the menu,’ Heffernan mused as they approached the gleaming glass door.
The place reeked of quality. There was no ostentation here, nothing flashy about the discreet Michelin stars displayed above
the sparkling white menus housed in a glass case beside the entrance. Wesley began to read the beautifully printed bill of
fare. It sounded good. And the figures by each dish told him at a glance that the price matched the food. Top quality.
‘Can’t stand the snooty waiters you get in these places,’ Heffernan mumbled, shifting from foot to foot like a Victorian tradesman
who’d just realised he’d rung the front door bell of the big house instead of going round the back to the servants’ entrance.
Wesley rang the bell again and this time a young man appeared, dressed in sleek black with hair to match. He mouthed ‘Sorry,
we’re closed’ without looking very sorry at all and he was about to disappear back into the bowels of the building when Wesley
held up his warrant card. There followed a frantic unlocking of the door and when it opened the young man stood there, looking
nervous.
‘We’d like to speak to Monsieur Colbert if we may,’ Wesley said politely. There was no point in alienating potential witnesses
unnecessarily.
There was no mistaking it, the young man’s expression changed from nervous to terrified. ‘Chef’s busy,’ he said, almost in
a whisper. ‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed.’
Wesley gave the young waiter – he was certain he was a waiter – a sympathetic smile. He’d worked for a chief inspector like
that when he’d first started in CID in the Met. ‘I’m afraid we have to talk to him. It’s important.’
The young waiter looked dubious. Chef wouldn’t be best pleased about being disturbed for some trivial police matter like a
speeding ticket – and Chef found it almost impossible to stick to the speed limit in his Porsche. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here,’
he said, preparing to scuttle away.
‘Tell him it’s about the murder of Charles Marrick,’ Wesley said to the man’s disappearing back.
The waiter turned, his eyes wide. ‘Murder?’
‘That’s right, mate. Murder,’ Heffernan said with inappropriate relish.
There was no more argument. The waiter disappeared through a swing door, leaving the two policemen to wander into the restaurant.
The reports hadn’t lied. Two walls of the room were taken up by massive windows which gave a spectacular view over the river.
The tables by the windows would be the most desirable and Wesley wondered if the diners were charged a premium for them. Probably.
But then anyone who could afford to dine at Le Petit Poisson probably didn’t care too much about a few extra pounds. The tables
were well spaced out and swathed in white linen straight out of a washing powder advert. Nothing cheap and cheerful here.
In fact it was all a little too perfect for his liking. He’d have felt awkward eating here.
The young waiter appeared in the doorway. ‘Chef will seeyou now,’ he said in a hushed voice, like a royal flunky about to show someone into the presence of the Queen herself.
They were led into a huge kitchen which looked as though it had been designed by the person responsible for Colin Bowman’s
postmortem room. The white tiles were polished to a dazzling shine and you could use the stainless steel surfaces as a mirror
in an emergency. White-clad acolytes were scattered around, chopping vegetables, mixing sauces and attending bubbling stockpots,
and seated on a stool at the end of the room, flicking through a file, was the great man himself. Average height with luxuriant
locks and a pristine white jacket with his name embroidered on the right breast, Fabrice Colbert looked the part. King of
his kitchen. And a hard taskmaster.
He stood up and addressed one of the sauce makers. ‘Damien. How many times have I told you? Taste the fucking thing. How can
you get the seasoning correct if
The place reeked of quality. There was no ostentation here, nothing flashy about the discreet Michelin stars displayed above
the sparkling white menus housed in a glass case beside the entrance. Wesley began to read the beautifully printed bill of
fare. It sounded good. And the figures by each dish told him at a glance that the price matched the food. Top quality.
‘Can’t stand the snooty waiters you get in these places,’ Heffernan mumbled, shifting from foot to foot like a Victorian tradesman
who’d just realised he’d rung the front door bell of the big house instead of going round the back to the servants’ entrance.
Wesley rang the bell again and this time a young man appeared, dressed in sleek black with hair to match. He mouthed ‘Sorry,
we’re closed’ without looking very sorry at all and he was about to disappear back into the bowels of the building when Wesley
held up his warrant card. There followed a frantic unlocking of the door and when it opened the young man stood there, looking
nervous.
‘We’d like to speak to Monsieur Colbert if we may,’ Wesley said politely. There was no point in alienating potential witnesses
unnecessarily.
There was no mistaking it, the young man’s expression changed from nervous to terrified. ‘Chef’s busy,’ he said, almost in
a whisper. ‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed.’
Wesley gave the young waiter – he was certain he was a waiter – a sympathetic smile. He’d worked for a chief inspector like
that when he’d first started in CID in the Met. ‘I’m afraid we have to talk to him. It’s important.’
The young waiter looked dubious. Chef wouldn’t be best pleased about being disturbed for some trivial police matter like a
speeding ticket – and Chef found it almost impossible to stick to the speed limit in his Porsche. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here,’
he said, preparing to scuttle away.
‘Tell him it’s about the murder of Charles Marrick,’ Wesley said to the man’s disappearing back.
The waiter turned, his eyes wide. ‘Murder?’
‘That’s right, mate. Murder,’ Heffernan said with inappropriate relish.
There was no more argument. The waiter disappeared through a swing door, leaving the two policemen to wander into the restaurant.
The reports hadn’t lied. Two walls of the room were taken up by massive windows which gave a spectacular view over the river.
The tables by the windows would be the most desirable and Wesley wondered if the diners were charged a premium for them. Probably.
But then anyone who could afford to dine at Le Petit Poisson probably didn’t care too much about a few extra pounds. The tables
were well spaced out and swathed in white linen straight out of a washing powder advert. Nothing cheap and cheerful here.
In fact it was all a little too perfect for his liking. He’d have felt awkward eating here.
The young waiter appeared in the doorway. ‘Chef will seeyou now,’ he said in a hushed voice, like a royal flunky about to show someone into the presence of the Queen herself.
They were led into a huge kitchen which looked as though it had been designed by the person responsible for Colin Bowman’s
postmortem room. The white tiles were polished to a dazzling shine and you could use the stainless steel surfaces as a mirror
in an emergency. White-clad acolytes were scattered around, chopping vegetables, mixing sauces and attending bubbling stockpots,
and seated on a stool at the end of the room, flicking through a file, was the great man himself. Average height with luxuriant
locks and a pristine white jacket with his name embroidered on the right breast, Fabrice Colbert looked the part. King of
his kitchen. And a hard taskmaster.
He stood up and addressed one of the sauce makers. ‘Damien. How many times have I told you? Taste the fucking thing. How can
you get the seasoning correct if
Similar Books
