mind a slice or three?’
‘Had to chuck it in the bin. It’s not hygienic, you see. Don’t even know if the thieving bastard washed his hands ferst! I serve that, and give half the local Conservative Party botulism, I’m out on me arse.’
‘Oh.’ What a waste of lovely pink beef. They should’ve scarfed the lot this morning and no one would’ve been any the wiser. ‘Er . . . Nothing in the freezer?’
‘Naaaaah. Well, haunch of venison, but it won’t defrost in . . .’ A smile bloomed on his chubby face, making his eyes almost disappear in the folds. ‘That’s bostin’! I’ll give Albert a shout: he can nip out and shoot summit for us.’