Stop Dead (19 page)

‘He won’t get away with treating me like this. So he’s planning to dump me now, is he? That’s rich, coming from him of all people. If it wasn’t for him Patrick wouldn’t be dead and I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.’

Her face was working with the effort of keeping her tears in check.

‘What do you mean, “if it wasn’t for him Patrick wouldn’t be dead”?’ Geraldine prompted her.

She leaned forward, barely able to control the tremor in her voice. Her eyes flicked sideways, checking that the tape was still running.

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Amy’s voice was shrill now; she was beside herself with rage and disappointment.

‘He did it because he thought he could get hold of my money by marrying me. Oh my God, do you think he was planning to do away with me too? Well, go on then, arrest him. What are you waiting for?’

She began to cry, her shoulders heaving with sobs.

‘And poor Patrick. It’s all my fault. Guy did that to him, didn’t he? And it’s all because of me.’

‘Amy, look at me. Are you accusing Guy Barrett of murdering your husband?’

Amy’s eyes were still streaming but she spoke loudly and clearly through her hiccups.

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

G
eraldine and Sam were in agreement that Amy’s sudden accusation was unreliable. Furious on hearing of Guy’s desertion, she had retaliated in the heat of the moment. While it was perfectly reasonable to suppose Guy had killed Henshaw, it seemed unlikely he would have gone on to kill Corless. Unlikely, but not impossible.

‘We can’t rule anything out at this stage,’ Geraldine said.

‘It might have been Amy herself who killed them,’ Sam pointed out. ‘Now she’s dropping Guy in it out of revenge as a way of saving her own skin.’

Geraldine didn’t need to be told that George’s injuries were virtually identical to Patrick’s, but she listened attentively nonetheless as the pathologist ran through the details of the second killing. George’s head injury had prompted a fatal stroke, which was followed by an attack on his genitals; a nauseating repetition that seemed to confirm that the two men had been killed by the same hand.

‘So he died of a stroke,’ Sam asked, ‘after being hit on the head and before any other injury was inflicted?’

She pointed to the damaged area of the body. The pathologist inclined his head.

‘The impact of the blow to his head was sufficient to trigger an internal bleed which would have caused him to lose consciousness almost at once. He wasn’t technically dead when the second injury was inflicted so there would have been blood loss, potentially fatal in itself if left unattended. But the blow to his skull and consequent internal bleed in the brain came first and that was what killed him.’

Visiting the morgue was never a cheerful experience but a sense of gloom enveloped Geraldine and Sam as they left. Neither of them uttered a word on the way back to the car. Two identical deaths in a week would have been enough to depress anyone, even if they weren’t responsible for tracing the killer.

‘Bloody heck,’ Sam said as she got in the car, ‘this is a mess.’

‘What are you thinking?’ Geraldine asked.

‘Well, they were business partners, so this isn’t chance, is it? I mean, both of them in a week.’

‘No, it’s certainly not a coincidence. Apart from the obvious connection between the two victims, it looks like the same killer in both cases.’

Sam nodded, her expression brightening.

‘At least that gives us something to go on,’ she said, brightening up. ‘It’s got to be someone who knew them both and that narrows it down a bit.’

‘We need to pay the restaurant another visit,’ Geraldine agreed, and Sam beamed.

‘We could go there for dinner.’

In spite of her dismay at the latest development in the investigation, Geraldine couldn’t help laughing at the sergeant’s sudden enthusiasm.

‘You know perfectly well that’s not what I meant. As if we’ve got time to sit around having dinner.’

‘But we could find out a lot about the place by going there –’

‘Yes, and we’ll find out what we can by going there and doing our job.’

‘But –’

‘If you’re hungry, there’s bound to be a chippy on the way.’

She didn’t add that she was sure Sam knew exactly where they could find one.

In a fashionable parade of shops in Soho, Mireille was situated between a smart hair salon and an art shop that sold expensive prints and offered a bespoke framing service. The restaurant itself had an elegant frontage with a stylish dark blue awning, pristine blue paintwork and large windows slightly tinted to give an aura of privacy to the interior. The door was locked but a man in a dark suit opened it when Geraldine knocked on the glass. After checking her warrant card in silence he stepped back to admit them.

The restaurant would routinely have been closed on a Monday even if business hadn’t been suspended due to the unexpected deaths of its proprietors. On this particular Monday Geraldine had arranged for all the staff to meet there at the end of the day. To begin with she thanked them for coming to the restaurant to give statements instead of reporting to their local police stations.

‘This is going to save us a lot of time,’ she concluded. ‘I’ve no doubt you’re as keen as we are to know who murdered Patrick Henshaw and George Corless.’

Gazing at a group of tense faces clustered together, she wondered what would happen to the restaurant staff now. No doubt they were wondering the same thing themselves.

The chef would doubtless find another position. Tall and imposing, with a substantial frame to support his huge belly, he looked every inch a chef. Even Geraldine, who knew nothing of gastronomy, thought she recognised his face. She suspected she had seen him on the television. Henri Gilbert was flanked on either side by two assistants, similarly attired in white, who were both young and good-looking, although one was badly affected by acne. In addition to several youngsters in casual dress who were presumably waiting staff, there was a man in a formal suit and tie and a middle-aged woman in a blue overall.

The man in the suit stepped forward and introduced himself as Jed Parker, the restaurant manager. Around forty, quietly-spoken and immaculately dressed, he seemed perfectly composed. His expression was appropriately solemn.

‘This is Henri Gilbert, our master chef, and his two sous-chefs, Will and Ollie.’

The two young men nodded and mumbled, while Henri stared past Geraldine, barely deigning to acknowledge her. Jed introduced five waiters and waitresses, all in their twenties and reasonably attractive, and finally the middle-aged woman who stepped forward and stared blankly at Geraldine.

‘And last but not least,’ Jed concluded the introductions, ‘this is Ginny who comes in and cleans for us every morning before we open.’

‘Who’s going to be paying us for our time today?’ the cleaning lady demanded.

Jed gave no sign that he had heard Ginny, so Geraldine looked around at all the assembled staff and thanked them again for coming to the restaurant to give their statements.

‘I realise it’s not terribly convenient for some of you, but this is going to save us time. And I’m sure you’re all keen to help further our investigation into the murders of Patrick Henshaw and George Corless.’

G
eraldine wanted to speak to the chef first; it might be best to let him leave as early as possible. The cleaner was second on her list, as potentially the most obstreperous witness. She decided to see the manager last. Sam was talking to the waiting staff and Geraldine would question some of them herself if she finished her list first.

The lofty chef strode into the office where Geraldine was conducting her interviews and glared down at her.

‘Mr Gilbert, please take a seat.’

‘I remain here standing.’

‘As you wish. Thank you for agreeing to co-operate with our enquiry –’

‘You say there is a choice for me?’

Geraldine shrugged and launched into her questions. The chef gave brief factual responses in laboured English, and seemed offended by her suggestion that he might prefer to answer through the medium of a translator.

‘I speak seven language!’ he announced pompously. ‘My English, it is good as the next man. You will hear.’

It was heavy going. For all her perseverance Geraldine learned only that Henshaw was a charming man, while Corless lacked any taste or manners.

‘This man has no sophistication. He is a primitive.’

Probing, Geraldine discovered that there had been a falling-out over the menu.

‘My sauce,’ the chef pursed his lips. ‘My sauce are supreme. And this animal, he ask for ketchup on the table. Ketchup, in my restaurant? Never!’

He shuddered.

‘For this insult truly he deserve to die. But it is not me. I do not dirty my hand so. I am not the hooligan. If I choose the kill, it will be with poison, and no one will suspect my food. Ha!’

‘And Patrick Henshaw?’

‘Ah, Mr Henshaw is always the gentleman. He understand the value of the chef. It is I, Henri Gilbert, make this restaurant famous in the world! You ask yourself, what it is, my sauce? But I do not give up the secret.’

Much as Geraldine was enjoying his performance the chef wasn’t helping the investigation, and she forced the conversation away from Henri Gilbert’s cuisine, back to the murder of the two restaurant proprietors.

‘Mr Henshaw and Mr Corless have both been murdered. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted them both dead?’

‘Ah, that is the question I ask myself.’

‘And?’

He shook his massive head then tapped the side of his nose with one finger.

‘Who is it takes the cuisine of Henri Gilbert now? Find the answer and you have it! The reviewer say to kill for the recipe of Henri Gilbert!’

Geraldine suppressed a smile at the man’s egocentricity.

‘Do you think someone killed them so they could take over the restaurant?’

It was the chef’s turn to shrug.

‘And the other reason can be what?’

The cleaner entered the room in a huff, her blue overall sleeves pushed up to the elbow as though she was spoiling for a fight, while her small dark eyes gleamed with annoyance.

‘I asked Jed, Mr Parker I should say, and he says we just have to take it on the chin, but it cost me my bus fare to come in today, not to mention my time, and if I’d known they wasn’t going to pay me I’d never have come in. And now it looks like we’re all going to be out of a job into the bargain. Typical. They never think of us. You know, I could have spent this time finding another place, couldn’t I? What if there was something and I’ve missed out through being stuck here waiting, and for what?’

Geraldine invited her to sit down and Ginny subsided into a chair, still grumbling.

‘You don’t care, do you? I’m just the cleaner.’

Geraldine studied the wiry little woman, her short curly hair awry, her face a study in resentment.

‘Ginny, this is a murder enquiry and we would have had to speak to you sooner or later.’

‘I can’t see what any of this has got to do with me.’

Ginny folded her arms and glowered across the desk as Geraldine began questioning her gently, aware that sometimes the people in the humblest positions knew more about what was happening within a company than anyone else. Having established that the cleaner had been employed at the restaurant for over two years, going in daily for two hours to clean the place up in the morning, she led the conversation on to the staff.

Resigned to having to waste her time at work unpaid, Ginny settled into her chair and began to talk. And once she started she was forthcoming in expressing her opinions about the restaurant. She was equally forthright in her views on the two victims. She dismissed Henshaw as a ‘snooty stuck-up piece of shit – if you’ll pardon my language. I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead and all that, but you did ask for the truth. I’m nowhere near important enough – or pretty enough – for him.’

‘Not pretty enough?’ Geraldine queried politely.

‘Oh, he had an eye for the girls. You ask them what he was like. Always fawning over them, he was. He was the one wanted those girl singers, and he’d have had them do more than sing, I daresay –’

She broke off with a knowing shake of her head.

‘What singers?’

‘Oh, don’t ask me. I never saw any of them. It was nothing to do with me. They were only here of an evening at the weekend. Apparently he thought it added a bit of class to the place. Huh. I don’t think Henri thought much of that, or anyone else for that matter.’

Geraldine asked if Henshaw favoured any of the waitresses over the others but Ginny said he wasn’t particular.

‘Now George, he was a different kettle of fish altogether. He had no pretensions, not like Mr Henshaw. George was friendly, but not over-familiar, if you get my drift. I was sorry to hear about him. Of course I’m sorry to hear about what happened to them both,’ she added quickly.

The sharply-dressed manager was glib and irritatingly self-assured. His black hair was smooth and sleek, his features perfectly proportioned, his gestures camp in spite of his sober clothes.

‘I suppose they’ll be closing the place down now,’ he said as soon as he sat down. ‘I’m already working on my CV. Shame, I’ve only been here for a year and just when I thought I was settled, this goes and happens. Isn’t that just typical?’

Geraldine didn’t answer straight away but let him talk through his dissatisfaction with his situation, hoping to glean his views on the two murdered men. He answered her questions clearly and at length, but gave little away, carefully restricting himself to bland comments on his bosses.

Geraldine asked if anyone else had been working at the restaurant on the evenings when the two owners were killed.

‘Ginny said something about a singer?’ she prompted him.

‘Oh yes, of course. We usually have performers in at the weekends, and often on a Friday as well. It adds to the customer’s experience.’

‘Was anyone performing here the night of the murders?’ she asked again.

The manager frowned, thinking.