Peter May: Blowback

“So tell me.”

She shrugged and sipped her wine. “Not much to tell, really. That letter of introduction you got from your friend at the catering school in Souillac really did the trick. They took me on for the full five weeks, no questions asked. But there’s nothing to do here, papa! You spend most of the time working, and the rest of the time cooped up in a tiny room in the staff annexe watching a crappy TV set that looks like its broadcasting a snowstorm. And the food? You’d think because you’re working in a three-star kitchen you’d eat well. But all our meals are cooked by one of the stagiaires. Pretty bloody awful. We all have to take turns. Even me. So you can imagine!”

Enzo could, only too well. He wrinkled his nose.

But Sophie wasn’t finished. “And the social life is zero!”

“You aren’t here to socialise. You’re here to be my eyes and ears behind the scenes, to pick up the kind of things no one’s ever going to tell me.”

“I didn’t know it was going to be like this, though. I thought it would be fun. Roll on next week!” She took a lengthy draught from her glass.

“That’s Chablis, Sophie. You don’t drink it like lemonade.”

“You do if you haven’t had a decent drink for a month.”

Enzo sighed. Sophie was almost twenty-four now, but it was hard to believe sometimes that she wasn’t still sixteen. “Have you learned anything at all?”

She pursed her lips in a secret little smile and tilted her head to one side. “Maybe.”

“Sophie!” Enzo was losing patience.

Sophie tucked her legs up under her and leaned on the arm of the settee. “Well… a lot of gossip, I guess. Folk just love to blether.”

Enzo couldn’t resist a smile. From the time she had started to talk he had spoken only English to her. He knew that she would be steeped in French language and culture as she grew up, but he had wanted her to absorb at least a little of her cultural heritage. And, of course, the English she had learned was his English, peppered with Scottish words, and flavoured with a gentle Scottish accent, like the warm scent of whisky on a summer’s evening. “And what have they been blethering about?”

“Oh, this and that.” It was clear she had something to tell him. Something she was pleased with. But she wasn’t about to blurt it straight out. “And the sous chef ’s taken a fancy to me.”

“Oh, has he?” This was not what Enzo wanted to hear. “Well, I hope you’re not encouraging him.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Philippe’s a good looking guy.”

“What about Bertrand?”

“What about him?”

“You’re not cheating on him, are you?”

A petulant little pout pursed her lips. “I’m not here to take lectures from you on cheating.” She saw immediately how she had hurt him, carelessly, thoughtlessly. And she immediately relented. “I’m sorry, papa. I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”

Enzo nodded, but said nothing.

“Anyway, I’m not cheating on anyone. It’s just nice to be getting a bit of attention, that’s all.” She sipped on her wine again. “Everyone who was here when Marc Fraysse was still alive really loved him. I mean, no one’s got a bad word to say about him. Apparently he was endlessly patient with the stagiaires. Unlike his successor.”

“You don’t like Georges Crozes?”

She shrugged. “He’s okay, I suppose. Bit of a cold fish. But he’s good, you know? Everyone respects his talent. It seems like Marc really thought the world of him. But he’s got a temper on him. He can lose it sometimes. And you don’t want to be around him when he does.”

“What about Marc himself? Any stories, anecdotes, observations?”

Sophie smiled. “He had a bit of a passion for the horses, apparently.”

Enzo frowned. “You mean he went horse riding?”

Sophie laughed. “No, papa! Don’t be silly! I mean he liked betting on them. It seems he drove into Thiers most mornings to the PMU to place a few bets on that day’s courses.”

Enzo nodded thoughtfully. “And Guy? What’s he like?”

“He’s a lovely man, papa. Treats everyone like a member of the family.”

“What about him and Elisabeth? Is there anything between them, do you think?”

Sophie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Romantically, you mean?”

“Or sexually.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. If there is, they keep it incredibly well hidden. They are more like brother and sister. Except that she’s a lot more aloof. Treats the staff like the staff. Likes to be called patronne, or Madame Fraysse. Guy is happy for everyone to call him Guy. Which everyone does. Except for Patrick, of course. He’s been with the family for years. Ve-ery old fashioned. But nice.” She took another sip from her glass. “Apparently Marc had everyone just call him Marc, even the stagiaires. Which is unheard of. The chef is always called chef.”

“And Georges?”

“Oh, he’s chef. No doubt about that. You wouldn’t last long if you called him Georges.”

Enzo regarded his daughter thoughtfully as she drained her glass. “So what is it you haven’t told me yet?”

Sophie pouted. “Oh, papa, you’re no fun. How did you know?”

Enzo laughed. “Sophie, you’re like an open book.”

She frowned. “If I was, I wouldn’t have been able to work undercover here for four weeks without anyone knowing.”

Enzo smiled indulgently. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He gazed at her fondly. So much of her mother in her. The mother he had only really got to know vicariously in the bringing up of her daughter. “So what is your little secret?”

“A pretty open secret really.” But she grinned conspiratorially, leaning forward slightly, as if they might be overheard. “Georges’ wife, Anne, works as a receptionist at the hotel. You probably met her when you checked in.”

Enzo recalled the slim, handsome woman behind the reception desk. A woman in her forties, he would have guessed. Auburn hair drawn severely back from a pale face, strong features enhanced by the merest touch of make-up. Her smile had been warm enough. But he remembered, too, the momentary shadow which had dulled it when she realized who he was. “Anne.” He repeated her name, as if trying it out for size. But, in truth, it was the technique he employed for defeating his poor memory for names. Once repeated, forever remembered.

“Everyone who was here at the time reckons Anne Crozes and Marc Fraysse were having an affair.” Sophie sat back in the settee, pleased with herself. “Which, if you were looking for motive, would provide plenty for either Georges or Elisabeth.”

Sophie stayed another half hour, drinking more of his wine, regaling him with tales of her four weeks in the kitchen, demanding news of Cahors, wanting to know if he had seen Bertrand. But his mind was only half with her. If it were true that Anne Crozes and Marc Fraysse had been having an affair, then it would be reasonable to assume that if everyone else knew about it, then both Elisabeth and Georges must have suspected it, too. But while motive was significant, Enzo was always careful not to attach too much importance to it. Real, hard, forensic evidence was much more compelling, and often led in a direction that belied motive. Moreover, it was equally true that while everyone around you knew that your spouse was cheating, you were very often the last person to know it yourself. And, even then, the last one to admit it. Lending veracity to the old adage that there are none so blind as those who will not see. Still, it was food for thought.

Sophie was suddenly on her feet. “I’d better go.”

Enzo followed her to the door, where she stopped, turning to look at him earnestly. “Have you seen Charlotte?”