A Bitter Feast(86)
“But—” Melody could only stare at him. “Joe, are you telling me that you took money from the account?”
“I was going to pay it back.” His gaze was pleading.
Melody had never known anyone who lived a more frugal life—not even Andy in his pre-fame days. “I can’t believe that. Why would you do such a thing? Why not just tell my mother if you needed money for something?”
“Because I was ashamed. It’s my stupid youngest brother. He’s got himself in trouble for serious drugs, and my parents needed the money for the lawyer’s fees. I didn’t want your mum and dad to think badly of my family.”
“Oh, Joe.” Melody shook her head in exasperation. “You’ve been a bloody idiot. Listen to me. You are not responsible for your brother’s actions. Neither are your parents. But this— You are going to have to deal with this.”
“I know. And I know I have to tell Addie, but I had to tell you first. After last night, I didn’t want you thinking I’d . . . Oh, God—that there were any false pretenses in what we . . . that I’d used you in any way. Christ, I’ve made a balls-up of things.”
Melody remembered something. “Was that Roz who called you last night, when I was there?”
Joe nodded. “She was getting more and more . . . um, aggressive . . . in her threats.”
“Have you spoken to her since?”
“No. I’ve blocked her number. She’ll be livid.”
“Don’t speak to her, Joe. Not under any circumstances. You know I have to inform the police straightaway?”
He nodded. “I know.”
Melody made an effort to pull herself together. “Okay. I don’t think anyone’s at home right now. But as soon as my mum comes back, you’ll have to speak to her. You don’t want her to hear about this from someone else.” Melody hesitated, then added, “And, Joe, after what happened to Jack Doyle, just be careful, okay?”
Kerry Boatman reached Colm Finlay through his restaurant group’s corporate offices first thing on Monday morning. To her surprise, he’d been eager to talk to her. He’d set up an appointment to meet with her at eleven o’clock at his Kensington restaurant, Pomme. The place was on Abingdon Road, just off Kensington High Street, a few minutes’ walk from the police station.
When she reached the address, she found an unassuming shop front occupying the ground floor of a bland postwar, three-story building. She knocked as Finlay had directed.
A moment later he opened the door, introduced himself, and ushered her in. “I had to meet with some suppliers here this morning,” he said, “and I thought it would be easier for you than coming into the West End.”
Finlay’s corporation, Kerry had learned, owned several successful London restaurants, including one in a renowned Mayfair hotel. Finlay himself was short and sturdily built, with wavy dark hair going gray, a close-trimmed gray beard, and alert blue eyes. “If you’ll just follow me back, we can chat in the chef’s office.” Even after years in London, Finlay’s Belfast accent was still pronounced.
The interior of the restaurant surprised Kerry. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected of a Michelin-starred venue, but the dining room was casual, wood floored, with square wooden tables, simple black-and-white chairs, and glossy white subway-tiled walls. A sleek black-framed gas fireplace anchored the dining room’s far end.
As he led her past the gleaming bar, she had only a quick glimpse into the kitchen, where chefs were already at work, prepping for that night’s service. Something already smelled fabulous.
Finlay led her into a small office behind the bar and seated her in front of a paper-strewn desk. “Can I get you anything? A coffee? Some tea?”
When she demurred, he got right down to business. “I only heard about Fergus yesterday. Jesus, I still can’t believe it. I’d been trying to reach him for days, but I never imagined something like this . . .”
No one, Kerry thought, ever did.
“The newspaper said he was killed in a car accident in the Cotswolds,” Finlay went on, “and I thought it must be a mistake. Fergus didn’t drive, you know. Is it true, then?”
“I’m afraid it is,” said Kerry. “I’m very sorry. I understand you were friends. Can you tell me why you were trying to reach Mr. O’Reilly?”
“Because I’d made him a job offer. But there were conditions, and there was a time limit on his acceptance.” Finlay leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I hope I’m not in some way responsible for what happened to Fergus, because I was the one who sent him haring off to the bloody Cotswolds. The restaurant group had recently acquired a new property in the West End, but the chef who was to take on the place had to renege at the last minute. Fergus had been in touch with me, looking for a job. We started in the same hotel in Belfast, you know, and we had a brief partnership after O’Reilly’s went under. Before he came to me a couple of months ago, I’d never have considered working with him again.”
“Why was that?” she asked.
Rocking forward again, Finlay picked up a pencil and tapped it on the nearest stack of papers. Kerry got an impression, not of nerves, but of the suppressed energy in the man. “Because Fergus snorted our profits up his nose. I’d heard rumors, of course, about O’Reilly’s, but I thought he was good enough to compensate for the bad habits. Turned out I was wrong.