by Peter May
“But, of course,” Guy said, “most of what it produces is not available in the winter. Which is one reason we never opened a restaurant in Paris. It would have required too great a compromise to the style Fraysse.”
Following a selection of local cheeses, washed down with the last of the DRC, desserts freshly prepared by the chefs of the patisserie arrived at the table. Wisps of steam rose from a cylinder of fondant chocolat placed in front of Enzo. A boule of creamy home-made vanilla ice cream sent rivers of molten heaven down its sides to marble the hot chocolate that oozed from its interior as Enzo broke into it with his spoon.
As he savoured its understated sweetness, he once more caught the eye of the blond girl behind the stainless steel. This time she was plating up perfect moulds of steamed chou fleur on pools of a syrupy mushroom and herb reduction. The evening service was in full flow, and Enzo was struck by how smoothly it was all going, each of the chefs contributing his or her own part to the well-practised choreography. Servers drifted in and out, food wafting past on steaming plates on their way to the dining room. Requests for service, or orders called, were delivered with impeccable politeness.
Trois foies gras, s’il vous plait, greeted by a chorus of oui ’s.
Service, s’il vous plait, answered by the unhurried arrival of a black-shirted server. Nobody seemed rushed, or stressed. It was not like any kitchen Enzo had ever been in.
The girl was still smiling at him, and Enzo stole a glance at Guy and Elisabeth Fraysse to be certain they hadn’t noticed. He reached into his satchel and took out a small notebook, and began scribbling in it, as if he were taking notes. He smiled at Madame Fraysse. “There’s a lot to take in on my first day. I don’t want to forget anything.” On the facing blank page he wrote in large numerals the number 23. And as he slipped the notebook back into his bag, he tore out the page, covering the sound of it with a theatrical cough. “Excuse me.” He put his hand to his mouth and crumpled up the page in his fist so that it was well hidden. Then he secreted it into his pocket.
He sipped his coffee, barely listening to the conversation at the table, which was desultory now, the subject of Marc Fraysse exhausted for the moment. He made eye contact with the girl several more times before refusing Guy’s offer of an eau de vie, and rising stiffly to his feet.
“It’s been a long day,” he said. “And I had an early start this morning. I think I’ll head for bed now, if you don’t mind. Thank you so much for a wonderful meal.”
Guy and Elisabeth rose, too. “It was nothing very special,” Guy said. “Except for the wine, of course.” He shook Enzo’s hand. “See you in the morning.”
Elisabeth offered him a cool handshake. “Goodnight, Monsieur Macleod. Why don’t you join me for breakfast in the dining room tomorrow?”
Enzo was slightly surprised. “I would like that very much.” He nodded. “Goodnight.” And as he passed the stainless steel counter where the blond girl was still working, he dropped the scrumpled up page from his pocket on to the floor, catching her eye one last time to direct her toward his note. As the sliding glass doors opened to usher him out of the kitchen, he glanced back to see her stoop quickly to recover it and slip it into a hidden pocket somewhere beneath her apron.
Chapter Five
Enzo stepped from the shower, drying himself with a big, soft, warm towel before slipping into his robe and rubbing his hair with a hand-towel. He ran his hands through it then, sweeping the thick strands of it back from his brow to fall in ropes across his shoulders.
He looked at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, lips pulled back to reveal a row of fine, white upper front teeth, the buzz of his electric toothbrush filling the bathroom. He had been blessed with strong teeth that had required little dental care over the years. But the years had been less kind in other ways. He could see the crows’ feet gaining definition as they fanned out from the corners of his eyes, the deepening crease down the right side of his forehead and upper cheek where he slept on it. Some mornings before movement brought blood back to his face, it looked almost like a scar.
He could see the faintest discoloration now in the whites of his eyes, but he had long stopped being aware of the contrasting colors of his irises, the genetic inheritance of Waardenburg Syndrome. His jawline was holding up well, but there was a certain lack of definition now about his neck, and if he failed to shave for a few days he could see that his bristles were starting to silver, like the hair on his head. One day, he guessed, his distinctive white stripe would be lost forever.
He rinsed his mouth and padded bare-foot back through to the living room. A comfortable three-piece suite was arranged around a widescreen LCD TV, and the late evening news was playing on FR3. Thick-piled carpet led through an open arched doorway to the bedroom where the covers on his king-size bed had been turned down by the maid sometime earlier in the evening.
A soft knock at the door startled him, although he had been expecting it for some time. His heart beat a little faster as he crossed to the door and opened it a fraction. Out in the darkened hallway, he saw the pale, nervous face of the blonde. She glanced anxiously back along the hall before he opened the door wide to let her in.
She hurried into the room, bringing with her cold air from somewhere outside. As he closed the door behind her, she flung her arms around his neck and reached up to kiss him. He kissed her forehead and took her face in his hands, turning it up toward him to look at her. “What on earth have you done to your hair?”
She pulled away. “Oh, papa! It’s obvious, isn’t it? If I hadn’t dyed it, they’d have seen my white streak, and they would have known I was your daughter the moment you arrived.” It was the one symptom of Waardenburg that he had passed on to her.
He took her hand and led her to the settee. “Come and sit down, Sophie, and tell me all about it. Do you want a drink?”
She flopped into the soft embrace of the settee’s upholstery. “Oh, God, yes! I could murder something with alcohol in it. I’ve hardly had a drink since I’ve been here! Four weeks, and it feels like four months. Peeling bloody vegetables and washing floors. This is the last time I ever go undercover for you.”
Enzo smiled as he opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of chilled Chablis. “It’ll do you good. You’ll find out what real work’s all about.”
Sophie glanced around the suite. “I see you’re really slumming it.” She watched him uncork the bottle and fill a single glass. “Are you not having one?”
“Just brushed my teeth.”
She pulled a face. “Yeh, toothpaste and Chablis. Doesn’t really go, does it?” She took the glass from him and he dropped into the armchair opposite.
“So tell me.”
She shrugged and sipped her wine. “Not much to tell, really. That letter of introduction you got from your friend at the catering school in Souillac really did the trick. They took me on for the full five weeks, no questions asked. But there’s nothing to do here, papa! You spend most of the time working, and the rest of the time cooped up in a tiny room in the staff annexe watching a crappy TV set that looks like its broadcasting a snowstorm. And the food? You’d think because you’re working in a three-star kitchen you’d eat well. But all our meals are cooked by one of the stagiaires. Pretty bloody awful. We all have to take turns. Even me. So you can imagine!”
Enzo could, only too well. He wrinkled his nose.
But Sophie wasn’t finished. “And the social life is zero!”
“You aren’t here to socialise. You’re here to be my eyes and ears behind the scenes, to pick up the kind of things no one’s ever going to tell me.”
“I didn’t know it was going to be like this, though. I thought it would be fun. Roll on next week!” She took a lengthy draught from her glass.
“That’s Chablis, Sophie. You don’t drink it like lemonade.”
“You do if you haven’t had a decent drink for a month.”
Enzo sighed. Sophie was almost twenty-four now, but it was har
d to believe sometimes that she wasn’t still sixteen. “Have you learned anything at all?”
She pursed her lips in a secret little smile and tilted her head to one side. “Maybe.”
“Sophie!” Enzo was losing patience.
Sophie tucked her legs up under her and leaned on the arm of the settee. “Well… a lot of gossip, I guess. Folk just love to blether.”
Enzo couldn’t resist a smile. From the time she had started to talk he had spoken only English to her. He knew that she would be steeped in French language and culture as she grew up, but he had wanted her to absorb at least a little of her cultural heritage. And, of course, the English she had learned was his English, peppered with Scottish words, and flavoured with a gentle Scottish accent, like the warm scent of whisky on a summer’s evening. “And what have they been blethering about?”
“Oh, this and that.” It was clear she had something to tell him. Something she was pleased with. But she wasn’t about to blurt it straight out. “And the sous chef ’s taken a fancy to me.”
“Oh, has he?” This was not what Enzo wanted to hear. “Well, I hope you’re not encouraging him.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Philippe’s a good looking guy.”
“What about Bertrand?”
“What about him?”
“You’re not cheating on him, are you?”
A petulant little pout pursed her lips. “I’m not here to take lectures from you on cheating.” She saw immediately how she had hurt him, carelessly, thoughtlessly. And she immediately relented. “I’m sorry, papa. I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”
Enzo nodded, but said nothing.
“Anyway, I’m not cheating on anyone. It’s just nice to be getting a bit of attention, that’s all.” She sipped on her wine again. “Everyone who was here when Marc Fraysse was still alive really loved him. I mean, no one’s got a bad word to say about him. Apparently he was endlessly patient with the stagiaires. Unlike his successor.”
“You don’t like Georges Crozes?”
She shrugged. “He’s okay, I suppose. Bit of a cold fish. But he’s good, you know? Everyone respects his talent. It seems like Marc really thought the world of him. But he’s got a temper on him. He can lose it sometimes. And you don’t want to be around him when he does.”
“What about Marc himself? Any stories, anecdotes, observations?”
Sophie smiled. “He had a bit of a passion for the horses, apparently.”
Enzo frowned. “You mean he went horse riding?”
Sophie laughed. “No, papa! Don’t be silly! I mean he liked betting on them. It seems he drove into Thiers most mornings to the PMU to place a few bets on that day’s courses.”
Enzo nodded thoughtfully. “And Guy? What’s he like?”
“He’s a lovely man, papa. Treats everyone like a member of the family.”
“What about him and Elisabeth? Is there anything between them, do you think?”
Sophie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Romantically, you mean?”
“Or sexually.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. If there is, they keep it incredibly well hidden. They are more like brother and sister. Except that she’s a lot more aloof. Treats the staff like the staff. Likes to be called patronne, or Madame Fraysse. Guy is happy for everyone to call him Guy. Which everyone does. Except for Patrick, of course. He’s been with the family for years. Ve-ery old fashioned. But nice.” She took another sip from her glass. “Apparently Marc had everyone just call him Marc, even the stagiaires. Which is unheard of. The chef is always called chef.”
“And Georges?”
“Oh, he’s chef. No doubt about that. You wouldn’t last long if you called him Georges.”
Enzo regarded his daughter thoughtfully as she drained her glass. “So what is it you haven’t told me yet?”
Sophie pouted. “Oh, papa, you’re no fun. How did you know?”
Enzo laughed. “Sophie, you’re like an open book.”
She frowned. “If I was, I wouldn’t have been able to work undercover here for four weeks without anyone knowing.”
Enzo smiled indulgently. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He gazed at her fondly. So much of her mother in her. The mother he had only really got to know vicariously in the bringing up of her daughter. “So what is your little secret?”
“A pretty open secret really.” But she grinned conspiratorially, leaning forward slightly, as if they might be overheard. “Georges’ wife, Anne, works as a receptionist at the hotel. You probably met her when you checked in.”
Enzo recalled the slim, handsome woman behind the reception desk. A woman in her forties, he would have guessed. Auburn hair drawn severely back from a pale face, strong features enhanced by the merest touch of make-up. Her smile had been warm enough. But he remembered, too, the momentary shadow which had dulled it when she realized who he was. “Anne.” He repeated her name, as if trying it out for size. But, in truth, it was the technique he employed for defeating his poor memory for names. Once repeated, forever remembered.
“Everyone who was here at the time reckons Anne Crozes and Marc Fraysse were having an affair.” Sophie sat back in the settee, pleased with herself. “Which, if you were looking for motive, would provide plenty for either Georges or Elisabeth.”
Sophie stayed another half hour, drinking more of his wine, regaling him with tales of her four weeks in the kitchen, demanding news of Cahors, wanting to know if he had seen Bertrand. But his mind was only half with her. If it were true that Anne Crozes and Marc Fraysse had been having an affair, then it would be reasonable to assume that if everyone else knew about it, then both Elisabeth and Georges must have suspected it, too. But while motive was significant, Enzo was always careful not to attach too much importance to it. Real, hard, forensic evidence was much more compelling, and often led in a direction that belied motive. Moreover, it was equally true that while everyone around you knew that your spouse was cheating, you were very often the last person to know it yourself. And, even then, the last one to admit it. Lending veracity to the old adage that there are none so blind as those who will not see. Still, it was food for thought.
Sophie was suddenly on her feet. “I’d better go.”
Enzo followed her to the door, where she stopped, turning to look at him earnestly. “Have you seen Charlotte?”
“Out of bounds, Sophie.”
“Oh, papa…”
“Goodnight.” He opened the door and pushed her gently out into the darkness of the hallway. She hesitated a moment before turning back to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “You can’t just accept it. You’ve got rights. And he’s my blood, too.”
But she was away before he could respond, and he saw her hurrying off along the carpeted passageway to be absorbed by the dark, his mind a complex confusion of thoughts he had successfully been keeping at bay. Until now.
As he turned to go back into his room, the merest hint of a movement at the opposite end of the hall flickered in his peripheral vision. He stood stock still, heart thumping, and peered into the darkness, eyes growing accustomed to the lack of light as he did. But there was nothing. No movement. No sound. After several long moments, he began to doubt that he had seen anything at all. He returned to his room and shut the door firmly behind him.
Chapter Six
Sunlight flitted about the vast landscape spread below them as clouds scudded across a sky torn and broken by a cold north-west wind. The rain and low-hanging cloud of the day before was gone, and from their table in the south conservatory dining room, the view was breathtaking, as if seen from some hidden vantage point in the sky itself.
“Saint-Pierre,” Elisabeth said, “is the closest you can get to heaven without passing through the gates.” She smiled. “So they say.”
“It’s aptly named, then,” Enzo said. “If this is, indeed, where St. Peter resides, then we must be at the very gates themselves.”
Elisabeth tilted her head and broke off a piece
of croissant with long, elegant fingers. “Marc would certainly have had you believe that. He loved this place, you know. He had our bedroom fashioned from the room which had once been his parents’. He was born in that room. And his children were conceived there, too.” The brightness in her eyes clouded a little. “He might well have died there, had he lived.” And then her face broke into an unexpected smile. “If that doesn’t sound a little too… Irish, you would say, yes?”
Enzo grinned. “Yes.” He dipped his croissant into his grande creme and had raised it halfway, dripping, to his mouth, before realising that Elisabeth was watching him. Perhaps, he thought, his predilection for dipping croissants in his coffee was not quite de rigeur in a three-star restaurant. But it was too late now, and his momentary pause had allowed the coffee to soften the soaked segment of croissant to the point where it broke off and fell back into his coffee cup, splashing and staining the pristine white linen around it.
He felt his face reddening. “Excuse me.” He dabbed at the tablecloth with his napkin.
He wondered if her smile was just a little patronising. “Don’t worry, Monsieur Macleod, Marc would have approved. He loved to tremper his croissants.” It almost seemed like a way of affirming her husband’s humble origins while placing herself on a slightly higher plane.
A young female server approached the table with a replenished pichet of freshly squeezed orange juice. She hovered it over Elisabeth’s glass. “Madame Fraysse?” But la patronne simply dismissed her with a wave of the hand, and the server immediately shrank away to present herself at Enzo’s side of the table. “Monsieur?”
Enzo gave her a friendly smile. “No thank you.”
The girl bowed and moved discreetly away. Enzo glanced at Elisabeth, but the widow was now gazing from the window at the view below, lost in some distant thought.
He said, “In everything I have read about your husband, the speculation about Michelin being poised to remove one of his stars is ever-present. Did Marc really believe that was about to happen?”
