A Bitter Feast(87)
“But then Fergus turned up on my doorstep last summer, swearing he was clean, had been for more than a year. I even let him stay in my flat, because I wanted to see for myself. I’d been toying with the idea of giving Irish fine dining another try.” He flashed a suddenly mischievous grin. “Not that I’d attempt to give Dickie Corrigan a run for his money, mind you. There’s only a limited market for three-star dining, while restaurants like this one”—he waved an expansive hand— “have a very good chance of succeeding with the right formula. And Fergus—a sober Fergus—seemed like a godsend.”
“Then why send him to the Cotswolds?” Kerry asked, not quite following the logic.
“Because of Viv Holland. She was the condition. I’d heard about this luncheon she was catering from my reviewer friend at the Chronicle, and I wanted her on board. The thing is, Fergus is—Fergus was—brilliant. But Viv was pure bloody genius.” Finlay’s tone was reverent. “She was the secret ingredient in the sauce, if you’ll forgive me the cliché. Together, they were dynamite.”
“So Fergus went to the Cotswolds to make Viv an offer?”
“One she surely couldn’t refuse. Viv Holland, cooking in a bloody pub kitchen.” Finlay grimaced. “Sweet Jesus, what a waste.”
“Did she accept?”
“The thing is, I don’t know.” Finlay tapped his pencil again. “Fergus kept putting me off, said they were still ironing things out and he needed to go down there again. That was last week. That was why I’d been ringing him. His time was up as of today. I had to make a decision.”
Kerry made a few quick notes, then looked back at Finlay with a frown. “You mentioned rumors about O’Reilly’s. What were you referring to?”
“Ah, well, that’s ancient history. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. One of the staff died suddenly. The story was that it was a cocaine overdose.”
December 2007
Viv had already thrown up three times that night when they got the news, halfway through service.
Danny, their ma?tre d’, hadn’t shown up for work and hadn’t answered his mobile. One of the servers had gone to his flat to check on him, but that had been hours ago. When the girl finally stumbled down the stairs into the kitchen, her face chalky, Viv felt the sickness rise again. “What’s happened?” she said.
The girl stifled a sob. “He’s dead. Danny’s dead. I got his neighbor to let me in. He was slumped on his sofa. He’d been ill— Oh, God, it was awful.”
They had all stopped in midtask. Ibby came up to her, his face drawn in shock. “No, that’s bullshit. Danny can’t be dead.”
“I swear it’s true. I called an ambulance. The paramedics said he’d been gone for, like, hours. Maybe a stroke or a heart attack. And he had”—she touched her nose—“you know, all down his front and on the coffee table—”
Fergus was shaking his head. “No, he was okay when I left him last night. He was fine.”
Ibby rounded on him, crossing the kitchen in two strides. “You! You bastard, Fergus. You were with him. You must have seen he was doing too much—”
“Bloody shut up, Ibby,” Fergus spat back at him. “We had a couple of drinks, that’s all, then he went home. He was fine.” They were almost nose to nose, with Ibby standing on his toes to get right in Fergus’s face.
Ibby shook his finger at him, poking Fergus in the chest. “Don’t give me that bullshit. If he’s dead, it’s your fucking fault, Fergus.”
“Fuck off, Ibby.” Fergus knocked his hand away. “It’s too bad about Danny, but we’ve got a service to finish.” He turned away, reaching for a squeeze bottle.
But Ibby lunged, grabbing him by the throat. Fergus had the advantage of height, but Ibby’s hands were strong and Fergus struggled to loosen his grip.
Viv was nearest. She bolted towards them, grasping Ibby round the waist with one arm while she tried to break his grip on Fergus’s throat with the other. The rest of the cooks piled on and after a few seconds of straining and a flurry of blows and swearing, they managed to drag the two apart.
Fergus, panting with fury, shook off their restraining hands and faced Ibby. “Get. Out. Of. My. Kitchen,” he bit out. “I’ll see you never work in this city again, you little shite.”
Viv still had a hand twisted in the back of Ibby’s white jacket. She could feel him breathing, short and sharp, until he jerked out of her hold. But he didn’t go for Fergus again.
Very slowly and deliberately, he pulled the ties on his apron and let it drop to the floor. Then he unbuttoned his white jacket and shrugged out of it, all the while never taking his eyes from Fergus. When the jacket had joined the apron, he spoke with deadly calm. “You can keep your bloody kitchen, Fergus O’Reilly. But I’m going to make you pay for this, you wait and see if I don’t.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ivan dropped Kincaid at the elegant detached house in St. George’s Road near the hospital, where Dr. Greene had his practice. Booth was already waiting for him in the parking area, leaning on his Volvo while checking his mobile.
“Going to live?” Booth called as Kincaid got out.
“Hopefully.” Kincaid lifted a hand to Ivan as he drove away. “Nice place,” he said, indicating the surgery. He’d seen other surgeries in similar properties along the road, as well as a day nursery and a care home. A few of the houses still seemed to be family homes, but Kincaid imagined the soaring cost of real estate had driven these large places above most family budgets.