The Blood Pit (7 page)

‘I assume you’ve heard about Charles Marrick’s death?’ said Wesley.

‘
Oui
. I hear it on the news this morning.
C’est terrible
.’

‘Indeed.’ He glanced at Heffernan who was staring at the chef as though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the man. ‘When
did you last see Mr Marrick?’

The chef didn’t look so sure of himself now. ‘Er … it must have been
Lundi
… Monday. Yes, Monday. I go to his house.’

‘Mrs Marrick told us that you and Mr Marrick had an argument.’ Wesley looked the man in the eye, waiting to see how he’d react.

The chef swallowed hard. ‘
Oui
.
C’est vrai
. We quarrelled.’

Gerry Heffernan leaned forward. ‘What about?’

There was a long silence. Colbert had been standing up, as though he hoped to get rid of his visitors as soon as possible.
But now he took his seat behind the large oak desk covered with receipts, lists and menu plans.

He picked up a pen and turned it over in his long fingers for a while before he finally spoke. ‘Charlie Marrick was a crook.
Un voleur
… a thief.’

This captured Heffernan’s interest. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean what I say. He was a thief. He stole from me.’

Wesley glanced at his boss. ‘Can you be a little more specific, Monsieur Colbert? What did he steal?’

‘My money … and my good name. My reputation.’

This was like pulling teeth. Wesley tried again. ‘Can you tell us the details? What exactly did he steal and when?’

Another long silence. Wesley wondered what the man was up to, dangling a piece of juicy information in front of them then refusing
to elaborate. But eventually the chef spoke.
‘He tricked me. We order wine from his warehouse … the best vintages … we have a discerning clientele here at Le Petit Poisson.
We use his warehouse before and we never have trouble, but this time …’ He gave an expressive shrug.

‘Go on,’ Wesley prompted. He looked at Gerry Heffernan who was sitting attentively like a child being read his favourite bedtime
story.

‘My customers order expensive vintages. When they taste they send them back. My sommelier he changes the bottle … the same thing.
The wines are not what they claim to be on the label. The Chateau Margaux tastes like a
vin de table
. The Chateau Margaux is a
vin de table
. That Charlie Marrick … he swap the labels.’

Wesley gave a low whistle. ‘So you order expensive wines and he sends you cheap plonk with expensive labels.’

‘That is correct. I am upset. My reputation – the reputation of Le Petit Poisson – is at stake.’

‘You have proof of this? It wasn’t just a bad bottle or two or … ?’

‘Oh non, Inspector. This is deliberate. Every bottle we open is the same.’

‘Perhaps it was just a bad year,’ said Heffernan, trying to sound as though he knew what he was talking about.

Colbert gave him a contemptuous look before shaking his head vigorously. ‘If you do not believe me ask my sommelier, Jean-Claude. He
will say the same as I do. Charlie Marrick was a crook.’

‘You didn’t report it to the police?’

For the first time Fabrice Colbert looked embarrassed. ‘Maybe I should have told the police but …’

‘You took the law into your own hands?’

‘No … I …’

Wesley sat back and took a deep breath. The chef was on the defensive for once. Not a situation that he imagined arose very
often. ‘You have a blazing row with him on
Monday. On Wednesday he’s found dead. Murdered. Where were you yesterday afternoon?’

‘I was here at Le Petit Poisson. Everybody will tell you … all my staff.’

‘All afternoon?’

Colbert frowned in an effort to remember. ‘I go out once. To Varney’s Vintages in Neston with my sommelier to order wine. We
used to use Varney’s but Charlie offered a better discount. I do not wish to deal with Marrick ever again. Not after he tricked
me. I could never trust him again so I return to Varney’s.’

‘Understandable,’ said Wesley. ‘I suppose your sommelier will confirm all this?’

There was a split second of hesitation, of uncertainty. Then the mask of confidence reappeared. ‘Of course. Please ask him.’

Wesley doubted whether Colbert used the word please too often – it certainly hadn’t been in his vocabulary during the making
of his TV series – and he felt a small glow of achievement. He stood up and Gerry Heffernan did likewise. ‘We may need to speak
to you again.’ He walked towards the door then he turned. ‘By the way, do you have quail and garlic potatoes on the menu at
the moment?’

Colbert looked quite offended and shook his head vigorously. ‘The
pommes de terre
with the garlic, yes. But quail is not in season and I use only the freshest of ingredients. I hope you do not suggest I
am using the frozen game. For a chef such as I …’

‘Of course not, Monsieur,’ said Wesley quickly, wondering whether the chef’s ruffled feathers were all part of an elaborate
act.

As they left the office Wesley couldn’t help feeling that there was an unease behind Fabrice Colbert’s arrogant bluster. He
didn’t bother seeing them off the premises – this job was left to the young waiter who had greeted them when
they’d first arrived. But when they walked out through the kitchen, Wesley noticed a trio of chefs chopping vegetables with
sharp, vicious-looking knives.

Charlie Marrick had been killed with a thin, sharp blade. And Fabrice Colbert’s kitchen was full of the things.

Wesley and Heffernan walked back to the police station and Heffernan spent much of the journey telling Wesley about his son,
Sam’s, new job as a junior vet – how he was enjoying the work, particularly travelling round the farms. Wesley could tell the
boss was bursting with pride at his son’s achievements. His daughter, Rosie, however, was another matter – she was still doing
casual work, making no effort to find herself something permanent and getting under his feet.

As they walked down the High Street towards the Boat Float, Wesley couldn’t resist peeping into the sandwich shop as they passed.
Burton’s Butties offered – according to the freshly painted board outside – bespoke butties to the customer’s specification. The
lunchtime rush was long over and it looked as if the staff were cleaning up for the day. Wesley scanned the faces to see if
Steve Carstairs’s father was amongst them. But he couldn’t spot him. Perhaps he was in the back. Or somewhere else, sympathising
with his son about his suspension from duty – telling him his superiors were just a load of wankers … that he had done nothing
wrong beating up Carl Pinney. Wesley walked by quickly. He preferred not to think about Steve just then … or at any other time,
come to that.

When they arrived at the office Heffernan assigned two large and clumsy uniformed officers to go to Le Petit Poisson to take
statements and Wesley knew that the DCI found the idea of a couple of plods tramping through the restaurant’s hallowed portals
mildly amusing. He’d noticed the boss’s belligerent attitude to up-market restaurants before – probably stemming from the
time he’d been refused service in a
particularly snooty establishment because he had forgotten to put on a tie.

Wesley took off his jacket and was about to put it over the back of his chair when a flash of white paper sticking out of
his inside pocket caught his eye. He took it out and saw that it was Colin Bowman’s impromptu sketch of the type of knife
that had killed Charles Marrick. Long, slim and sharp. A lethal weapon or an innocent tool to cut up food. Take your pick.

He stared at the sketch for a moment. Colin was no artist but he had caught the basic shape of the thing. He stood up and
made his way to the office where Gerry Heffernan was wrestling with his paperwork before assembling the team for an afternoon
briefing.

He poked his head round the door. ‘Gerry, where’s Carl Pinney’s knife?’

Heffernan looked up. ‘It’ll be in the evidence cupboard. Why?’

Wesley placed Colin’s sketch on the desk in front of his boss. ‘This is Colin’s drawing of the type of knife that killed Marrick.’

Heffernan studied the sketch and shook his head. ‘You trying to say that little toe-rag Pinney murdered Charles Marrick? Nah.
Not his style. And according to Marrick’s Merry Widow, nothing’s missing so it wasn’t a burglary gone wrong.’

‘He could have panicked – left the scene without taking anything.’

Heffernan shrugged his shoulders. Anything was possible. ‘The whole place has been dusted for prints. If Pinney was there,
we’ll get to know about it.’

Wesley left the DCI’s office and made for the evidence cupboard that stood next to Trish Walton’s desk. When he took the plastic
bag containing the knife off the middle shelf, he spread Colin’s sketch out beside it.

‘Bingo,’ he muttered under his breath. He looked up at Trish who was sitting watching him, curious. ‘Trish, can you make sure
this is sent off to Forensic right away. I want the stain on this knife matched with Charles Marrick’s blood.’

Trish looked surprised. ‘The murder victim? You don’t think that kid … ?’

‘I don’t know what to think yet,’ he said as he handed her the bag.

Petronella Blackwell washed up the elegantly shaped black mugs. There was a dishwasher, of course, built into the sleek white
kitchen units but she wanted something to do. Something that would occupy her hands and mind so that she didn’t have to think
what to say to Annette. She could hardly bring herself to call the woman her mother, even though she had given birth to her.
Annette wasn’t – or had ever been – the motherly type. But Petronella had still come at her call. She hadn’t been able to
help herself. Blood is strong.

The presence of the young policewoman who’d been sent round to see they were all right, irritated her. She was sitting with
them now, pretending to watch the TV that chattered softly on the granite worktop. Even though the woman was pleasant and
sympathetic and near her own age, Petronella could never get the thought that she was there in an official capacity, to watch
and report back, out of her mind. She had heard the WPC referred to as ‘family liaison’ – officialdom in a smiling, caring
mask.

She didn’t want anyone to overhear what she had to say to Annette. It was embarrassing at best and dangerous at worst. So
when Annette put down her glossy magazine and stood up, Petronella hurriedly dried her hands on a tea towel and followed her
casually out of the room, smiling at the policewoman as she passed.

Annette walked ahead and when Petronella caught up with her she took hold of the older woman’s arm.

Annette swung round. ‘What do you want?’ she asked in a whisper, looking down at her daughter’s clutching hand as though it
was something dirty. But Petronella still clung on.

‘I’m going to tell the police about Charlie.’

Annette moved nearer so that they were face to face. Petronella could smell alcohol on her breath. As she hadn’t seen her
drinking, she must have done it secretly, slyly.

‘They should know what sort of a man he was.’

Annette stared at her for a few moments. ‘You’re lying.’

‘I’m not. Why do you think I left the first time?’

Annette raised her hand and gave her daughter a stinging slap across the face which echoed like a gunshot in the spacious
hallway. ‘Charlie wouldn’t have fancied you if you’d been lying naked in front of him with your legs wide open. If you know
what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut,’ she said before sweeping up the stairs.

A tear ran down Petronella’s stinging cheek and as she watched the woman who’d given birth to her disappear into the bathroom
off the landing, she felt a burning, frustrated rage welling up inside her.

‘Mum,’ she called out. But the word echoed back to her in the silence.

DC Steve Carstairs walked slowly down Tradmouth High Street looking in shop windows, killing time.

He’d never been suspended from duty before, even though he’d often sailed very close to the hostile wind. The truth was, he
didn’t know what to do with himself. He could look upon it as a holiday but somehow that didn’t seem right. Or maybe he should
think of it as sick leave … after all, the thought of Carl Pinney’s smug, smirking face made him want to vomit.

He stared into the window of a menswear shop, hardly registering the clothes on display, clenching his fist so tight that
his flesh began to hurt as the resentment welled up
inside him. He had seen others bend the rules from time to time. Gerry Heffernan didn’t do things by the book if he thought
he could get away with it and even Peterson ignored procedure occasionally. Carl Pinney was scum. He thought nothing of using
violence on those he robbed of their wallets or mobile phones … but when he was given a dose of his own bitter medicine, he
whinged to the authorities.

He looked at his watch. Five o’clock – almost time for Burton’s Butties to close. He’d never given the shop a second thought
until he’d come face to face with his father there. Robbie Carstairs had vanished from his life seventeen years ago when he’d
abandoned him and his mother for some little typist at the car showroom where he’d worked. He’d gone up north somewhere but
it might as well have been the North Pole as far as Steve was concerned. For a few years there had been Christmas and birthday
cards with a fiver stuffed inside. Conscience money his mother had said. Then, from the time he’d reached sixteen or so, there
was nothing. Nothing until the phone call to his mother saying he was back.

When father and son met again, they’d managed to maintain a fragile façade of polite, laddish bonhomie. The thing that hung
between them like a whale in a fish tank was never mentioned and Steve was no wiser as to why his father had abandoned him
now than he was seventeen years ago. Over the years he’d fantasised about his father’s return – sometimes imagining some subtle
revenge for the pain he’d caused, sometimes thinking how they’d be reunited, his father full of tearful remorse, determined
to make up for the lost years. But the reality had been neither of these things. Just awkwardness and stiff embarrassment.