thirty-five

My idolatry lasted seconds.

“I’m glad you came. I thought you’d blow me out for Troy Martell.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You haven’t spirited him away?”

“What are you talking about?”

Otto pulled out a pack of cigarettes. French, a brand I used to smoke myself once upon a time. “Do you mind?” he said, gesturing.

I told him it was fine. It amazed me how many top chefs smoked when so much emphasis was placed on taste, but this was the least of my surprises. He lit up, poured a glass of wine from the bottle on the table. Every action studied. Every gesture a set piece, controlled.

“He’s disappeared.”

I did my best not to roll my eyes at the news. “When?”

“Hasn’t been seen since Wednesday.”

Which would explain why Troy hadn’t shown up at the pub. I took a sip of wine to cover my dismay. It didn’t shake off Otto. He viewed me like an eagle about to take a rabbit. Was this Otto’s way of warning me off ? With a pang of alarm, I wondered if we were alone in the building. Would a poor kitchen porter still be slaving over the dishes next door in the kitchen?

“Paris thinks he’s with you.”

“Then she’s mistaken.”

“Not your type?”

I met his gaze. Otto let slip a stream of smoke and narrowed his eyes. “He’s definitely more beefcake than cheesecake,” he said with a withering smile.

“Is that supposed to be funny? The guy’s gone missing.”

“Oh, I’m not that bothered. They all leave her eventually. Can’t stand the pace.”

“Really?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Then he’s a bastard for ditching her when she needs him most.”

“Bad timing, for sure.”

“Think he’s simply bunked off ?” I tried to make it sound casual.

“What else did you have in mind?”

I wanted to say abducted, come to harm, vanished without trace, like the fate that befell your son. It would be like surrendering to an enemy determined to ignore the Geneva Convention and kill you. I shrugged.

“I’d watch your back, if I were you,” he said, taking another deep drag of his cigarette.

“Sounds like a threat.”

“A word of friendly advice, nothing more. Paris is not beyond turning up at your clinic and causing a scene.”

“A daily occurrence,” I said with a short smile. “I work in a high-maintenance environment and we’re adept at managing it.”

He nodded, as though he couldn’t care less either way. “Mind me asking why you and Troy boy were in touch?”

I stalled.

“Your number was on his phone.”

“Paris told you that? I didn’t think you were on speaking terms.”

“Only because she was absolutely livid.”

“Is she always this insecure?”

“Always.”

“And does she make a habit of checking her lover’s calls?”

“She does a lot to piss off a man, me included.”

“You must have found her attractive, once upon a time.”

“Good in bed,” Otto snorted. “Mental women generally are.”

He looked at me as if I fell into the same category. It made me feel as if I’d stripped off my dress for his delectation. I took another sip, looked at him squarely. “Why did you invite me here?”

“I want to explain.”

“Explain what?”

“About Nicholas.”

“You don’t have to explain to me.” I was on the psychological equivalent of autopilot. The moment you assure someone that they don’t need to say a word, they sing.

“I do, because I know what Mimi told you.” He stubbed out his cigarette in a saucer, topped up his glass. I slipped the flat of my hand over the edge of mine to prevent him refilling it, too. “Paris did a terrible thing by suggesting that I had a hand in our son’s disappearance.”

“It’s not true then?” I said softly.

“Of course it isn’t. Do I look like a murderer?”

I quashed the sound of my mother’s voice ricocheting through the empty restaurant. “Murderers are me and you and the guy next door. With the right stressors, we’re all capable of it.” Just as with the right stressors, those who work in mental health can disintegrate.

He didn’t contest the point. Soft lighting threw grotesque shadows across the wall. Spooked, I keened my ears for sound and heard a soft clatter from behind the closed door; someone washing up, I guessed. I hoped. Otto noticed.

“That’s Gabriella, always the last to leave.”

I smothered a hiss of relief, waited a beat, and adopted my most sympathetic tone. “Were you close to Mimi?”

He held my gaze for a moment. The stiffness in his expression returned. “She was my little girl. Paris had Nicholas and I had Mimi. Things changed as she grew up. Pressure of the business,” he explained. “We’d moved from the Midlands to Cheltenham, opened a restaurant, and I wasn’t at home as much as I should have been.”

“I gather you argued with her the morning of her death.”

“Argued? Who told you that?”

“Is it true?”

He took another drag. “Mimi was agitated about Nicholas. Paris had put ideas in her head. I refuted them. She didn’t believe me and I probably raised my voice.”

“Probably?”

“All right, yes, I did. It was unforgiveable, which is why it hurts so much now.”

Good, I thought, not because I was vindictive, but because it showed he had healthy feelings of remorse. “What do you think happened to Nicholas?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have thought about it.”

“Thought, but not arrived at conclusions.”

“How on earth do you deal with the uncertainty?” Not knowing was what usually killed the spirit in most people.

“While there is uncertainty, there is hope.”

“You believe he’s alive?”

“Probably living the high life.”

“On what exactly?” According to press reports, Nicholas had left with the clothes he stood in and without money, phone, or cash cards.

“His mother would have seen that he was all right,” he said in answer to my exasperated expression.

“You mean his exit was planned?”

He viewed me with slow deadly eyes. “That’s not what I said.”

I sipped my drink and wondered whether Otto was aware that his ambiguous response was his first mistake. Troy Martell was, perhaps, closer to the truth than I’d given him credit for. “Then why do you think he left?”

Otto plucked another cigarette from the pack and lit up. “There was something not right with him.”

A master of an obscure statement, it wasn’t the answer I was expecting. “In what way?”

“Obsessive and too close to his mother.”

“A lot of sons are close to their mothers and obsession is often the prerequisite for success. You should know.”

He smiled at this. Quietly pleased. “You may have something there.”

“Paris mentioned there were tensions between you and Nicholas.”

“Did she now?” The tone was circumspect.

“Were there?”

“Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters; nothing more complicated than that. Are you always this persistent, or only with me?” He half smiled. I noticed that he had a trick of diffusing the conversation with small personal asides. A useful weapon in anyone’s social armoury, Otto wielded it like a professional.

“Going back to the time Nicholas disappeared, had there been any particular rows that stood out from the crowd?”

“One,” Otto said, “about his gap year. I thought it a waste of time and said so. I suggested he come here.” He glanced around the restaurant.

“Would that have worked?”

He tipped the side of his head as if he had a crick in his neck. “I thought so. It could have provided an opportunity to bond.”

How likely was that? “What did Nicholas suggest instead?”

“He wanted to go off on some writing course in the States.”

“I gather he was gifted. Didn’t he have books published?”

Otto shot me an appraising, slightly cautious look.

“I read it in a newspaper,” I explained.

“Why do I get the impression that you’re quizzing me?”

“Because your daughter asked me to.”

He nodded, unsurprised, and blew out a great plume of dove-grey smoke. It was like watching someone disappear behind a sandstorm. It occurred to me then that he had controlling, narcissistic tendencies. I briefly wondered whether Nicholas had inherited his father’s traits.

“Have you read his novels?”

“He wouldn’t let me.”

“You could have bought a copy without him knowing.”

“Vampires aren’t my style. Kids’ stuff,” he added, blowing a perfect smoke ring.

“Weren’t you curious?”

“Frankly, no.”

Otto had the crushing honesty of someone suffering from autism. “Did he ask you to fund his trip to the States?”

“Yes. I refused.”

“He must have been disappointed.”

“And angry.”

“Could be the reason he left.” Could also explain what Paris meant. Otto blew another smoke ring. If we were playing tennis, I reckon he would have been a set up.

“Excuse me.” He pushed back his chair and stood. I watched as he bowled towards the door, pushed it open and bawled to hard working Gabriella, “Enough!” This was followed by a torrent of Spanish, a clatter of pans, and then silence. Otto stalked back.

“Do you usually speak to your staff like that?”

“Always. It’s important to leave ego outside the kitchen.”

“Unless it’s yours,” I said.

He smiled touché and took another drag.

“How would you feel if Nicholas turned up tomorrow?” I said.

“If he couldn’t be bothered to show up for his sister’s funeral, he’s hardly going to leap out of the blue now.”

“Doesn’t that worry you?”

“I’m long past it. It’s like I told you once before: there’s nothing you can do to change certain things or events. You have to accept them.”

Accept things, but not people.

Blood pumped through my body in syncopated rhythm. I couldn’t read him. A man so boxed in he was afraid to show his emotions, or did he fear what they might unleash? I wondered how he’d react if put on the spot. “But if he did turn up,” I persisted.

Otto turned the full force of his blue-eyed gaze on me. “I’d knock the shit out of him.”

I started in surprise.

“For being so damn selfish,” he explained. “I doubt he’s given a flying fuck about what his mother is going through. And you saw what happened to Mimi.” He glowered.

I nodded and let the moment roll. “Dinner was fabulous, by the way, thank you.”

“I’m glad,” he said, more relaxed, “only sorry I didn’t get to enjoy it with you.”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Perform miracles.”

He opened his mouth and laughed. I caught a flash of gold. “Hard work and ruthlessness.”

“Ruthlessness?”

“I head a team. You have to be really upset with people to get the best out of them.”

So reminiscent of my father, it triggered a thread of irritation. “You’re wrong,” I said. “Do that, you only get the worst.”

“If you say so.” The accompanying supple smile lacked conviction. He was taunting me.

“Is this what happened with you and Nicholas? Did you bully him in the mistaken belief that you’d produce the best?” He looked genuinely taken aback. I hadn’t quite realised how angry I was, but I wasn’t finished. “Is that why you took six weeks to report him missing?”

His eyes narrowed to two thin blue slits. “Who told you that?”

“Did you?” He nodded slowly, tapped ash from his cigarette onto a plate. “Why would you be so slow?” I pressed.

“Because he’d done it before.”

I jolted.

“He’d run away many times, Miss Slade. Many times.”