The head waiter returned as soundlessly as he had departed, and ushered them out of the dining area.
Polished double doors swung closed behind them. At once the atmosphere changed. Pans clashed, cutlery clattered, white clad figures scurried past, while a frenzied voice shouted out orders in a thick French accent. They followed their guide through a brown baize door to a dimly lit office where a middle-aged man was sitting behind a large wooden desk. He rose to his feet extending a sweaty hand and introduced himself as George Corless.
‘Please, take a seat,’ he added, wheezing as he sat down again. ‘Thank you, Bernard.’
He nodded at the waiter who left, closing the door softly behind him.
‘Now, Inspector.’
He leaned back comfortably in his large leather armchair.
‘I hope this won’t take long, only I’ve got a stack of work waiting. What’s the problem?’
Geraldine studied George Corless, a fat, balding, round-shouldered man in his sixties. Black eyes returned her gaze without blinking from beneath bushy ginger eyebrows, his sharp gaze giving the lie to his offhand words.
He gestured towards a couple of chairs and they sat down.
‘We’re here to speak to you about your partner.’
‘Desiree? What’s happened to her?’
The ruddy glow faded on his broad face and he shifted in his chair.
‘I’m talking about your business partner, Patrick Henshaw.’
‘Patrick? What about him?’
Geraldine couldn’t decide if his shock was genuine when she told him Henshaw was dead.
‘Dead?’
‘You must have noticed he was missing.’
‘No. That is, I wondered why I hadn’t seen him. He’s usually here, but I thought something must have turned up and he’d be along later.’
‘What about yesterday? Didn’t you wonder where he was?’
‘We don’t open on Mondays.’
Corless sat fidgeting with a box of cigars that lay open on the desk top. He gazed around the room uncertainly until his eyes lit on a decanter. He rose heavily to his feet, crossing the room to pour himself a tumbler of whisky. Throwing his head back, he downed the liquor in one gulp and refilled the glass. Geraldine watched his back, shirt stretched across wide shoulders, trousers taut on his buttocks and barrel shaped thighs.
After a moment he turned and waddled slowly back to his desk, clutching his drink in a hand that shook slightly.
‘Are you telling me Patrick’s actually dead?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Mr Corless.’
‘But – what the hell are you doing here, if you don’t mind my asking – unless –’
He paused, his forehead creased in a puzzled frown.
‘Patrick Henshaw was murdered,’ Geraldine said.
The fat man sat down abruptly, oblivious of whisky sloshing in his glass. It splashed the papers on the desk in front of him, its scented aroma permeating the air between them.
‘Mr Corless, I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
He stared at the glass in his hand as though dazed by what he had heard. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
Geraldine leaned forward. She kept her eyes fixed on his face as she spoke.
‘From what we’ve heard, you and Patrick Henshaw didn’t exactly see eye to eye.’
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘With Patrick out of the way, the restaurant belongs to you. You’re free to do what you want with the place.’
She wondered if it was obvious she was fishing.
‘Let me get this straight. Patrick’s been murdered and you think
I’m
responsible?’
He set his whisky down and flung his hands in the air, stung into animation.
‘That’s complete bollocks. I’m the last person on earth who would want anything to happen to him. Apart from the fact that we were friends, we’ve got a great business here. Only an idiot would want that to change.’
Geraldine spoke quietly.
‘You argued about your business plans, didn’t you?’
He looked puzzled.
‘I’m not sure what you’re implying. Sure, we had different ideas. Business partners do. What’s wrong with that? We weren’t bloody identical twins.’
He stood up abruptly.
‘Please tell me you’re not going to try and pin his murder on me, because you’ll only end up making yourself look like an idiot. I’ve got to say, it’s the stupidest idea I’ve heard in a long time. Patrick was my partner. We’ve known each other for years. Why would I want him dead? If he really was murdered. What possible motive could I have for killing him?’
‘Money is a powerful motive.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
Corless looked uncomfortable. He drained his glass and resumed fidgeting with his box of cigars, but when he next spoke his voice was firm.
‘Look, Inspector, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Mireille’s a great business, but our success is down to Patrick, so it makes no sense for me to want to get rid of him. Why would I?’
He sighed and rubbed his chin with the fingers of one hand.
‘Mr Corless, you must be aware that Mireille now belongs to you, making you an extremely wealthy man. Patrick Henshaw was very generous towards you in his will.’
‘It was a reciprocal agreement. We go back a long way, me and Pat. God knows how I’m going to manage this place without him. Believe me, no one is going to regret his passing more than me. Jesus, I depended on Pat to make this place work. Without him, I’m really in the shit.’
He sounded genuine, but Geraldine wasn’t sure whether to believe him. With so much money at stake, anything was possible.
A
my had wanted to speak to Guy as soon as the inspector left her house, but she had been nervous about contacting him. The police might be listening to her calls. By Wednesday morning she was desperate to speak to him. She dialled his number from a payphone in a pub, but he didn’t answer. He must be at work. She would have to wait until the evening. Catching sight of herself in the mirror when she went to the bathroom, she was shocked by her face, white with red and swollen eyes. She took a deep breath. Whatever else happened, she couldn’t let Guy see her looking so haggard. Usually she could get away with admitting to ten years younger than her forty years, but right now she looked closer to fifty. Imagining herself standing beside Guy gave her a tremor of panic.
Removing all traces of make-up she took a long shower, before lying down with cooling eye patches to reduce the swelling around her eyes. It was impossible to relax. Finally she got up, dressed, and reapplied her make-up carefully until she looked reasonably presentable. Then she went out to try the payphone again.
‘I need to see you,’ she blurted out as soon as he answered. ‘Something’s happened to Patrick.’
Her voice shook as she told him she thought she might be in trouble with the police. They had cunning techniques for putting pressure on vulnerable people. She was careful not to say too much in case anyone was listening.
Having lost her husband, Amy might be about to lose her freedom as well. Then everything would be over: the sex, the money, the whole future they had planned together, all snatched away. The phone trembled in her grasp. She tried to think, but her mind seized up. Patrick had always taken care of everything. He had taken care of her. Now she would have to look out for herself. Guy was too young and inexperienced to take charge of the situation.
‘When can you come round?’
He sounded curiously keyed up. Amy barely paused before agreeing to go there right away. Far better confront him face to face with what she needed him to do.
‘Amy, what have you done?’ he asked as soon as his door closed behind her.
He moved aside to avoid her embrace and gazed at her in consternation.
‘Done? What do you mean?’
She moved forward to kiss him, but he pushed her away and repeated his question. He wanted to know exactly what had happened. Keeping her at arm’s length, he studied her face carefully.
‘Amy, you look terrible. What’s wrong? Tell me what happened. What did he do to you, Amy? Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t worry, whatever happened, whatever you’ve done, it’s not your fault.’
Amy was watching his face closely as he spoke. When she answered her voice was terse.
‘I haven’t done anything, Guy.’
She was shocked. If Guy blamed her, what hope did she have of convincing the police she was innocent? She turned away.
‘He’s dead.’
Amy turned back to him in time to see Guy’s eyes narrow, calculating.
‘Patrick’s dead,’ she repeated solemnly, and was surprised to see him grinning.
‘But that’s great! I can’t believe it! He’s gone, really gone, out of our lives. I don’t care what happened, all that matters now is that he’s gone and we can be together all the time!’
Amy looked up at him, tears spilling from her eyes. Gently he reached forward to wipe a tear from her cheek with one finger.
‘What is it, Amy?’
‘Patrick was murdered. Guy, this is horrible.’
He put his arms around her, pulling her close.
‘So what? What difference does that make to us? He’s dead, isn’t he, and that’s all that matters. It’s not like he didn’t deserve it. Come on, Amy, don’t cry. He’s dead, and we can be together all the time. There’s nothing to stop us now. That’s what’s important. And it’s hardly a surprise that someone finished him off, is it? He was a vicious bastard. He got what was coming to him and that’s the end of it.’
His smile faded as Amy pulled away in alarm.
‘I mean, I’m sorry he’s dead, of course,’ he added quickly. ‘And to die like that. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but –’ he lowered his voice, speaking very clearly, ‘I don’t blame his killer, and nor do you. Your husband got what was coming to him and good riddance.’
Amy took a step backwards, her eyes fixed on Guy’s face.
‘I haven’t told you what happened yet,’ she whispered. ‘How do you know how he died?’
‘You said he’d been murdered. That’s all I need to know.’
‘What if they find out?’
‘What do you mean?’
Guy shrugged his shoulders.
‘Don’t even think about it. Think about me, about us!’
‘It’s not that easy. It’s… ’
Amy broke off, incoherent with sobs.
Guy put his arms around her again and led her gently into the kitchen where he put the kettle on and poured out two mugs of tea.
‘Do you want sugar in it?’ he asked, solicitously. ‘It’s good for shock.’
Amy grimaced and he grinned.
‘I’ll take that as a no, then.’
He put the tea on the table in front of her.
‘Now, do you want to talk about it? Tell me what happened at the police station.’
He watched her lips pucker as she blew on her tea.
‘If you’d rather not talk about it – or about his death – that’s alright. Whatever you want. We can talk about what we’re going to do, if you like. Because it will all be yours now, won’t it? The house, the car – the dog!’
Finally he was rewarded with a tentative smile and he sat down, cupping his own hot mug in his hands.
‘He can’t take anything away from you now, and he won’t ever hurt you again. You’re free, Amy, a free woman.’
She smiled weakly.
‘And a rich one,’ he added in a quiet murmur, almost inaudible behind his tea.
He put his mug down and leaned forward.
‘But I don’t give a stuff about the money, Amy. All I care about is being with you. And whatever happened to him had nothing to do with either of us. It’s just our good luck to be finally rid of him for good.’
‘I know. It couldn’t have been either of us,’ she replied.
All at once her voice became firm.
‘It couldn’t have been us, because we were together when Patrick was killed. We were both here
all
Sunday night.’
‘Until you left at –’ he broke off, understanding.
Amy reached across the table and stroked his bottom lip with her finger.
‘Enough talking. Whenever it was done, you were with me. All night.’
She stood up, walked round the table and bent down to kiss him. Guy surrendered to her embrace.
A
s Geraldine was about to go out for lunch the next day she received a call from the forensic team. Several long brown hairs had been found on the passenger seat of Henshaw’s car, along with smears of make-up. Geraldine frowned. Amy was blonde. The forensic evidence indicated that someone else had been sitting beside the driver on his last journey.
‘So at some point a dark-haired woman was sitting in the passenger seat,’ Geraldine said.
‘Sitting or possibly lying back.’
‘What makes you say that?’ she asked, suddenly interested.
‘The hairs were found on the seat, hairs and flecks of dandruff, but there were also specimens on the back of the head rest, as though the woman had been lying with her head pushed back. It’s just a possibility. Make-up was found on the back of the seat as well, suggesting she was lying with her face turned sideways, pressing against the seat.’
‘Why would anyone sit like that?’
‘Search me. I’m just reporting on what we found in the vehicle.’
Geraldine thanked the forensic scientist and asked to be informed as soon as they had an identity from the DNA provided by the hairs.
Stella Hallett was a dumpy little woman in her thirties. With mousy hair that fell to her shoulders and a plump figure, she was an unlikely choice of mistress for the husband of glamorous Amy Henshaw – which had been Geraldine’s first suspicion on hearing the terms of the will. Looking at her, Geraldine thought Stella was more likely to be a relative; Henshaw’s younger sister or a daughter, perhaps. Yet a woman with brown hair had been lying on the passenger seat of Henshaw’s car not long before he died, and Stella’s hair was brown.
Stella was the first person to express any grief on hearing about Henshaw’s death. Visibly shocked, her face lost its colour and she clutched at the door frame as though in need of support.
‘Patrick’s dead?’ she repeated several times.
Geraldine waited for her to absorb the news that Henshaw had been murdered.
‘I’m afraid so. I’m here to ask you a few questions, Stella. Shall we go inside and sit down?’