Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas

3: French Hens

Marguerite Dumond could swear fluently in four languages, but right now she was practising her English. Clutching the side of her head, trying to staunch the bleeding. Leaning against the alley wall, as Philippe – still dressed in his chef’s whites – kicked the shit out of the man who’d hit her.

Philippe’s words were slurred, his heavy French accent rendered almost unintelligible by half a bottle of vodka on top of a hit of heroin, but his aim was dead on. ‘How,’ kick, ‘many,’ kick, ‘times,’ kick, ‘do I have to tell you?’ Kick. ‘NEVER come around my work!’ He took three steps back, had a run up, and slammed another boot into the man lying curled up on the alley floor. Then started stomping on his face.

Marguerite peeled the tea towel off her head. It was soaked through – glistening and dark red. The alleyway began to spin, her knees gave out – she sat down heavily on a crate full of empty bottles, making them rattle and clink. She wasn’t going to be sick, she wasn’t going to be . . . oh yes she was. Marguerite leaned sideways and retched, spattering the cobbles with coq au vin and creme brulee.

Philippe knelt on the man’s chest and grabbed a handful of hair. Pulled his head off the ground. ‘I ask you nicely!’ A muffled grunt, then the hard, wet thunk of something being bounced off the alley floor. ‘I ask you nicely, but you don’t listen! You just,’ thunk, ‘don’t,’ thunk, ‘listen.’ Thunk. There was a moment’s silence, then, ‘You are stupid fucker, Kenny. You don’t deserve friend like me. . .’

Marguerite raised her head, mouth coated with bitter slime.

Philippe was rummaging through Kenny’s pockets, pulling out little silver foil packets. Then he settled back on his haunches and forced Kenny’s mouth open.

‘If you kill my waitress, how can she serve my food? A great restaurant, she cannot function without her front of house staff!’ He ripped the end off a wrapper of heroin and poured it into Kenny’s blood-smeared mouth. Then another and another and another. . . ‘Bon appetit.’ He slammed his hand into Kenny’s chest and the battered man convulsed, sending a plume of white powder up into the cold evening air.

Philippe clamped a hand over Kenny’s mouth. ‘I said, Bon appetit!’

And that was when Marguerite blacked out.

Half past seven in the morning and Alexander Garvie stood at the front door of La Poule Francaise, signing for the day’s fish delivery – haddock, brill, turbot and hake. No sea bass, which would piss the chef off, but some days you just had to go with what was available.

He shuffled back in through the restaurant doors, heading for the kitchen. If the reservations book was anything to go by, it’d be another busy day. Nearly full for lunch and packed for dinner. If it kept up like this they’d have to get more staff. Maybe a bigger restaurant?

Alexander shouldered his way through the kitchen doors and marched up to the walk-in fridge. There was a lot to be said for opening a new place: maybe something down by the river, or the cathedral?

He balanced the box of fish on his hip and cracked the fridge open.

It’d be expensive, but if they could match the success of La Poule Francaise they’d break even in about a year and a half. Eighteen months. It would be tight, but-

What the hell was that?

There was a man in the fridge!

He was lying flat on his back, next to the carrots and shallots, legs bent outwards, arms above his head. Like a frog waiting to be dissected.

‘Hello?’ Alexander slid the box onto the nearest shelf. ‘You shouldn’t be in here – it’s not hygienic. . .’

The man didn’t move.

‘Are you OK?’ He flicked on the inner light, breath misting around his head.

The man was not OK. His skin was the colour of rancid butter, spattered with dark-brown blood, and his forehead had a decided dip in it. Alexander reached out and touched the icy skin with trembling fingers. The man would never be OK ever again. He was dead.

‘Oh dear God. . .’ The first big glass of cognac hadn’t settled his nerves and neither had the second one. The third was making things a little fuzzy around the edges, though. Alexander sat at the restaurant bar, trembling, drinking the good cognac, and staring at his mobile phone.

He should call the police.

Just as soon as he felt able to speak.

Call the police and tell them about the dead man in his fridge. And after that he might as well put a big ‘GOING OUT OF BUSINESS’ sign in the window. Who wanted to eat in a restaurant with a corpse in the kitchen? They were ruined.

The sound of stainless steel platters clanging on the tiled floor came through from the kitchen, followed by French swearing. Philippe was in. His creased face appeared through the doors two minutes later – pink eyes, pale skin, dark-purple bags under the eyes. ‘Mon Dieu. . . I feel like merde.’ He rubbed a hand across his stubble-coated chin. ‘Is that brandy or whisky?’ pointing at the balloon glass in Alexander’s hand.

‘Er. . . Cognac.’

‘Thank God.’ He poured himself a huge measure, knocked it back in one gulp, refilled his glass, then let his head sink onto the bar. ‘Please – when hangover kills me, don’t let the bastards bury me in Paris. You know we’ve got a full service today?’

Alexander stood, levered Philippe off the bar and dragged him back into the kitchen. Propped him against the wall, and opened the fridge. The dead man stared up at them.

Philippe pursed his lips, frowned, looked at his glass of cognac, then frowned some more. ‘Is this today’s special? Because I thought we were doing seared sea bass with langoustine butter and pommes dauphinoise.’

‘They didn’t have any sea bass.’

Philippe shrugged. ‘So you got me a dead body instead?’

‘I DIDN’T GET HIM! He was here when I arrived.’ Alexander slammed the fridge shut. ‘What are we going to do? It’ll be in all the papers; as soon as people find out we’ve got a corpse in here they’ll cancel their reservations; we’ll have to shut!’ Getting louder and louder until Philippe grabbed him by the shoulders.

‘Stop! Too loud! You’re hurting my head.’

‘What are we going to do? Where did he come from? We’re ruined!’

Philippe let go, then opened the fridge again, staring in at the man on the floor. ‘Merde. . .’ He buried his head in his hands. Groaned. Swore. ‘We have to get rid of the body.’

Silence, broken only by the whurrrrrr of the fridge, trying to compensate for the door being open. ‘No. We have to call the police.’

Philippe snorted. ‘And then what? They’ll close us down. Martin White is coming in tonight!’

‘Oh God. . .’ Martin White – food critic for the Old-castle News And Post. A man who could make, or break, a restaurant with a single review. ‘We’re doomed.’

‘No we’re not. We get rid of the body and no one will know. Everything is the same. Nothing changes.’

‘But . . . but. . .’ Alexander closed the fridge door, unable to look at that battered face any longer. ‘But how did he get here?’

Philippe licked his lips, cleared his throat, then laid a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. ‘Does it matter? He’s here: we must get rid of him or the restaurant is finished.’ Philippe turned a bleary eye on the kitchen, nodded, pulled on a heavy apron, and unrolled his bundle of knives. Picked out a boning knife and a long metal steel. ‘We cut him up.’ The blade made shnick, shnick, shnick noises as he sharpened it.

Alexander drained his cognac and nodded. It made sense. Cut him up. Cut him up into little pieces. ‘Then what?’

‘Then?’ Philippe tested the knife’s edge. ‘We get rid of him.’

‘But someone will find the pieces!’

A frown, then a smile. ‘We will mince the meat, yes? Cook it off and throw it out in the bins. Looks like any other mince. No one will know.’

‘Mince. . .? Yes, mince. . .’ sweat prickled between Alexander’s shoulder blades. Maybe another drink to steady his nerves?

Philippe pulled out a meat cleaver and a hacksaw. ‘Now, you help me get him up on the worktop, then you lock all the doors and make sure no one comes in here.’

‘But the veg man-’

‘No one! Take the deliveries out front. I don’t care! But not in here!’ He clicked on the radio, cranking up the volume. Then they hauled the dead man out of the fridge. And got to work.

Lunchtime was packed and it didn’t help that Marguerite hadn’t turned up for work that morning, so they were a waitress down. Alexander pushed through from the dining room with an order for veal escalope, coq au vin, and turbot with champagne hollandaise.

The kitchen was a well-oiled machine, and so was Philippe. He’d downed at least half a bottle of cognac this morning – while he was cutting and mincing and frying – before moving on to vodka-and-tonic. And now he was drinking ice-cold beer, directing the sous chef, pastry chef, dish washer, and waitresses, turning out food that was the talk of Oldcastle.

It was as if nothing had ever happened.

When the lunchtime rush was over, Philippe and Alexander sat in the cramped manager’s office, drinking strong cups of coffee with the door closed. The chef leaned back in his seat and groaned at the ceiling tiles.

Alexander fiddled with his mug. ‘Erm. . . How are we getting on with . . . with our visitor?’

A shrug. ‘He’s in bags at the back of the fridge. Looks just like fried mince.’ Another groan and Philippe slumped forwards. ‘The trouble is the bones.’

‘Oh God.’ The bones – a whole human skeleton would look suspicious, even in a restaurant’s rubbish. ‘We’re ruined! We’re-’

Philippe held up a hand. ‘No, not ruined. I chopped the bones, put them in the oven. They’ll roast and dry out. We smash them with a hammer into little pieces. Then we dump them. Not a problem.’

‘What about the . . . the. . .’ Alexander tapped the side of his head.

‘Meh. . .’ Philippe finished his coffee. ‘When you hack a man’s skull into eight pieces with a cleaver, it looks like any other bones. No one will notice. Trust me. It is all good again.’

Alexander tried for a smile, and managed to find one. They were in the clear – the body was taken care of, the lunchtime rush was over. Now all they had to do was impress the socks off Martin White and everything was perfect. ‘Philippe, I want you to get some sleep, OK? The staff can take care of the clean-down and prep for the evening sitting. You rest. I want you at your best when Martin White gets here.’ The smile turned into a beam.

Everything was going to be all right.

Philippe looked a lot better when he emerged at half past six: wide awake and smiling. The white powder on his top lip was probably just flour, wasn’t it? He’d been making bread, or pastry, or checking the . . . something. That was all. Nothing else.

Alexander opened the reservations book, then closed it again. Lined it up with the edge of the bar. Took a deep breath. Only two people had a key to the restaurant: him and Philippe, and he certainly hadn’t stuck a dead body in the fridge, so it had to be Philippe, But. . . But Philippe was a brilliant chef, you had to expect a certain amount of eccentric behaviour from geniuses. And besides, where was Alexander going to get anyone else as talented in Oldcastle?

So they would carry on as if nothing had ever happened. They would get their good review and open up a second restaurant, Le Coq Rouge – it would become a beacon of French cuisine for all of Oldcastle to see. No: all of Scotland! It would win three Michelin stars. And all because Alexander had the wisdom to not call the police.

Marguerite had even turned up for work – albeit seven hours late – with a patch of white gauze taped to the back of her head and a story about being mugged. She shared some knowing glances with Philippe, but. . . But it was probably nothing. It would be fine. Everything was going to be OK.

At ten to seven Alexander gathered the staff together in the dining room and gave them a pep talk: Martin White was coming in tonight; they were not to be nervous; they were a professional team; they were the best French restaurant in the whole city; do their best and tonight would be perfect!

And then he went back to the manager’s office to chew his fingernails and watch the clock. Counting the minutes until Martin White’s reservation for one, at eight o’clock.

‘Well?’ Alexander shifted from foot to foot on the tiled kitchen floor.

Philippe tossed a handful of langoustine tails into hot garlic and herb butter. ‘It’s a crime we have no sea bass, but-’

‘What’s he ordered?’

Philippe gave the pan one last flick, then poured the langoustines over a fillet of turbot resting on a bed of mashed butter beans with salsa verde. ‘Soup, pate, and crevettes to start with, then the veal, entrecote, turbot, and lamb.’ He wiped the edge of the plate and dressed it with a sprinkle of finely chopped chives. ‘Service!’

‘Good, good. . .’

Marguerite appeared and whisked the plate away into the restaurant.

Alexander glanced at the fridge. ‘And what about . . . you know . . . that thing?’

‘I had Colin throw half the mince in the bin when he came on. Told him it was rancid.’

‘Excellent. Yes, that’s good. Fine.’ He wrung his hands, smiled, fidgeted. Then went to stand at the door, looking out through the glass porthole at the dining room, searching the faces until he found the bane of every restaurateur’s life. Martin White: flabby, pale, with a shock of dyed-black hair, sitting on his own at a table big enough for four. Marguerite offering him the first taste from a bottle of wine, checking to make sure it was acceptable. White’s face clouded over as he swilled the liquid back and forth, then spat it out into another glass and complained bitterly.

‘Oh God. . .’ Alexander bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Things were starting to go sour.

Half an hour later and White was picking at his main courses. Starting with the lamb, then dipping into the other dishes. Making snide comments into a Dictaphone.

Marguerite stormed through from the dining room, burst into tears, went straight into the walk-in fridge, slammed the door, and screamed.

It took Alexander five minutes to coax her out.

‘He’s being such a bastard.’ She slumped back against the pass, wiping her eyes with a dishtowel. ‘The wine’s too warm, the wine’s too cold, the salt’s too salty, the soup’s too wet, the candles don’t smell nice. . .’ And then she started swearing in French, but Alexander wasn’t listening. He was peering out through the porthole at the man who was going to ruin his restaurant.

‘Merde!’

Oh God, what now?

Philippe was on his knees in front of one of the ovens. Staring in at the empty space.

‘What? What’s gone wrong?’ Everything was going wrong!

‘The. . .’ Philippe checked the empty oven again. ‘He. . . They’re gone.’

‘What are gone? Philippe: what’s gone?’

‘The bones.’ Philippe slammed the oven door and stood, eyes raking across the kitchen. ‘Angus!’

The commis chef flinched, nearly dicing his fingers along with the celeriac. ‘Yes, chef?’ Standing to attention.

‘Bones – in this oven. Where?’

A smile broke across Angus’s face, and he sagged a little. ‘I made stock, chef.’ He pointed at the huge pot sitting on the hob at the back of the kitchen – the cooker reserved for boiling bones, vegetables, and off-cuts. ‘Onion, carrot, celery, peppercorns, bay leaf, thyme. . .’ The smile slipped a bit. ‘Something wrong chef?’

Philippe opened his mouth, but the only thing to come out was a small squeak.

‘Chef?’

‘Did. . . Are we using it?’

Angus frowned, as if Philippe had just insulted his mother. ‘Yes chef: it’s good veal stock.’

Alexander stared at the big pot bubbling away, then at the soup, and the sauces and everything else ‘veal’ stock ended up in. Even the fish. They were ruined! ‘I-’

‘Good!’ Philippe managed to plaster on a smile. ‘Er . . . well done.’

‘Thank you, chef.’

It was time for more brandy.

After dessert, Martin White started in on the liqueurs and whiskies. Getting louder and more obnoxious with every drink. One by one, the other tables drifted away, until it was quarter past eleven and the place was empty. Apart from Mr White.

He was probably planning on skipping out without paying as well. Expecting La Poule Francaise to pick up the tab in a last-ditch attempt to curry favour and get a good review. Well, if that was what it would take. . .

‘We should have thrown him out!’ Philippe stood at Alexander’s shoulder, glaring through the porthole at Martin White. ‘Go find a McDonald’s, you fat connard.’

The kitchen was deserted – Alexander had sent everyone home once the washing up was done. Well, there was no point everyone hanging around getting depressed, waiting for Martin White to put them out of business. So now it was just the two of them out back and Marguerite out front; gritting her teeth and serving the horrible Mr White.

‘We’re ruined. . .’

‘Fat pig doesn’t deserve to eat my food!’

‘He’ll give us a terrible review. . .’

‘I should have pissed in his soup.’ Philippe threw his hands in the air. ‘Fuck him. I’m going to get drunk.’ He grabbed his coat and stormed out the back door, slamming it behind him.

There was a flurry of movement in the dining room: White was getting to his feet, preparing to leave.

Alexander straightened his jacket, plastered on his best smile, and went through to meet him. Give it one last shot. Save the restaurant. Even if it meant grovelling and paying for White’s meal.

He got Marguerite to fetch the reviewer’s coat then told her she could knock off for the night. At least this way she wouldn’t see him humiliating himself, bowing and scraping.

‘Mr White!’ He beamed, holding his hands out as if they were old friends. ‘How lovely of you to have joined us. I hope you enjoyed your meal?’

White sneered back at him. His voice was slightly slurred by three bottles of vintage Bordeaux. ‘You can hope.’

There was an awkward silence, broken only by the bell above the door as Marguerite made good her escape.

‘Perhaps. . .’ Alexander picked a napkin off the table, fidgeted with it, sweating, smiling for all he was worth. ‘Perhaps I can treat you to a fine cognac? It’s a 1936 Louis XIII Grande Champagne: quite exquisite. . .?’ And very expensive. But the restaurant was worth it.

Philippe was the first one into work on Friday morning. Head pounding, eyes like devilled eggs, mouth like the bottom of the grease trap. That’s what he got for gulping down tequila and snorting coke at the Bain-Marie in Logansferry till four that morning. Bragging to all his chef friends about the exquisite meal he’d just served up to Martin White.

And it was an exquisite meal, each course more perfect than the last.

White wouldn’t know fine dining if it crawled up his trouser leg and bit him on the derriere.

The review would be in the paper tomorrow. Soon people would start cancelling their bookings – he’d seen it happen time and time again. The only place that consistently got a good review from White was Fandingo’s on Crenton Lane, and why? Because they had a waiter called Dave suck the fat pig’s cock under the table while he ate, that’s why.

Philippe cracked open the fridge. Time to throw the last bags of Kenny into the garbage – let the bin men take care of him. And there, lying on his back in the middle of the tiles, was Martin White. Pasty faced and stiff as a board.

With a small smile, Philippe unrolled his knives and started carving.