like ‘take your time’, but you can tell she doesn’t expect me to think twice about it.”
“So whatcha think you’ll do?”
“Not a clue.” Patrick was still fuming at the presumptuousness of it all; Chef Maurice assuming his loyal sous-chef would never think to leave, and his mother just as certain her son would jump at the chance to join her venture. Maybe it would teach them all a lesson if he just went and upped sticks to Outer Mongolia.
He wondered if it was possible to make a decent crème anglaise using yak’s milk . . .
“I do hope chef’s not gone off to do anything silly,” said Dorothy, piling up the finished plates.
“Probably just walking around out there, sulking,” said Patrick.
Unfortunately, what they’d all forgotten was that Chef Maurice was not a single-track sulker. He could sulk and get up to all kinds of trouble, all at the same time.
So while Patrick and Alf fired up the hobs in preparation for dinner service, a little red Citroën reversed itself around in the yard, spraying up gravel all around, and headed out into the dusky evening.
Its mission: staff retention. By any means possible.
Being the only two female police officers in the Cowton and Beakley Constabulary had left PC Lucy and PC Sara with two apparent choices: to become the best of friends, or each other’s prime nemesis. Both being women of a sound, practical nature, they’d promptly opted for the former.
Tonight, they were the only ones left in the office, along with an empty extra-large takeaway pizza box. PC Sara sat at her computer, scanning through the hundreds of photographs from the Fayre, requisitioned from the local journalists (also probably working late tonight), while PC Lucy was engaged in the laborious task of combing through Miranda Matthews’ phone records.
“Nothing much here,” said PC Lucy, tossing the final sheet onto her desk. “The only call she made this morning was to a local taxi company. And the week before, it’s mostly just been calls to and from her agent, and Angela Gifford. A few to some local restaurants, and one to Cowton Country Property Lettings. I’ll look into that last one when they’re open tomorrow. There’s one missed call from this morning, just before ten, from an unregistered mobile number, but she didn’t call them back. I’ll try to get the number traced.”
“Any voicemails?”
“Nope. How’s the photo trawling?”
“Plenty of Miranda up until and during her cookery demo.” PC Sara flipped her screen round to face PC Lucy. “Now that’s what I call a celebration cake,” she added, pointing at the photo of a glossy multi-coloured creation on a cake stand, with Miranda posing chirpily behind.
“I saw that part of the demo. She just covered a sponge cake in Smarties and then blowtorched the whole thing. Not exactly difficult.”
“Says the girlfriend of a gourmet chef. Never forget, I still knew you back in the days when you thought mascarpone was a type of Italian horse.”
“Very funny. Any sign of Miranda after the demo?”
PC Sara shook her head. “But you were right about the shoes,” she said, tapping the screen. “She was definitely wearing pink high heels when she left the demo tent.”
“Which puts paid to the theory she was attacked in her dressing tent and carried all the way to the creek. No attacker would bother changing her shoes.”
“Unless she was attacked just after she put on the trainers.”
“And still carried several hundred metres down to Warren’s Creek, along with a piece of blood-covered piping? All without being seen?” PC Lucy shook her head. “Far more likely she changed and sneaked down there herself. The back of her tent faced the woodlands, she could have easily got out that way.”
“Meeting someone?”
“A possibility.”
PC Sara scrolled onwards. “Honestly, who turns up to a family fair dressed like a pin-up bunny?” She waved her hand at the photos on-screen, in which one
“So whatcha think you’ll do?”
“Not a clue.” Patrick was still fuming at the presumptuousness of it all; Chef Maurice assuming his loyal sous-chef would never think to leave, and his mother just as certain her son would jump at the chance to join her venture. Maybe it would teach them all a lesson if he just went and upped sticks to Outer Mongolia.
He wondered if it was possible to make a decent crème anglaise using yak’s milk . . .
“I do hope chef’s not gone off to do anything silly,” said Dorothy, piling up the finished plates.
“Probably just walking around out there, sulking,” said Patrick.
Unfortunately, what they’d all forgotten was that Chef Maurice was not a single-track sulker. He could sulk and get up to all kinds of trouble, all at the same time.
So while Patrick and Alf fired up the hobs in preparation for dinner service, a little red Citroën reversed itself around in the yard, spraying up gravel all around, and headed out into the dusky evening.
Its mission: staff retention. By any means possible.
Being the only two female police officers in the Cowton and Beakley Constabulary had left PC Lucy and PC Sara with two apparent choices: to become the best of friends, or each other’s prime nemesis. Both being women of a sound, practical nature, they’d promptly opted for the former.
Tonight, they were the only ones left in the office, along with an empty extra-large takeaway pizza box. PC Sara sat at her computer, scanning through the hundreds of photographs from the Fayre, requisitioned from the local journalists (also probably working late tonight), while PC Lucy was engaged in the laborious task of combing through Miranda Matthews’ phone records.
“Nothing much here,” said PC Lucy, tossing the final sheet onto her desk. “The only call she made this morning was to a local taxi company. And the week before, it’s mostly just been calls to and from her agent, and Angela Gifford. A few to some local restaurants, and one to Cowton Country Property Lettings. I’ll look into that last one when they’re open tomorrow. There’s one missed call from this morning, just before ten, from an unregistered mobile number, but she didn’t call them back. I’ll try to get the number traced.”
“Any voicemails?”
“Nope. How’s the photo trawling?”
“Plenty of Miranda up until and during her cookery demo.” PC Sara flipped her screen round to face PC Lucy. “Now that’s what I call a celebration cake,” she added, pointing at the photo of a glossy multi-coloured creation on a cake stand, with Miranda posing chirpily behind.
“I saw that part of the demo. She just covered a sponge cake in Smarties and then blowtorched the whole thing. Not exactly difficult.”
“Says the girlfriend of a gourmet chef. Never forget, I still knew you back in the days when you thought mascarpone was a type of Italian horse.”
“Very funny. Any sign of Miranda after the demo?”
PC Sara shook her head. “But you were right about the shoes,” she said, tapping the screen. “She was definitely wearing pink high heels when she left the demo tent.”
“Which puts paid to the theory she was attacked in her dressing tent and carried all the way to the creek. No attacker would bother changing her shoes.”
“Unless she was attacked just after she put on the trainers.”
“And still carried several hundred metres down to Warren’s Creek, along with a piece of blood-covered piping? All without being seen?” PC Lucy shook her head. “Far more likely she changed and sneaked down there herself. The back of her tent faced the woodlands, she could have easily got out that way.”
“Meeting someone?”
“A possibility.”
PC Sara scrolled onwards. “Honestly, who turns up to a family fair dressed like a pin-up bunny?” She waved her hand at the photos on-screen, in which one
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