Murder Most Frequent: three more Inspector Constable mysteries (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 5)

by Roger Keevil

  MURDER

  MOST

  FREQUENT

  Roger Keevil

  MURDER MOST FREQUENT

  Three Inspector Constable murder mystery stories

  by

  Roger Keevil

  Copyright © 2015 Roger Keevil

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission of the publisher, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside these terms should be sent to the publisher.

  mail@rogerkeevil.co.uk

  www.rogerkeevil.co.uk

  In homage to some of the great ladies of detective fiction – Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, Dorothy L. Sayers, Ellis Peters, Lindsey Davis ...

  'Murder Most Frequent' is a work of fiction and wholly the product of the imagination of the author. All persons, events, locations and organisations are entirely fictitious, and are not intended to resemble in any way any actual persons living or dead, events, locations or organisations. Any such resemblance is entirely coincidental, and is wholly in the mind of the reader.

  Which, of course, you had already deduced!

  MURDER ON THE ROCKS

  DEATH WAITS IN THE WINGS

  LAST ORDERS

  THE INSPECTOR CONSTABLE MURDER MYSTERIES

  MURDER ON THE ROCKS

  Dave Copper cleared his throat. “Guv ...”

  Detective Inspector Andy Constable glanced up from the report before him. “Mmmm?”

  “Is it okay by you if I dump this lot for now and carry on with it tomorrow?”

  Constable looked at the clock on the wall above his junior colleague's desk. Ten past six. “Don't see why not. I can't see that the wheels of justice will grind to a halt if a few time sheets don't make it upstairs until then. Why? Got plans?”

  “Er … as it happens, yes, guv.”

  In the pause that followed, Andy Constable focussed his attention more closely on his colleague and raised a single interrogative eyebrow. “Oh yes?”

  Detective Sergeant Copper coloured faintly under his superior's gaze. “Yes, sir. I'm going out for a meal.”

  Constable put down his pen, swung round in his chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and smiled. “Come along, Copper. You don't expect to get away with it as easily as that, do you? I'm guessing that this is not going to be a burger and chips out of a cardboard box, eaten in solitary splendour at a plastic table under a neon strip light. I know you too well. So come on, out with it – who is she? Let's have the how, where and when.”

  Copper sighed quietly. “Her name's Molly, guv.”

  “Further and better particulars, if you please, sergeant. As far as I was aware, you devote all your waking hours to the pursuit of your police career, leaving no time at all for frivolities like a social life. So where on earth did you get the chance to meet this young lady?”

  Dave Copper grinned. “As it happens, sir, it actually was in the pursuit of my police career. Do you remember that guy who jumped through a window when we went to arrest him, and cut himself to bits? Well, I was the one who got to escort the quite literally bloody idiot to hospital to get himself patched up before we could bung him in a cell - that's where I met Molly. We got chatting – she's a nurse in A & E.”

  “Couldn't resist a girl in uniform, is that it?”

  “Something like that, guv,” admitted Copper.

  “So you've only known her a couple of weeks, then,” deduced Constable.

  “Yes. And we've met up for a drink once or twice, but you know what it's like with shift work, sir, so when she said she had tonight off, I thought I'd give it a go on a proper date. And it's her birthday.”

  “This sounds serious. Where are you taking her?”

  “One of the guys was telling me about this restaurant he knew called the 'Palais de Glace'. Sounds a bit poncy, I know, but he said it's a bit unusual and the food's really good. It's up on The Rocks.”

  “Where?”

  “Sydney Street, guv. There's an Aussie pub called the Captain Cook along there, and a few more bars round the corner in Botany Bay Lane, so people have started calling it The Rocks after the place by Sydney Harbour.”

  “Very whimsical. So will they be serving you kangaroo steaks and tinnies at this place? It doesn't sound too Australian to me.”

  “I think it's supposed to be more classic French, guv.” Copper sneaked a glance at his watch. “And it's a set time for dining – everybody's supposed to get there at seven-thirty, for some reason. So if I can ...”

  Constable chuckled indulgently. “Go on, push off. Go and make yourself irresistible for this poor girl, who probably hasn't the faintest idea of what she's letting herself in for. I'll see you on Monday, and I want a full report.”

  “Guv?”

  “On the meal, dolt! Go!”

  Constable's face bore a smile as he watched his colleague's brisk exit. He saw a young man in his late twenties, medium height with an unruly shock of light brown hair. In the relatively short time that the two had been working together, and despite the age gap of less than twenty years between them, he had come to feel almost parentally fond of Copper, although the sergeant's irreverent take on the business of policing and his occasionally incongruous sense of humour amused and exasperated him in varying measures. But the younger man's occasional sudden insights into the baffling aspects of certain cases, and his dogged determination never to let anything get on top of him, were qualities that the inspector admired, probably unaware that he saw much of his own younger self in Dave Copper's character.

  With a faint sigh, Andy Constable turned his attention to the documents before him. Paperwork – his unfavourite part of the job. And so often the enemy of thought, he mused to himself. He ran his fingers through his dark hair, blessedly thicker than that of many of his contemporaries, although with an increasing sprinkling of grey which he tried not to think too hard about, and settled with determination to his study of the latest demands from the top brass for an improvement on clear-up rates. Oh well, tomorrow is another day, he thought – with luck, something will turn up, and I can stop being a paper-pusher and go and be a proper policeman.

  *

  At quarter past ten that morning, Giuseppe Roni gave a slight start as he was greeted by a sudden gruff 'Morning, Pepe!' as he entered the apparently deserted kitchen. A head of badly-permed grizzled red hair, held back off the face with a knotted headscarf, popped into view above the burners of a large gas range.

  “Oh, Vi! You make me jump. I don't know nobody was there.”

  Violet Leader rose to her feet, puffing slightly as she did so, and peeled off her rubber gloves. Overall-clad, plump and motherly, she gave the young chef a smile. “Don't you worry about that, young Pepe,” she replied in her surprisingly low-pitched Midlands accent. “I'm not going to be here long. And the butcher's just been – he's put all the meat over there where I'd already done the worktop. I was just finishing off this oven – I'm running a bit late because it was all mucky inside. Somebody,” she added accusingly, “has been letting their casseroles overflow.”

  “Don't look to me,” said Pepe. “This week I a
m doing the puddings. You should be telling Oleg.”

  “What, complain to old Lego?” chuckled Violet. “I've got better things to do with my time than have him start on me. Anyway, he's in a bad enough mood as it is. He's out front with Miss D., so I'm keeping out of his way. Soon as he's back in here, I'm off out there to get on with the dining room.”

  As if on cue, the door from the bar crashed open, and a grim-looking man in his forties, dressed in chef's whites, burst through it. Oleg Lamb's forehead was deeply etched with frown lines, and his eyes flashed with annoyance.

  “You still in here, Violet?” he barked. “You should be gone by now.”

  “Just finishing now, Oleg, dear,” replied Violet, apparently unruffled by the abruptness of the greeting. “But I'll be back later to do your veg prep. You just let me know how much you want.” The reply was no more than a grunt of acknowledgement, and Violet picked up her tub of cleaning sprays and cloths. “I'm out front if anyone wants me.” She made for the rear door of the kitchen, almost colliding in the doorway with a short man carrying a case of wine. “Whoops-a-daisy!” she cried, as the two sidestepped each other in a vain attempt to pass through. “Shall we dance?”

  “Oh, stop it, Violet,” responded the newcomer in a rather downtrodden nasal voice. “I haven't got time to mess about. This is heavy, you know.” Alan Key looked to be in his early sixties, with a thin wiry frame and thick heavy-rimmed glasses. His hair, such as it was, was greased down unattractively from a centre parting. He deposited the box on an adjacent worktop and juggled with a large bunch of keys hanging from his belt, before selecting one and unlocking a door next to the entrance through which he had just arrived.

  “Do you want any help?” asked Violet.

  “No thank you,” said Alan primly. “I've got my job to do, you've got yours.”

  “Please yourself, dear,” said Violet. “Just thought I'd offer. Well, I'll get on, then.” She vanished into the corridor, where a brisk and purposeful clatter soon arose from the direction of the utility room.

  “Everything okay, Alan?” asked Pepe hesitantly.

  “Not really, Pepe, no,” replied Alan. “The delivery lorry was late, and then the driver wouldn't bring the wines round the side because he said he didn't have time, so he just dumped everything on the pavement and was off like a shot before I had time to check everything. So I've had to carry it all round to the back yard myself, and now I'm just starting to check it, and I bet it's not all here. I shall be having a word with Miss Delaroche about those wine people, make no mistake. Anyway, I can't stand here chatting all day. I've got work to do.” He turned, picked up the wine case, and disappeared into the wine store to the sound of ripping cardboard and the clinking of glass.

  “Talking of work, Pepe,” remarked Oleg, jamming his chef's toque on to his head and selecting a fearsome-looking knife from the magnetic rack on the wall, “do you propose to join me, or do you expect the food to cook itself today?” He donned a chain-mail glove, reached for a large plastic-wrapped beef rib joint on the tray in front of him and began to tear off its covering.

  “Sorry, chef,” apologised Pepe. “I go out and change straight now. I won't be long.” He shrugged off his backpack and was already removing his coat as he exited into the corridor on his way to the staff shed in the rear yard.

  *

  Angelique Delaroche looked around the deserted dining room of the 'Palais de Glace'. It had been, she reflected, quite an achievement, even though it never looked its best by daylight. The heavy crimson velvet curtains had been pulled back from the large windows, and the light fell unforgivingly on the scatter of tables, naked except for their covering of pink plastic oilcloth, which yet looked so stylish when dressed with lace tablecloths and silver cutlery. The figured wallpaper in a rich purple, highly effective in offsetting the gold frames of the many pictures adorning the walls, made the room gloomy on the brightest days, even when – or perhaps because – the harsh fluorescent working lights shed their featureless glare over everything.

  Angelique gathered together the papers spread over the table in front of her into a neat pile, rose from her seat and, with a quiet sigh of impatience, crossed the room to straighten one of the paintings which had become slightly askew. Her walk, even in those few steps, had an elegance and confidence which consorted well with her whole appearance. Blonde hair drawn back into a chignon enhanced the shape of her oval face, with large grey eyes and shapely, naturally dark but artistically plucked, eyebrows. Her complexion was pale, with subtle touches of blusher and eye-shadow in shades of bronze, toning well with an almost copper-coloured lipstick. Her slim figure, small feet, and hands with immaculately-manicured nails whose polish matched her lipstick perfectly, contributed to an almost agelessly chic image, and nobody meeting her for the first time would have guessed that she was in her early forties.

  The rattle of the letterbox in the front door interrupted her reverie. Crossing to the small lobby, she bent down to collect the mail, and leafed through it as she returned to her seat. The usual mixture – junk mail with the latest offers from an ever-increasing number of broadband providers, and brochures from cruise companies who, for no discernible reason, had added the restaurant's address to their mailing list and who now laid out a tempting selection of destinations at almost irresistible prices. If only, thought Angelique. A few hand-written envelopes which looked as if they contained welcome deposit cheques for party bookings – Carey can deal with those, decided Angelique, placing them in the reservations book which lay open before her and closing it with a slight grimace. She tore open the envelope from the bank and cast her eye down the monthly statement of the restaurant's finances before laying it aside to be scrutinised later. The final item of mail was a heavy cream envelope bearing the discreetly-embossed logo of a prestigious London firm. Intrigued, she slit it open and, with steadily widening eyes, began to read the contents.

  *

  In the flat above the restaurant, Toby Rockard folded the spare towel neatly and placed it on top of the other sports kit in his backpack. As he glanced around the bedroom, he caught sight of his reflection in the range of floor-to-ceiling mirrored wardrobe doors and, automatically tensing without even being aware of the fact, allowed himself a moment of quiet self-approval.

  A little over medium height, Toby had the broad shoulders of a swimmer, tapering to a waist which bore not even the slightest trace of the beginnings of the spare tyre which so many of his anguished thirty-ish contemporaries at the gym were beginning to notice in themselves. That the body was well-toned was obvious, but without the over-defined musculature which betrayed the fanatic, although a sculptor would probably have used discretion in fining down the particularly sturdy calves, whose presence was doubtless accounted for by the lycra cycle-shorts their owner wore. The face was good-looking, well-proportioned in an unremarkable way, with deep-set almost black eyes looking out from beneath a heavy flop of dark brown hair. Toby reached for the tee-shirt lying on the foot of the bed and pulled it on.

  Moving into the living room of the flat, Toby opened the heavy velvet drapes to their widest extent to let more of the mid-morning light flood into the room, pushed aside a jumble of brocade cushions, and sprawled on the sofa. Not for the first time, he gave a little snort of impatience. All this stuff is all very well in the restaurant, he thought, but I wish Angie had left it downstairs instead of cluttering this place up with it as well. He picked up his diary from the coffee table before him and began to leaf through it to review his appointments. Just one client for this morning, and two for this afternoon. Good job I checked, he thought – I'd forgotten that Karen cancelled for this evening. I'd have looked a right fool if I'd turned up on her doorstep in the middle of her dinner party. And I must remember to call the community centre to see exactly when they want me to start those spinning classes. He consulted his large, ostentatious, and extremely expensive sports watch. Time to go. He returned to the bedroom, laced on his trainers, hefted his backpack o
n to his shoulders, collected his phone, keys, and cycle helmet from the table by the front door, and clattered down the stairs towards the restaurant rear entrance.

  *

  As Candida Peel returned to her desk at the InterCounties Media Group offices, her colleague at the adjacent work station looked up.

  “You've just missed a call. Greg wants a word. Can you call him back, please.”

  “Well, he'll just have to wait,” responded Candida airily. “I can't do everything at once. If I don't get this review proofed within the next half hour, I shall miss the print deadline for next month's county mag, and then I shall have the editor down on me like a ton of bricks. Perhaps Greg would like to have to explain that to him! Oh no … wait a minute,” she laughed. “Greg is the editor. So he can hold his horses until I've finished.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, put her glasses back on, and leaning forward, prepared to give her attention to the screen in front of her.

  Candida Peel's striking looks were the envy of several of her journalistic colleagues, who suspected that they were often the reason why she was chosen for a particularly plum assignment interviewing an awkward local politician or a visiting celebrity. Her generous tumble of auburn curls, entirely natural in colour, offset a pair of dazzlingly bright green eyes which occasionally hid behind a pair of heavy-rimmed designer glasses. The glasses were mostly an affectation – in truth, they were only necessary for reading the smallest of small print, but Candida found them useful in helping to dispel the prejudice, particularly among some of her older and more hidebound interviewees, that beauty and brains did not go together. Her figure, generous without being plump, was a marked contrast to the models who graced the fashion pages of the magazines in which her articles appeared.

  “You know, I feel sorry for you sometimes, C.” Her colleague rose and came to look over her shoulder. “It must be a terribly hard life, getting paid to go out and enjoy yourself.”