Popping a new batch of their signature Parmesan and courgette puffs into the deep fryer, she glanced over at Fergus, plating at the pass. His long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing the deep dimple that showed even when he was frowning in concentration. He bent over a plate, adjusting a bit of garnish with the tweezers in one hand, adding a dot of bright green pea purée from a squeeze bottle in the other.
“Pay bloody attention, can’t you?” Guy snapped at her.
“Sorry,” she said automatically, pulling up the fryer basket and dumping the puffs on a kitchen-towel-lined baking pan to drain. They were perfect, and would go on the plates with the scallops and the pea purée.
Guy passed the hot puffs to Fergus, then turned back and patted her on the bum just as she was lowering another batch into the oil. His hand slid between her legs and squeezed. “And next time why don’t you give me some of that while you’re at it, darling?”
She spun round with the basket, still dripping hot oil, in her hand. “Keep your hands off me.”
“Whoa, whoa, sorry.” He backed away, holding up his hands. “Just a little joke.”
“Not. A. Joke. You do that again and you really will be sorry.”
Fergus had looked up from his plating. “Shut it, the both of you. I told you I didn’t want any of that shite in my kitchen.”
She was furious, the blood pounding in her ears. “Then tell this arsehole to keep his fucking hands off me. I’m just doing my job.”
Fergus looked from one to the other. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking—she’d learned she often couldn’t read him. What the hell had she just done? “You.” He pointed his tweezers at Guy. “She’s right. You are an arsehole, and she’s been doing half your work. You’re fired.”
“You can’t do that.” Guy sounded more incredulous than indignant.
“I can. Get your kit and get out of my kitchen.”
For a moment, Viv thought Guy was going to punch Fergus. Then he shook his head. “You’re off your nut, you know that, Fergus? Who’s going to work sauté?”
“She is. Now bugger off. I’m not telling you again.” Fergus turned back to his plating.
Guy took a step towards Viv. “You bitch.” Spit sprayed her face. “You are so going to regret this.” Then he turned on his heel and shoved his way out of the kitchen, knocking into Mikey, who was on garde-manger, and very nearly making him lose his grip on a tray of veg.
More orders were piling up at the pass.
Ibby said, “But, Chef. I’m on grill. I should be—”
Fergus lowered his voice. “You’ll do fryer as well. Get those orders up now.” Fergus wasn’t a shouter, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a ferocious temper. Viv had learned that when he dropped his voice, you had better watch out.
“Yes, Chef,” she and Ibby said at the same time, but Ibby gave her a venomous look.
Shit. The bastards. Moving to the sauté station, Viv poured oil in the pan. Her hands were shaking. She’d been sure she’d be the one walking. Why hadn’t Fergus fired her? She placed the waiting scallops in the pan, pressed them with the spatula. She must do this right.
By the time she’d passed the finished scallops to Fergus, concentration on the task had begun to slow her racing heart. Fergus pressed a scallop with his finger, nodded, and began adding them to the plates. A wave of relief made Viv feel light-headed, but she forced herself to focus on the orders. Within half an hour, even with a man down, service was running smoothly. Even Ibby seemed to have got over his sulks and together they made a good team.
By the end of the night, customers were coming to the pass to thank Fergus—or if they were female, to look at Fergus, Viv thought with a roll of her eyes.
When they’d closed the kitchen down, Viv went, as usual, to get her coat and bag from the little basement office. Their space was too cramped for a locker room. The blokes changed in the storage cupboard off the walk-in. Viv had taken to just changing her shoes and switching out her chef’s jacket for a sweater in the tiny staff toilet. Tonight she was too tired even to do that. She was pulling her coat off the hook when Fergus stuck his head round the door.
“Oi, Viv. Come for a drink.” Most nights after service, Fergus and the rest of the blokes would go to one of the clubs on the King’s Road and drink until the wee hours, but Viv had never been invited. Nor had she wanted to try to be one of the boys—that way lay pathetic.
“Oh, thanks, Chef, but I’d better—”
Fergus stepped all the way into the room and said quietly, “Listen, I don’t want you walking out of here on your own tonight, okay? Just a precaution.”
Oh, hell. Guy. Viv had forgotten all about him. She frowned. “You don’t think Guy would—”
“He’ll get over himself, or at least he will when he gets another job. But meanwhile there’s no sense in being stupid.”
“Oh, right.” Now that she thought about it, Viv did not want to walk out of the restaurant’s dark back entrance by herself. “Okay.”
“Get changed, then.” Fergus went out, leaving Viv to contemplate going to a club in the trainers she’d worn to work that morning, with a woolly jumper over her checked kitchen trousers. Oh, well, what the hell. Why not? She was still so buzzed with the service adrenaline that she’d never be able to sleep, anyway.
They left the restaurant together, all except John, who’d begged off, rather to Viv’s relief as she didn’t fancy dodging another groper. The night had turned a deep, sharp, biting cold, and their breaths puffed out before them as they walked. Fergus fell into step beside her, matching his long stride to hers, and for the first time she felt comfortable in his presence outside the kitchen. Their footsteps were barely audible on the pavement. Ahead of them, Ibby and Mikey were arguing over the latest football results, but even the sound of their voices seemed muffled by the cold.
When she could see the lights of the King’s Road ahead, she said into the silence, “Why did you fire him, and not me?”
She sensed Fergus shrug beneath his heavy coat. “Simple. You’re a better cook.”
Chapter Ten
Having seen Grace run out of the scullery, Kit had returned to the kitchen and found Viv staring at the stacks of dirty dishes with her hands in her hair.
“I have to go,” she said, looking up at him. “To the police headquarters, with Detective Booth. They—they need me to do something. And I don’t know how I’m going to get all this mess sorted.”
Kit had seen the man in the dark suit, on the terrace with his dad and Sir Ivan, and had wondered who he was. “Can I help?”
Some of the tension seemed to go out of the chef’s shoulders. She gave him a smile that he could see took an effort. “You don’t mind?”
He shook his head. “No, honestly.”
“Okay, then. All the jars and the camping tins need to go back to the pub. If you can load them in the van, they’ll go in the dishwasher there. But all of Lady Addie’s things need to be rinsed and put in the dishwashers here. You know there’s a second one in the scullery?”
“Got it.”
Kit followed her out to the drive, where the detective was waiting, and watched them get into the black Volvo and drive away.
Puzzled about what had happened, he’d gone looking for Gemma and found her bringing in yet another tray from the garden.
“Why did Chef Viv have to go with the detective?” he asked. “She can’t have done anything wrong.”
“No, love, I’m sure she hasn’t.” Gemma deposited the tray on the scullery work top and turned to him, her expression serious. “But the people in the car that crashed into your dad last night both died, and it seems that Viv knew one of them, the man, from when she used to work in London. Detective Inspector Booth just wanted her to confirm the man’s identification.”
“She’s not in trouble, then?” Hating the squeak in his voice, Kit started unloading plates from Gemma’s tray.
“No, of course not.” Gemma touched his shoulder so t
hat he had to look at her. “You were a big help today. You two really hit it off, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “She’s cool. I like helping,” he added, shrugging to indicate that it was no big deal. He did a good bit of the cooking at home, and sometimes he even helped their friend Wesley Howard in the kitchen of the café where Wesley worked part-time. But today with Viv had been different. He’d felt, not just important, but . . . essential. That was it. Like she really couldn’t have managed without him—and her a real professional chef.
“I’m sorry this weekend isn’t turning out the way we’d planned,” Gemma said, shifting the last of the plates.
“It’s okay.” Kit thought of the walks he and his dad had planned, just the two of them. They’d downloaded maps and worked out routes, and even filled day packs with compasses and snacks and bottles of water.
When he asked why they needed compasses, his dad had teased him. “You can’t do everything on your phone. It’s the country. You might not even have a signal.”
Obviously, those walks were not going to happen. But if Kit had been disappointed, just for a bit, it had scared him to see his dad with his head and hand bandaged. And that was before he knew that the other people in the crash had died. He felt stupid for having gone on to Doug about a new car. “Dad’s going to be okay, isn’t he?” he said to Gemma now, feeling the knife prick of worry.
“He’s fine. Just a little banged up.” Gemma put her arm round him and gave him a quick squeeze. “He’s having a rest. I’ll go and check on him as soon as we get things squared away here.”
They had worked in companionable silence, rinsing and filling the dishwashers, the clink of china and glassware a counterpoint to the regular chatter of voices from the front hall as the Talbots said goodbye to their guests. The ladies from the village who’d helped with the serving left as well, and through the open scullery door, he heard faint bangs and thumps as Doug and Melody and the gardener, Joe, folded chairs and broke down tables.
Roz, the blond woman who seemed to work for Lady Addie, came in with an armload of tablecloths for the washing machine. She looked a little flustered, Kit thought. Behind her was Melody, with another bundle of linens.
“Has anyone seen Grace?” Melody asked. “I told Viv I’d drive the van down to the pub and take Grace home as well.”
“I’ve no idea,” snapped Roz. “I’ve enough to do without child minding.”
Kit saw Gemma’s eyebrows go up at her tone. “I’ve put Toby and Charlotte in the sitting room with a video,” she said, mildly, “but Grace wasn’t with them.”
“I’ll find her,” Kit volunteered, feeling suddenly hemmed in by the air of tension in the room.
He went out the scullery door onto the terrace. The tables and chairs had vanished and the lawn looked as pristine as a bowling green. Doug stood at the edge, his back to the house, deep in discussion with Joe. The earlier spatter of rain had stopped and the sky had begun to clear; the rain had brought a little chill to the air.
“Has anyone seen Grace?” Kit called.
“Grace?” Doug turned, looking puzzled.
“The kid with the glasses.” Too late, Kit wondered if Doug would think that was rude, but Doug had already turned back to the view.
“Not lately,” said Joe.
“What about the dogs?”
“No idea.”
“Okay, thanks.” Kit wondered why everyone connected with Beck House seemed to be cross. The food had been super, and from what he’d seen, the luncheon had been a big success.
Leaving them, he’d wandered in the direction of the glasshouse and the storage shed—although shed seemed the wrong word for the sturdy, stone-walled building. He peeked inside, seeing nothing but stacked tables and chairs, mowers and gardening equipment.
Next, he poked his head into the muggy warmth of the glasshouse. It smelled like the potting soil Gemma used for the geraniums on their patio. Long tables covered with pots and plants and plastic trays stretched down either side of the building. The floor held bags of soil and fertilizer and wooden crates filled with more gardening tools. He was about to move on when he heard a sound.
“Grace?” he called, then stood still to listen.
There it was again, a little snuffle. He walked down the center aisle, peering behind things, until he came to some crates that were double stacked a few feet from the end. There was a space between the crates and the back of the building, and in it was Grace, sitting on the dirt floor with her arms wrapped round her bony knees. “Grace? What are you doing in here? Everyone is looking for you.”
“Go away.” Her face was tear-streaked and her nose red as a Christmas bulb.
Kit brushed away a few cobwebs and sat down beside her. “Melody wants to take you back to the pub.”
“I don’t want to go home.” Grace wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jumper. “I don’t want to talk to you, either.” She turned her face away.
“Why? I thought we were friends, earlier.”
Grace gave a little hiccup and the tears started sliding down her face again. “That was . . . before.”
“Did I do something?”
Shaking her head, she wailed, “Nooo.” She swiped at her eyes, knocking off her glasses. Kit picked them up and polished them on the hem of his T-shirt, then handed them back without looking at her. “Thanks,” Grace mumbled. “It’s nothing to do with you.”
Kit thought for a moment. Grace had seemed fine until her mum had spoken to her in the scullery. “Are you worried about your mum having to go to the police, then?”
“No.” Grace gave him an offended scowl, as if it were ridiculous to think she’d be worried about her mother. Kit had to bite his tongue. This was clearly not the time to tell her that her mum was nice and that she was lucky to have her.
If it wasn’t about her mum, then, was Grace upset about the car crash? He frowned. They had talked about the lady, Nell, and Grace had seemed to be okay with that. But she hadn’t known about the man, then, had she? Was that what Chef Viv had told her in the scullery?
“Grace, is this about the bloke who died in the crash?”
This time she sobbed in earnest and hugged her knees tighter. “I can’t believe he’s dead. He was—he was nice to me.”
“You knew him?”
She nodded, gulping. “He— He was— He said he—”
“Kit?” came Gemma’s voice. “Are you in here?”
“Coming,” he called. Standing, he brushed off the seat of his jeans and held out a hand to Grace. “We’d better go. But I’ll try to come down the pub,” he whispered. “If you want to talk.”
Booth watched Viv Holland as she stood at the mortuary viewing window, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. On the other side of the glass, the attendant pulled back the sheet. Viv gave a little gasp, then stood motionless for a long moment.
“Is it Fergus O’Reilly?” Booth asked. The crush injury at the top of the man’s forehead had not marred his profile, and there had been no blood to wash out of his long, curling hair. O’Reilly’s other injuries had been minor, surprisingly.
Her shoulders slumping, Viv nodded, then reached out and touched the glass, very gently. “I know it sounds trite, but he looks so . . . peaceful. Fergus was always moving. If he wasn’t cooking, he was talking, or pacing, or fiddling with something. That . . . injury”—she nodded towards O’Reilly’s head—“did it— I don’t like to think of him being in pain.”
Booth wasn’t ready to tell her O’Reilly hadn’t died in the crash. “I doubt he suffered,” he said, which was neutral enough. “Did Mr. O’Reilly have any distinguishing marks?”
“A tattoo. On his left forearm. Fergus didn’t approve of tattoos, but we talked him into it one night.”
“We?”
“The cooks.” Viv pushed up the left sleeve of her chef’s tunic. “Like this.” On her forearm, a small chef’s knife and a honing rod were crossed beneath a stylized toque. Above the toque floated a tiny rosette.<
br />
Booth spoke to the mortuary attendant through the speaker, and the woman lifted the sheet to reveal O’Reilly’s left forearm. The tattoo matched.
Viv turned away, her eyes swimming with tears, as if that small thing had hurt her more than the sight of O’Reilly’s face. “Can we go now?” she said abruptly. “I’ve got to get back to the pub.”
When they reached the car park, Booth saw that the earlier shower had stopped while they were inside. The sky still looked threatening to the west, however, so there might be more rain to come. “You had a lot of faith in the weather forecast, planning an outside luncheon today,” Booth said as he unlocked the car, hoping to relax the atmosphere between them.
Viv didn’t answer until she’d fastened her seat belt. “Addie had a marquee on hold until midmorning. But, yeah, we scraped by.” She fell silent as he drove, her face half turned away from him.
She looked, Booth realized, exhausted. When, after a moment, he said, “I am sorry about your friend,” she started as if she’d been miles away.
“I wouldn’t exactly call Fergus a friend.”
“Former employer, then. In any case, I know that what you’ve just done is very difficult.”
Viv just nodded.
Booth tried another tack. “You’re not in touch with anyone else who knew him?”
“Well, of course, there’s Ibby—” she began, then, on a rising note of distress, “Oh, dear God, I’ll have to tell Ibby. I didn’t even think about him— How could I be so—”
“Who’s Ibby?” broke in Booth.
“My sous-chef.” Viv took a breath. “We both used to work for Fergus.”
“Did he still keep in contact with O’Reilly?”
“Christ, no,” she said, then shot him an abashed glance. “I mean, no, I doubt it. I’m sure Ibby would have mentioned it,” she added, but she sounded a little uncertain. She was silent again, her hands, which had been open in her lap, were now tightly clasped.
But when Booth glanced at her a few moments later, her eyes were closed and her face had relaxed. He thought she might have actually fallen asleep. He didn’t disturb her, glad of the time to think about what he should do.
A Bitter Feast Page 11
