Free Stop Dead by Leigh Russell Page B

Geraldine held up her warrant card and asked for the manager, he turned and vanished through swing doors.

    ‘Just look at that!’ Sam muttered.
    She stared enviously as several plates of food were delivered to a nearby table. A team of waiters materialised to serve the accompanying vegetables and wine.
    ‘God, I’m starving,’ Sam went on, wistfully. ‘It’ll be chips for us on the way back, I suppose.’
    Geraldine smiled.
    ‘I don’t think expenses would run to dining here.’
    The head waiter returned as soundlessly as he had departed, and ushered them out of the dining area.

    Polished double doors swung closed behind them. At once the atmosphere changed. Pans clashed, cutlery clattered, white clad figures scurried past, while a frenzied voice shouted out orders in a thick French accent. They followed their guide through a brown baize door to a dimly lit office where a middle-aged man was sitting behind a large wooden desk. He rose to his feet extending a sweaty hand and introduced himself as George Corless.
    ‘Please, take a seat,’ he added, wheezing as he sat down again. ‘Thank you, Bernard.’
    He nodded at the waiter who left, closing the door softly behind him.

    ‘Now, Inspector.’
    He leaned back comfortably in his large leather armchair.
    ‘I hope this won’t take long, only I’ve got a stack of work waiting. What’s the problem?’
    Geraldine studied George Corless, a fat, balding, round-shouldered man in his sixties. Black eyes returned her gaze without blinking from beneath bushy ginger eyebrows, his sharp gaze giving the lie to his offhand words.

    He gestured towards a couple of chairs and they sat down.
    ‘We’re here to speak to you about your partner.’
    ‘Desiree? What’s happened to her?’
    The ruddy glow faded on his broad face and he shifted in his chair.
    ‘I’m talking about your business partner, Patrick Henshaw.’
    ‘Patrick? What about him?’
    Geraldine couldn’t decide if his shock was genuine when she told him Henshaw was dead.

    ‘Dead?’
    ‘You must have noticed he was missing.’
    ‘No. That is, I wondered why I hadn’t seen him. He’s usually here, but I thought something must have turned up and he’d be along later.’
    ‘What about yesterday? Didn’t you wonder where he was?’
    ‘We don’t open on Mondays.’
    Corless sat fidgeting with a box of cigars that lay open on the desk top. He gazed around the room uncertainly until his eyes lit on a decanter. He rose heavily to his feet, crossing the room to pour himself a tumbler of whisky. Throwing his head back, he downed the liquor in one gulp and refilled the glass. Geraldine watched his back, shirt stretched across wide shoulders, trousers taut on his buttocks and barrel shaped thighs.

    After a moment he turned and waddled slowly back to his desk, clutching his drink in a hand that shook slightly.
    ‘Are you telling me Patrick’s actually dead?’
    ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Mr Corless.’
    ‘But – what the hell are you doing here, if you don’t mind my asking – unless –’
    He paused, his forehead creased in a puzzled frown.
    ‘Patrick Henshaw was murdered,’ Geraldine said.
    The fat man sat down abruptly, oblivious of whisky sloshing in his glass. It splashed the papers on the desk in front of him, its scented aroma permeating the air between them.
    ‘Mr Corless, I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
    He stared at the glass in his hand as though dazed by what he had heard. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

    Geraldine leaned forward. She kept her eyes fixed on his face as she spoke.
    ‘From what we’ve heard, you and Patrick Henshaw didn’t exactly see eye to eye.’
    ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
    ‘With Patrick out of the way, the restaurant belongs to you. You’re free to do what you want with the place.’
    She wondered if it was obvious she was fishing.
    ‘Let me get this straight. Patrick’s been murdered and you think I’m