No Cherubs for Melanie (5 page)

Witnesses, he mused to himself, remembering the simple form with Melanie Gordonstone's name on the top line. None, he had written, knowing the untruth of the word, knowing that Margaret, Melanie's older sister, must have seen or heard something. But he had calmly written,
None
, and, at the time, had been thankful to escape from Gordonstone's clutches without having to ask too many questions.

Bliss broke out of his reverie and pretended he'd been admiring a bowl of cacti in Bryan's window. “What about his wife?” he asked, having no idea how long his mind had been adrift.

Bryan scanned the report, apparently unaware of the hiatus. “There's no mention of his wife. He was definitely married wasn't he?”

“Yeah, I told you. I interviewed her after her daughter's death.”

“I dunno then,” the chief inspector added vaguely. “It says here the next of kin is the daughter, Margaret.”

“That's the older girl. The one I never got to see. So what happened to the wife.”

“Probably divorced him after what happened.”

“My money would be on her then.”

“Now who's jumping to conclusions?”

“It would make sense, especially if I'm right and he did kill the girl. If someone murdered my daughter, I'd sure as hell find a way to get him, particularly if he'd been touching her up as well.” Bryan gave a nonchalant shrug. “It's possible. Follow it up.”

Bliss reached forward to take the file then hesitated “Wait a minute, Guv. You only found out about this on Saturday, and you came to see me yesterday. So that whole spiel about the bosses giving me an ultimatum was a load of porky pies just to get me back to work wasn't it?”

DCI Bryan suddenly found his attention drawn to one of the little plants, which he pulled toward him, searching for whiteflies amongst its slender leaves while debating his response. Finally, he looked up, somewhat sheepishly. “Dave, I know you've had it rough recently, but it's time to get on with your life. I want you on this case, and you need something to take your mind off the other stuff.”

Seething, Bliss spat through clenched teeth, “You crafty bastard.”

“Inspector?”

Rising hurriedly, he scooped the file off Bryan's desk and turned back as he reached the door. “Sorry. I meant: You crafty bastard, Sir.”

Bryan responded with mock fury as Bliss disappeared into the corridor. “Keep me informed! I expect results!”

Bliss missed Gordonstone's restaurant at the first pass, and got stuck in a one-way system as he tried to backtrack. Several left turns later he opted to search out a parking space from which he could walk. Providence, and an amiable traffic warden, found him slotted into a spot normally reserved for visiting diplomats, and he was pleasantly surprised to find he had landed directly opposite his goal. As he waited to dart in between the constant stream of traffic, he glanced over his shoulder and noticed that his old green Ford Escort, another legacy of the divorce, looked distinctly out of place amid the BMWs and Volvos parked in front of the imposing Georgian terraces.

The restaurant's facade was shielded from the road by a barrier of ornate wrought iron railings and a row of pollarded plane trees heavy in summer leaf. A couple of bronzed fibreglass gargoyles, looking remarkably genuine, graced the projecting edges of the stained-glass
canopy and a discreet brass plaque announced,
L'Haute Cuisinier
. Nothing else distinguished the elegant building from others in the terrace. It was, thought Bliss, the sort of place you could drive by a hundred times without ever noticing. The sort of place found only by reputation. No need for gaudy advertising, no golden arches, no menu in a shiny brass frame. Anyone needing to ask the prices probably couldn't afford an hors d'oeuvre.

Bliss took the two polished stone steps in a single leap and was surprised to find the huge black lacquered front door ajar, and unmanned. A door like this demands a butler, or at least a footman, he decided as he entered; he felt as if he were trespassing.

Once inside, an archway from the entrance hall led directly to the main dining room where he stood, slack mouthed, staring at the enormous chandelier high above the centre of the room. It looks more like a theatre than a restaurant, he mused, with its terraces rising around a central auditorium: ideal for anyone wanting to be seen eating publicly. A theatre of culinary arts, devoid of the cast. The props — empty tables, piles of crisply starched tablecloths, stacks of plates, and trays of cutlery — awaited a stagehand to meticulously dress them in place before the arrival of the actors and audience.

‘Noises off' alerted him to the presence of a backstage crew. Actors preparing in the kitchen for the next performance, he assumed: KPs in striped aprons peeling potatoes, chefs in whites cooking, jacketless waiters in open-necked shirts polishing cutlery, a sommelier in a snazzy waistcoat carting wine up from the cellar in a frayed wicker basket, mindful not to disturb the accumulated dust on the bottles.

A strange smell immediately caught his attention and he screwed up his nose in disgust. A strong whiff of yesterday's cigar smoke had mingled with stale alcohol and a
waft of garlic — somehow managing to turn the olfactory ingredients of ambience into an unpleasant stink in the fresh morning air. Standing alone in such a large space made him uncomfortable and he was almost overwhelmed by an illogical temptation to turn and run. He knew he should follow the sounds to the kitchen, but the prospect of encroaching upon the personal space of the staff caused him to hesitate. Someone will come out in a moment, he guessed, acclimatizing himself to the atmosphere, and reminiscing nostalgically about the time he and his young wife-to-be were early arrivals for a first night performance of a little-known play by an even lesser-known amateur theatrical group. Sarah, whose tendency to be fashionably tardy often led Bliss to introduce her as “The late Mrs. Bliss,” had been early for once. There was no hint of a problem at the box office, and the usher, a sixteen-year-old aspiring Gielgud, made a majestic performance of sweeping aside the blackout curtains leading into the auditorium to reveal that they were the first members of the audience to arrive. By curtain time another dozen or so had sneaked into the rear seats. “They're probably relatives,” sulked Bliss after Sarah insisted on staying.

“We can't leave,” she whispered. “They probably know who we are. They'll come after us.”

“Rubbish,” said Bliss, feeling as nervous as the lead actress, whom he spied peeking through a crack in the curtain.

He'd regretted his faint-heartedness at the end of the first act when they were forced to applaud madly to save the cast's total demoralization. Sneaking out during the intermission they found a local pub where they sat giggling with relief, and a touch of guilt. Ten minutes later they were forced to abandon their drinks and dash for the emergency exit when the play's entire cast turned up to drown their sorrows.

“I told you they'd come after us,” laughed Sarah breathlessly as they ran to the bus stop in the rain. Then some of the other audience members turned up and they'd run again…

Smiling to himself at the memory, Bliss looked around and noticed a couple of kitchen porters eyeing him up. He could feel the weight of their stares as they peered through the small oval windows in the kitchen's swing doors.

“He ain't a customer. It's too early, an' he's not dressed proper,” said one.

“Prob'ly a health inspector looking for more dead bodies,” joked the other, known for his bad taste.

The well-muscled head chef pushed the young men out of the way with a growl and swept through the door. “Can I help you?”

Bliss tried to respond, but found that he was unable to tear his eyes away from the other man's mouth. As if he were ruminating on a particularly tough morsel of meat, the chef's jaws and lips were in constant motion; the facial idiosyncrasy was accompanied by wet clicking sounds as he spoke — like a dripping tap. This could get annoying, thought Bliss, as he tried to get past the nervous habit and ask to speak with the manager.

“I'm in charge at the moment,” the chef said, adding two clicks to the comment. “We could sit over here.” His starched white clothing rustled with every movement as he swept a hand toward one of the unlaid tables. A tieless waiter hustled toward them at the crook of the chef's finger. The pecking order was clear.

“Coffee, Inspector?”

Bliss was miles away, fascinated by the constant mouth movement. “Inspector?”

“Oh! Coffee. Yes, please — white with sugar,” he replied, after delving back through his memory to resurrect the question.

“Make that two,” said the chef without looking at the hovering waiter. “I know it's early,” he continued, addressing Bliss, “but can I tempt you with a
tranche
of
Plateau Seville
.” Catching the quizzical look on Bliss's face, he explained. “It's a gateau topped with orange segments, soaked in orange brandy, and served with a sauce absolutely laced with Grand Marnier.” He leaned forward with a wink and a click. “I've just made it — highly recommended.”

“Thank you, I will. Sounds great.”

“I've probably been watching too many cop shows; I somehow expected you to say you're not supposed to drink on duty.”

Bliss leaned forward conspiratorially. “I don't call
that
drinking. I call it eating.”

The chef smiled and sent the waiter away with an order for one. “You not having any?” Bliss enquired.

“I never eat on duty,” the chef replied with a ring of humour in his voice and an extra couple of clicks. “Have you worked here long?”

The chef relaxed back in his seat, accompanied by much rustling and a prolonged bout of lip clicking, while he considered the question. “Pretty much since the place opened. I made myself indispensable, you see. Of course I've had a few challenges from the odd spiky-haired nouvelle cuisine types straight out of catering college, but they didn't last. The owner was — how shall I put it — a bit difficult.”

“Difficult?” Bliss jumped at the prospect of a motive.

“He could be a bit awkward…” the chef began, then paused and ruminated for several seconds, apparently deliberating as to whether or not he should be
betraying the deceased owner. Then he shrugged and continued: “I was all right. I trained in the Army Catering Corps, so I'm used to having somebody's boot up my jacksy most of the time. You learn to do what you're told, keep your mouth shut, and get your own back later. What goes around, comes around, an' I guess someone finally got their own back on him.”

Bliss shot him a look that queried, What do you know? but the chef didn't wait for the question. “Inspector, I'm not stupid. He's been dead nearly three weeks. You can't tell me you just popped in to see how things are going.”

“Well, there are one or two things that don't quite add up,” Bliss admitted. “If someone had done him in… Don't misunderstand me, I'm not saying he
was
killed, but hypothetically, if it did turn out there was more to this than a straightforward heart attack, the first question I'd have to ask would be, What was the motive? Who had a reason to kill him? Who's he upset?”

“Have you got a phone book?” responded the chef in a flash.

“OK. So he's pissed off a few people.”

The other man scoffed, “A few. You are kidding aren't you?”

“Well. What I mean is, just because he upset someone doesn't mean they would kill him.”

“I could have.”

Bliss viewed the man through slit eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” the chef replied in a relaxed manner. “You should put me first on your list, although I can tell you for nothing that I didn't do it.”

“At the top of the list… That's honest of you. But why? What reason did you have to want to kill him?”

“Same reason as hundreds of others. The man was a pompous self-righteous bastard who didn't give a shit about anyone. He bullied his way through life, crapped on everyone, treated people like dirt. As far as I'm concerned he got what was coming.”

The culinary creation arrived — an oversized portion swimming in an alcoholic sea of orange sauce and swirled with cream.

“Tell me what happened,” said Bliss, digging in.

“We thought he was just drunk at first, as usual. Dead drunk as it turned out,” the chef continued after a taste of coffee. Bliss lifted a finger, intending to speak, but the chef carried on without waiting for him to empty his mouth. “Like a bear with a sore head when he was drunk, which was most of the time. Quite honestly, I didn't want to wake him up. I thought he'd sleep it off.”

“So he was awkward when he'd had a few?”

“You could put it that way,” chuckled the chef. “The trouble was he couldn't see it himself and nobody dared tell him.”

I can understand that, thought Bliss. How can you convince an unreasonable man he's being unreasonable?

“He could be quite amiable at times, but you were never sure where you stood with him. Everything was a competition, you see. He probably got like that working in the stock exchange. He always had to win. A simple handshake could turn into a trial of strength. He always had to have whatever he wanted.”

“What about women?”

The chef thought for a second then shook his head. “He never seemed particularly bothered.”

“Men?” enquired Bliss, in a disapproving tone. “He wasn't…” “Oh no,” laughed the chef. “Definitely not. He tried it on with a female customer from time to time, although I don't think he got very far. He usually had a
severe case of distiller's droop by the end of the evening. Anyway he was so bleeding fat he probably couldn't have found his whatsisname even when he was sober.”