Summit of all fears, p.19
Summit of all Fears, page 19
Blanc stopped his crying momentarily. He lifted his face from his hands and looked at Martha with bloodshot eyes.
“The police?” he said. “You mean you’re not the police?”
“No,” said Martha.
“We’re private investigators,” said Geri.
“From Glasgow,” added Helen.
“You’re not police detectives?” asked Blanc.
“No, we’re the guests of honour here at SteinerCon,” said Martha. “Roberta Steiner has given us this commission, to catch the suspected killer of her husband and—”
Blanc grabbed her and threw her across the tiny office. It was as hard a force as she had ever felt—like a child’s doll thrown off a bridge. She clattered into Helen and Geri and the three of them collapsed into a pile of files.
“Look out! He’s getting away,” shouted Helen, muffled with a mouthful of Martha’s cardigan.
Blanc didn’t waste time. He moved with surprising speed, bolting out of the office.
“Hurry! After him,” shouted Martha, scrambling to her feet.
The sisters gave chase. Blanc thundered through the busy kitchen clearing a path in his wake. Martha, Helen and Geri started to gain on him as he burst through a door. The blinding light of the outside world dazed Martha. But she kept going.
“There!” shouted Geri, pointing at Blanc.
He blundered his way across a road. The street was quiet, the huge hotel looming up behind them. Delivery lorries and vans were parked up all around. Martha led the charge as Blanc started to pull away, heading for the end of the road.
Then he was stopped. A small scooter came whizzing around the corner. Neither the driver or Blanc had time to think. Or more importantly react. The scooter smashed into the chef, sending him rolling away across the road before stopping in a heap in the gutter.
“Crikey!” said Helen. “I didn’t see that one coming.”
“Come on,” said Martha.
They raced across the street to where Blanc was untangling himself. The scooter whizzed past behind them, the driver shouting as he went.
“Arsehole, watch where you’re going next time!”
“Up yours!” Geri shouted after him as he sped away.
“Are you alright?” asked Martha, propping Blanc up.
“Damn it,” he panted, face still scarlet and covered in dirt. “I used to be a champion sprinter in school.”
“Yeah, well, school was a long time ago for all of us, wasn’t it,” said Helen.
Blanc looked up at her, eyeballs a brilliant white against the broken capillaries of his cheeks and forehead.
“For some, longer than others.”
28
Time was pressing, Martha knew that. The police wouldn’t take long to process everyone in the conference. They had already stretched their luck as far as they could. Sitting in a small cafe across from the hotel, helping Marcel Blanc nurse his cuts and bruises didn’t feel like progress. But she had to trust her gut.
“Nothing broken then?” asked Martha.
The Michelin-starred chef winced as he held an improvised ice pack over his knee. He shook his head and reached for the last remnants of the coffee the Parkers had bought him.
“Good,” said Martha. “I think that was a lucky escape, Mr Blanc.”
“Lucky? Hah, tell that to my aching joints and pounding headache.”
Martha’s sympathy for the chef had returned. She was fully aware of how painful joints and headaches were. She’d been nursing enough of them both since the break of dawn.
The sun was still beating down outside, although its brightness was beginning to fade. Long shadows were beginning to creep across the street and into the cafe. It was only now that she realised the time—five o’clock. Roberta’s big speech was coming up, her address to the conference. She wondered how different it would be now, given everything that had happened. There was supposed to be a ball tonight, a dress and heels specially packed. She doubted she’d get to waltz around the dancefloor now.
To her surprise, she found that the thought had made her quite forlorn. For the first time during the trip she lamented that it had not been a success. If things had been different, maybe she would have come around to the fame and fortune idea of working as a private investigator. Both Helen and Geri were well onboard with that idea. So much so that Geri had ended up in Murray Steiner’s bedroom the night he was killed.
Her mind came racing back to the present at that thought. Like a bucket of ice water being thrown at her, she was shocked back into the cafe and Marcel Blanc licking his wounds in front of her.
“Why did you run?” she asked.
Blanc winced again. She was sure he was hamming up at least fifty per cent of the pain he was in.
“Because I don’t want to go to jail,” he said. “Is that reason enough?”
“Only if you’ve done something wrong,” said Geri sceptically.
“I didn’t kill Murray Steiner if that’s what you’re alluding to,” he said adamantly. “I may be many things but I am not a murderer. And I told you before, I was good friends with Murray Steiner. We used to drink together, go clubbing, that sort of thing.”
“Clubbing? At your age?” Helen snorted.
“It was a long time ago now,” said Blanc. “When we were both much younger. I knew all the best places to go in London and Murray liked to party. We shared the same zest for life, the same taste in fine dining, fine wine—”
“Fine women?” asked Martha.
Blanc looked a little embarrassed. He fidgeted with the ice wrapped up in a sandwich bag that was doubling for a pack. The edge of the bag was dripping, leaving a puddle on the floor beside his shoe.
“We were young and foolish,” he said. “And I never saw any indiscretion from Mr Steiner. He was always faithful to his wife, absolutely. When I was there.”
Geri tutted loudly. Helen did the same. As the lead interrogator, Martha refrained. Although she agreed with her sisters.
“You still haven’t answered our question properly,” she said. “If you’re innocent of his murder, then why did you run when you realised we weren’t with the police.”
Blanc went to drain his mug but realised it was empty. He pushed the mug away, eyes turning glassy.
“I am ashamed,” he said. “Ashamed to admit this terrible secret to three complete strangers.”
“Secret? What secret?” asked Helen, sitting forward.
“I am a Michelin star chef, I own a dozen restaurants across central London, even more across in France. I live in Chelsea, drive a Ferrari and have three beautiful children that adore me. I have everything to lose, you have to understand that.”
“Yes, yes, what about the shame?” Helen coaxed him.
Blanc started to cry again. Martha offered him a stained paper napkin. He blew his nose loudly, attracting the attention of the other cafe patrons.
“I am an illegal immigrant,” he said, every word hard and heavy as he spoke. “I should not be here, I don’t hold any citizenship. Can you imagine? The shame of it all.”
“What? That’s it?” asked Helen. “That’s your great shame, that you don’t have a British passport.”
“No, no, I have no passport at all.”
“And?”
“I came over here in the wheel arch of a lorry twenty-five years ago. Everything I’ve got has been through sheer hard work. I scrubbed toilets and cleaned dishes in the best restaurants and learned to cook by watching the masters at work. I’m a self-made man, a minor celebrity. And yet I carry this terrible secret around with me everywhere I go.”
Helen threw her hands up, exhausted. She leaned back in her chair and tutted loudly.
“I thought at the very least we would have got some juicy, illicit affair with somebody.”
“Like Roberta Steiner,” said Geri.
“Exactly. Not that he’s an illegal immigrant who’s become one of the wealthiest chefs in London. That’s something you should be proud of Marcel. You shouldn't be ashamed of your past.”
“She’s right,” said Martha. “Like you said, you’re a self-made man. You’re a role model for everyone out there that with a little hard work and determination, you can do anything with your life. A bit like Roberta Steiner.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” said Geri, fetching her phone and untangling her earphones. “I’ll listen to Roberta’s address to the conference. It’s being streamed on social media.”
Martha offered Blanc a hand. He looked at it like it was some foreign object he was afraid to touch. Then his sad face settled and he took up the offer.
“Never be ashamed of who you are,” said Martha. “I tell that to Helen, Geri, my family, everyone in fact. Your history is what makes you who you are today. You can’t change it but you should be proud of it. Don’t wear it around your neck like a ball and chain. Let it define you, sure, but let it go too.”
“My reputation would be shattered if I were arrested,” said Blanc. “The indignity of the charges, the public scandal. It would be too much for me to bear. That’s why I ran. I panicked, thinking maybe I could somehow get away, before you asked any more questions. Before the police came sniffing around asking questions of the foreigner who might have killed poor Murray Steiner.”
“That question still remains,” said Helen. “He ingested too much potassium and you cooked all of his meals. That makes you a suspect, Marcel. Unless you can categorically point to somebody else who might have been involved, we’re going to have to turn you over to the cops.”
“No, please,” his jowls jiggled with fear. “I’m begging you, please don’t do that. I’m innocent. Why would I kill him? It doesn’t make any sense. I have no reason to do something like that. Murray Steiner was a friend of mine.”
“And to millions of others around the world, but he’s still dead,” Helen said, flatly.
“Please Marcel,” said Martha, trying a different approach. “Help us to help you. If you didn’t lace Murray’s food with poison, who might have? Could it be one of your team maybe? Another chef or a waiter?”
“No.”
Blanc’s voice made the cutlery rattle. He shook his head, vehement and sure. “Absolutely not,” he said.
“How can you be so sure?” Helen cocked an eyebrow. “A minute ago you were certain that nobody could have killed Murray. Now you’re saying he could have been killed, but not by one of your staff.”
“I can assure you all that nobody on my team would have done this,” said Blanc, his sadness turning to anger. “My staff are hand-picked by myself and my assistants. We interview every chef, cook, kitchen porter, waiter and waitress. We run one of the busiest and best kitchens in all of London, maybe even the world. You’ve seen it for yourself, everything works in harmony, we are like an orchestra. All of the parts work together, or none of them work at all. That’s how I was taught and how I will always run my kitchens.”
“And you’re certain nobody would do something like this?” asked Martha.
“Absolutely not,” said Blanc again. “I would put my life on it that nobody from my staff had anything to do with this.”
“But how could you possibly know that?” Helen asked.
“Because everyone in that kitchen has gone through the same ordeal as I have.”
Marcel’s words hung in the stuffy warmth of the cafe. A balmy glow had bathed everything in a homely orange as the sun began its journey towards the horizon. Blanc sighed again, shifting uncomfortably in his hard chair.
“They are or have been like me in their lives,” he said, voice low. “They have come into my kitchen with nothing and worked their way up. They’ve been given the opportunity that was handed to me when I arrived here, had no money, didn’t speak English and was sleeping rough at St Pancras Station. My staff know what it is like to have nothing. And they are appreciative, just like I was, to be shown some faith, time and respect. None of them, and I mean not a single one, would be capable of poisoning Murray Steiner. They have everything to lose, just as I do. They wouldn’t dare risk it all over some petty grudge or trivial matter. My people are better than that. That’s why they’re my people.”
Martha was convinced. Even Helen seemed to call off her dogs.
“Okay,” she said. “Your passion speaks volumes Marcel. We appreciate your honesty too. It clearly means a lot.”
“It does. Thank you,” said the chef. “I have no idea who would do something like this. It’s a tragedy, truly a tragedy.”
Martha was frustrated. She had hoped their lead would be sound. She had hoped that somebody in the kitchen staff would harbour a grudge or even have a motive to murder Murray Steiner. With every passing second their window of opportunity was getting smaller and smaller. She could feel the anxiety building in the back of her mind.
“When you served Murray his food, what was the process?” she asked, clutching at straws.
“Process?” asked Blanc.
“Yes, procedure. I don’t suppose you actually delivered it to him.”
“He didn’t,” said Helen. “We were at dinner last night with the Steiners, we didn’t see him once.”
“When I had finished with Mr and Mrs Steiner’s meals, I would call on a waiter or member of my team. That would be the last I would see of it, unless there was something wrong with it of course.”
“Something wrong?” laughed Martha. “You’re a Michelin starred chef Marcel, what could possibly be wrong with what you had prepared for him.”
Blanc’s face went a little slack. He looked at Martha and then over to Helen.
“You don’t know?” he asked.
Martha felt her stomach knot. She leaned forward.
“Know what?” she asked, her voice barely able to push over her lips.
Blanc stared at her. Then he laughed a little.
“Murray Steiner was allergic to almost everything,” he said. “He always had to be careful. Nuts, white fish, eggs, wheat, soybeans, even peas for God’s sake. Can you imagine? Peas. It was one of the reasons why I would always prepare his meals. One chef, less chance of contamination. But you guys really didn’t know, did you?”
“No we didn’t,” said Martha.
“It’s true. A proper challenge, and one that I always relished, of course, for such a dear friend. Still, that’s why precautions were always taken.”
“Like what.”
“Well, for starters, all of his meals were vetted by Roberta.”
Martha didn’t say anything. Neither did Helen. They both pushed back their chairs and stood up. Blanc looked back and forth between them, unsure what was happening.
“What did you just say there?” asked Helen.
“Roberta. She vetted Murray’s meals. She knew every allergy he had. She knew what he could and couldn’t eat. She vetted everything that was prepared for him before it reached him. It is one of their rider demands, they were famous for it, all around the world. When you cook for Murray Steiner, better make sure Roberta likes it first. Yes, yes.”
Martha and Helen didn’t say anything to the chef, or each other. Heading for the door, they each grabbed one of Geri’s shoulders and hauled her with them.
“Hey, what gives?” she protested. “I was watching Roberta’s speech, she was quite good actually, thanked everyone for helping with the police investigation. She didn’t really talk about what happened, kept it nice and simple, elegant really. I suppose that’s what we’ve come to expect from her during all of this, haven’t we?”
“Geri,” said Martha, as they hurried out of the cafe, the hotel across the street. “We don’t want to alarm you.”
“Actually we do want to alarm you,” said Helen.
“What? What’s happened now? Are you two okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, or something equally terrifying if less cliched.”
The Parker sisters walked across the road and headed for the looming hotel tower. There was a murderer to catch.
29
“This can’t be happening,” said Geri. “There’s no way that this can be the world that we’re living in. Tell me that I’m having a nightmare. Tell me that I’ve had a nasty bump on my noggin and I’ve been heavily sedated and this is just the product of my imagination running wild.”
“It’s none of those, Geri. None of them,” said Martha. “We’re actually doing this.”
“Bloody hell,” she said, taking a big gulp of air. “What about you? Are you onboard with all of this?”
She slapped Helen on the arm.
“Ow,” she said. “What was that for?”
“I was checking you were still awake,” said Geri.
“Of course I’m awake. You didn’t have to hit me Ger, that’s going to bruise. You know I have very sensitive skin. The slightest little nudge and I bruise like a peach.”
“You didn’t answer me.”
“Yes, I can believe what’s happening. I can believe it quite easily actually.”
“What?” asked Martha. “You’re not surprised, even a little bit? We’re going to confront Roberta Steiner and accuse her murdering her husband.”
“No, can’t say I am,” she shrugged.
They reached the back entrance of the hotel. Delivery drivers and staff were still loading and unloading heavy crates and boxes of provisions. Huge bins and containers filled with more laundry were carted out from waiting trucks. Martha said a silent prayer of thanks again to their cushioned landing.
There were no police about, that Martha could see. The Parker sisters sought refuge behind a long row of bins. Peering over the edge, Martha waited for a gap when there were no staff coming and going.
“When we get the chance,” she said to the others. “We make a run for that big entrance over there.”
She pointed forward across the small courtyard where the deliveries were made. The place was cool, steeped in shadow by the overhanging behemoth that was the hotel. Martha shivered, although she suspected that it was about more than just the setting sun.
“No, hold on, wait a minute, time out,” said Geri. “I’m not letting this go. Helen Parker, you’re telling us that you’re not surprised in the slightest about what we suspect?”
