by Roger Keevil
“So I assume those two would have gone out into the restaurant?”
“No,” contradicted Pepe. “It was all three of them, because I think Miss Delaroche was waiting for some friends to arrive also.”
“ And how about your own movements during the rest of the evening?” asked Constable.
“I was in the kitchen all the time, until I bring the ice carving through into the back hallway on its trolley at a quarter to ten. This was just after Miss Delaroche come into the kitchen to say that she was in the office if anybody want her. And then Edna, she came in and said she was going home early because Carey had said he could manage without her, and Uncle Oleg tell me I can go too, because we had finished everything, and he was just about to do his rounds out front.”
“I think he mentioned something about that when we spoke to him, didn't he, sergeant?”
“That's right, sir. Said he was on his way to my table when everything kicked off.”
“Mr. Roni?”
“Yes, he did it every evening. It was Miss Delaroche's idea. Oleg would go round some tables at the end of the evening to talk to the customers – you know, 'did you enjoy the meal?', 'did you have a favourite dish?', that sort of thing. He hates to do it, but Miss Delaroche, she insist. Calls it 'P.R.'. So he was going to do that, and Edna said if I was going she would give me a lift, so we came out here and I change quick and then we both go. This was ten o'clock, because it was the news on her car radio. And that's all I know until this morning.”
*
“You promised me Keats, guv,” remarked Dave Copper, as the detectives headed for Andy Constable's car. “You never said anything about Shakespeare.”
“I would have thought by now, sergeant,” responded the inspector with a smile, “that you would have got used to the ceaseless flow of intellectual enrichment resulting from my impressive classical education.”
“Absolutely, guv,” Copper grinned in agreement. “It's like having Wackypedia on legs. So, I assume it's a case of continuing with Plan A and nipping off to see Candida Peel?”
“Correct. And I for one shall be quite interested to learn a little more about the nature of her relationship with our Mr. Rockard.”
“Toby or not Toby, is that the question, guv?”
Copper was rewarded with another long slow stare from his superior. “I suppose somebody had to say it eventually,” he sighed. “Get in the car. And for that, you can drive.”
The offices of the InterCounties Media Group were slightly less impressive than the name might suggest. Occupying the top two floors of a modest red-brick office block, enhanced with bright blue window-frames, which also housed on its lower levels the local branch of a nationally well-known firm of accountants and the headquarters of a house-building company, the group included three local radio stations, whose studios lurked in gloomy nooks dotted around the third floor, and the editorial and advertising operations of a surprisingly long list of print titles.
“Doesn't look much for a big press organisation, sir,” commented Copper as the detectives emerged from the car in the sparsely-populated car park, alongside a sign with bore the names of numerous regional newspapers and magazines. “I was expecting something a bit more industrial.”
“You're thinking of the old days, sergeant,” said Constable. “You've been watching too many old films. Printer's devils and thundering presses, and Fleet Street lined with the palaces of the national press. Long gone, I'm afraid. These days, all someone needs to produce a magazine or a newspaper is a computer and a link to a printing company which, like as not, is sitting in Cornwall or Aberdeen or Malaga. That's if they bother to go to print at all, and don't just publish everything online. Apparently it's called progress. 'Où sont les neiges d'antan', eh?”
“'Où?' indeed, sir,” replied Copper, who had been caught out by this comment before and had taken the precaution of looking it up. He surveyed the row of bell-pushes alongside the loudspeaker mounted adjacent to the locked front door. “Ring the bell, shall I?”
“Can I help you?” came the unenthusiastic tinny-voiced response.
“Police,” said Copper shortly. “We're here to see Miss Candida Peel.”
“Top floor. Lift's on the right.” Buzz.
Emerging from the lift, the detectives were greeted, if that was the right word, by a stick-thin girl, bright green streaks in her hair, who looked to be barely into her mid-teens, pecking at a computer keyboard in a desultory fashion. Eyes fixed on the screen before her, she gave a flick of the head and a mumbled 'She's through there'.
“Thanks for your help,” said Constable, keeping as much irony as he could manage out of his voice, as he made for the door indicated.
Candida Peel was seated at her desk, apparently consulting a smart-phone as she translated the contents into the document she was creating on-screen. She took off her glasses and stood. “Sergeant Copper, is it?”
“That's me, miss,” said Copper. “I'm the one you spoke to on the phone earlier. And this is Detective Inspector Constable.” Candida held out her hand with a welcoming smile. “He needs to ask you some questions about the murder of Miss Delaroche.”
“Of course. And do please sit down, gentlemen. Coffee?”
“Not at the moment, miss, thank you,” replied Andy Constable, as the three seated themselves. “I'm afraid our time's not entirely our own, so I think we'd better press on.”
“So it is definitely murder then, inspector?” asked Candida, wide-eyed. She casually played with a lock of her hair. “All I was told was that it was a sudden death.”
“Definitely murder, I'm afraid, miss. And I'm given to understand that not only were you acquainted with Miss Delaroche, but you were on the premises yesterday evening.”
“Yes, I was, although trust me not to be around at the crucial moment.” Candida smiled ruefully. “My editor is never going to forgive me. Not that I'm normally involved with the crime stuff that goes into the locals, of course – I'm not that kind of journalist.”
“So what kind of journalist are you, Miss Peel, if I may ask?”
“Features, mostly,” said Candida. “Pretty much anything that's of interest to readers in our catchment area, from local authors, commemorations of historic events, society weddings – you name it, I'm there with my little phone to record things.” A toss of the auburn hair and a laugh, in which Constable thought he could discern a touch of nervousness. “And restaurants, of course. I write the restaurant review column for the county magazine, and if it's somewhere really special, my stuff sometimes gets picked up by the nationals, which is rather nice.”
“And last night, you went to the 'Palais de Glace' for a meal.”
“Yes. Quite by chance, really. My editor wanted a piece on the restaurant, so that was all arranged – in fact, I had a quick chat with Angelique yesterday morning, and she very kindly laid Toby on as an escort for me for the evening, which I thought was sweet.” She broke off. “Toby Rockard – that's her partner. Did you know?”
“We have spoken to Mr. Rockard already, Miss Peel,” replied Constable. He decided to try a shot in the dark. “You're quite good friends, I believe.”
“I … I don't quite see what you mean, inspector.” The hint of nervousness reappeared in Candida's voice.
“I mean that you and Miss Delaroche were friendly,” explained the inspector comfortably. “I'm assuming that, with your journalistic activities connected with the restaurant trade, it would have been unusual if your paths hadn't crossed at some time. And I think Mr. Rockard and Miss Delaroche had been together for quite some little while, so I assume you knew him as well. Which, of course, brings us very conveniently to the matter of your presence in the restaurant last night. Now, to what extent did your path cross with that of Miss Delaroche during the course of the evening?”
“Oh, hardly at all,” said Candida. “She came and said hello when I arrived, but of course after that I was with Toby all evening. I remember seeing her on and off, but I dare sa
y she was busy, and it's not really the done thing for the restaurateur to come and hover over me when I'm supposed to be doing an unbiased review. I remember she was sitting with two other women for part of the time – friends of hers, I think Toby said. But I was paying more attention to the food – and to Toby, naturally.” She smiled artlessly.
“Naturally,” said Constable. “So that was all you saw of Miss Delaroche?”
“Well, no, I popped out to her office to thank her for the meal, and then I left. And I suppose that would have been about ten to ten.”
“And you left alone?”
“Yes, of course I did,” snapped Candida in a sudden burst of irritation. “Inspector, you seem to be getting at something, and I'm not sure what.”
Constable smiled. “Miss Peel, I'm sure you're not a stupid woman. I think you know exactly what I'm getting at. I'm wondering whether the friendship, relationship, call it what you will, between yourself and Miss Delaroche and Mr. Rockard could possibly contain the seeds of tension which might have a bearing on Miss Delaroche's murder. We've already spoken to one person whose information indicates that possibility, so a little more plain speaking might help us both out.”
Candida paused for a few moments in thought, and then seemed to make a decision. “Okay, inspector. Here's a bit more information for you. You want some plain speaking? Fine. I like Toby, and I think he's wasted on Angelique. For a start,” she continued with the brutality of youth, “she's far too old for him. Was, I mean. But that's got nothing to do with anything. Do you seriously imagine that I would go killing Angelique in order to get my hands on Toby? The idea's absurd!”
“Stranger things have happened, Miss Peel,” countered Constable.
The reply was a snort of ridicule. “Look, inspector, I've no more idea than you seem to have as to who would have wanted to kill Angie. But here's something for free. I'm a journalist, so I meet a lot of people, and I get to hear a lot of things. And one of the rumours that's been floating around of late is that the 'Palais de Glace' is on the rocks financially. That doesn't mean that the food's not great – far from it. In fact, you can only admire Oleg for what he's done in the kitchen, but let's face it, the kitchen isn't everything if you aren't getting people in through the door. Why on earth do you think restaurants are so keen to get good reviews in the media?”
“Obviously, to promote the business.”
“Exactly. And Angie was a realistic businesswoman, and she knew that in business you've got to have a bit of give and take, if you know what I mean. She was only too well aware what can happen if the bad word gets around.”
“Which, I assume, given what you've said in praise of the restaurant, was in no danger of happening in this case, Miss Peel?”
“Naturally.” Candida gave a quiet cat-like smile.
Constable's returning smile was enigmatic. “And who said there's no such thing as a free lunch?”
*
“I'm just asking myself exactly how far I could throw her, guv,” remarked Dave Copper as the detectives returned to their car.
“Considerably further than you could trust her, sergeant,” agreed Andy Constable. “So, not blinded by the lady's slightly obvious charms?”
Copper thought it best to ignore the remark. “The thing is, sir,” he persisted, “she's dropping hints left, right, and centre about the state of the restaurant and the people involved, but you can't help wondering if this is just some diversionary tactic. Could she be hiding the tree in the middle of the forest? Could it really be as simple as the fact that, like she said, she wanted to kill Angelique Delaroche so that she could get her hands on Toby Rockard?” He gave a dismissive laugh. “And even as I say it, guv, I'm thinking that it's just as ridiculous as she said it was.”
“And as I said,” replied the inspector, “murders have been committed for less. Let's not discount the theory too prematurely. Motives are funny things. So on that subject, I think we ought to delve a little deeper into the cui bono aspect of the case.”
“Guv, you're doing it again,” protested Copper. “I know you see it as your mission in life to expand my education, but the language options at my school never went much further than French, and I've already had today's French lesson. Is this another one of your legal Latinisms?”
“Well spotted, sergeant. We'll make a detective of you yet. So here's another one for your collection.”
“Great,” muttered Copper under his breath. “Move over, locus in quo and habeas corpus.”
“Cui bono,” continued Constable as if his junior had not spoken, “is the legalese for 'to whose benefit?'. In other words, who profits, in whatever way, from a crime?”
“Or for ordinary dull-witted foot-soldiers such as me, what's the motive?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, we've already got a hint of one or two, haven't we, guv?” Copper chuckled. “And I wouldn't mind betting that, if Candida Peel had given Oleg Lamb a bad write-up, she'd probably have found herself on the wrong end of a carving knife.”
“What a relief that we've just got the one dead body to deal with, sergeant,” said Constable. “Let's concentrate on the case we have. Miss Peel seemed quite anxious to draw our attention to a certain amount of financial iffyness in the air, so I think our next port of call ought to be the other partner in the business. Remind me …?”
“Miss Ladyman, sir. Owns a gallery just off the High Street.”
“And you have the address?”
Copper leafed quickly through his notebook. “Yes, guv.”
“In which case, sergeant, as the song says, get in and drive.”
At the jingling of the old-fashioned bell over the entrance to Mallory's Gallery, Georgina Ladyman looked up from behind the counter. “Yes, gentlemen? Can I help you?”
“Would you be Miss Ladyman?” enquired the inspector.
“That's right. Georgina Ladyman, but everyone calls me Georgie.”
Constable and Copper proffered their identifications. “We're making enquiries into the death last night of Miss Angelique Delaroche. I believe my sergeant here has already had a brief word with you.”
“That's right, inspector. And in fact, he's probably already told you, I was actually in the restaurant last night. Not at the time, of course. I'd left by the time it happened. But is it true – was she actually murdered?”
“I'm afraid so, miss.”
Georgie paused a moment in apparent shock, and her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, that's awful. I didn't really want to believe it.” After a few seconds, she seemed to gather herself together. “So, how can I help you?”
“Is there somewhere a little more private we should go?” suggested Constable. “I wouldn't want to disrupt your business.”
“Oh, that's all right,” said Georgie. “I haven't got any customers in at the moment. In fact,” she added, moving to the front door, “I'll put the 'Closed' sign up, and then we shan't be disturbed.” She did so, and turned back to the detectives with a businesslike air. “So, inspector, what would you like to ask?”
“I really wanted a little more information about your relationship with Miss Delaroche.”
“Angie and I?” Georgie gave a wistful smile. “We go back years, ever since we were art students in London together. Of course, she wasn't Angelique Delaroche then – that was just the professional name. She wasn't French at all – no, she was just plain Angela Stone when we were together at college. And we've stayed friends over the years.”
“No, actually, it was rather more your business relationship that I was interested in,” said Constable in clarification. “I understand that you were a partner in the 'Palais de Glace' restaurant.”
“Oh yes, that's true,” said Georgie. “Yes, we've been partners in the place ever since she had the chance of buying a restaurant about five years ago. She'd always had this dream, even while she'd been doing other things. She gave up quite a high-powered job in advertising to start it up, too. And she sank a fortune into it. I think s
he probably mortgaged everything she had, but I suppose when the chance to realise a dream comes along, you seize it with both hands, don't you?” The wistful smile reappeared. “And it worked. The 'Palais' was a great success. That's when she changed her name, of course – I think she probably thought it would add just a little touch more credibility to the place if the owner of a French restaurant sounded French. Silly, I know, but sometimes image matters.”
“And the success continues, I assume? Given the restaurant's reputation?”
“Ah.” A hint of unease crept into Georgie's voice. “Well, of course, inspector, given the way the economy is at the moment, people tend to have rather less to spend on the luxuries of life. I mean, look around you.” She assayed a light laugh, which did not ring entirely true. “I'm not exactly overrun with customers this morning, am I? But that's the way of business – it goes up and down.”
“Even a restaurant with an award for the excellence of its food?” queried Constable.
“The Pirelli Diamond? Oh yes, we're all very proud of that. I have to say, Angie did very well when she chose Oleg to be the new head chef when his predecessor left. He is such a talented man, once you get past the rather discouraging exterior.”
“We've spoken to Mr. Lamb, madam,” put in Dave Copper with a smile. “We know what you mean.”
Georgie gave a small frown of puzzlement. “Sergeant, am I right? Have we met? Your face seems familiar somehow.”
“Not exactly met, madam,” returned Copper. “You probably recognise me because I happened to be at the restaurant last night. As, of course, were you.”
“Which brings us back rather neatly to the matter in hand, Miss Ladyman,” resumed Constable. “You were dining at the 'Palais de Glace' last night with a friend, I believe, and I think I'm right in saying that Miss Delaroche spent part of the evening with you.”
