Wesley Peterson: The Blood Pit Part 4

'Tell him it's about the murder of Charles Marrick,' Wesley said to the man's disappearing back.

The waiter turned, his eyes wide. 'Murder?'

'That's right, mate. Murder,' Heffernan said with inappropriate relish.

There was no more argument. The waiter disappeared through a swing door, leaving the two policemen to wander into the restaurant.

The reports hadn't lied. Two walls of the room were taken up by ma.s.sive windows which gave a spectacular view over the river. The tables by the windows would be the most desirable and Wesley wondered if the diners were charged a premium for them. Probably. But then anyone who could afford to dine at Le Pet.i.t Poisson probably didn't care too much about a few extra pounds. The tables were well s.p.a.ced out and swathed in white linen straight out of a washing powder advert. Nothing cheap and cheerful here. In fact it was all a little too perfect for his liking. He'd have felt awkward eating here.

The young waiter appeared in the doorway. 'Chef will see you now,' he said in a hushed voice, like a royal flunky about to show someone into the presence of the Queen herself.

They were led into a huge kitchen which looked as though it had been designed by the person responsible for Colin Bowman's postmortem room. The white tiles were polished to a dazzling shine and you could use the stainless steel surfaces as a mirror in an emergency. White-clad acolytes were scattered around, chopping vegetables, mixing sauces and attending bubbling stockpots, and seated on a stool at the end of the room, flicking through a file, was the great man himself. Average height with luxuriant locks and a pristine white jacket with his name embroidered on the right breast, Fabrice Colbert looked the part. King of his kitchen. And a hard taskmaster.

He stood up and addressed one of the sauce makers. 'Damien. How many times have I told you? Taste the f.u.c.king thing. How can you get the seasoning correct if you do not use your sense of taste?'

'Oui, Chef,' barked the terrified Damien like a rooky private answering the sergeant major.

'Imbecile,' Colbert muttered to n.o.body in particular. 'Why must they always send me incompetent monkeys?' He swung round to face Wesley who instinctively took a step backwards.

'You wish to speak with me about Charlie?' He p.r.o.nounced Charlie the French way.

Wesley cleared his throat. 'Yes, sir. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?'

Colbert made a vague Gallic gesture with his hands and began to march towards a door marked 'Private'. Heffernan gave Wesley a nudge and they followed. It wasn't often Gerry Heffernan looked overawed but it seemed that Fabrice Colbert had rendered him speechless. Wesley, however, told himself firmly that he wasn't one of Colbert's kitchen hands and there was no way he was going to be intimidated by a jumped-up cook. He kept this thought in his mind as he entered what he a.s.sumed to be the chef's office and sat down without being invited. After a few moments of hesitation, Gerry Heffernan did likewise.

'I a.s.sume you've heard about Charles Marrick's death?' said Wesley.

'Oui. I hear it on the news this morning. C'est terrible.'

'Indeed.' He glanced at Heffernan who was staring at the chef as though he wasn't quite sure what to make of the man. 'When did you last see Mr Marrick?'

The chef didn't look so sure of himself now. 'Er ... it must have been Lundi ... Monday. Yes, Monday. I go to his house.'

'Mrs Marrick told us that you and Mr Marrick had an argument.' Wesley looked the man in the eye, waiting to see how he'd react.

The chef swallowed hard. 'Oui. C'est vrai. We quarrelled.'

Gerry Heffernan leaned forward. 'What about?'

There was a long silence. Colbert had been standing up, as though he hoped to get rid of his visitors as soon as possible. But now he took his seat behind the large oak desk covered with receipts, lists and menu plans.

He picked up a pen and turned it over in his long fingers for a while before he finally spoke. 'Charlie Marrick was a crook. Un voleur ... a thief.'

This captured Heffernan's interest. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean what I say. He was a thief. He stole from me.'

Wesley glanced at his boss. 'Can you be a little more specific, Monsieur Colbert? What did he steal?'

'My money ... and my good name. My reputation.'

This was like pulling teeth. Wesley tried again. 'Can you tell us the details? What exactly did he steal and when?'

Another long silence. Wesley wondered what the man was up to, dangling a piece of juicy information in front of them then refusing to elaborate. But eventually the chef spoke. 'He tricked me. We order wine from his warehouse ... the best vintages ... we have a discerning clientele here at Le Pet.i.t Poisson. We use his warehouse before and we never have trouble, but this time ...' He gave an expressive shrug.

'Go on,' Wesley prompted. He looked at Gerry Heffernan who was sitting attentively like a child being read his favourite bedtime story.

'My customers order expensive vintages. When they taste they send them back. My sommelier he changes the bottle ... the same thing. The wines are not what they claim to be on the label. The Chateau Margaux tastes like a vin de table. The Chateau Margaux is a vin de table. That Charlie Marrick ... he swap the labels.'

Wesley gave a low whistle. 'So you order expensive wines and he sends you cheap plonk with expensive labels.'

'That is correct. I am upset. My reputation the reputation of Le Pet.i.t Poisson is at stake.'

'You have proof of this? It wasn't just a bad bottle or two or ... ?'

'Oh non, Inspector. This is deliberate. Every bottle we open is the same.'

'Perhaps it was just a bad year,' said Heffernan, trying to sound as though he knew what he was talking about.

Colbert 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 embarra.s.sed. '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 on Monday. On Wednesday he's found dead. Murdered. Where were you yesterday afternoon?'

'I was here at Le Pet.i.t 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 bl.u.s.ter. He didn't bother seeing them off the premises this job was left to the young waiter who had greeted them when they'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 pa.s.sed. Burton's b.u.t.ties offered according to the freshly painted board outside bespoke b.u.t.ties 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 w.a.n.kers ... 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 a.s.signed two large and clumsy uniformed officers to go to Le Pet.i.t Poisson to take statements and Wesley knew that the DCI found the idea of a couple of plods tramping through the restaurant's hallowed portals mildly amusing. He'd noticed the boss's belligerent att.i.tude to up-market restaurants before probably stemming from the time he'd been refused service in a particularly snooty establishment because he had forgotten to put on a tie.

Wesley took off his jacket and was about to put it over the back of his chair when a flash of white paper sticking out of his inside pocket caught his eye. He took it out and saw that it was Colin Bowman's impromptu sketch of the type of knife that had killed Charles Marrick. Long, slim and sharp. A lethal weapon or an innocent tool to cut up food. Take your pick.

He stared at the sketch for a moment. Colin was no artist but he had caught the basic shape of the thing. He stood up and made his way to the office where Gerry Heffernan was wrestling with his paperwork before a.s.sembling the team for an afternoon briefing.

He poked his head round the door. 'Gerry, where's Carl Pinney's knife?'

Heffernan looked up. 'It'll be in the evidence cupboard. Why?'

Wesley placed Colin's sketch on the desk in front of his boss. 'This is Colin's drawing of the type of knife that killed Marrick.'

Heffernan studied the sketch and shook his head. 'You trying to say that little toe-rag Pinney murdered Charles Marrick? Nah. Not his style. And according to Marrick's Merry Widow, nothing's missing so it wasn't a burglary gone wrong.'

'He could have panicked left the scene without taking anything.'

Heffernan shrugged his shoulders. Anything was possible. 'The whole place has been dusted for prints. If Pinney was there, we'll get to know about it.'

Wesley left the DCI's office and made for the evidence cupboard that stood next to Trish Walton's desk. When he took the plastic bag containing the knife off the middle shelf, he spread Colin's sketch out beside it.

'Bingo,' he muttered under his breath. He looked up at Trish who was sitting watching him, curious. 'Trish, can you make sure this is sent off to Forensic right away. I want the stain on this knife matched with Charles Marrick's blood.'

Trish looked surprised. 'The murder victim? You don't think that kid ... ?'

'I don't know what to think yet,' he said as he handed her the bag.

Petronella Blackwell washed up the elegantly shaped black mugs. There was a dishwasher, of course, built into the sleek white kitchen units but she wanted something to do. Something that would occupy her hands and mind so that she didn't have to think what to say to Annette. She could hardly bring herself to call the woman her mother, even though she had given birth to her. Annette wasn't or had ever been the motherly type. But Petronella had still come at her call. She hadn't been able to help herself. Blood is strong.

The presence of the young policewoman who'd been sent round to see they were all right, irritated her. She was sitting with them now, pretending to watch the TV that chattered softly on the granite worktop. Even though the woman was pleasant and sympathetic and near her own age, Petronella could never get the thought that she was there in an official capacity, to watch and report back, out of her mind. She had heard the WPC referred to as 'family liaison' officialdom in a smiling, caring mask.

She didn't want anyone to overhear what she had to say to Annette. It was embarra.s.sing at best and dangerous at worst. So when Annette put down her glossy magazine and stood up, Petronella hurriedly dried her hands on a tea towel and followed her casually out of the room, smiling at the policewoman as she pa.s.sed.

Annette walked ahead and when Petronella caught up with her she took hold of the older woman's arm.

Annette swung round. 'What do you want?' she asked in a whisper, looking down at her daughter's clutching hand as though it was something dirty. But Petronella still clung on.

'I'm going to tell the police about Charlie.'

Annette moved nearer so that they were face to face. Petronella could smell alcohol on her breath. As she hadn't seen her drinking, she must have done it secretly, slyly.

'They should know what sort of a man he was.'

Annette stared at her for a few moments. 'You're lying.'

'I'm not. Why do you think I left the first time?'

Annette raised her hand and gave her daughter a stinging slap across the face which echoed like a gunshot in the s.p.a.cious hallway. 'Charlie wouldn't have fancied you if you'd been lying naked in front of him with your legs wide open. If you know what's good for you, you'll keep your mouth shut,' she said before sweeping up the stairs.

A tear ran down Petronella's stinging cheek and as she watched the woman who'd given birth to her disappear into the bathroom off the landing, she felt a burning, frustrated rage welling up inside her.

'Mum,' she called out. But the word echoed back to her in the silence.

DC Steve Carstairs walked slowly down Tradmouth High Street looking in shop windows, killing time.

He'd never been suspended from duty before, even though he'd often sailed very close to the hostile wind. The truth was, he didn't know what to do with himself. He could look upon it as a holiday but somehow that didn't seem right. Or maybe he should think of it as sick leave ... after all, the thought of Carl Pinney's smug, smirking face made him want to vomit.

He stared into the window of a menswear shop, hardly registering the clothes on display, clenching his fist so tight that his flesh began to hurt as the resentment welled up inside him. He had seen others bend the rules from time to time. Gerry Heffernan didn't do things by the book if he thought he could get away with it and even Peterson ignored procedure occasionally. Carl Pinney was sc.u.m. He thought nothing of using violence on those he robbed of their wallets or mobile phones ... but when he was given a dose of his own bitter medicine, he whinged to the authorities.

He looked at his watch. Five o'clock almost time for Burton's b.u.t.ties to close. He'd never given the shop a second thought until he'd come face to face with his father there. Robbie Carstairs had vanished from his life seventeen years ago when he'd abandoned him and his mother for some little typist at the car showroom where he'd worked. He'd gone up north somewhere but it might as well have been the North Pole as far as Steve was concerned. For a few years there had been Christmas and birthday cards with a fiver stuffed inside. Conscience money his mother had said. Then, from the time he'd reached sixteen or so, there was nothing. Nothing until the phone call to his mother saying he was back.

When father and son met again, they'd managed to maintain a fragile facade of polite, laddish bonhomie. The thing that hung between them like a whale in a fish tank was never mentioned and Steve was no wiser as to why his father had abandoned him now than he was seventeen years ago. Over the years he'd fantasised about his father's return sometimes imagining some subtle revenge for the pain he'd caused, sometimes thinking how they'd be reunited, his father full of tearful remorse, determined to make up for the lost years. But the reality had been neither of these things. Just awkwardness and stiff embarra.s.sment.

As Steve arrived outside Burton's b.u.t.ties he could see his father through the plate-gla.s.s window, standing in front of the empty shelves, talking to one of the young female a.s.sistants. His body language signalled that the conversation wasn't only concerned with business matters and Steve watched him for a while, his heart numb. Then he knocked on the window and his father looked round guiltily, as though he'd been caught committing some crime. But the guilt only lasted a split second. A casual smile was swiftly plastered on his face as he raised his hand in greeting.

'h.e.l.lo, son,' said Robbie Carstairs as he opened the shop door. 'Good to see you. Come in, come in.'

Steve stepped inside, his heart thumping. He didn't know why he felt nervous. It wasn't like him at all.

Robbie nodded towards the young woman. She was around Steve's own age or maybe a little younger; a natural blonde or at least that's how it looked with delicate features and bright blue eyes. Her hair was sc.r.a.ped back into a ponytail, giving her a startled look.

'This is Joanne,' Robbie said, giving the young woman an appreciative glance. 'She started working for us a couple of weeks back, didn't you, my love? This is my lad, Steve, I was telling you about.'

Steve smiled at her and she smiled back. 'Your dad says you're a policeman.'

Steve shuffled his feet nervously. There was no way he was going to admit to his suspension in front of a desirable female. He had his image to think of and she was good looking just his type. He straightened his shoulders. 'That's right, love. I've not seen you round Tradmouth before ... I would have remembered.'

She looked him in the eye as though she knew a clumsy chat-up line when she heard it. 'I only moved down here from Bristol a few weeks ago. And I don't make a habit of getting arrested so you won't have met me at work.'

Steve liked her style. And the challenge in her eyes. He glanced at his father who was looking on approvingly. Maybe he hadn't been interested after all. 'You been to Morbay yet? If you're not doing anything on Sat.u.r.day night ...'

Joanne picked up her handbag which was lying on the counter. 'Okay. You're on. Give us a ring. Your dad's got my number.' She turned to Robbie. 'Got to go. See you tomorrow.'

As she let herself out of the shop, Steve watched her with approval. Maybe things weren't all bad.

After Robbie had checked all was as it should be, he set the burglar alarm and locked up the shop. And as Steve walked with his new-found father to the Tradmouth Arms for a swift after-work pint, he decided not to mention the trouble he was in at work just yet. Why spoil things?

Wesley Peterson looked at his watch. Six o'clock.

The strange letter Neil had received was lying there on his desk beside a pile of witness statements and as he picked it up and read it through again, the mention of bleeding reminded him once more of Charles Marrick's murder. Surely there couldn't be a connection. And yet the remote possibility provided him with an excuse not to dismiss it out of hand. He bagged it up to be sent to the lab ... just in case.

Carl Pinney's knife was also on its way to the lab. It was a long shot but it was stained with something that could be blood and Pinney had claimed that he'd found it a short time before his abortive attempt to rob Steve Carstairs. There was a possibility that he was telling the truth. Or that he was trying to disclaim ownership for some reason ... maybe because he knew exactly how the blood had got there. The knife fitted Colin Bowman's description of the weapon that had killed Charles Marrick, but Wesley found it hard to believe that Marrick wouldn't put up one h.e.l.l of a fight if the likes of Pinney came at him with a knife.

They were still awaiting the statements from Fabrice Colbert's staff but the chef had seemed confident that they'd back up his story. Wesley had a vague feeling that Colbert, who had a good reason to hate Charles Marrick, and had access to all those sharp knives, was hiding something. But it was only a feeling. A gut instinct. And he'd been in the job long enough to know that you shouldn't ignore such things.