La Creme de la Crem

Chapter 1

At two-thirty in the morning, Jackie and Tania were waiting outside the Tressmouth Starlight Room. They had danced all night and now the cool night air was making them both shiver in their flimsy clubbing dresses. Everyone else seemed to have family or boyfriends picking them up or pre-booked taxis. They had been too interested in dancing all night to pull, so they were stuck with making their own way home. As they hopped up and down on the pavement, waving fruitlessly at all the taken taxis, an estate car pulled up and the driver leaned over and said; Minicab, girls?

How much to the Wendle Estate on Tresside? Tania asked.

Don’t worry, I’ll do you a good deal, I’m going that way home. The driver replied.

The two girls looked at each other. Tania’s father, Detective Sergeant Smith, had warned them about accepting lifts. Still, this was a minicab and there were two of them, so they could protect each other. They both slid into the back seat.

The driver gave them some mindless chatter about how his fare hadn’t turned up and he had got sick of waiting. Happens all the time, he said, You young girls pre-book your cab and then you get off with some bloke with a car at the dancehall and we get forgotten.

At that time of day there was hardly a soul on the streets and very little other traffic. Jackie was falling asleep, her head dropping onto Tania’s shoulder before she would wake again with a start. Finally, she succumbed and Tania let her rest on her shoulder while the car carried them along the arterial road to Tresside. At the roundabout at the end, Tania slipped to one side and the sleeping Jackie’s head came to rest in her lap. The estate car was warm and the radio was playing softly. Now the driver had stopped talking, Tania began to drift in and out of sleep too, with her head resting on the back of the seat.

A little further on, something made her wake up and she realised they were nearing the edge of the Wendle Estate. Gradually, through sleepy eyes she got her bearings and reached down for her handbag on the floor. As she sat up, she saw Stephenson Avenue on her left.

Tania said; That was our turn, Driver, you’re going the wrong way!

At that moment, the driver’s mobile rang and he answered just, Yes. Three dead? Right. he replied to the unheard message, then to the girls,

Sorry girls, I’ll take the next left turn, I wasn’t thinking.

Then he said, There’s been a nasty accident up on the Tawsfield Road, three dead, all under twenty five, another in hospital but in a bad way. Good job I took the Arterial or we could have been held up for hours.

At Tania’s father’s small council house on the estate, both girls got out. How much then? said Tania suspiciously, half expecting an argument to ensue over what the driver was about to demand.

Oh, you’re alright. He said, I was on my way home anyway.

Both girls thanked him and he drove away. Then after saying good night to each other, they went to their respective front doors, Jackie’s being only a few doors away from Tania’s.

- - -

Raymond Hargreaves was very pleased with himself. He was always a self-satisfied man but today he felt he had more reason than usual. As Mayor of the Borough of Tressmouth Council, he had risen through the ranks of local government to be someone to be reckoned with politically, but it had been his commercial savvy that had been as much his strength as his political adeptness.

Today was an occasion for celebration. The Tressmouth Council Crematorium had been in business for five years and had made significant money for the Borough Council as well as the private shareholders. All cremations had been stopped for three days and the shareholders and ‘friends’ of the Crematorium plus invited guests were gathering for a big banquet where Mayor Hargreaves would be feted for his foresight and business acumen, as guest of honour.

Back when he was a junior member of the Council, he had been frustrated by the lack of funds that dogged his political ambitions. Then he had hit on the idea of a new Council Crematorium. The old one was struggling to keep pace with demand as burials became less popular and space was at a premium in all the graveyards. Several of the old graveyards had been reclaimed for housing projects once the graves had reached a sufficient age that no one had relatives they knew about buried there anymore.

As often as not, it had been Raymond sending in the bulldozers and getting the houses built. Not social housing, but private prestige estates and supermarkets, where the Council could sell the land to private enterprise for big money, money he could take a share in.

In point of fact, he had never given a damn whether there was enough social housing or the library was well stocked or recycling was as thorough as it should be. What he cared about was that he was seen to be the man who got a housing project completed on time and under budget; that he was seen to be the man who looked after the Borough’s literacy; and that he was seen to be the man who cared about the environment. With his abilities for self-publicity and knowing what would get him votes when he needed them, the world, or at least Tressmouth, was his oyster. The only limitation in those early days had been funds.

Three other adjoining Boroughs had similar problems with aging Crematoria or none at all. Being geographically placed where it was in easy reach of the three other Boroughs, Tressmouth could locate the Crematorium where they could all access it and consequently pay for the pleasure. He had also got investment money from them up front to help with the building and fitting out costs. He had had to use land that was supposed to be kept as green belt, reserved for nature conservation, but he had successfully argued that that made it a perfect place to site somewhere where people would be laid to rest in peace, albeit in a vase. The local flora and fauna would be encouraged rather than destroyed, he said.

In fact, the contractors had all but destroyed the habitat of much of the wildlife, leaving little more than foxes, badgers and squirrels to prosper there. The great big Crematorium, on two floors plus basement had dominated the previously beautiful marshlands, but by then it was too late, he had his way. Now it was magpies and herons that dominated the birdlife. The waders, butterflies and other more fragile species were long gone.

Naturally, the money it brought in for the Borough enabled him to set up other projects to further demonstrate that he was the man to get things done for the area. Then, when the old Mayor had got caught with his hands in the till, as well as on the lady Council member for Tresside East, Raymond moved in on the top job and no one would stand in his way.

Because of the need for other Boroughs to send their funeral directors processions of black and grey limousines and hearses to the Tressmouth Crematorium, he had had the foresight to install a chapel of rest and a fine banqueting suite on the site and to ensure that they could cater for the whole funeral, from laying in rest and funeral service, through cremation and even a wake, if that was what was required. They could cope with any religion that permitted cremation too. There was excellent parking available and the site was accessed by a three-lane dual carriageway, paid for by the Government, but to his specification, so that the funeral processions were not held up by other traffic.

Naturally, all these contractors had invested in the project to get their contracts accepted. Much of that found its way into Raymond’s personal fund, well hidden away from prying eyes. Of course, he did not see this as stealing from the public purse. He was going to use it for the good of all. He called it his fighting fund and it would ultimately propel him into Central Government and perhaps one day the top job.

So popular was the Crematorium that some interments also began there for laying in rest and funeral service, before setting out for a churchyard or cemetery elsewhere.

Yes, Mayor Hargreaves had thought of everything, as usual. He had also thought of ensuring that the Crematorium was a public/private enterprise and that he was the major shareholder. His fellow shareholders were mostly funeral directors from the region plus his good friend and ‘Mr Fix-it’ Vincent Browning, the member for Tresside East now that Susan Worsfeld had had to resign. The scandal with her and ex-Mayor Downs after their embezzlement and adultery was very well covered in the local and even national news. It had been Vincent who had uncovered it. He did all Mayor Hargreaves’ dirty work.

Vincent had organised the banquet and Raymond was confident that it would be a night to remember. Vincent had engaged Jacques Teulet, the fiery celebrity chef to prepare the meal with his team. Jacques was not the very top flight of celebrity chefs. In fact, most would say he was slipping into obscurity, but his name was still well known and he could be hired for a reasonable price. All day, it had been white vans coming and going at the Crematorium banqueting suite, as opposed to the usual black or grey.

Raymond Hargreaves had bought a new dinner suit for the occasion and the chain of office had gone away two weeks ago for professional polishing, so it now dazzled in the light. Raymond’s hairdresser and tailor were both invited to the banquet so he could impress them and show off as he would be doing with all the guests. Besides, he lusted after Hazel, his hairdresser and he might turn her head when she saw the respect in which he was universally held. Her socialist views could be an asset and he could parade her as an example of his young supporters to the Labour Party dignitaries.

Of course, his wife would be there too, and his daughter, so he would have to keep the flirting discreet. The two of them would never miss any opportunity to dress up and show off. He was a socialist, but they were both snobs. Raymond considered himself a man of the people and would be mortified to know he was also considered a snob, considering he was always very quick to accuse others. He was known locally as ‘The Socialist Climber’ but he fooled himself that the ‘climber’ bit referred to his meteoric rise to success.

Although most of his political career had been ridden on the backs of those he put down as snobs and capitalists, he hated capitalists with a passion. He was a self made man, he had created a wonderful business for the Borough and the people and it was only fitting that he should be the major shareholder so he could look after their interests. At least, that was what he told himself, but he would never let any interest have priority over his own.

Tonight would be the culmination of his work, honoured by his peers and praised by the press. It would be a glittering evening, dressed in his finery with his wife and daughter by his side, plus the inevitable Vincent in the background to make sure all was perfect.

Sadly, his son, Leona’s younger brother, would not be there. Thomas (Thomas Daniel after T. Dan Smith) had gone to university and discovered Socialism, as if his father had never heard of it. After that, he had no time for his father, or indeed his mother or sister.

As a journalist in the local area, Tom possessed the same ambition as his father had, if in a different direction. He was determined to get to the top and he had not been averse to manipulating the truth to make a story more newsworthy. After some very big stories that got syndicated, he started to build a reputation and a job on a London daily followed.

Tom criticised his father at every turn for his opulent lifestyle and millionaire status when he purported to be the man of the people. Now, as a political journalist, he was perfectly placed to criticise, though he was subtle about how he did it.

Despite his London base, Tom was a regular visitor to the North whilst following up stories, particularly where industrial strife or unfair treatment by a local council was concerned. When he visited on business, he never called in on his family. He had always been an ill tempered child and he bore so many grudges that went back to his childhood, he found it difficult to put them aside when he was called upon to make a family visit. If he could, he would always make an excuse not to come.

Raymond knew what he meant when he wrote his articles, but if challenged, Tom could always give an innocent sounding justification as to why the piece was impartial and in the public interest. Raymond always felt uncomfortable in his presence, as though he had Joseph Stalin at his shoulder, watching him. He was glad Tom had not accepted the courteous invitation to this evening’s festivities. Instead, he had sent a colleague, Chloe White, to cover the event. Raymond had not heard of her and he consoled himself that she would be impressed by his socialist credentials, from Trade Union Convenor through local government councillor and now Mayor. He could talk socialism any time and impress with his knowledge and experience.

The only blot on the event was that, under pressure from Jacques Teulet, he decreed that there would be no cremations over the three days preparations and subsequent clean up. As a result he had had to cancel several bookings. Most presented no problems, such as the old man who had been dying for years and who had few family members still living. But one was more upsetting, being a young girl who had died in a horrible accident. Her family had had to travel from all over the country and they were very upset with him.

Some of the family had to be back in work next day and could not therefore attend on the new date and those who were staying in hotels could ill afford the extra nights. As man of the people, he did not like criticism and, although he never would shrink from the job that had to be done, he was not without humanity. Vincent had been given the task, but had to cry off at the last moment for some important issue of organisation of the banquet, so Raymond had found himself facing the family representatives himself.

Still, the show must go on, he told himself and he turned his thoughts back to the banquet.

Chapter 2

In the kitchens, Jacques Teulet was surveying the preparation. He was employing his acid tongue to berate his staff as he so enjoyed doing. He was frustrated with his fellow man and their inability to deliver the perfection he had in mind. He was a tyrant and he loved it!

As he swayed through the frenetic activity, scowling at one and all and shouting orders and insults alike, he saw a young trainee chef bending over an intricate decoration and kicked his bottom hard, sending him sprawling over the carefully prepared desert. The trainee chef, Jess, turned in red faced anger but froze when he saw it was Jacques who had delivered the kick. He immediately turned his anger into an abject apology and Jacques barked at him to start again and get it right. He would accept nothing less than perfection tonight. He hadn’t actually seen whether Jess’s work was perfect or not, but he felt great for having sent him sprawling. He parted saying: Get yourself cleaned up, you look disgusting with food all over you!

Ironically, Jacques could no longer do the work himself. He struggled with arthritis in his fingers from so many years serving his apprenticeship washing up in the grand restaurants of Paris. He had left it that bit too late to get recognised when he opened his own restaurant and so he was that much older than the brash young chefs that dominated the television programmes. By that time, the damage to his finger joints was already done. However, his genuine French nationality and his meticulous maintenance of his accent ensured he was still respected, particularly by the old school pseuds like the Borough of Tressmouth and its vulgar Mayor.

Although Jacques was born in France, near Arras, his mother was from Oxfordshire. It was she who had ensured he learned good English. That had been indispensable for his career once he opened his first restaurant. In the sixties the family moved to Nottinghamshire once the mine closures in France had started and the mines of northern France were no longer being developed. His father was employed in the mining industry as a development engineer and pit closures meant no work for him. Jacques was eight years old. As a result, his perfect English now had a strong regional accent, but he had retained the skill of using his exaggerated French intonation whenever he spoke.

He had been just in time to experience the beginning of Arthur Scargill’s reign over the miners and he had held him responsible for the death of the mines and, ultimately, his father. His father had been a very proud Frenchman and it was he who had ensured that Jacques did not lose his French language and accent. Once the British mines started to go the same way as the French mines had done, his father no longer had any direction in his life. When Jacques was seventeen, he came home from catering college to find his father had hanged himself.

Jacques had learned to cook with his adored mother and shortly after, he set out to Paris to learn his trade. In any case, there was no work for him in Nottinghamshire once the miners were striking and no one had any spending money.

Once there, Jacques had soon found work, but his incomplete training and the amount of competition had meant that his progression was limited. That only increased his ambition though. He had a burning passion for success and he took great care to court elderly wealthy ladies to try to get investment in his first restaurant. Sadly for him, they were either too canny or they died before making an investment. It was only when he met Pierre Lafontaine that he found the route to his future.

Pierre was extremely wealthy and a lifelong homosexual. Jacques had never found young women attractive but he did not enjoy the company of young men either. He had never considered whether he was a homosexual or not. He considered his virgin status at thirty four to be solely down to his focus and ambition. Pierre had tried to convince him otherwise. He hadn’t succeeded, but his efforts won Jacques the investment he needed to open his first restaurant in the 7th Arrondissement, not far from Hôtel Matignon, the official residence of the Prime Minister.

He had enjoyed humiliating Jess. He was grooming him, not so much as a chef but as a submissive assistant who would do his bidding without argument. Jacques glared at Jess with his slight figure and perfect features and it made him angry. He was no longer a pretty boy as he had once been in Paris. He had lost his hair except for some grey wisps and his stomach bulged over his belt. Why should this boy be so good looking? He was also very talented, but Jacques was not about to let him know that. He needed to keep him humble. One day he would be his senior assistant and he would keep Jacques at the forefront of culinary fame, despite his fingers.

He returned to his makeshift office allocated him by the Banqueting Hall management. It was not what he was used to, but it would have to do for today. He was being extremely well paid for this booking so it was no time to make a fuss. If it went well, he might get regular bookings here. There had been talk of taking over all the catering as the Council had designs on further promoting the banqueting suite for Masonic dinners and the like.

Ever since his experience in ‘the Scargill Years’ Jacques had detested Socialists. That had made him stand out in Socialist France, but Neo-Nazi Pierre and many of his wealthy diners had been even more right wing than Jacques. In the eighties he had served Jean Marie Le Pen and some others from the Front National and later Jacques Chirac had dined at his restaurant with François Mitterrand during the coalition. He loathed Mitterrand too, but he was honoured to have no less a personage than the President dining in his restaurant.

He finally turned his back on Paris in 2002 after his restaurant had been attacked by protestors who had broken windows and daubed Vote for the crook, not the fascist on the walls. Chirac (the crook) had called him personally to express his regret. The fascist (Le Pen) dined with him weeks later when the furore had died down, but Paris had already lost its magic for Jacques.

As he sat there, he longed to come up with something different, something that would enhance his fame and set him above all other chefs. He longed for more fame, but for now, notoriety would do. He had established himself as a celebrity chef in the early days because his accent was very popular with the ladies who watched him on daytime television. He was a regular invited guest chef and would fly over from Paris. Back then, he had been slimmer and he had a mop of black curly hair. Now, it was his fiery manner which was his notoriety. It ensured that a regular stream of clients with more money than sense still came to his London restaurant.

He had built his reputation on pork dishes