Читать книгу No Cherubs for Melanie - James Hawkins - Страница 11

The man who shot the videotape had not been impressed with L’Haute Cuisinier, even before the episode with the owner. Bliss, anxious to view the tape, found himself standing on the threshold of George Weston’s apartment listening to a catalogue of complaints about the restaurant, which included the prices, the parking, the service and, amusingly, the height of the food.

“Why is it,” the man demanded, fiercely stretching his bright red suspenders in a show of annoyance, “Why is it, that some chefs believe indifferent food can be improved by giving it a vertical aspect?” Weston strongly suspected that they were pandering to the American tourists, whom, he believed, were far more likely to applaud an audacious culinary balancing act than a subtle gastronomic conjuring trick. “Even the names signify loftiness,” he whined nasally, his affected Oxbridge accent overlaying a Cotswold twang. “Gateau Mont Blanc, Mile High soufflé; A stack of… Whatever.” The only thing higher than the food was the price, he moaned. “Even the name of the place, L’Haute Cuisinier…”

Bliss managed to stop him momentarily by suggesting they should go inside, but Weston’s griping began again as soon as the door was shut. “Why?” he continued loudly, thumbs still tucked into suspenders. “Why is it so necessary to set fire to everything in front of the customers?”

At this point Bliss cut him short and more or less demanded he hand over the tape. But he was determined to have a final all-encompassing grumble and, sounding like a newspaper’s restaurant critic, he summed up L’Haute Cuisinier as, “A high class brothel for gourmands: piles of trashy food plastered in cheap perfumes and tarted up with gaudy cosmetics to make it appealing.”

Finally consenting to get round to the tape, he apologized that he only had a copy. The original, he claimed, had been given to a television reporter who had called earlier. Bliss’s black look left Weston in no doubt that he should not have disposed of the original, especially to a reporter.

“You should have come first thing this morning, when I called, if you wanted it that badly,” he said defensively, leaving Bliss stumped for a reply.

Bliss would have viewed the tape there and then, but felt a visual reminder of the restaurant would only be inviting a further critical tirade. “Thank you very much, Sir,” he said quickly, as he headed toward the door.

“I say. Could I have a receipt?”

“I’ll mail you one,” replied Bliss over his shoulder, with absolutely no intention of doing so.

“I’ve picked up that video of Gordonstone kicking the bucket,” Bliss said lightly, poking his head into Detective Chief Inspector Bryan’s office following a pub lunch and a whole packet of Polo mints. “Do you want to have a shufty?”

Bryan appeared taken by surprise. “Oh! Hang on, Dave. Come in a second will you, I need to have a word.”

Bliss strolled in, noticing a recent addition to Bryan’s already extensive assortment of houseplants. “It’s beginning to look like a greenhouse in here.”

The chief inspector idly fingered the leaf of a plant that, to Bliss, may just as easily have been a rose as a rhododendron. “I’m thinking of starting a gardening club. Interested in joining?”

“In my poky place — you’re joking. I couldn’t grow a decent-sized bacteria.”

The DCI forced a laugh. “It looked as though you were trying.”

“I’ve had a good clean up since then,” Bliss replied sheepishly.

DCI Bryan picked up a wire paper clip he’d been using as an earwax remover and began fiddling with it, flexing it back and forth. “Dave, there’s no easy way to say this,” he began, his eyes glued to the paper clip. The wire snapped with a click; Bryan flicked the bits toward a waste bin and looked Bliss in the eye. “I’ve decided to take you off the Gordonstone case. I’ll find you something else.”

“What’s going on, Guv?”

“It was my mistake. I think it would be better if we eased you back in with something smaller. A burglary or fraud perhaps.”

“This is crap. The day before yesterday you were pleading with me to take it. Now you want me off it?”

“It’s Edwards,” the chief inspector admitted.

“What?”

“He wants you off the case. Right now.”

“Why?”

“This isn’t a murder enquiry, Dave; this is politics. I warned you to play it quietly; you went in like a bull in a china shop; now the press are onto it and he’s furious.”

“The press were bound to find out sooner or later. Anyway, it would have looked funny if the first time the public knew it was murder was when we announced it at the inquest. There must be more to it than that.”

Bryan fidgeted with his fingers. “There is. I told you to leave the past alone. He doesn’t want to get involved —”

Bliss cut in with irritation. “But he was involved. He was in charge of Gordonstone’s wife’s case.”

“Quite.”

“So why does he want me off the case?”

“Think about it, Dave. If you proved Gordonstone killed his wife it would make him look a fool.”

“He doesn’t need me to make him look a fool. In any case, whoever takes over is just as likely to come to the same conclusion.”

“Leave it alone, Dave.”

“Damned if I will,” shouted Bliss, starting to rise.

Bryan switched tack and attempted persuasion. “Dave, don’t do anything rash. If Edwards had his way you’d be off the force.”

“On what grounds?”

“He mentioned psychological unfitness.”

“The psychiatrist gave me a clean bill.”

Bryan spread his upturned hands in a throwaway gesture, which was reflected in the nonchalance of his tone. “You know what psychiatrists are like, Dave. They blow with the wind. One day they’ll say you’re as sane as…” he shrugged but couldn’t think of anything sufficiently sane to prove his point. “And the next you are only fit for the loony bin.”

“You mean they’ll say what they are told to say.”

“Something like that.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” cried Bliss, then added somewhat uncertainly. “Would they?”