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

by Roger Keevil

  “It's a dirty job, Paula,” smiled Candida in agreement, “but somebody's got to do it.”

  “So which restaurant was this?” asked Paula. “Go on, give me all the gruesome details so that I can be really jealous.” The questioner's ample proportions were an indication that the subject of food was of some interest to her.

  “Bistro just opened over at Camford,” replied Candida. “New old-fashioned sort of place, done up a bit like a French wine cellar with half-barrels for tables, loads of naked brick walls, and racks and racks of wine bottles – sadly, most of them empty.”

  “Never mind about the décor,” interrupted Paula. “Get to the bit about the food. That's what they send you to write about.”

  “Quite good, actually. Sort of Creole-peasant fusion.” Candida noticed the time display on her screen. “Look, I would love to take you through the meal course by course, but if I don't get this done soon, I really will be for the chop. You can read all about it and drool over the photos when the article comes out next month.”

  Paula was reluctant to be dismissed. “I still don't see how you can enjoy a meal properly when you're on your own. And you're out again tonight, aren't you? I think Greg said that's what he wanted to talk about. You know, you ought to take someone else along for a second opinion. Somebody like me, for instance,” she hinted with a heavy lack of subtlety. And when Candida refused to rise to the bait, “Anyway, that place must have been all right.” Paula took a final look at the screen before returning to her own desk. “You've given it four-and-a-half stars.”

  Candida's face wore a quiet private smile. “That's because I'm a generous woman.”

  *

  Carey Agnew finished shaving carefully, wiped the residue of foam from his chin, and splashed his face with cold water. He surveyed the result in the mirror, opened the bathroom cabinet, took out a diminutive pair of scissors, and trimmed a couple of errant hairs in his pencil moustache. Satisfied with the outcome, he returned to the bedroom and donned an immaculate white shirt, before turning his attention to the selection of a tie.

  Carey was a dapper middle-aged man, slim and almost six feet tall, with an air which hinted at the possibility of some sort of military background. His silvery grey hair was neatly brushed back with a flawlessly precise parting, and the carefully-judged sideburns were not too short, not too long. His manner was that of a perfect gentleman – an air of charm, friendly without being over-familiar, and a beautifully modulated voice with the faintest hint of a Scots burr, made him the perfect choice to deal with the clientele of an elegant restaurant. And so when the opportunity had arisen some few years before to become the visible face of the 'Palais de Glace', he had seemed the ideal candidate. In his tailored blazer with accompanying regimentally-striped tie at lunchtimes, or formal ensemble of black jacket and striped trousers for evening service, he trod a carefully choreographed path, welcoming guests to the restaurant and escorting them to their tables, offering information and gentle advice as to the menu, while preserving a discreet but firm discipline over the waiting staff and a cordial relationship with the kitchen.

  The clock on the mantelpiece in the living room of Carey's small but smart garden flat showed that there was plenty of time in hand, and he poured himself a whisky before settling down in an armchair by the window which overlooked the tiny tree-shaded green plot at the rear of the Edwardian house. He picked up the morning's paper and began to peruse the contents, leafing swiftly over the latest depressing news about the international situation, the current medical scandal, and lingering briefly on one or two of the more interesting crime stories, before folding the paper, reaching for a pen, and preparing to tackle the crossword, his cat purring contentedly on his lap. After three quarters of an hour, and with three clues still stubbornly refusing to elucidate themselves, he looked again at the clock, rose to his feet, brushed off the thankfully few cat hairs from his trousers, put down a fresh saucer of milk in the kitchenette, donned his jacket and, quietly humming, set out on the short walk to the restaurant.

  *

  “May I have a moment to consult my client for further instructions, madam?”

  “By all means, Miss Hancart.” The magistrate's voice held a tone of dry reserve. “I'm sure that would prove extremely helpful to the court.”

  Eleanor Eagle turned to the young man, shiny-faced and smartly-suited, seated by her. She lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. “I really think you have no choice now. You've done what your insurers asked, but in the face of the police officer's evidence and the footage from the traffic camera, it's pointless to carry on with a 'not guilty' plea. If you change now, I may be able to persuade the magistrates to let you off with a smaller fine. Agreed?” The response was the nod of a nervous rabbit.

  Eleanor rose to her feet once again. “Madam, my client has reflected on his position and has instructed me, with the court's permission, to amend his plea to 'guilty'.”

  Some five minutes later, justice briskly executed, Eleanor gathered up her papers and made her way out of the courtroom, through the lofty pillared hall, and down the steps of the civic building, prior to crossing the busy road towards her office. As she approached the porch of the former Georgian gentleman's town house, one of an elegant terrace which curved away to the left, she once again experienced the familiar pleasure at the sight of the brass plate which read 'Griffin, Lyon, Peregrine and Hancart'. Even after ten years, the tiny warm glow of triumph still manifested itself.

  Eleanor Eagle was a woman who did not stand out in a crowd. Of medium height and build, and with brown hair in a neat businesslike bob, she was smartly dressed in a tailored charcoal grey jacket over an unfussy white blouse, with a slim black skirt and black patent court shoes. Her only concession to flamboyance was her briefcase – maroon alligator leather, and clearly extremely expensive. But she felt that by now she had earned a small amount of self-indulgence. A long process of studying law at an unfashionable establishment, followed by a struggle to find a place in a practice at a time when many attitudes among legal circles still looked down on the attempts of women to make their way in the profession, and an unconscionably-long period made up of the drudgery of note-taking and conveyancing, had eventually culminated in the desired breakthrough. After the death of the extremely hidebound senior partner in the practice, a welcome change in atmosphere had led to the offer of a partnership, and Eleanor's maiden name, which she had determinedly retained in her professional work despite a brief marriage to a motor company executive, had been proudly emblazoned on the firm's letterhead. Her reputation as an advocate had grown. And these days it was well known among the lesser criminal classes of the area that if you were faced with a charge in the magistrates' court, you went straight to Eleanor Hancart.

  “Morning, Elle!” came the cheery greeting from one of Eleanor's young colleagues as he clattered down the steps from the front door. “How'd it go?”

  “Same old same old,” said Eleanor with a mock grimace. “As Oscar Wilde said, the good ended happily and the bad unhappily.”

  “Well, it all pays the bills,” replied her colleague. “See you later.” He climbed into his car as Eleanor pushed open the front door and entered the building.

  “Any messages, Glenda?” she enquired of the smart young woman behind the reception desk.

  “I've left them on your desk, Miss,” said the receptionist. “Oh, and Miss Ladyman rang. She wanted to know if you were free this evening. She said she was just going out, but she'd call you again later.”

  “Thank you, Glenda.” Eleanor headed for her office, closed the door behind her, dropped her briefcase with a quiet groan, and seated herself at her desk.

  *

  At Mallory's Gallery in a narrow lane off the High Street, Georgina Ladyman closed the door behind the exiting customer with a practised professional smile and an inner sigh. Yet another time-waster.

  With short thick iron-grey hair brushed back attractively from a strong-featured face, loose-fi
tting fawn slacks teamed with an open-necked blouse in a soft blue stripe, and a casually-knotted blue scarf around her neck, Georgie had the look of the sort of artist who would have been found working at her canvas around the harbour of St. Ives in the 1930s. Whether the look was a deliberate nod to the expectations of those who visited her gallery in search of an unusual piece of art work for their house or office, or whether it was simply a personal style with which she felt comfortable, was impossible to say.

  She walked slowly from room to room in what had been, before its conversion into a small but stylish gallery ten years earlier, an ordinary terraced workman's cottage, and surveyed the collection of items with quiet approval. Though she said it as shouldn't, she thought, she did have pretty good taste. In few cases was there anything so vulgar as a sale price on display – most items bore a small coloured sticker which indicated that there was a discussion to be had. Tiny but exquisite watercolours of Indian rajahs in the midst of a tiger-hunt rubbed shoulders with pencil sketches of human hands or animals which, for those who could not afford an actual Albrecht Dürer work, were a very acceptable substitute. Bronzes of wildfowl in flight stood alongside delicate oriental ceramics in subtle shades of blue and pink. Heavily-textured abstract canvases of swirls and geometric shapes kept uneasy company with fragile antique ivory carvings. And the pale faces and solemn eyes of sixteenth-century notables gazed across the room at oil paintings of the country estates of their eighteenth-century descendants on the opposite wall. Quite a journey, she felt, for the girl who started with nothing, from a very ordinary family on a nondescript estate. But a talent for art had been spotted by a perceptive teacher during her schooldays, and the pursuit of a degree course in the history of art had opened doors into the world of auction houses and galleries. With a few years of the routine of house-clearance valuations behind her, and with a belief that her apprenticeship had been served, Georgie had taken a position as assistant administrator of a small municipal art gallery but, with the aid of an unexpected windfall from the will of a distant relative, had achieved the ambition of creating her own modest business. Mallory's Gallery, named in honour of the beneficent great-aunt, had at its inception received quiet acclaim from the art establishment, and had even garnered an approving mention or two in the more intellectual Sunday papers as a source for the tastefully unusual.

  Georgie reached for the telephone to make a brief but unsuccessful call. Glancing at the face of her large unfussy watch with its plain dial and robust numbers, she seemed to reach a decision, slung her sturdy leather bag over her shoulder, put up the 'Closed' sign on the front door and, locking it behind her, headed for the High Street.

  *

  Oleg Lamb, had he been given to moments of introspection, which he most emphatically was not, would have readily admitted that he was not the easiest person in the world to get on with. But then, with his background, he had never really been in a position to refine his social skills.

  With his roots in an Italian family which had moved to Scotland as part of a wave of twentieth-century migration, the most notorious result of which had been the Glaswegian ice cream wars of the 1980s, Oleg had grown up in a world where a talent for football had provided an enticing opportunity to escape from a grimy world and even less appealing prospects. Named for his grandfather, a Russian sailor who survived the Arctic convoys and settled in Clydebank after the Second World War, Oleg was spotted by a scout from a local team in one of the lower divisions, but his natural ability soon had him heading upwards into loftier regions among the English game. Sadly, what promised to be an exciting career was cut short by a knee injury following one of his trademark aggressive tackles, and in his twenties, he was forced to look for another path in life.

  What had looked like a disaster, however, turned out to be a happy accident, and it seemed as if the apple had not fallen very far from the tree when a temporary job helping out in the kitchens of a friend's hotel revealed an obviously innate, but hitherto unsuspected, skill in cooking. The intriguing qualities of the story had provided an amusing topic for the media, and soon Oleg had achieved some degree of celebrity as his talents and reputation blossomed. An appearance on the television programme 'Cooking Up A Storm' had done his reputation no harm at all, despite his often prickly reactions to the efforts of others, presenters and contributors alike, and he was even contemplating opening his own restaurant when, one day, he received a telephone call from Angelique Delaroche. The offer was persuasive – a woman with ambitions for her restaurant was seeking a chef with ambitions for his own career, and soon the deal was concluded. Neither had so far had cause to regret the arrangement – Oleg had been given a virtual free hand to exercise his talents within the restaurant's terms, and Angelique had seen the reputation of her establishment soar, following the breathtakingly-swift award of a prestigious Pirelli Diamond accolade not long after Oleg's arrival.

  Oleg placed the prepared beef joints in the meat refrigerator and looked across the kitchen to where Pepe was beating a batch of egg whites in the food processor. He raised his voice above the whine of the machine.

  “Have you thought about what you're going to do for the ice carving tonight, Pepe?”

  Pepe switched off the machine and turned to face the head chef. “Only a bit. Somebody tell me that today is Shakespeare's birthday, so I think maybe I do something for that. Perhaps I do a bust of Shakespeare, or maybe some characters, like Romeo and Juliet.”

  “How about Lady Macbeth?” muttered Oleg, half to himself.

  “Excuse me, Pepe,” said Alan Key, emerging from the wine store. “I couldn't help overhearing. I suppose, being a foreigner, you wouldn't know that the twenty-third of April is also St. George's Day, would you? Why don't you do something nice and English like St. George and the Dragon?” he suggested in his prim voice.

  “Yeah,” agreed Oleg. “Do a dragon. That'd be perfect.” With a snort, he turned back to the worktop where several brace of pheasants awaited his attention.

  *

  Of all his dining experiences, mused Dave Copper, this was probably the most memorable, but the one he would most like to forget.

  The evening started well. Copper collected Molly from her flat sharp at seven-twenty – the young nurse looked even prettier than on their previous encounters, with her dark hair caught back to show off her elfin features to their best advantage, and a dress in some sort of floating fabric in shades merging from lilac to plum. A thin gold chain with a single diamond pendant adorned her throat. An uncharacteristically slightly nervous Copper felt glad that he had chosen his newest and smartest shirt.

  “Good evening, sir – madam,” oozed Carey as they entered the restaurant in the wake of the small group of people who had passed through as the doors opened just before the couple arrived. “Welcome to the 'Palais de Glace'. Mr. …? Copper? This is your table here. Please be seated – here is your waitress with your glass of champagne, compliments of the house, and I shall be with you shortly.”

  “Free champagne?” giggled Molly. “They're pushing the boat out, aren't they?”

  “I think I may have mentioned that it was your birthday,” confessed Copper. “So, many happy returns.”

  As the two sipped their drinks, Copper took the opportunity to survey the dining room of the Palais de Glace. Palatial was indeed the first word that sprang to his mind. Everywhere was the sparkle of crystal, with twinkling chandeliers overhead and wall lights with cascades of faceted drops scattering a myriad of tiny points of light all around the room, echoing the reflections from the cut-glass wine goblets on the tables. Silver cutlery and silver candelabra bearing crimson candles gave a more muted gleam, forming an elegant accompaniment to the dull gold glow of the picture frames ranged around the walls. And presiding over all, in pride of place opposite the entrance, a grand portrait of a young woman in extravagant eighteenth-century court dress, her silver-grey hair adorned with ostrich plumes, and her piercing blue eyes perfectly offset by an exquisite necklace of diamon
ds nestling on her immaculate white bosom.

  The meal did full justice to the setting. A procession of ever-more enticing dishes was paraded around the tables for the visual delight of the guests, before being served by the waitress, a middle-aged woman with a quietly competent air. The bottle of wine suggested by Carey proved to be the perfect accompaniment. And as the evening progressed, the young couple grew steadily more at ease in one another's presence as they learned more about one another, the conversation ranging over topics as varied as childhood anecdotes, holiday destinations, and favourite television programmes, with all the while an unspoken agreement to avoid the subject of their work. And it was with faint surprise that Copper noticed that several of the other guests were beginning to rise from their tables to leave.

  “I had no idea it was that time already,” he said. “I suppose we ought to think about going, or we'll be the last ones here. I hope I haven't talked you to death.”

  “Of course you haven't, Dave,” smiled Molly in reply, reaching across the table and placing her hand on his. “It's been really nice. And we're not in any hurry, are we? I'd love a coffee.”

  “Oh. Right. Sure. Er … excuse me.” Copper put out a hand to attract the attention of Carey Agnew, who was just returning from the front door after seeing two women off the premises amid a flurry of smiles and cries of 'Thank you' and 'It's been lovely'. “May we have some coffee please?”

  “Certainly, sir,” replied Carey smoothly. “I'll bring it to you straight away.” He passed through to the kitchen. “Coffee for two for Table 6, please,” he said to Oleg Lamb, “and I'd better take Her Majesty's through to the office as well. Actually, I'll do them. If you're going out front, you'd better get a move on – people are going.”

  “If I must,” grunted Oleg in surly tones. “Better get a fresh apron, hadn't I?” He stamped out through the rear door of the kitchen.