by Roger Keevil
At that moment, Dave Copper's mobile rang. “Sorry, guv,” he apologised, as he fished in his pocket. “Hello … just a sec … it's Dr. Sicke again for you, sir. She's got some more information ...”
“Tell her I'll ring her back in two minutes,” said Constable, unwilling to hold the conversation in front of a suspect. “So that will be all for now, Mr. Rockard. But please come down to the restaurant in about half an hour, if you would be so good, because I'd like to continue our little chat then.” The invitation was clearly more of an instruction. “And don't bother to get up – we'll see ourselves out.” He turned and headed for the stairs.
As the detectives rounded the corner of the building, they almost collided with Pepe Roni, who was emerging from a small shed alongside the main staff shed in the rear yard. The young chef was sucking a finger.
“Are you want me again, inspector?”
“No, not at all, Mr. Roni,” replied Constable breezily. “I think we've got more than enough information on you and your family to be going on with. Finished your ice-counting, or whatever it was you were doing?”
“Yes,” said Pepe. He indicated the shed. “Is the overflow freezer room – we don't have not enough space in the kitchen, so the ice blocks, they live out there. And we got plenty, special if we don't know when we're going to be open again.” He looked down ruefully at a smear of blood on his apron. “And they got sharp edges – I should have wear gloves. I better put a plaster on my finger.” At Constable's gesture of agreement, he disappeared through the back door and into the restaurant.
“Want me to call Dr. Sicke back for you, guv?” prompted Dave Copper, as the detectives followed the chef into the building.
“Do that,” said Andy Constable. “Let's find a quiet corner and hear what she's got to say.” He sat at an empty table and held out his hand for the proffered mobile. “Hello again, doctor … alright then, hello Fran. I gather you're making progress?”
“There's a couple of things I thought might help you,” replied the scientist. “That shredded letter – we've managed to piece together the letterhead, or at least enough of it to tell us who it was from. And that's Christeby's Auctioneers in London.”
“Somebody's keeping very elevated company,” remarked Constable. “They're in Bond Street or some such, aren't they?”
“The very same,” said Fran. “That's the blessing of an engraved letterhead – the raised characters stand out, which helped us to pick them out from the rest of it. I've got a phone number if you need to call them.”
“I may have to if you can't reconstruct the rest of it. Any luck there?”
“Sadly not as yet. Just one word which seems to have jumped together of its own accord, and that's 'court'. Other than that, work still in progress, but I thought knowledge of the sender might be of use.”
“I'm sure it will be. And you said there was something else?”
“Well, there is and there isn't. That sheet of paper from the victim's desk with the bloodstain on it ...”
“What about it?”
“Nothing really. Just to confirm that it's absolutely consistent with it being her blood – nothing funny going on there. It's just that it's somewhat diluted, and nobody's mentioned a water spillage or given us a glass to look at. Could SOCO have missed something?”
“I doubt it - they're always pretty thorough,” said Constable. “You'll find that out when you get to know them better. So if they haven't passed anything on to you, I can only assume that it's because there was nothing to pass.”
“Just a thought,” said Fran. “Well, we'll get back to work. More when we know it.” The line went dead.
In response to Copper's quizzical look, the inspector swiftly relayed the burden of the conversation. “This mention of 'court', guv,” said the sergeant, seizing on one of the facts revealed. “That sounds like something to do with Mrs. Eagle. Although what she would be doing getting letters from posh London auction houses beats me.”
“Me too, for the moment,” admitted Constable. He glanced at his watch. “However, we shall be in the fortunate position of being able to ask her before too long, provided her appointment doesn't run over.” As if in response to his words, there came a crash from the direction of the back door, and Elle Eagle appeared at the end of the corridor.
“Good morning, inspector,” she greeted Constable as she deposited her briefcase on a nearby table. “I managed to get away a little sooner than I expected. And I've called Georgie – she'll be here soon. I hope that's not inconvenient.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Eagle,” replied Constable. “Very much the reverse. It will give us a chance to have a little chat before you get down to business.”
“By all means, Mr. Constable,” replied Elle, a little uncertainly. “Although I'm not sure what more I can tell you, other than the facts pertaining to the future of the restaurant which I shall be telling everyone else.”
“Take a seat, Mrs. Eagle,” said Constable, pulling out a chair for her and seating himself across the table. “You see, we can't really talk about the future until we've got a completely clear picture about the past. Because knowledge of the past can throw up some very interesting possibilities regarding people's motives for killing Angelique Delaroche.”
Elle looked puzzled. “This is all very mysterious, inspector. I don't suppose you'd care to be a little more specific, would you?”
“I'm not sure that I dare, Mrs. Eagle,” smiled Constable. “You being in the position you are. The last thing I would want is to find myself on the wrong end of accusations of defamation. But if, say, someone had told me that a young law student had at one time been financing her education through unconventional means – means of which not everyone might approve, morally speaking – then I would have to look at that in the context of a potential motive for wishing to prevent that knowledge from becoming public. I'm sure that, as a woman well versed in the law, you would understand that. I speak purely hypothetically, you understand.”
“I think you are very wise to do so, Mr. Constable,” replied Elle in frigid tones.
“And of course, in the absence of any evidence, I would not expect you to comment.”
“We all have things in our past which we'd rather people didn't know about,” said Elle, rather to Constable's surprise. “I'd be amazed if you haven't turned up a few of those while you've been pursuing this investigation. Georgie, for example. I assume she's been telling you tales of the old times in London, but I dare say she didn't paint a fully-detailed picture, so to speak. And I wonder if you know all there is to know about Carey.”
Constable frowned. “I don't know if you're referring to what we seem to have observed, which is that Mr. Agnew is, shall we say, very familiar with the range of drinks which his bar is offering to the restaurant's customers. But perhaps that is all part and parcel of being a good sommelier. He certainly seems to have the background. I was quite impressed by the fact that he'd spent some time at 'Maxim's' in Paris.”
Elle gave a snort of derision. “Is that what he told you?” She laughed. “Time at 'Maxim's' indeed! Oh inspector, I do hope that you don't believe all the rubbish some people try to foist on you.” The amusement faded from her face. “I'm probably leaving myself wide open here, but I don't think that you'll be too surprised that a woman in my profession has many contacts with the police. Some of them are official – some not exactly so. I have friends in your business – no, don't look interested, because there is no chance that I'm going to name names – but from time to time, they provide me with information. Yes, of course they aren't supposed to, and it would be highly unethical if I were to use it in an inappropriate way. But sometimes it's personal. So when one of my contacts got wind of one particular piece of information, knowing that I had links with Angelique and her restaurant, he put it my way. And the fact is, the only 'time' Carey has served in France was not at 'Maxim's' – it was in a maximum security prison because he used to have a nice little career as a con man and a jewel
thief on the French Riviera. Now there's a piece of personal history that I'm sure he wouldn't want revealed.”
Constable was slightly taken aback at the waspish note which had entered Elle's voice. “How fortunate for him that this didn't all emerge before he came to join the 'Palais de Glace' family, Mrs. Eagle,” he observed.
“I doubt if it would have made any difference,” said Elle. “Considering whose family he is.”
“Sorry?”
“Oh dear,” smiled Elle. “You really don't have all the facts, do you, inspector? Let me see if I can help you out. Agnew - I dare say you did French at school – you might remember enough to know that 'agneau' is French for 'lamb'. Carey's original name is Carlo Agnelli – the drunken fool is Oleg's cousin!” As the detectives regarded her with astonishment, Elle picked up her briefcase and opened it with a snap. “And now, if you will excuse me, inspector, I really think I ought to glance through these papers one last time before the meeting.”
Copper's eyebrows rose at the dismissive tone, but his superior seemed in no way ruffled by Elle's words. “Of course, Mrs. Eagle. And the sergeant and I have one or two things to do, so we'll leave you to it.” He stood and, followed by Copper, made his way out into the rear yard of the restaurant, and remained for a few moments, silently gazing into space.
Copper thought he recognised that faraway look. 'The guv's cogs are turning,' he thought. “What are we doing out here, guv?” he enquired tentatively.
“Keeping out of range of eavesdroppers, chiefly,” replied Constable. “There seems to be far too much of that going on around here as it is.”
“What, you mean like the stuff that Carey Agnew overheard at the table between Mrs. Eagle and the others,” said Copper. “She very craftily didn't address that, did she? And not only that, but what about all this stuff she's spilling out about him and the others. Do you reckon that's the old trick of chucking accusations around about other people in the hope of diverting suspicion away from yourself?”
“It wouldn't be the first time we've come across that particular tactic,” agreed the inspector.
“So what now, guv?”
Constable looked once again at his watch. “Almost time for this famous meeting.” He thought for a second. “Right – you can be in charge of getting all our ducks in a row. Go and marshal everybody – get Toby Rockard down from upstairs, make sure Candida Peel is on her way if she hasn't already arrived, and then you can just hover menacingly in the background. That should manage to unsettle them all. I intend to take advantage of this nice quiet staff shed to get my thoughts straight.”
At that moment, Copper's mobile bleeped. “Text from Dr. Sicke, sir,” he reported on checking the screen. “Just says 'Letter to Ladyman. Still working.' That's it.”
“Another piece of the jigsaw,” said Constable.
“So do you reckon everyone's still in the frame, guv? Because it looks to me as if, one way or another, everyone's got some sort of motive. And they were all on the spot, so that rules nobody out. But we still don't know about the knife.”
“All these things, sergeant, are what I want to clear up in my own mind. I've got a feeling I know everything I need to know – it's just a question of putting facts together. Let me have your notebook – I want to check over your notes on a couple of things. And then off you go – get everyone sorted.”
“Will do, guv.” The back door crashed to behind him as Copper re-entered the building.
*
When Andy Constable made his way back into the 'Palais de Glace' dining room some ten minutes later, it was to find Elle Eagle on her feet, a sheaf of papers in her hand with more spread on the table before her. The lights hanging low over the dining tables had been switched on, their Tiffany-style shades shedding a degree of multi-coloured warmth over the scene, and although soft spotlights gave a subtle glow to various points of the décor, they could not dispel the atmosphere of tension which reigned. Alongside and slightly behind Elle sat Georgina Ladyman, her face shaded. On the next table, his features bearing their usual truculent expression, Oleg Lamb was making it very clear that this was the last place he wished to be, while behind him, Pepe Roni hovered uncertainly. On one of the banquettes nearby, Toby Rockard sat hunched, strain evident in his every muscle, while a few feet away, and casting occasional hesitant glances towards him, was Candida Peel. In the background, in the entrance to the bar, stood Carey Agnew, uneasily shifting from foot to foot. And discreetly to one side, his eyes moving constantly over the assembled company, Dave Copper.
“... and so, as is quite normal with this kind of partnership agreement,” Elle was saying, “there is provision for the partnership to revert to the surviving partner or partners in the event of the death of one of them. This is of course provisional on there being satisfactory financial arrangements, so these will need to be verified before anything can proceed further. But in theory, there would be nothing to prevent continuation with the business under the revised ownership.” She leaned forward and picked up a fresh document. “The situation is made slightly more complex by the question of the will ...”
“Forgive me for interrupting you, Mrs. Eagle.” Constable stepped forward. “I hope the rest of you will also forgive me, because I'm sure you are all extremely eager to know what will be happening to this establishment, and to yourselves, in the wake of last Friday's events. But the truth is that nothing can move forward until the death of Angelique Delaroche is satisfactorily resolved. Which is why I have arranged for you all to be here now.”
“So we're not here to talk about the future at all?” said Georgina Ladyman.
“Oh no, Miss Ladyman,” replied Constable. “Far from it. I'm here to talk about the past. Very much so, because that gives us the key to what has happened here. And Miss Peel,” he said, as Candida made to rise, “I really would advise you to sit tight and listen. Isn't that what good journalists should do if there is a possibility of a scoop which would be of enormous interest to their editor?” Candida subsided, a tentative half-smile on her face.
“So what are you saying, inspector?” challenged Oleg. “That somebody here killed Angelique? Bloody ridiculous! Why would any of us do such a thing?”
Constable permitted himself a small dry smile. “Sadly, nowhere near as ridiculous as you appear to think, Mr. Lambrusconi. You don't mind me using the full version of your name, I assume. After all, it seems to be no secret. But no, let's stick to the name you use for professional purposes. As do certain other members of your family.” The inspector's words caused several of those present to exchange looks of puzzlement.
“In fact,” he continued, “despite Mr. Lamb's professed incredulity, there were plenty of people with good reasons to kill Angelique Delaroche. Or, at least, reasons which might have seemed good enough to them. Elle Eagle and Georgina Ladyman had known her the longest – they had been friends ever since they all shared a flat in London some twenty years ago. That length of time might well give plenty of opportunity for some sort of friction or resentment to arise – friendships can change a lot over twenty years, especially when you know something about someone which they don't want to become public knowledge. Oh, please don't worry, Mrs. Eagle,” he said, as Elle seemed to be about to rise to her feet to protest. “I haven't the slightest intention of saying anything on the subject of, what shall we say, certain privileged information. And as for Miss Ladyman, I think I am as capable as anyone of reading between the lines of what you have told me regarding your old relationship with Miss Delaroche, but I don't believe that that is any business of mine. However, it's not necessarily what I believe that matters. Suffice to say that you two were both aware of the extent of Angelique Delaroche's knowledge of yourselves, and it is quite plausible that you could have perceived that as a threat. Not only that, but a whole field of possibilities opens up when we consider that your relationships had moved on from the personal to the professional. And the professional aspect also applies to Candida Peel – if it were to become know
n that the contents of her articles could be influenced by financial or, let's be blunt, other more personal and intimate considerations, her career as a nationally-known journalist could be threatened.”
“Inspector,” interrupted Candida, “I was under the impression that I had been invited here to report on a current news story. I wasn't aware that you were intending to make me the target of some sort of wild accusations. And I think my readers would be shocked to learn that the police, instead of doing their proper job of investigating a murder, are instead fabricating ludicrous theories without a shred of actual evidence to back them up. That is, unless you do have some actual evidence, inspector?” Candida subjected Constable to a defiant glare.
Andy Constable declined to respond to the heat in Candida's words. “It's a funny thing, evidence, Miss Peel,” he said. “It tends to fall into two categories. There's the sort we can produce in court – the so-called smoking gun, the fingerprint, the DNA trace, the sworn statement – and then there's the other kind – the hint dropped, the words overheard, the gap in the records where something should be but isn't. A lot of my work involves the latter. And many's the time – and I believe this case is one of them – when I have to make bricks without straw, and take a blind leap of faith from one piece of information to another in order to come to a conclusion. So you should all know that, evidentially, we're far from being able to make a watertight case.” He smiled faintly. “So to speak. But if it should turn out that any of my thinking aloud is completely wide of the mark, I'm sure you'll tell me.” He looked around at the faces before him – nobody seemed disposed to speak up.
“I mentioned threats,” he went on. “So far, I've only dealt with the ladies. So let's turn to the gentlemen, because here also we find there is a range of motives at our disposal. Within the restaurant, we can clearly see dangers to the careers of both Carey Agnew and Oleg Lamb. Now, as for you, Mr. Agnew ...”
Carey looked at him with the eyes of a frightened animal, but did not speak.
