here on a late holiday, are you?”
“No, actually we’re police officers,” Watkins said.
“Police?” She looked horrified. “There’s nothing underhand going on here, I can assure you. We’re a respectable establishment.”
“I’m sure you are, madam,” Watkins said. “We’re investigating a case.”
“How exciting. Just like on the telly.” Her whole face lit up. “Is it something juicy? Murder or spies maybe?”
“No, we’re checking on establishments that are trying to evade paying their VAT,” Watkins said and grinned to Evan as she suddenly remembered something she had left cooking on the stove and beat a very hasty retreat.
The next morning the full English breakfast was rather on the meager side, with two strips of very thin bacon, a fried egg and one grilled tomato slice.
“At least the wife can’t complain I’m getting too much cholesterol,” Watkins said as they left the dining room.
“Of course, she didn’t see that steak you had last night,” Evan pointed out.
Watkins grinned. “Bloody good, wasn’t it? You can keep your French food. Just give me a good piece of red meat any day.”
They had checked the yellow pages to see if Madame Yvette’s French restaurant still existed under new ownership, but there were no establishments listed which sounded promising. The only one that described itself as French was called the Oasis, and it was in a new shopping center.
In the end they had eaten at a nearby pub. The food had been cheap and well prepared, the waitress friendly. They had asked her if she remembered a French couple who had run a restaurant just outside of the town, but she shook her head. “We never eat in places like that. And Eastbourne’s a big town, you know. There are always new restaurants opening up and closing again.”
After breakfast they tried the borough council offices, but the clerk couldn’t come up with anything that sounded remotely like the place they were looking for.
“She said it was just outside of the town,” Evan pointed out. “Would those records be kept somewhere else?”
“If it wasn’t actually in Eastbourne proper, they’d be kept in the county offices at Lewes, wouldn’t they?” the girl said.
They drove half an hour to the old town of Lewes, nestled in the South Downs.
“Nice place,” Evan commented, looking with approval at the green hills that ringed the town.
“Can’t do without your bloody mountains, can you?” Watkins chuckled.
At county hall a young girl in the records office eyed Evan with interest and became instantly helpful. She helped them check through ledgers until finally Evan pointed at an entry halfway down a page. “Here it is. Chez Yvette in Alfriston. License granted . . . let’s see . . . six years ago.”
“We’re not much the wiser, are we? It just gives the owners’ names as Jean-Jacques and Yvette Bouchard. Residence address at the restaurant.” He beckoned the young clerk over. “Do you have any details on when this place closed?”
She shrugged. “Sorry, that’s all we have. All we can tell is that the license wasn’t renewed. Restaurants come and go all the time, I’m afraid.”
“So where exactly is this place?” Watkins asked.
“Alfriston?” the girl asked. “It’s not far from Newhaven. Sort of between Eastbourne and Newhaven. It’s a little village on the Downs—very pretty, actually.”
“Between Eastbourne and Newhaven, eh?” Watkins asked as they left the building. “Is that where the ferries go from to France?”
“Right. Newhaven—Dieppe. I went that way once.”
“Very convenient, I’d say—near a major port if you wanted to smuggle drugs into the country.”
“Maybe they needed to pop across to France to get supplies they couldn’t get in England,” Evan suggested. “Or they liked to visit the family.”
“Okay, I won’t say any more until we know some details,” Watkins said with a smile. “I’ll drive and you navigate or we’ll take all day to get there.”
Alfriston was a pretty village with old-world charm. Some of the cottages were thatched and it looked as if it might appear on a calendar of Beautiful Britain.
“Nice spot,” Watkins said. “But I don’t see any restaurants. A couple of tea rooms and the pub. Let’s ask in the Copper Kettle over there. They look as if they’ve been around since the year one, and I could do with a coffee.”
They crossed the street and took a table by the wall. Watkins waited until the girl had brought two coffees before he asked, “Do you happen to remember a French restaurant that used to be in this village?”
“Chez Yvette, you mean?” She had a pleasing country burr to her voice