up with the edge of the bar. Took a deep breath. Only two people had a key to the restaurant: him and Philippe, and he certainly hadn’t stuck a dead body in the fridge, so it had to be Philippe, But. . . But Philippe was a brilliant chef, you had to expect a certain amount of eccentric behaviour from geniuses. And besides, where was Alexander going to get anyone else as talented in Oldcastle?
So they would carry on as if nothing had ever happened. They would get their good review and open up a second restaurant, Le Coq Rouge – it would become a beacon of French cuisine for all of Oldcastle to see. No: all of Scotland! It would win three Michelin stars. And all because Alexander had the wisdom to not call the police.
Marguerite had even turned up for work – albeit seven hours late – with a patch of white gauze taped to the back of her head and a story about being mugged. She shared some knowing glances with Philippe, but. . . But it was probably nothing. It would be fine. Everything was going to be OK.
At ten to seven Alexander gathered the staff together in the dining room and gave them a pep talk: Martin White was coming in tonight; they were not to be nervous; they were a professional team; they were the best French restaurant in the whole city; do their best and tonight would be perfect!
And then he went back to the manager’s office to chew his fingernails and watch the clock. Counting the minutes until Martin White’s reservation for one, at eight o’clock.
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