Enver Demirel, dressed casually in chinos and a pea jacket, parked his old Volvo in the car park of the Rosemount Hotel. The estate car was sandwiched between a top-of-the-range Mercedes – Enver was hazy on car makes – and a Maserati. So far, his involvement in protecting Schneider had been minimal. He had attended a couple of diplomatic protection briefings on protocol and on the law, been given a sheaf of literature to read and signed up for a firearms course at the police training school outside Reading that would take place long after the German politician had left the country. Then an order to visit Gower at New Scotland Yard in the replacement headquarters at Curtis Green House on the Embankment.
Gower’s desk was untidy, piled high with briefing documents and buff envelopes. He didn’t warrant a river view, it seemed.
‘There’s been a significant development in the Schneider affair,’ he told Enver. He filled him in on the death of Elsa, which was being regarded as possibly linked to Eleuthera. Enver had heard about this from Huss but feigned ignorance.
‘As you can imagine, DI Demirel, this has considerably ramped up the danger level that Eleuthera posed. This is obviously not the work of Islamic extremists. The death of that anarchist on those stairs in Oxford that we attributed to Hinds in a random act of violence has to be reconsidered too. Some of us, myself included, tended to regard them, the anarchist movement, as a bit, how shall I put it, insignificant. Well, that’s changed.’
He paused, shuffled some papers.
‘DI Huss, from Thames Valley, who I gather you know, has discovered that Marcus Hinds’s girlfriend, a Georgie Adams, has possible links with Eleuthera, and there is also credible evidence that some form of attack on Schneider may be launched while he’s staying at the Rosemount Hotel.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Enver.
‘The manager of the hotel, some Polish guy,’ he checked his notes, ‘Czerwinski, has been very helpful and given me the staff employment records. In my experience, Enver, in an attack on a big, rambling building like a hotel, there’s usually someone on the inside. Hotels employ so many low-grade temporary staff – cleaners, gardeners, chambermaids, kitchen porters – and they usually have a high turnover, so in general it’s easy to get someone in there.
‘Anyway, I digress.’ He tapped his notes, settled his glasses on his nose. ‘A couple of things are blindingly obvious from looking at them.’
He leaned back in his chair and straightened his tie. Gower’s suit was very rumpled, like he’d slept in it.
‘There are some seventy people working at that hotel, probably a third are household, cleaners, chambermaids, et cetera. They’re virtually all women and predominantly all European, with a couple of Thais and Chinese. They don’t fit the Al-Akhdaar demographic and they don’t fit that of Eleuthera. Anarchists tend to be university educated. They don’t seem overly keen on soiling their hands with manual labour.’ He paused, drank some water. ‘Then we have the front of house and management, a more fertile ground, and I’ve got two officers stationed in the hotel, just in case. Now, there are twenty-seven staff in the kitchen,’ he consulted his notes again, ‘of these fourteen are Muslim, including four East Europeans, a Chechen, one from Dagestan and a Turkish chef de partie, whatever that may be, do you know?’
‘Head of a section, sir. Like pastry or sauces,’ explained Enver.
‘Impressive knowledge, DI Demirel.’ Gower paused, as if Enver had passed some sort of test. ‘Now guess what I want you to do?’
Work in the kitchen, thought Enver. Damn, I walked into that one.
‘I don’t know, sir.’ I’m certainly not going to suggest it, he thought.
Gower beamed at him. ‘Assistant Commissioner Corrigan tells me that you have had kitchen experience in your time. Czerwinski has had a request for a temporary chef de partie slash junior sous chef from the kitchen for a while – you’re that new chef. What better place to monitor the kitchen than the kitchen itself!’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Enver through gritted teeth. His colleagues would get to check out Schneider’s well-being from a luxury junior suite with bar facilities, use of the pool and gym, and he’d get to work eighteen-hour, ball-breaking days and nights with the pots and pans in the kitchen.
Well, now here he was. He stepped out of his car and looked around him. It seemed very peaceful. His feet scrunched on the thick gravel of the car park.
Perhaps, he thought, perhaps a Michelin-starred kitchen might be a quieter and less manic place to work than other kitchens he had been in.
Just then an out of breath teenager in dirty chef’s whites and Crocs ran up to him. ‘Hi, are you the agency guy?’ he panted. To Enver’s eyes he seemed about twelve. He was thin, gaunt, white, dark bruises under his eyes, he looked exhausted.
‘Yes, I’m Enver.’
‘Oh, I’m Pete, Peter Marshall.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Enver. They politely shook hands.
Peter Marshall looked even more twitchy.
‘Great, Chef says could you get your whites on and your arse in gear and get into the kitchen like ten minutes ago, it’s all going tits up.’
Enver sighed and took his sports bag with his whites and canvas knife-roll from out of the boot.
Or perhaps not.