‘Er. . . Cognac.’
‘Thank God.’ He poured himself a huge measure, knocked it back in one gulp, refilled his glass, then let his head sink onto the bar. ‘Please – when hangover kills me, don’t let the bastards bury me in Paris. You know we’ve got a full service today?’
Alexander stood, levered Philippe off the bar and dragged him back into the kitchen. Propped him against the wall, and opened the fridge. The dead man stared up at them.
Philippe pursed his lips, frowned, looked at his glass of cognac, then frowned some more. ‘Is this today’s special? Because I thought we were doing seared sea bass with langoustine butter and pommes dauphinoise.’
‘They didn’t have any sea bass.’
Philippe shrugged. ‘So you got me a dead body instead?’
‘I DIDN’T GET HIM! He was here when I arrived.’ Alexander slammed the fridge shut. ‘What are we going to do? It’ll be in all the papers; as soon as people find out we’ve got a corpse in here they’ll cancel their reservations; we’ll have to shut!’ Getting louder and louder until Philippe grabbed him by the shoulders.
‘Stop! Too loud! You’re hurting my head.’
‘What are we going to do? Where did he come from? We’re ruined!’
Philippe let go, then opened the fridge again, staring in at the man on the floor. ‘Merde. . .’ He buried his head in his hands. Groaned. Swore. ‘We have to get rid of the body.’
Silence, broken only by the whurrrrrr of the fridge, trying to compensate for the door being open. ‘No. We have to call the police.’
Philippe snorted. ‘And then what? They’ll close us down. Martin White is coming in tonight!’
‘Oh God. . .’ Martin White – food critic for the Old-castle News And Post. A man who could make, or break, a restaurant with a single review. ‘We’re doomed.’
‘No we’re not. We get rid of the body and no one will know. Everything is the same. Nothing changes.’
‘But . . . but. . .’ Alexander closed the fridge door, unable to look at that battered face any longer. ‘But how did he get here?’
Philippe licked his lips, cleared his throat, then laid a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. ‘Does it matter? He’s here: we must get rid of him or the restaurant is finished.’ Philippe turned a bleary eye on the kitchen, nodded, pulled on a heavy apron, and unrolled his bundle of knives. Picked out a boning knife and a long metal steel. ‘We cut him up.’ The blade made shnick, shnick, shnick noises as he sharpened it.
Alexander drained his cognac and nodded. It made sense. Cut him up. Cut him up into little pieces. ‘Then what?’
‘Then?’ Philippe tested the knife’s edge. ‘We get rid of him.’
‘But someone will find the pieces!’
A frown, then a smile. ‘We will mince the meat, yes? Cook it off and throw it out in the bins. Looks like any other mince. No one will know.’
‘Mince. . .? Yes, mince. . .’ sweat prickled between Alexander’s shoulder blades. Maybe another drink to steady his nerves?
Philippe pulled out a meat cleaver and a hacksaw. ‘Now, you help me get him up on the worktop, then you lock all the doors and make sure no one comes in here.’
‘But the veg man-’
‘No one! Take the deliveries out front. I don’t care! But not in here!’ He clicked on the radio, cranking up the volume. Then they hauled the dead man out of the fridge. And got to work.
Lunchtime was packed and it didn’t help that Marguerite hadn’t turned up for work that morning, so they were a waitress down. Alexander pushed through from the dining room with an order for veal escalope, coq au vin, and turbot with champagne hollandaise.
The kitchen was a well-oiled machine, and so was Philippe. He’d downed at least half a bottle of cognac this morning – while he was cutting and mincing and frying – before moving on to vodka-and-tonic. And now he was drinking ice-cold beer, directing the sous chef, pastry chef, dish washer, and waitresses, turning out food that was the talk of Oldcastle.
It was as if nothing had ever happened.
When the lunchtime rush was over, Philippe and Alexander sat in the cramped manager’s office, drinking strong cups of coffee with the door closed. The chef leaned back in his seat and groaned at the ceiling tiles.
Alexander fiddled with his mug. ‘Erm. . . How are we getting on with . . . with our visitor?’
A shrug. ‘He’s in bags at the back of the fridge. Looks just like fried mince.’ Another groan and Philippe slumped forwards. ‘The trouble is the bones.’
‘Oh God.’ The bones – a whole human skeleton would look suspicious, even in a restaurant’s rubbish. ‘We’re ruined! We’re-’
Philippe held up a hand. ‘No, not ruined. I chopped the bones, put them in the oven. They’ll roast and dry out. We smash them with a hammer into little pieces. Then we dump them. Not a problem.’
‘What about the . . . the. . .’ Alexander tapped the side of his head.
‘Meh. . .’ Philippe finished his coffee. ‘When you hack a man’s skull into eight pieces with a cleaver, it looks like any other bones. No one will notice. Trust me. It is all good again.’
Alexander tried for a smile, and managed to find one. They were in the clear – the body was taken care of, the lunchtime rush was over. Now all they had to do was impress the socks off Martin White and everything was perfect. ‘Philippe, I want you to get some sleep, OK? The staff can take care of the clean-down and prep for the evening sitting. You rest. I want you at your best when Martin White gets here.’ The smile turned into a beam.
Everything was going to be all right.
Philippe looked a lot better when he emerged at half past six: wide awake and smiling. The white powder on his top lip was probably just flour, wasn’t it? He’d been making bread, or pastry, or checking the . . . something. That was all. Nothing else.
Alexander opened the reservations book, then closed it again. Lined it up with the edge of the bar. Took a deep breath. Only two people had a key to the restaurant: him and Philippe, and he certainly hadn’t stuck a dead body in the fridge, so it had to be Philippe, But. . . But Philippe was a brilliant chef, you had to expect a certain amount of eccentric behaviour from geniuses. And besides, where was Alexander going to get anyone else as talented in Oldcastle?
So they would carry on as if nothing had ever happened. They would get their good review and open up a second restaurant, Le Coq Rouge – it would become a beacon of French cuisine for all of Oldcastle to see. No: all of Scotland! It would win three Michelin stars. And all because Alexander had the wisdom to not call the police.
Marguerite had even turned up for work – albeit seven hours late – with a patch of white gauze taped to the back of her head and a story about being mugged. She shared some knowing glances with Philippe, but. . . But it was probably nothing. It would be fine. Everything was going to be OK.
At ten to seven Alexander gathered the staff together in the dining room and gave them a pep talk: Martin White was coming in tonight; they were not to be nervous; they were a professional team; they were the best French restaurant in the whole city; do their best and tonight would be perfect!
And then he went back to the manager’s office to chew his fingernails and watch the clock. Counting the minutes until Martin White’s reservation for one, at eight o’clock.
‘Well?’ Alexander shifted from foot to foot on the tiled kitchen floor.
Philippe tossed a handful of langoustine tails into hot garlic and herb butter. ‘It’s a crime we have no sea bass, but-’
‘What’s he ordered?’
Philippe gave the pan one last flick, then poured the langoustines over a fillet of turbot resting on a bed of mashed butter beans with salsa verde. ‘Soup, pate, and crevettes to start with, then the veal, entrecote, turbot, and lamb.’ He wiped the edge of the plate and dressed it with a sprinkle of finely chopped chives. ‘Service!’