To Die For

by Janet Neel

  ‘And a big chap, I’ve met him. But the last night anyone saw Mrs Marsh-Hayden – the Thursday … what was the situation then? The uniforms were still in the office?’

  ‘Yes. They were only delivered that day and it certainly took twenty-four hours to mark them and get them all down here. And Mary found we were short – oh, you know all that?’

  Inspector Davidson came back, face like thunder. ‘We’ll have a team back here by three o’clock.’

  ‘After the service,’ Judith said, in relief, and wished she hadn’t, as they both turned the cold enquiring gaze on her. ‘Sorry, but we are having great difficulty in getting the customers fed.’

  ‘I can see that,’ McLeish said, nodding. ‘And I’ll get out of your hair. I’ve some more questions for you, but they can wait while you run your business. I’m going to leave Inspector Davidson here. Good luck with lunch.’

  He was out of the back door before she could say anything sensible and she rushed thankfully upstairs. Francesca McLeish had been right, she reflected: her husband, however alarming, was a man who respected women’s work and capacities. She paused at the bar to ensure that Inspector Davidson was offered a sandwich to keep him going through his lonely vigil and plunged into the task of greeting and seating the long line forming at the reception desk.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’m afraid Mr Rubin must just have stepped out. Can he call you back?’

  John McLeish, in the traffic at the top of St Martin’s Lane and close to Brian Rubin’s office, was irritated; this particular interview needed doing and would fill in time nicely until the Forensics troupe could get back and investigate the lift. He remembered a salient fact from a statement. ‘Will you say to him that Detective Chief Superintendent McLeish is in the area and will call by in about ten minutes in the hope of seeing him.’

  There was a pause at the other end and the voice said, brightly, that Mr Rubin had just come back in and would he like a word?

  ‘Be delighted, Chief Superintendent. I could come round to you. No? No, I don’t mind doing it here, we’ll find a room.’

  John McLeish replaced the phone and grinned at the detective sergeant who had been sent up hastily to substitute for Davidson ‘We’re not after money, so we get to see him.’

  ‘I saw that Mr Rubin was said to be under serious financial pressure.’

  This one was young and keen and highly thought of but new to McLeish, so he started to explain how he preferred to conduct an interview while the car crawled up St Martin’s Lane and round to Charing Cross Road.

  They were admitted to the headquarters of the Rubin empire – the third floor of an unreconstructed building in the back streets by Neal Street – only after a careful inspection through a locked door. As they entered a blonde woman in her forties was answering three phones at once, with the invariant response that Mr Rubin was not here, at the moment, so sorry, could she take a message. No, the finance director was at a meeting, so sorry, but his secretary would take a message if that would be helpful. She put two calls on hold and pressed a buzzer to summon Brian Rubin, who emerged from an inner room and beckoned them in.

  ‘Sorry about all this.’

  John McLeish introduced himself and his sergeant and sat, as invited, at one side of a decent-sized table, on which were piled official-looking drafts. He considered his host; lively, overweight, dark, and harassed.

  ‘Coffee? Sorry, just push that lot along. Fourth draft of the sale and purchase agreement, would you believe? I told your people all about it.’

  ‘You did indeed and I don’t need to go over all that ground again. I can see you’re busy.’

  ‘Not that busy. Not now. What’s the world record for getting probate of a will, do you know?’

  McLeish, taken aback, said he thought a couple of months would be good going, and Brian Rubin groaned.

  ‘Be bloody lucky if I’m here by then. Will you try Manners again, Diana? At the bank, yes?’

  The blonde woman put down a tray of coffee and gave him a weary look. ‘He’s in a meeting.’

  ‘So he isn’t going to ring. Fuck. Don’t post those two letters then. OK?’ He caught McLeish’s interested eye. ‘Post’s terrible these days.’

  The man, McLeish observed, was in no way crushed by his financial difficulties. ‘I need to ask some more questions about your proposed purchase of Café de la Paix and your relationship with the various parties.’

  ‘Ask away. Saves me worrying who’s on the phone.’

  ‘Why did you particularly want these two restaurants?’

  ‘Well, I thought they were for sale. And I can make more money than the sellers.’

  Interesting that he spoke as if the deal were still on, McLeish observed.

  ‘They’ve got trouble in there somewhere. They ought to be making near enough twice what they have been in the last six months. They’ve got plenty of turnover, plenty of punters coming through the door.’

  ‘Why do you think they’re doing poorly? Not charging enough?’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Brian Rubin’s whole body moved to reject the suggestion. ‘They’re well up to what the traffic’ll bear. No, there’s a scam going on at Café de la Paix. Or more than one. Plate costs – that’s food costs, OK? They’re way too high. So the scam’s probably in the kitchen.’

  ‘How would it be working?’

  ‘Could be anything. Most probably back-handers from suppliers. Or stuff going out the back door for cash. Or else meals not charged. That’s worse, because it means the floor staff’s in it too. They don’t put an order through the till and take the bill in cash and split the profit with the kitchen, who record the food they used as spoilt or unsuitable.’

  ‘Can any of these be done without Chef knowing?’

  Brian Rubin thought, saw the point and hesitated, tongue caught between his teeth. ‘No. No, not really.’

  ‘So you assumed that the head chef was involved. But I understand from the statement I’ve seen that it was intended that Mr Gallagher would join your group.’

  ‘And if he’d ever tried anything like that in one of my kitchens, he’d be out. I assumed he knew that.’

  ‘But you didn’t discover precisely what was going on?’

  ‘Nah. Can’t get close enough till you own the place. And I needed his five per cent shareholding, so I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Before he’d signed off, that is.’

  ‘And the owners didn’t know, you think?’

  Brian Rubin helped himself to coffee and a couple of biscuits.

  ‘Well, look at them,’ he said, through crumbs. ‘The blokes – Marsh-Hayden and Owens – they weren’t involved, they weren’t there. And Selina, God rest her, didn’t really do numbers.’ He swallowed the last half-biscuit noisily and swilled it down with the last of the coffee. ‘Now, Judith Delves, she knows her stuff, but she’d been over the river getting the second one going, hadn’t she? Bit of a mistake there – it’s a good outlet, but it’s very big and it’s too far away from the mother ship and they don’t have enough managers to go round.’

  ‘So you were getting them cheap?’

  Brian Rubin looked at him, wounded, the brown eyes wide. ‘That’s not right. No, put it another way. I knew I could make more than they were, but that’s the only reason for buying a place, that you can make more cash out of it than the next man. But they knew I needed them so I was paying extra for that. Came out about even, I reckon.’

  McLeish fell silent and thought about Brian Rubin. A tough nut, that was clear, but in this context that was in his favour. Unlikely to have been panicked into a murder to save his deal.

  ‘You are still hoping to be able to complete the purchase, then?’

  ‘Yeh. Richard Marsh-Hayden still wants to sell, so does Michael Owens, I’ve spoken to them both. If I can just talk a little man at the NatWest into carrying us for – what – two months, until Richard Marsh-Hayden can deliver his wife’s shares, yes, we’ll complete.’

  ‘At the agreed price?�
�

  ‘Yeh. No point spitting in the soup, and souring the deal. I wouldn’t be surprised to find they’re losing – ooh – five thousand a week, but what the fuck. Forty thousand’s not a lot to worry about if I can get a rights issue away.’

  ‘If Mrs Marsh-Hayden were still alive, what would you be doing?’

  Brian Rubin considered him, alert. ‘Same as I am now, only quicker. She’d have changed her mind back again. Or Richard would’ve changed it for her. She wasn’t much of a business person really, it was an ego trip for her.’

  ‘She had been advised she could make more money, I understand.’

  ‘Yeh. She said.’ Brian Rubin looked weary.

  ‘Mm.’ McLeish took him, pro forma, through his movements on the day and evening that Selina had last been seen. He had left the shareholders’ meeting in a really bad temper, he conceded, and gone back to his office. Where he had received a phone call from Michael Owens (sensible bloke that, for a banker) indicating that he had better regard the deal as off.

  ‘I shouted the odds, told him I’d send them a bill for a hundred thou which is somewhere near what my out-of-pockets and fees come to, but he wasn’t shifting. Yeh, and I did go down to the Caff later, around nine o’clock, to try and talk some sense into Selina, but she was swanking around charming the punters, so I went home. Can’t prove it, just like I told the first lot of you, because Janice and the kids were staying with her mother.’

  ‘But you continued to hope Mrs Marsh-Hayden would change her mind?’

  ‘Yeh, I did. And when everyone kept telling me she was away and not in touch, I thought I was getting the runaround. But Richard said let her alone, she’d get over it quicker, and promised to let me know the second he heard from her. I believed him – I knew he was desperate for the deal too. I mean, he’s even worse off than me, I’m trading, no thanks to the banks, whereas he’s in property. Can’t sell and can’t even let, all his stuff is secondary property in the City where landlords are giving away a year’s rent even with the good stuff. I stayed close to him, and we were at the Caff the night before she was found.’ He paused, and stared at McLeish. ‘That’s where I’ve seen you before. You were there.’

  ‘By coincidence. My brother-in-law was entertaining us.’

  It was plain that Brian Rubin believed not a word of this. ‘Someone had reported her missing then?’

  ‘Well, not officially, and not to me. I really was there as a guest. But I’m sure various people had started to worry. She’d been missing for a week by then, after all.’

  Brian Rubin was watching him, and sat back in his chair. ‘You’re pretty senior, aren’t you? And Scotland Yard. Is it because of Richard’s father?’

  The fact that Richard’s father sat in the House of Lords (every day for the attendance allowance) had not featured anywhere, but McLeish was grateful for the idea, and observed vaguely that this was a complicated case, returning to his notes to prevent Rubin asking for further and better particulars. He looked up to find the man brighteyed with interest.

  ‘So your wife’s that tall, dark girl, who looks exactly like her brothers, yes? The party looked like fun. Tell them I want them to go on coming when I own the place, I’ll make them a deal.’

  Whatever Mr Rubin’s shortcomings, shortage of nerve did not feature among them. McLeish, avoiding discussion, asked a couple more routine questions, but realised he needed to put all this together quietly. ‘Thank you, Mr Rubin. I may need to talk to you again at any time. You won’t leave London without letting us know?’

  Four thirty in the afternoon is the dead time in any restaurant. At Café de la Paix the lunchtime kitchen shift was setting up and doing prep work, but the wash-ups had been sent home to get a break before reporting again at 7 p.m. for the staff meal. A skeleton waiting crew was covering the floor, and in the office Judith Delves and a book-keeper were working on two computers.

  ‘Judith, that’s the bills. No point writing the cheques, is there? The overdraft is very close to the limit.’

  ‘No, that’s all right.’ Judith did not look up. ‘We got a £20,000 extension. But I paid the butcher, so that’s £12,000 gone. Do cheques for £8,000.’

  The book-keeper looked at her bent head, then looked in the tray in front of her. ‘I thought the bank only offered it on the basis the sale was …’ She faltered as Judith looked up.

  ‘That’s right. And I accepted. Last week.’

  ‘But … oh, I see, you thought that after all Selina would change her mind.’

  ‘No. We needed the money, to keep going. I’ll go and see Mr Andrews, but if he asks all you say is that with poor Mrs Marsh- Hayden gone you imagine the sale will be going through quickly.’

  Mary Cameron thought about it, anxiously. ‘So you are selling.’

  ‘Not necessarily. But in any case we have to keep the place going. If we collapse we’ll get a very poor price.’

  Mary’s face cleared. ‘That’s true. And I’m sure Mr Andrews will understand that.’

  Judith, who did not share her confidence and had no intention of telling her bank manager the full story, nodded, avoiding looking at her colleague. The phone rang and she picked it up. ‘Yes, darling. No. Don’t worry at all. I’ve got everything to do here. I’m sorry, it’s been so busy today, I will first thing tomorrow.’ She put the phone down and sighed.

  ‘Was that Michael?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Yes. I haven’t done any of the things we agreed I’d do, and he’s done all the things he said he’d do.’ She felt and sounded defeated and the older woman nodded.

  ‘Usually it’s the other way round with men. Enjoy it while it lasts.’ She packed up her various bags and talked her way out of the office.

  Judith, concentration broken, went down to the kitchen, trying to decide whether she needed food or coffee, or a drink, now that she and Michael were not to meet for dinner. She was looking out into the September afternoon, watching the wind lift the rubbish in the gutters, when John McLeish found her. She was looking very tired, he thought, and not quite of this world, off in some preoccupation of her own.

  ‘Is this convenient? I’ve come to collect Inspector Davidson.’

  ‘Thanks for the sandwiches, Miss Delves. Very welcome. We’ve done with the lift.’

  ‘The lift?’

  ‘We’ve taken the carpet of course.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, of course. Was it … is the … did you find anything?’

  ‘We’ll know more tomorrow morning. For the moment I just have a few questions, if I may?’

  ‘Of course.’ She cleared a space on the table and offered coffee, which they refused.

  ‘The back door. Who has a key?’

  ‘I do. Tony does, Selina does … did. Mary – our book-keeper – does.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Not of their own but, of course, we keep one in the till. So the night manager on any evening can lock up.’

  McLeish frowned, seeing another piece of routine he had not sorted out. ‘Who unlocks in the morning?’

  ‘Usually Mary. She comes in at eight thirty.’

  ‘And who locks up at night?’

  ‘Well, it varies, I’m afraid. The kitchen is cleared by the washup who does the floor and puts the bags out. Then he goes and asks the night manager who should come down and lock up.’ She was looking anxious and watching his face.

  ‘And sometimes that doesn’t happen?’

  ‘I’m afraid sometimes – and I’ve done it myself – we give the key to the wash-up and he does it, and brings it back.’ McLeish made a note and looked up to see her suddenly pale. ‘You mean someone got in that way?’

  ‘Possibly. Is there just the one key in the till? Yes? Who uses the till?’

  ‘Nearly everybody,’ she said, slowly. ‘Or nearly all the floor staff.’ She thought again, biting her lip. ‘Oh dear. And the kitchen too. I’ve seen staff open the till to get change for the phone.’

  ‘Would you notice – would anyone – if the key
was missing?’

  She was ahead of him. ‘Not unless you actually needed to use it, no.’

  They sat all three in silence for a minute.

  ‘You must think us terribly careless. No, it is careless, it’s awful. You know, you just get into bad habits.’

  ‘When the running of the business takes precedence over everything. Yes.’

  ‘Or even doing the accounts.’ She hadn’t meant to say that, he saw.

  ‘Had you got behind?’

  ‘Yes. Months. Oh, not cheques and bills, but on the management accounts.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve been doing all day?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was looking down, tense and anxious, and he decided to take a risk.

  ‘I understand that Mrs Marsh-Hayden thought there might be a fraud somewhere in the business.’

  ‘There was. There is. Though she can’t have known any details given the state the accounts were in.’

  She was extremely angry, he realised.

  ‘What sort of fraud?’

  ‘Oh.’ She got up from the table, knocking over her chair, a big girl, taller and heavier than Francesca, but not unlike her physically, needing to discharge energy. ‘The usual. In the kitchen.’

  ‘Chef?’

  She stopped, staring out of the window. ‘Has to be,’ she said, eyes narrowed, watching something on the street, and he got up noiselessly to see what it was.

  ‘Gallagher,’ Bruce Davidson said in his ear, and they all watched, fascinated. The man was moving carefully, like a soldier in hostile territory, keeping to the middle of the pavement, close to the little groups of tourists who were ambling along the broad pavements, glancing over his shoulder. From above, the pattern was absolutely distinctive; it was a man on the run making for a safe home. He ducked into the main restaurant door with a final glance over his shoulder, and the policemen looked at each other.

  ‘Someone’s after him,’ Davidson said, bristling with interest. ‘Shit. Excuse me, Miss Delves.’ He scrabbled in his pocket for the phone. ‘Davidson. Aye. We are. Can he wait? No? We’ll be there.’