‘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 someGreasyReechard 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 youreallyare?’
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. ‘Owdareyou 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”,humourme.’
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 meaneverything– 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 hisface? 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?’
‘Investmentscam, more like.’ Thebitterness 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 guyrunnin’the goldmine’s wanted on an international arrest warrant and the National Crime Agency’s seizing all his assets. And that means allourmoney.’
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.
