He was wearing a yellow high-viz jacket over the top of his police uniform, the peaked cap speckled with raindrops. Not bad looking in a thin, George Clooney kind of way. Well, George Clooney crossed with John Cleese. He grinned like an idiot, mouthing something dirty at her through the glass, even though he knew the room was soundproofed.
She marched back into the cutting room.
DI Stinky McClain a hairy wee man with a face like a used condom stood with his back to the wall of refrigerated drawers, sharing a joke with Professor Muir. So the receptionist pulls up her knickers and says, Its never done that before! He laughed, jowls jiggling. Its never done that before. Get it? Then waved at a tall, old, grave-looking man from the local funeral directors. Come on, Unwin, havent got all night.
Mr Unwin raised an eyebrow as he wheeled a stainless steel coffin in from the loading bay. Patience is a virtue, Inspector. The dead will not be rushed. He activated the trolleys brake with a shiny black shoe, then headed back out for the other body.
This would be their double suicide then.
Sandra followed the undertaker out into the hallway.
Ewan was leaning against the wall, waiting for her. He grabbed her, planting a big wet kiss right on her mouth. What you still doing here? Thought youd be home with Emma by now.
Heat bloomed across Sandras cheeks. She pulled herself free. Mums looking after her. And Id be home by now if it wasnt for you and your bloody suicides.
He shrugged. Yeah, well, thats Christmas for you. Listen, I was thinking. . . He grabbed her again, wrapping his hands around her buttocks. If youve got nothing on for the next fifteen minutes, maybe we could find a nice quiet room and-
No you bloody dont! Randy sod. She backed away. You and your gonads can. . .
Mr Unwin reappeared in the hallway, the wheels on his gurney squeaking as he pushed it through into the cutting room.
Look, I got to go, OK? Sooner we get started on this pair, the sooner I get home.
A playful smile sneaked its way onto his face. Maybe when I get home. . .? Ever the optimist.
Fat chance! Some of us have to get up for work in the morning.
The smile vanished. Hows Emma ever going to get a baby brother if we never do it? I could dress up: would that help? You know, be a fireman, or a doctor, or something?
Change the subject. So, what we got pair of oldies?
Naw. He took her hand and led her back towards the dissecting room, where Professor Muir and Mr Unwin were hefting a dark-blue body-bag onto one of the mortuarys examination tables. Quite romantic really: man and woman, both early twenties, found holding hands on the bed. Painkillers, sleeping pills, and a big bottle of milk.
What the hells romantic about that?
Decided they just couldnt live without each other. If one of them was going to die, they were both going to die.
Oh yeah?
Professor Muir unzipped the bag, revealing a pretty blonde woman. Upturned nose, small overbite, and bright-red lips. Her face was plastered with make-up, hiding the bloodless yellow waxy pall of death. But from the neck down she was all corpse. And not a natural blonde either.
So which one was dying? Let me guess, she-
It was him. We found a letter from the hospital: test results. Turns out his HIV just got upgraded to full-blown AIDS.
She scowled. Great, just what we need a pair of fucking biohazards. They take forever.
Yeah, well, you just make sure you take care, OK? He patted her on the arse. Dont want nothing happening to my woman.
She didnt bother answering that, just stomped across the room as Muir and the undertaker manhandled the other body-bag out of its stainless steel coffin. Better watch out, she pointed at the bag, this ones got AIDS.
The professor swore, then pulled on a surgical mask and another pair of latex gloves. Scowled in DI Stinky McClains direction. No one bloody tells me anything. He hauled down the zip, zwwwwwwwwwwwwip . . . and there was Kevin.
The floor wobbled beneath Sandras feet.
It was Kevin. Kevin was dead. Kevin was lying on his back, on a cutting slab, staring up at the mortuary ceiling with a faraway look in his glassy eyes.
She stumbled back a couple of steps. He had AIDS! Just two days ago theyd had unprotected sex in a dangerous area: the multi-storey car park behind Marks and Spencer. The bastard never even told her he was HIV positive!
Oh fuck. . .
Sandra? Good old Ewan, at her side in a flash, playing the big, strong husband. You OK?
She couldnt take her eyes off Kevins dead face.
The cheating, dirty, diseased, two-timing bastard hadnt even bothered to tell her! That could be her lying there next to him, all peaceful and serene and not having to worry about dying from some horrific disease. Instead of some STUPID BLONDE TART.
Sandra?
Kevin didnt even have the common decency to ask her to commit suicide with him. He never really loved her at all.
Men were such bastards.
3: French Hens
Marguerite Dumond could swear fluently in four languages, but right now she was practising her English. Clutching the side of her head, trying to staunch the bleeding. Leaning against the alley wall, as Philippe still dressed in his chefs whites kicked the shit out of the man whod hit her.
Philippes words were slurred, his heavy French accent rendered almost unintelligible by half a bottle of vodka on top of a hit of heroin, but his aim was dead on. How, kick, many, kick, times, kick, do I have to tell you? Kick. NEVER come around my work! He took three steps back, had a run up, and slammed another boot into the man lying curled up on the alley floor. Then started stomping on his face.
Marguerite peeled the tea towel off her head. It was soaked through glistening and dark red. The alleyway began to spin, her knees gave out she sat down heavily on a crate full of empty bottles, making them rattle and clink. She wasnt going to be sick, she wasnt going to be . . . oh yes she was. Marguerite leaned sideways and retched, spattering the cobbles with coq au vin and creme brulee.
Philippe knelt on the mans chest and grabbed a handful of hair. Pulled his head off the ground. I ask you nicely! A muffled grunt, then the hard, wet thunk of something being bounced off the alley floor. I ask you nicely, but you dont listen! You just, thunk, dont, thunk, listen. Thunk. There was a moments silence, then, You are stupid fucker, Kenny. You dont deserve friend like me. . .
Marguerite raised her head, mouth coated with bitter slime.
Philippe was rummaging through Kennys pockets, pulling out little silver foil packets. Then he settled back on his haunches and forced Kennys mouth open.
If you kill my waitress, how can she serve my food? A great restaurant, she cannot function without her front of house staff! He ripped the end off a wrapper of heroin and poured it into Kennys blood-smeared mouth. Then another and another and another. . . Bon appetit. He slammed his hand into Kennys chest and the battered man convulsed, sending a plume of white powder up into the cold evening air.
Philippe clamped a hand over Kennys mouth. I said, Bon appetit!
And that was when Marguerite blacked out.
Half past seven in the morning and Alexander Garvie stood at the front door of La Poule Francaise, signing for the days fish delivery haddock, brill, turbot and hake. No sea bass, which would piss the chef off, but some days you just had to go with what was available.
He shuffled back in through the restaurant doors, heading for the kitchen. If the reservations book was anything to go by, itd be another busy day. Nearly full for lunch and packed for dinner. If it kept up like this theyd have to get more staff. Maybe a bigger restaurant?
He shuffled back in through the restaurant doors, heading for the kitchen. If the reservations book was anything to go by, itd be another busy day. Nearly full for lunch and packed for dinner. If it kept up like this theyd have to get more staff. Maybe a bigger restaurant?
Alexander shouldered his way through the kitchen doors and marched up to the walk-in fridge. There was a lot to be said for opening a new place: maybe something down by the river, or the cathedral?
He balanced the box of fish on his hip and cracked the fridge open.
Itd be expensive, but if they could match the success of La Poule Francaise theyd break even in about a year and a half. Eighteen months. It would be tight, but-
What the hell was that?
There was a man in the fridge!
He was lying flat on his back, next to the carrots and shallots, legs bent outwards, arms above his head. Like a frog waiting to be dissected.
Hello? Alexander slid the box onto the nearest shelf. You shouldnt be in here its not hygienic. . .
The man didnt move.
Are you OK? He flicked on the inner light, breath misting around his head.
The man was not OK. His skin was the colour of rancid butter, spattered with dark-brown blood, and his forehead had a decided dip in it. Alexander reached out and touched the icy skin with trembling fingers. The man would never be OK ever again. He was dead.
Oh dear God. . . The first big glass of cognac hadnt settled his nerves and neither had the second one. The third was making things a little fuzzy around the edges, though. Alexander sat at the restaurant bar, trembling, drinking the good cognac, and staring at his mobile phone.
He should call the police.
Just as soon as he felt able to speak.
Call the police and tell them about the dead man in his fridge. And after that he might as well put a big GOING OUT OF BUSINESS sign in the window. Who wanted to eat in a restaurant with a corpse in the kitchen? They were ruined.
The sound of stainless steel platters clanging on the tiled floor came through from the kitchen, followed by French swearing. Philippe was in. His creased face appeared through the doors two minutes later pink eyes, pale skin, dark-purple bags under the eyes. Mon Dieu. . . I feel like merde. He rubbed a hand across his stubble-coated chin. Is that brandy or whisky? pointing at the balloon glass in Alexanders hand.
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, dont let the bastards bury me in Paris. You know weve got a full service today?