Chef Maurice and a Spot of Truffle (Chef Maurice Mysteries Book 1) (16 page)

“Luciano Mannozzi, pleased to meet you,” said the man, proffering a large calloused hand.

“Arthur Wordington-Smythe.” He returned the handshake, while Chef Maurice stood there silently, regarding their visitor with arms folded. “Are you planning to stay here long?”

“No, the landlord has given me a few days to clear out the cottage. Then he will rent it out again, he says. Anyway, I must soon go back up to my business.”

“Your business?”

“I am an importer of foods from Italy,” said Luciano proudly. “Cheese, olive oil,
aceto balsamico
, the special pastas—”

“Do you supply to restaurants or to consumers?” asked Chef Maurice, in tones that indicated there was only one correct answer.

“Restaurants, for the most,” said Luciano, looking down at Chef Maurice’s steel-capped boots. “And the occasional deli.”

“Ah,
très bien
. I have been in need of a good supplier of Italian cheese. The burrata I last received from my current supplier was like a rubber ball—”

There was a bark, and a small, scruffy dog tore round the corner and came to a halt at Luciano’s feet.

“Ah, and who is this?”

“This is Tufo,” said Luciano.

“Lively-looking fellow,” said Arthur.

“
Bonjour
,
petit chien
.” Chef Maurice bent down and lifted the dog up to face him. Tufo hung there in his arms, turning his nose questioningly to his master.

“Well behaved, too,” said Arthur, thinking about what Horace would do if a stranger tried to pick him up. That said, in Horace’s case you’d probably need to hire a forklift truck first.

“Your friend, what is he doing?” asked Luciano, as Chef Maurice raised Tufo’s nose to his own and proceeded to sniff loudly.

“He’s, um, become quite interested in dogs lately.”

“I see,” said Luciano, folding his arms.

“A good dog,” said Chef Maurice, lowering Tufo to the ground and patting him on the head.

“I’m terribly sorry to hear about your nephew,” said Arthur. “He was well-liked in the village.” A stretch of the truth perhaps, but perfectly acceptable in these circumstances.

Luciano gave a gruff chuckle. “I doubt it, but it is kind of you to say so. He was always trouble, little Ollie. I told Maria, she should have kept him closer to home. Gets it from his father’s side, the English side—he was never well-behaved like a good Italian boy.”

“Mmmm,” said Arthur, who had encountered more than his fair share of flamboyant, foul-mouthed, pan-flinging Italian chefs in his food critic career thus far. “Did you used to come down to Beakley much?”

“No, not often. I have not been here since last winter, in fact.”

“Oh, really? That’s odd, because Mrs Eldridge—”

An elbow to his ribs stopped Arthur mid-flow.

“We must go now,” said Chef Maurice, shaking Luciano’s hand and patting Tufo one last time. “But you will send me a list of your cheeses, yes?”

Arthur hurried after Chef Maurice, rubbing his ribs. “What was all that about? And what were you doing to that poor dog? Don’t try to pretend you’re suddenly a dog person.”

“I am not. And neither is Monsieur Mannozzi. You see, that dog, it is not his.”

“What makes you say that?”

“On its breath, I smelt the distinct smell of white truffles. It is a truffle dog! And then I remember this.”

He pulled out the Polaroid that Tara had shown them the other day, down at the Helping Paws Pet Sanctuary.

It was slightly blurred, but it was definitely the same dog that they’d just met.

“That dog,
mon ami
, is the missing dog of Monsieur Ollie!”

* * *

Down at the Cowton police station, PC Lucy was grappling with a case of social etiquette.

“You have to call him back,” said PC Sara, scrolling through some reports on her computer screen. “It’d be rude, otherwise.”

“No I don’t. I didn’t ask him to call. We had a date, it was horrendous, there’s no need for me to speak to him ever again.”

“Apart from the fact you have the hots for him.”

“I do
not
have the hots for him.”

“So the fact that you threw yourself across the room at him the minute he walked in the door . . . ?”

“It was the mushrooms talking.”

“I doubt there was much talking going on at that point,” said PC Sara with a smirk.

“And then I threw up all over him!”

“But he stayed to make sure you were okay. I call that gentlemanly.”

“Plus, he tidied up my fridge. What kind of man tidies up a fridge for
fun
?”

“He
is
a chef,” said PC Sara, as if pleading first offense.

“And I think he rearranged my wardrobe,” PC Lucy added darkly. “Anyway, he’s probably just calling to get me to pay for his dry cleaning.”

“So call him back and see.”

Thankfully, her phone buzzed at this point. Waving PC Sara away, she pressed ‘answer’.

“Hello? Gavistone speaking— Oh, hi, Mr Manchot. Yes, I’m feeling much better, thank you for asking. Actually, I had a question, did someone go through my wardrobe last night? Oh, Mister Karl? Well, that’s a relief.”

From the other side of the desk, PC Sara gave her a big thumbs up.

“Yes, I’m at the station— What? Maurice— I mean, Mr Manchot, do you really think— Okay, I’ll go over and have a word tomorrow when— No! Stay right where you are! Under no circumstances should you make a citizen’s arrest— No, I don’t care what you’ve read— Okay, okay, I’ll be there right away!”

She hung up.

“Maurice seems to think he’s caught Ollie’s murderer.”

“That’s good of him.”

“And his dog.”

“The murderer’s dog? Or Ollie’s dog? Was the dog the murderer?”

“I’m a bit confused on that point, too.”

“Well, there you go, case closed. Now you can phone that poor fellow back and offer to do his laundry. At his place.”

PC Lucy shot her a warning look. “I’ll be back in a while. Let the chief know, okay?”

“Sure. Don’t go arresting anyone you shouldn’t.”

A vision of Chef Maurice passed through PC Lucy’s mind.

“I’ll try my best not to.”

It was not an arrest, nor was it an interrogation; that much was clear. The police merely wanted to have a little chat with Mr Luciano Mannozzi, to clear up a few matters, and if he’d be so kind as to pop down to the station at a convenient moment, it would be most appreciated. They just happened to have a car waiting right now— Oh, how kind of him, his co-operation would of course be duly noted.

Luciano now sat in Cowton Police Station’s only interview room, which was empty apart from a few pieces of furniture; a look that spoke less of menace and more of budgetary constraints. The door was left unlocked. However, two uniformed constables sat outside on either side, discussing the cricket.

PC Lucy had failed to prevent Chef Maurice and Arthur from entering the station itself. However, she’d instructed the two constables to keep them out of the interview room using any means possible.

This suited them fine, as Chef Maurice soon discovered that the interview room backed onto an empty corridor behind the main office, with a conveniently located air vent high up on the wall. Chef Maurice and Arthur settled themselves into a couple of plastic chairs, and Chef Maurice pulled out a pair of tuna-and-caper-filled baguettes from his jacket.

The interview, from what they could gather through the vent, was not going well. Despite his initial co-operative air, Luciano was clearly not too happy about PC Lucy’s particular line of questioning.

“Tufo is
my
dog, why do you not listen? I lent him to Ollie—for a sum, which he never paid me—so I come to get Tufo and Ollie gave him back. That is the end of the story.”

“So why did Mr Meadows borrow your dog in the first place?”

Silence.

“I understand your business involves the import of Italian foodstuffs into the UK, predominantly from the Piedmont region?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“And these foodstuffs also include the white Alba truffle?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Which, according to your website, you pick yourself in the winter months with the help of your dog? A trained truffle dog?”

“This has nothing to do with my nephew!”

“I’ll ask again, Mr Mannozzi. Why did Mr Meadows wish to borrow your truffle dog? Had he, in fact, found an unknown truffle ground in this vicinity and wished to profit from it?”

“Ha! My nephew was always one for schemes, for rumours. Perhaps someone told him stories of truffles in this area. Lies, and more lies. Everyone knows there are no Alba truffles in England.”

“But you still went and lent him your dog?”

“Yes, he is family, it is expected.”

“Plus, he offered you a substantial sum of money, didn’t he?”

There was the sound of Luciano shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “To train a good truffle dog is a long process. They are valuable animals. He was lucky I was willing to make him the loan.”

“And how much did he offer to pay you to borrow your dog?”

Another scrape of chair against concrete floor.

“Two thousand pounds.”

They heard PC Lucy whistle. “That’s a lot of money for borrowing a dog.”

“Which he did not pay me,” growled Luciano.

“So at that point, you came and took back your dog?”

“Yes.”

“And when was this?”

“On the Sunday last.”

“That’s interesting. Because you told one of his neighbours today that you hadn’t been to Beakley in several months.”

“It was none of their business.”

“I see. So, in fact, you had been here in Beakley last week. The week Ollie went missing.”

“Yes, but I did not see him!” Luciano now sounded worried.

“I thought you said that Ollie gave your dog back to you?”

There was a long silence. Then a fist banged on the table.

“Okay! It is like this. I phone my nephew, he tells me some story about Tufo running away from him. This is rubbish, Tufo would never do something like this, he is a good dog. So I come down, no one is at home. So I think to myself that maybe there is a chance my nephew is telling the truth. I go to the animal home, and there is Tufo. He had been lost in the woods, they said. So I take him and go home. That is the end!”

“Did you leave Mr Meadows a note when you visited his cottage? Perhaps one like this?” There was a rustle of paper, then PC Lucy read out: “‘Have come to collect my loan, don’t give me any more lies if you know what’s good for you.’ A threat, Mr Mannozzi?”

“I did not mean it! Why would I harm my own nephew?”

“He owed you quite a sum of money.”

Silence.

“So you came down to Beakley last Sunday, and left this note?”

“Yes, that is what I said.”

“So you hadn’t been down in Beakley before this?”

Another pause. “No.”

Next to Arthur, Chef Maurice threw down his baguette and climbed onto his chair, so his face was level with the vent.

“He lies!” he shouted through the grille. “He was here on the Friday too, Madame Eldridge observed him! And that day, someone broke into Monsieur Ollie’s cottage. The first time!”

There was the click of a door, a clatter of footsteps, and PC Lucy appeared round the corner, her cheeks flushed.

“Mr Manchot! Mr Wordington-Smythe! This is a police station, not a picnic ground!” She waved at the half-eaten baguette wrapped in a napkin.

“But it all makes sense!” argued Chef Maurice. “He comes to collect his dog, he follows them up in the woods, but Monsieur Ollie refuses to give him back. Then, in anger, bang! We know he has a gun, he threatened us today with it. So he shoots poor Monsieur Ollie, then he goes home.”

“Rubbish!” shouted a distant voice through the grille. “Yes, I come here on the Friday too, I wait for Ollie all day, but he does not come home. So I leave a note. Ollie is my own blood, my sister’s child. I would never do anything to—”

“And you stole his map too! So you could find the truffles that Monsieur Ollie found!”

“Map? What map? Hah, my nephew knows nothing of truffles, how could he find a patch, even with Tufo’s help?”

“So you deny it?”

“Of course I deny it, I have done nothing!”

“You broke into Monsieur Ollie’s cottage on the Friday,
non
?”

“Yes, but only to find Tufo! He was not there, so I go!”

“And you also deny that you steal my pig? And then send me bacon?”

PC Lucy looked at Arthur. “What’s he on about now?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Luciano was now yelling at the top of his voice. “Pig?! Why would I want a pig?”

“Hamilton is a truffle pig!”

“Hah, truffle pigs, they are useless! They will bite your arm off, just to steal the truffle! You can keep your stupid truffle pig.”

“You will not talk about my Hamilton in such a way!”

“Enough of this!”

They heard stomping footsteps and the sound of a metal door being flung against the wall.

One of the constables put his head around the corner. “Uh, PC Gavistone . . . ”

“Let him go,” said PC Lucy irritably. “There’s no reason for us to keep him here.”

“Bah!” said Chef Maurice. He turned to PC Lucy. “If you do not find my little Hamilton soon, I will . . . ”

He trailed off, searching for a suitable punishment.

“I will forbid my sous-chef from ever setting foot in your home again!”

After Chef Maurice and Arthur had taken their leave, along with the remains of their picnic, PC Lucy sagged down into a chair.

She wondered if Chef Maurice would make good on his threat.

It would, she thought, at least solve the problem of having to call Patrick back.

* * *

It was a gloomy little group that sat round the table in the kitchens of Le Cochon Rouge, quiet in the post-lunchtime lull. Rain dripped down outside and the kettle steamed up the window panes.

Chef Maurice was hunched over the table, staring morosely at a spare copy of the Missing Hamilton flyer. So far, only two people had called, both to ask where they could purchase their own micro-pigs.

Patrick was alternately watching the phone and making his way through a book entitled:
What Women Think (But Don’t Want To Think They Think)
.