Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas. Stuart MacBride

Dumond could swear fluently in four languages, but right now she was practising her English. Clutching the side of her head, trying to staunch the bleeding. Leaning against the alley wall, as Philippe – still dressed in his chef’s whites – kicked the shit out of the man who’d hit her.

      Philippe’s words were slurred, his heavy French accent rendered almost unintelligible by half a bottle of vodka on top of a hit of heroin, but his aim was dead on. ‘How,’ kick, ‘many,’ kick, ‘times,’ kick, ‘do I have to tell you?’ Kick. ‘NEVER come around my work!’ He took three steps back, had a run up, and slammed another boot into the man lying curled up on the alley floor. Then started stomping on his face.

      Marguerite peeled the tea towel off her head. It was soaked through – glistening and dark red. The alleyway began to spin, her knees gave out – she sat down heavily on a crate full of empty bottles, making them rattle and clink. She wasn’t going to be sick, she wasn’t going to be . . . oh yes she was. Marguerite leaned sideways and retched, spattering the cobbles with coq au vin and crème brûlée.

      Philippe knelt on the man’s chest and grabbed a handful of hair. Pulled his head off the ground. ‘I ask you nicely!’ A muffled grunt, then the hard, wet thunk of something being bounced off the alley floor. ‘I ask you nicely, but you don’t listen! You just,’ thunk, ‘don’t,’ thunk, ‘listen.’ Thunk. There was a moment’s silence, then, ‘You are stupid fucker, Kenny. You don’t deserve friend like me. . .’

      Marguerite raised her head, mouth coated with bitter slime.

      Philippe was rummaging through Kenny’s pockets, pulling out little silver foil packets. Then he settled back on his haunches and forced Kenny’s mouth open.

      ‘If you kill my waitress, how can she serve my food? A great restaurant, she cannot function without her front of house staff!’ He ripped the end off a wrapper of heroin and poured it into Kenny’s blood-smeared mouth. Then another and another and another. . . ‘Bon appétit.’ He slammed his hand into Kenny’s chest and the battered man convulsed, sending a plume of white powder up into the cold evening air.

      Philippe clamped a hand over Kenny’s mouth. ‘I said, Bon appétit!’

      And that was when Marguerite blacked out.

      Half past seven in the morning and Alexander Garvie stood at the front door of La Poule Française, signing for the day’s fish delivery – haddock, brill, turbot and hake. No sea bass, which would piss the chef off, but some days you just had to go with what was available.

      He shuffled back in through the restaurant doors, heading for the kitchen. If the reservations book was anything to go by, it’d be another busy day. Nearly full for lunch and packed for dinner. If it kept up like this they’d have to get more staff. Maybe a bigger restaurant?

      Alexander shouldered his way through the kitchen doors and marched up to the walk-in fridge. There was a lot to be said for opening a new place: maybe something down by the river, or the cathedral?

      He balanced the box of fish on his hip and cracked the fridge open.

      It’d be expensive, but if they could match the success of La Poule Française they’d break even in about a year and a half. Eighteen months. It would be tight, but—

      What the hell was that?

      There was a man in the fridge!

      He was lying flat on his back, next to the carrots and shallots, legs bent outwards, arms above his head. Like a frog waiting to be dissected.

      ‘Hello?’ Alexander slid the box onto the nearest shelf. ‘You shouldn’t be in here – it’s not hygienic. . .’

      The man didn’t move.

      ‘Are you OK?’ He flicked on the inner light, breath misting around his head.

      The man was not OK. His skin was the colour of rancid butter, spattered with dark-brown blood, and his forehead had a decided dip in it. Alexander reached out and touched the icy skin with trembling fingers. The man would never be OK ever again. He was dead.

      ‘Oh dear God. . .’ The first big glass of cognac hadn’t settled his nerves and neither had the second one. The third was making things a little fuzzy around the edges, though. Alexander sat at the restaurant bar, trembling, drinking the good cognac, and staring at his mobile phone.

      He should call the police.

      Just as soon as he felt able to speak.

      Call the police and tell them about the dead man in his fridge. And after that he might as well put a big ‘GOING OUT OF BUSINESS’ sign in the window. Who wanted to eat in a restaurant with a corpse in the kitchen? They were ruined.

      The sound of stainless steel platters clanging on the tiled floor came through from the kitchen, followed by French swearing. Philippe was in. His creased face appeared through the doors two minutes later – pink eyes, pale skin, dark-purple bags under the eyes. ‘Mon Dieu. . . I feel like merde.’ He rubbed a hand across his stubble-coated chin. ‘Is that brandy or whisky?’ pointing at the balloon glass in Alexander’s hand.

      ‘Er. . . Cognac.’

      ‘Thank God.’ He poured himself a huge measure, knocked it back in one gulp, refilled his glass, then let his head sink onto the bar. ‘Please – when hangover kills me, don’t let the bastards bury me in Paris. You know we’ve got a full service today?’

      Alexander stood, levered Philippe off the bar and dragged him back into the kitchen. Propped him against the wall, and opened the fridge. The dead man stared up at them.

      Philippe pursed his lips, frowned, looked at his glass of cognac, then frowned some more. ‘Is this today’s special? Because I thought we were doing seared sea bass with langoustine butter and pommes dauphinoise.’

      ‘They didn’t have any sea bass.’

      Philippe shrugged. ‘So you got me a dead body instead?’

      ‘I DIDN’T GET HIM! He was here when I arrived.’ Alexander slammed the fridge shut. ‘What are we going to do? It’ll be in all the papers; as soon as people find out we’ve got a corpse in here they’ll cancel their reservations; we’ll have to shut!’ Getting louder and louder until Philippe grabbed him by the shoulders.

      ‘Stop! Too loud! You’re hurting my head.’

      ‘What are we going to do? Where did he come from? We’re ruined!’

      Philippe let go, then opened the fridge again, staring in at the man on the floor. ‘Merde. . .’ He buried his head in his hands. Groaned. Swore. ‘We have to get rid of the body.’

      Silence, broken only by the whurrrrrr of the fridge, trying to compensate for the door being open. ‘No. We have to call the police.’

      Philippe snorted. ‘And then what? They’ll close us down. Martin White is coming in tonight!’

      ‘Oh God. . .’ Martin White – food critic for the Old-castle News And Post. A man who could make, or break, a restaurant with a single review. ‘We’re doomed.’

      ‘No we’re not. We get rid of the body and no one will know. Everything is the same. Nothing changes.’

      ‘But . . . but. . .’ Alexander closed the fridge door, unable to look at that battered face any longer. ‘But how did he get here?’

      Philippe licked his lips, cleared his throat, then laid a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. ‘Does it matter? He’s here: we must get rid of him or the restaurant is finished.’ Philippe turned a bleary eye on the kitchen, nodded, pulled on a heavy apron, and unrolled his bundle of knives. Picked out a boning knife and a long metal steel. ‘We cut him up.’ The blade made shnick, shnick, shnick noises as he sharpened it.

      Alexander drained his cognac and nodded. It made sense. Cut him up. Cut him up into little pieces. ‘Then what?’