The Blood Pit (18 page)

He rushed out of the flat into the communal hallway and when he opened the door he saw his colleague, Diane standing there
with a bottle of white wine and a shy smile. As he stood aside to let her in he caught a whiff of her perfume. Things were
looking up.

The lasagne Wesley had eaten at the Fisherman’s Arms lay rather heavy on his stomach as he drove out to Le Petit Poisson.
It was two o’clock and he reckoned the Sunday lunchtime rush at the restaurant would be past its peak by now. Time for the
chef de cuisine to abandon his knives and ladles and answer some pertinent questions.

It was Jean-Claude Montfort who met them at the entrance and ushered them discreetly through to the back out of sight of the
diners who were enjoying their desserts and coffee
in the restaurant. He couldn’t have looked more uneasy if they’d been from the Environmental Health Department. Wesley found
himself wondering whether he knew the chef’s secret. Maybe he’d ask him later, depending on how the interview with Colbert
– or was it Collins? – went.

The kitchen at Le Petit Poisson was still as active as an ants’ nest with each white-clad chef focused on his – or in one
case her – appointed task. Gerry Heffernan observed in a whisper that Colbert ran a tight ship. And with those words the captain
himself appeared, striding across the tiled floor, hands behind his back like Captain Bligh on the bridge of the
Bounty
.

He didn’t look pleased to see them. Ignoring their presence, he picked up a spoon and tasted the contents of a pot bubbling
away on the massive stove while the pot’s youthful guardian looked on in trepidation. He pulled a face and barked ‘more salt’
like a military order.

‘We’d like a word, Mr Colbert,’ Gerry Heffernan said to his disappearing back, shooting the words out like a shot across the
bows.

The chef turned. ‘Very well. In my office.’ If this man really had been Darren Collins in a former incarnation, Wesley thought,
he certainly kept up the pretence well. His French accent was convincing … not just a parody like the cast of ’
Allo ’Allo
. Wesley suddenly feared that a mistake had been made somehow. He could see Colbert’s neck and there was no sign of a tattoo.
In fact he didn’t look much like the photograph of the youthful Darren Collins at all. He nudged Heffernan who looked slightly
more confident than he felt that they weren’t going to make colossal fools of themselves.

When they reached the chef’s office he invited them to sit, his expression a blend of wariness and impatience. ‘What can I
do for you gentlemen?’ he asked.

Gerry Heffernan gave Wesley a discreet nod. It was up to him to broach the subject and he suddenly felt apprehensive.

‘Monsieur Colbert. Would you mind if your fingerprints were taken? For elimination purposes of course.’

Colbert stared at him as if he’d made an offensive remark. ‘This is ridiculous. This is police harassment. You think that because
Charlie tricked me with the wine labels that I kill him. I tell you, I did not. I have a better punishment for him … to tell
the world he is a crook. His reputation would be nothing and his business, it will fail. For a man like Charlie who likes
the good things in life, Inspector, this is worse than death.’

Wesley nodded. Fabrice Colbert certainly had a point. Revenge, he had heard it said, was a dish best served cold and Colbert
was more than capable of serving up this particular dish from his vast freezer and finishing Marrick’s reputation in the West
Country for good.

Gerry Heffernan didn’t favour the subtle approach. He leaned forward, looking Colbert in the eye. ‘You don’t half look familiar. You’re
the spit of a villain called Darren Collins – did three years for a post office robbery in London years ago.’ He watched the
man’s face carefully. ‘You and him could be twins.’

There was a long silence. It was as if Colbert had gone into a trance. Or perhaps his past was just coming back to haunt him.

He shuffled restlessly in his chair. ‘Er … look. I don’t want this to get out. I’d be grateful if it stayed in these four walls.’
He spoke quietly but the French accent was gone, replaced by a London twang. ‘If I give you my prints, you’re going to find
out sooner or later so I’d better come clean.’

Wesley glanced at his boss. He hadn’t expected it to be so easy.

‘When I was young I was a bad lad – did some things I regret. I got in with a bad crowd. You know how it is. Anyway, I was
persuaded to do this post office. Got caught, didn’t I?’

‘So let me get this straight,’ said Wesley. ‘You’re not French at all. It’s all an act.’

Colbert shrugged his shoulders dramatically. He was so accustomed to playing the part that old habits were hard to break.
‘When I got out I went on this training scheme and I learned how to cook. Really got into it. Then I decided to go to France
– someone I knew was working at this hotel in Paris and he got me a job in the kitchens. I worked my way up … learned the
lingo. I was there ten years then I decided to take the risk and come back to open my own place over here. When I did, everything
I touched seemed to turn to gold – I worked like stink, built up the reputation of my first place in Exeter then bought Le
Petit Poisson.’

‘What about the tattoo?’

‘I lost it, didn’t I? I found a surgeon in France who did it for me along with a nose job. The tattoo didn’t really go with
my new self.’

‘Why did you decide to come back to England?’ Gerry Heffernan sounded genuinely curious.

Darren Collins gave him a rueful smile. ‘Got a bit homesick, didn’t I? I spoke the lingo pretty well but it’s not the same,
is it?’

‘Does Jean-Claude know about this?’

Darren nodded. ‘He was working at the hotel in Paris at the same time I was. We became mates. When I wanted to set up a restaurant
over here, he was the first bloke I thought of. You need a good sommelier, don’t you? And a good head waiter. Jean-Claude can
do both. Look, when I got out of jail, I started a new life … I mean that. There was no way I was going back to that place
and I found something I was really good at … food. Darren Collins was another person – someone I’m not proud of and someone
I didn’t particularly like.’

Wesley leaned forward. ‘Your fingerprints were found in Charlie Marrick’s bedroom.’

There was a long silence. ‘Okay. I suppose it’s confession time,’ the chef said with a sigh. ‘If I don’t tell you, you’re
going to find out sooner or later if you’re doing your job properly. I was screwing Annette. It wasn’t a regular thing but
we scratched an itch from time to time if you see what I mean. That’s why my dabs were in the bedroom. That’s where we … er
…’

‘When was the last time you, er … ?’

‘A few days before Charlie died. Look, it was nothing serious. Just a bit of fun.’

‘Did Annette know you weren’t French?’

Darren gave a bitter laugh. ‘Do me a favour. She wanted a French celebrity chef, not a failed armed robber. I’ve got so used
to playing the part now that it’s become second nature. I probably even dream in French these days.’

‘Does, er … Marie know about your change of identity?’ Wesley was genuinely curious about how a man can change his whole identity
and leave no trace of the old self behind.

Darren shook his head. ‘She failed her French GCSE so there’s no chance of her sussing that my French isn’t exactly as the
natives speak it. Look, I don’t want her told. As far as she’s concerned I’m Fabrice. I was born in Rouen and all my family
are dead – killed in a house fire. There was a Fabrice Colbert from Rouen, by the way … he died when he was five. I sort of
acquired his identity. Made the paperwork easier.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. Technically, Darren had committed a crime. But he wasn’t convinced that reporting it to the French
authorities would do anybody any good. Besides, if Darren’s story was true – if he’d managed to transform himself from an
unsuccessful criminal to a successful chef – Wesley couldn’t help feeling a sneaking admiration for his achievements.

‘What about your real family?’ Wesley asked with barely concealed curiosity.

Darren turned his head away. ‘Dead. Like I said, they were killed in a house fire. I was brought up in a children’s home. No
relatives.’

Wesley stood up. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. Darren Collins was a loser. Fabrice Colbert is a success.’

‘And if Charlie Marrick threatened to tell the world that Colbert was really Collins?’

Gerry Heffernan let the question hang in the air. But Darren didn’t rise to the bait. He merely shook his head, a sad smile
on his face. ‘I know what you’re thinking but there’s no way Charlie could have known my secret. How could he? It was a long
time ago.’

‘You realise we’ll have to speak to Annette Marrick. She’ll have to confirm your version of how your prints got into the bedroom
at Foxglove House.’

‘Fair enough. But don’t say anything about …’

‘I don’t see any reason to share your secret with anyone … at the moment,’ said Wesley. ‘Unless our enquiries throw up something
…’

‘They won’t. I’m innocent. I rowed with Marrick but I never hurt him.’

Heffernan stood up and the two men began to walk towards the office door. Then Wesley twisted round, Columbo style, to face
the chef whose face was already relaxing into an expression of relief that the interview was over.

‘Just one more thing, Mr … er … Colbert. Do you know a vet called Simon Tench?’

‘Tench? I don’t think so.’ He raised a finger in the air. ‘Hang on. Marie took the cat to the vet’s in Tradmouth … something
wrong with its eye. I think she saw a guy called Tench. Why?’

‘It’s just that Mr Tench has been murdered. And it looks similar to Charles Marrick’s murder.’

Darren slumped back into his seat. Then his eyes lit up
with new hope. ‘In that case, I’m in the clear. Why would I kill this vet? You tell me that?’

Wesley said nothing. He thanked Darren for his time and the two men left, passing through the restaurant. The only diners
were a party of four at a table near the window, talking loudly, oblivious to the time and the fact that the staff were hovering,
eager to clear the place so they could prepare for the evening.

‘What do you think?’ Heffernan asked as they climbed into the car.

‘I believe him. But I think we should double-check his alibi … and see if he has any connection with Tench other than a few
eye-drops for the cat.’ He hesitated. ‘In fact I found myself admiring him back there. He was in a children’s home … started
on a career of armed robbery then he pulled himself around and became a successful chef. You’ve got to hand it to him, Gerry
…’

‘But don’t forget, Wes. Old habits die hard.’

With those words of wisdom ringing in his ears, Wesley turned the car around and headed back to the police station.

Blood-letting was used to remove corrupt matter from the body. But how was corrupt matter removed from the monastic community
itself? Brother William faced this question and eventually he discovered the solution. Are you intrigued, Neil? Have I whetted
your curiosity? Shall I make my move in our blood game and tell you more?

Brother William was admitted to the Cistercian Abbey of Veland in Devon at the age of twelve. He was an orphan, taken in and
educated by the brothers and taught their ways. At the age of sixteen he became a novice and around a year later he took his
vows of poverty, obedience and chastity. This he did willingly, committing himself to God, for he was an innocent soul, more
concerned with the spirit than the body. If he had known of the evil that he would face in that place that ought to have been
a holy refuge from the sins of the world, then perhaps he wouldn’t have vowed his freedom away with such willing joy. You see,
Neil, Satan dwelled with the monks in that magnificent Abbey of Veland – the Satan that is within us all.

The writer re-read the words on the screen. It was almost ready to send to Neil Watson. He should know the truth about what
happened to Brother William. But as to the other matter … Perhaps it would soon be time to make confession. Or to pay the
ultimate price.

*

At least Wesley had managed to salvage a couple of hours of his Sunday afternoon. After their visit to Le Petit Poisson, Gerry
Heffernan had decided that they needed a break if they were going to be fit for the rigours of Monday morning. Gerry had taken
the
Rosie May
out for a sail around the headland to, as he put it, blow out the cobwebs.

Wesley arrived home to find a note – Pam had gone to Belsham vicarage. Maritia had phoned that lunchtime to offer her anniversary
congratulations and when she’d learned that Della had let them down, she’d invited Pam and the children round to the vicarage
for the afternoon. Wesley joined her just in time for a decent cup of tea. He joked to his sister that there was no sign of
cucumber sandwiches – but then Maritia had never really been the cucumber sandwich type.

As he sat there in the freshly painted living room of the vicarage, listening to his sister’s stream of chat and family news, Wesley’s
mind kept wandering back to the two recent murders. But one glance at Pam, cuddling Amelia on her knee while Michael played
outside, attempting a spot of rudimentary tree climbing in the large vicarage garden, told him that she was tired.

Wesley caught her eye and then began to make farewell noises, saying that they’d better make a move as they had to get the
children organised and prepare themselves for a hard week ahead.

Maritia smiled sympathetically. Like their mother, she was a busy GP with patients, paperwork and a new computer system to
wrestle with each day, as well as her unpaid role as Vicar’s Wife with responsibility for the flower rota and a week night
Bible study. Maritia seemed to possess boundless energy – but then, Wesley thought, she had no children. Children were a great
leveller when it came to sheer exhaustion.

It was as Pam was gathering their things together that
Maritia dropped her quiet bombshell. Not that anybody but Pam had any idea that what she said was even mildly explosive.