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

by Roger Keevil

  “Isn't that just the tiniest bit devious, sir?”

  “Of course it is, sergeant. I didn't get where I am today, and so on, and so on. Softly, softly, catchee murderer. Right, you get on with that, and I shall sit here quietly for a second and marshal my thoughts.”

  “Righty-ho, guv.” Copper disappeared round the corner into the bar, where the sound of muttered conversation arose shortly afterwards.

  Constable's reflections were brought to a close by the sergeant's reappearance.

  “Sorted, guv,” declared Copper. “She'll be here in time for Mrs. Eagle's meeting, but she thinks she's just coming to talk to you. So, what next?”

  “I have a mental list,” said Constable. “I want to go back on one or two things people have said to us, but I think the first thing I want to do is verify this matter of the company cheque-book.”

  “Check up on the cheque, eh?”

  “Precisely.”

  The detectives made their way along the rear corridor towards the office, but were surprised to hear the murmuring of voices and the clatter of utensils coming from the kitchen. Constable poked his head through the door.

  “Mr. Lamb,” he exclaimed. “And Mr. Roni.” The chefs looked up, equally surprised at the police officers' appearance. “I didn't expect to find you at work today. You do realise, the restaurant can't open until our investigations have reached some sort of conclusion, don't you, Mr. Lamb?”

  “Of course I do,” snapped Oleg. “I'm not stupid. But in case you hadn't noticed, since you wouldn't let Violet in here on Saturday morning, nobody cleaned up the kitchen after Friday night, so unless I want the place crawling with cockroaches, somebody has to do it properly for the time when, if ever, you decide to let us open again. And since Pepe and I have got nothing better to do, we're getting on with it. If that's all right by you, of course, inspector?” The irony in his voice was manifest.

  “That's absolutely fine, Mr. Lamb,” said Constable mildly. “In fact, I'm rather glad you're here, for two reasons. Firstly, it saves having to get in touch with you, because Mrs. Eagle and Miss Ladyman will be coming in this morning with some news regarding the restaurant's future. And secondly, I wanted a quiet word with you, in fact on that very topic.”

  Oleg gave a look of consideration to the inspector. “Pepe,” he said abruptly, “go and lose yourself for five minutes.”

  “Okay, zio,” said Pepe, climbing to his feet from where he had been cleaning the surface beneath a set of gas burners. “What you want I should go?”

  “I don't know,” replied Oleg irritably. “Go and count the blocks of ice in the freezer or something.”

  “Okay, chef.” Pepe disappeared towards the back door.

  “So? What?” The old belligerence had returned to Oleg's voice.

  “Mr. Lamb,” began Constable, “I've been wondering if you've been completely straight with me. When we spoke before, you told me that there were no sources of tension between yourself and Miss Delaroche. But when I listen to other people, I find that that isn't entirely accurate. I think you had concerns about the way the restaurant was being run. I think you were troubled by the fact that business has been on the decline of late. And I think that you were afraid that all this might jeopardise your Pirelli Diamond, and you might well have thought that something should be done about the situation. Any comments on that?”

  Oleg sighed and leaned against a worktop. “Wouldn't you, in my place? Okay, I know we haven't been doing so well lately, but that's not the fault of my kitchen, and Angelique should have known that. I've worked hard to get that Pirelli Diamond, and I was damned if I was going to let her lose it for me.”

  “So, what? Drastic action to sort out the problem?”

  “Don't be ridiculous, inspector,” scoffed Oleg. “Murder isn't going to do the place's reputation any good, is it? I want people to come and eat my food, not frighten them away. And the last thing I needed was a bad write-up from Candida Peel all over the press. We all know how she operates. I talk to other chefs – I know what goes on. And I don't care if the money is tight or not – if it took a little special treatment to keep that Peel woman sweet, Angelique should have done it.”

  “But you think she didn't?” suggested Constable.

  “Weren't we just on our way to find out exactly that, sir?” murmured Copper in his ear.

  “We were,” said Constable. A thought struck him. “Hold on a moment.” He delved frantically through his memory. “Didn't Pepe Roni just call you 'zio'?”

  “So?”

  “Just a minute.” Scraps of recollections of a distant childhood holiday in Italy arose in Constable's mind. “Isn't 'zio' Italian for 'uncle'? And when we were talking to him, Pepe referred to you at one point as 'Uncle Oleg' – you remember, Copper?”

  “Yes, sir. But I thought it was just some chef thing.”

  “Is it, Mr. Lamb? Or are you and Pepe actually related?”

  Oleg shrugged. “So – what if we are? That's not a crime, is it?

  “Hang on, guv – I've got a note that Mr. Lamb told us he was Russian.” Copper sounded increasingly bewildered.

  “And I thought that, when you asked us if we wanted your grandmother's maiden name, you were having a little joke with us, Mr. Lamb,” said Constable drily. “So, just to set my obviously confused sergeant's mind at ease, could you oblige with a little more detail? Where does the Italian link come in? Are you Mr. Roni's uncle?”

  Oleg looked skywards in irritation and sighed. “Cousin, actually, inspector. Or second cousin, or something like that. We're all Italian from way back. Pepe's grandmother was my father's sister – she went back to Italy when she got married to her husband Giuseppe, and my father stayed in Scotland and married Grandpa Oleg's daughter. Is that clear enough for you and your sergeant? Although exactly how this is relevant to your job in finding out who killed Angelique is a mystery to me.”

  “And that is obviously what Vi Leader was meaning when she said that this whole place was a proper family concern,” persisted Constable. “I assume that when Pepe wanted a job after his stint on the cruise ships, the first thing he did was contact his relation in a smart restaurant.” A nod. “And I've just had another thought. Miss Leader also said that you may use the name Lamb, but that isn't the whole thing. So is Lamb your actual name, sir? Doesn't sound too Italian.”

  Oleg glared. “This is actually getting ridiculous. What the hell has that got do with anything?” And as it became clear that the inspector was intending to wait until he obtained an answer, Oleg capitulated. “Lambrusconi, if you must know. Not exactly a name you'd associate with the highest levels of cuisine, is it? 'The Pirelli Diamond is awarded to Oleg Lambrusconi'? I don't think so. So I dropped it as soon as I could. Now, is there anything else you want, inspector, because my patience is wearing extremely thin, and I'd like to get on.” Oleg's hackles were clearly rising again.

  “I think that gives us quite enough to go on with, sir,” said Constable calmly. “For the moment. And I wouldn't want to hold you up longer than necessary – of course you must get on.” He made to leave, but paused. “But I hope you'll be able to spare some time when Mrs. Eagle arrives. No doubt what she has to say will affect everyone.” He stepped though the door to the corridor, Dave Copper at his heels.

  *

  “Bit of a turn-up, that, guv,” remarked Copper in lowered tones. “Who knew? Not that I suppose the fact that he's Pepe's uncle or whatever-it-is has anything to do with anything. Nothing unusual in giving a job to a member of the family.”

  “And after all, the Italians did invent nepotism,” commented Constable.

  “Do you suppose there's any mileage in the Italian connection, guv?” wondered Copper. “You know, hot Latin blood feuds, and so on. And our Mr. Lamb is not what you'd call the calmest of characters. Maybe it all got too much for him, and he grabbed that knife Forensics have got and did the dirty deed in a fit of fury. It's all a bit clichéd, I know.”

  “Far too clichéd for
my liking,” agreed Constable. “Plus, if what Dr. Mortice told us is right, that knife doesn't fit the bill as the murder weapon.”

  “So what's it doing getting chucked away, sir?”

  “Another question we shall have to ponder. In the meantime, shall we do what we set out to do, and see if that chequebook is anywhere to be found.” Constable tapped on the office door and, in response to the reply, entered, to find Carey Agnew at the desk, the reservations book lying open before him, a half-full brandy glass at his elbow. The head waiter regarded the detectives nervously.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Agnew,” said Constable, taking a seat across the desk from Carey. “There was just one item we wanted to take a look at, if that's possible. Do you happen to know if Miss Delaroche kept the company chequebook here in the office?”

  “I believe so, inspector,” said Carey. “Just a moment.” He began to open the drawers of the desk. “It should be … yes, here it is.” He held it out to Constable. “Were you … I mean, did you want it for any special reason?”

  “No, nothing special at all, Mr. Agnew,” Constable reassured him blandly. “There was just something I needed to verify.” He leafed through the stubs. “Tell me, just as a matter of interest, is this the only chequebook on the account?”

  “I really don't know, inspector. But I can't see why there should be another one. Miss Delaroche always took care of paying all the bills personally.”

  “So was she the only signatory?”

  “No, I think Miss Ladyman can also sign the cheques, being one of the partners. But I don't know that she ever did so. Why, is it important?”

  “That's the thing, Mr. Agnew,” replied Constable. “We can never tell what's important until we have all the facts. One thing I am sure of is that, as of now, we don't have all the facts, so I hope you may be able to fill in some gaps. Two, in particular. Firstly, I gather, from what your colleagues have been saying, that you had something of a run-in with Miss Delaroche on the afternoon of her death.”

  “Oh, that.” Carey licked his lips, and his eyes darted from side to side. “But that was nothing really, inspector. Just a slight misunderstanding over a wine order. Not important at all. What was the other thing?” he hurried on.

  “I'm also told,” continued Constable, noting the evasion, “that you spent quite a considerable time attending to Miss Delaroche and the other ladies who were dining here on Friday evening. I was just wondering if the conversations between the three ladies might have shed any light on what happened.” Constable raised his eyebrows in invitation.

  Carey met his look and shifted uneasily in his chair. “Well, of course it's true that you can't help overhearing customers when you're serving them, inspector – it just happens. A well-trained waiter should be all but invisible – people tend to forget he's there.”

  “How extremely useful,” said Constable, a hint of amusement in his tone. “So no doubt this fortuitous cloak of invisibility allows you to hear all manner of things. Such as ...” He waited.

  Carey succumbed to the pressure. “I know Miss Ladyman and Mrs Eagle are supposed to be old friends, but it certainly didn't sound like that on Friday night.”

  “Really, sir? Care to elaborate on that?”

  “Of course, I didn't hear all of it – just snippets. But Mrs. Eagle said something about 'things going missing' and 'the Queen not being too happy to lose them'.”

  “Any inkling as to what they were referring to?”

  “I'm afraid not, inspector.” Carey now seemed eager to co-operate. “They were keeping their voices quite low, and I couldn't linger, obviously. I did think at the time that it all sounded very tense. But a little while after that, I heard Miss Ladyman make some remark about Mrs. Eagle 'still keeping up the standards of her old profession', and then she said something to the effect of 'just the three of us, but that can easily change'.”

  “And was Miss Delaroche with the other ladies at this point?” enquired Constable.

  “No,” said Carey. “That was before she joined them at their table. She didn't sit down until we were about to serve the main courses. But they all seemed very friendly after that.”

  “Seemed?” The inspector caught a note of uncertainty in Carey's voice.

  “I don't know – it just seemed to ring a little untrue.” Carey shrugged. “I couldn't say why, but when you've been dealing with the public as long as I have, you pick up these things. And while Miss Delaroche was with them, she quietly said to Miss Ladyman 'We have something to discuss. It's important', and it sounded to me as if it was something she didn't want Mrs. Eagle in on. And I can't remember whether it was then or later, but I do know Miss Delaroche looked across towards where Mr. Rockard and Miss Peel were sitting, and she didn't look happy at all. It was more of a glare, really. I just kept my head down – it usually pays to do that.”

  “I think that will probably do us for now, Mr. Agnew,” said Constable, getting to his feet. “A little more food for thought. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Eagle will be coming in a little later to talk to everyone – I hope you'll be available.”

  As the detectives left the office, Carey leaned back in his chair with a look of relief, picked up his brandy glass, and downed the remaining contents.

  *

  “Here's a thought, guv,” said Dave Copper, as the two detectives stood outside the entrance to the stairs towards the flat above the restaurant. “What if Angelique Delaroche had got serious about Toby Rockard, and she'd either made him some sort of partner in the restaurant or was planning to do so? She'd need Mrs. Ladyman's okay for that. That might give him a nice financial motive for bumping her off. Although … no, hang on. That wouldn't work if the place isn't doing too well business-wise. Or … how about if she'd planned to do that, but then she was having second thoughts because she saw him cosying up to Candida Peel? We know that Miss Peel wouldn't be averse to getting her claws into him.” The sergeant reflected for a second. “Damn! That doesn't work either. It's more likely to give Delaroche a motive to kill Rockard rather than the other way round. You know – a woman scorned and all that.”

  Andy Constable smiled slightly. “I have to say, sergeant, that your wild flights of speculation are a great source of joy to me. I'm sure, if left to yourself, you could come up with a plausible reason for everybody to want to kill everybody else.”

  “Just trying to inject a bit of sideways thinking into the situation, guv,” said Copper, a touch defensively. “Like you're always telling me to.”

  “I'm not discouraging you, David,” said Constable, in an unexpected softening of tone. “The oblique view is very helpful sometimes. And I think you're not wrong in considering the Rockard factor as part of the mix, which is precisely why we're on our way to see him now.” He started to climb the stairs. “That is, if he's in.”

  He was. When Toby Rockard opened the flat's door in response to the inspector's knock, Constable noted the dark shadows under the other's eyes. The stubble seemed a little more prominent, and a little less designer, than before.

  “Oh. You again.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rockard. I'm sorry if we're disturbing you, but we'd like a few words, if it's not inconvenient.”

  “Yeah, fine,” replied Toby. “You'd better come in.” He led the way into the sitting room and threw himself down in his customary place on the sofa. “I wasn't doing anything anyway. My morning appointment called to cancel anyway – stupid woman was cooing on about 'tragic loss' and 'she'd quite understand if I couldn't go ahead under the sad circumstances'. I couldn't get off the phone quick enough. So then I thought, to hell with it, and I scrapped the rest of the day.”

  Constable decided to come straight to the point. “I can appreciate your difficulties, Mr. Rockard. The thing is, I don't believe that some of those difficulties haven't had at least some small contribution from yourself.”

  “What?” Toby sat up a little straighter. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Well, to be blunt, sir, the sit
uation regarding Miss Candida Peel. I'm not sure we've had the full story from you. We've spoken to the lady herself, who seems to have one view of the relationship, but on the other hand, other people have given us evidence of an altogether more fraught version of the situation. Hints of coercion of some kind, perhaps?” Constable deliberately kept the references vague, in the hope of drawing Toby out into indiscreet revelations. “So tell us, exactly how did you feel?”

  “You want the truth, inspector?”

  “Always helpful in my profession, Mr. Rockard.”

  “Okay then. You're right – yes, I wasn't too happy with Angie over this Candida Peel business, but that's no reason to kill her.”

  “And by 'Candida Peel business', you're referring to the … arrangements, I suppose is the best way to put it … between yourself and Miss Peel on the night in question. But Miss Delaroche's input wasn't exactly conducive to the sort of loving relationship of two people living together which you indicated to us before, was it, sir? Or did you perhaps impart a little additional shine to that for our benefit?”

  “Look, Mr. Constable,” said Toby, leaning forward to give his words extra emphasis. “Any time I wanted to get out of this situation, all I had to do was walk. I'm not tied to this place – I haven't been dependent on Angie for support. Okay, it's all been very comfortable, but I've got plenty of people who are only too happy to pay me a lot of money to do what I do. All right – so what if they are mostly women, and what if they are mostly older than me? That's just the way the world works.”

  “And, of course, wealthy women will always enjoy dining at fine restaurants, won't they, sir?” mused Constable. “I'm wondering if that was ever a consideration.”

  “You think what you like,” riposted Toby. “But I'll tell you one thing – I was worth too much to Angie for her to think about chucking me out or paying me off or whatever.”