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 todays special? Because I thought we were doing seared sea bass with langoustine butter and pommes dauphinoise.
They didnt have any sea bass.
Philippe shrugged. So you got me a dead body instead?
I DIDNT GET HIM! He was here when I arrived. Alexander slammed the fridge shut. What are we going to do? Itll be in all the papers; as soon as people find out weve got a corpse in here theyll cancel their reservations; well have to shut! Getting louder and louder until Philippe grabbed him by the shoulders.
Stop! Too loud! Youre hurting my head.
What are we going to do? Where did he come from? Were 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? Theyll 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. Were doomed.
No were 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 Alexanders shoulder. Does it matter? Hes 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 knifes 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 Alexanders 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 dont 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 didnt help that Marguerite hadnt 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. Hed 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 managers 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. Hes 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 restaurants rubbish. Were ruined! Were-
Philippe held up a hand. No, not ruined. I chopped the bones, put them in the oven. Theyll 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.
What about the . . . the. . . Alexander tapped the side of his head.
Meh. . . Philippe finished his coffee. When you hack a mans 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, wasnt it? Hed 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 hadnt 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 managers office to chew his fingernails and watch the clock. Counting the minutes until Martin Whites reservation for one, at eight oclock.
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. Its a crime we have no sea bass, but-
Whats 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!
Good, good. . .
Marguerite appeared and whisked the plate away into the restaurant.
Alexander glanced at the fridge. And what about . . . you know . . . that thing?
I had Colin throw half the mince in the bin when he came on. Told him it was rancid.
Excellent. Yes, thats good. Fine. He wrung his hands, smiled, fidgeted. Then went to stand at the door, looking out through the glass porthole at the dining room, searching the faces until he found the bane of every restaurateurs life. Martin White: flabby, pale, with a shock of dyed-black hair, sitting on his own at a table big enough for four. Marguerite offering him the first taste from a bottle of wine, checking to make sure it was acceptable. Whites face clouded over as he swilled the liquid back and forth, then spat it out into another glass and complained bitterly.
Oh God. . . Alexander bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Things were starting to go sour.
Half an hour later and White was picking at his main courses. Starting with the lamb, then dipping into the other dishes. Making snide comments into a Dictaphone.
Marguerite stormed through from the dining room, burst into tears, went straight into the walk-in fridge, slammed the door, and screamed.
It took Alexander five minutes to coax her out.
Hes being such a bastard. She slumped back against the pass, wiping her eyes with a dishtowel. The wines too warm, the wines too cold, the salts too salty, the soups too wet, the candles dont smell nice. . . And then she started swearing in French, but Alexander wasnt listening. He was peering out through the porthole at the man who was going to ruin his restaurant.
Merde!
Oh God, what now?
Philippe was on his knees in front of one of the ovens. Staring in at the empty space.
What? Whats gone wrong? Everything was going wrong!
The. . . Philippe checked the empty oven again. He. . . Theyre gone.
What are gone? Philippe: whats gone?
The bones. Philippe slammed the oven door and stood, eyes raking across the kitchen. Angus!
The commis chef flinched, nearly dicing his fingers along with the celeriac. Yes, chef? Standing to attention.
Bones in this oven. Where?
A smile broke across Anguss face, and he sagged a little. I made stock, chef. He pointed at the huge pot sitting on the hob at the back of the kitchen the cooker reserved for boiling bones, vegetables, and off-cuts. Onion, carrot, celery, peppercorns, bay leaf, thyme. . . The smile slipped a bit. Something wrong chef?
Philippe opened his mouth, but the only thing to come out was a small squeak.
Chef?
Did. . . Are we using it?
Angus frowned, as if Philippe had just insulted his mother. Yes chef: its good veal stock.