Free Cold Revenge (2015) by Alex Howard Page A

sarcasm.
    ‘That’d be great,’ said Hanlon. She was particularly keen to learn more about Hannah and her love life. Hannah had given herself up to her killer, that much was obvious. There was no struggle, no fight. Hanlon wanted to know if Hannah’s lovers were restricted to the philosophy circle, or had she spread her favours wider as Jessica had implied.
    Michaels could help with this. Now his attention was on the canteen kitchen.
    ‘Just give me a couple of minutes,’ he said, glancing around. ‘I need to make sure this lot are OK.’
    He turned his attention to the team of chefs and called out, ‘Molly! Here a minute.’ A hugely overweight girl came running over.
    Molly was enormous. Her blonde, wispy hair was tucked under a headscarf and she had slightly bulging psychotic eyes. She looked very pale beside Michaels. Her forearms were like slabs of veal. She had a huge chest under her chef’s jacket and apron.
    ‘She’s bloody good,’ said Michaels to Hanlon. He spoke quietly so Molly wouldn’t hear.
    Molly arrived in front of them. She stared at Hanlon, a non-chef, with obvious disapproval.
    ‘Yes, chef!’ She looked at Michaels with slavish devotion, like a human Labrador.
    ‘Righto, Molly,’ said Michaels briskly, ‘you’re in charge down here. I’ll be upstairs with Kieran.’
    Molly nodded. Michaels’ eyes suddenly narrowed with genuine anger as he looked at the young chef. Hanlon wondered what could have caused it.
    ‘I’m sorry, I must have missed that,’ said Michaels. Hanlon noticed that he spoke lightly but there was a genuine hint of steel in his voice, harsh and threatening.
    Molly blinked. ‘Yes, chef .’ She stressed the word.
    ‘That’s better,’ said Michaels. ‘We don’t want to forget who’s in charge, do we?’
    ‘No, chef.’
    Michaels nodded, satisfied his authority had been properly acknowledged. He turned to Hanlon and motioned with his head to her.
    Hanlon felt faintly shocked at Michaels’ peremptory rudeness. She had no problem with the chef’s desire to stamp his authority on his workforce, but she wouldn’t have done that in front of a stranger. She decided there was a cruel streak somewhere inside the man before her.
    ‘We’d better go. It’ll be hellish up there,’ he said quietly and laughed. He didn’t look remotely concerned.
    Hanlon followed Michaels out of the canteen and up and down corridors, many of which were marked Staff Only , until she was thoroughly lost. Eventually they emerged in a kitchen space in a part of the university she’d never been in.
    It was at moments like this that Hanlon appreciated just how vast a building Queen’s was. It was labyrinthine, almost nightmarish. Like many public buildings there was a kind of parallel world built for the staff and functionaries. It was an unseen world of shabby and secretive service corridors and windowless rooms, an underworld known only to the initiated.
    The kitchen was quite small and compact. Michaels pointed to an area at the end of the pass where the waiting staff would collect the dishes.
    ‘If you stand there, Gallagher, we can talk and you won’t be in anyone’s way. I’ll introduce you to Kieran.’
    He called out and a young chef with a fluffy, ill-developed beard appeared. He smiled politely at Hanlon.
    ‘All set?’
    ‘Yes, chef.’
    Service began.
    As the orders rolled in from the waitresses in the dining room, sent wirelessly to the small, black plastic cheque machine, she watched while Kieran did the simple stuff. He put the pre-cooked vegetables in boat-shaped, eared dishes and microwaved them, or arranged and dressed the pre-prepared salad ingredients on a plate according to photos pinned up on a wall.
    ‘Spec sheets,’ Kieran said over his shoulder, practised fingers moving speedily, expertly. ‘Just follow the photos, simple as.’
    He deep-fried Parmentier potatoes, similar to chips in cube form, or pommes soufflé, which were like puffed-up crisps. He also