Author: Peter Robinson
Category: Other
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If only she could believe that. In her experience, when the police were involved, the things that happened were often much worse than people could imagine.
Marcel McGuigan was about as French as Marmite on toast and as Irish as Yorkshire pudding, but that he had been blessed with genius by the culinary gods was not in dispute. No less than Gordon Ramsay had said so. And Richard Corrigan. And Michelin, of course. His Eastvale restaurant had opened three years ago to rave reviews, and after the recent awarding of the second star, it had become a destination in itself for many gourmets all over the country. Rumour had it you had to book a month in advance. Rumour also had it that you needed a banker’s reference before dining there.
The restaurant was a listed building on a narrow cobbled alley between Market Street and York Road, just behind the market square, an area that boasted a number of bric-a-brac shops, upmarket galleries and antiquarian bookshops. Inside, it was decorated in the old style – dark wood, solid tables and padded chairs, luxuriant wall hangings dotted with a few Impressionist reproductions – rather than some of the more modern, brightly lit, chrome and glass places around these days.
The chef himself, Banks soon found out, was affable and relaxed, not at all the posturing prima donna in a poncy hat that Banks had expected. He wore jeans and an open-neck white shirt and lounged on an easy chair in his office at the back of the restaurant reviewing the evening’s menu, black-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his aquiline nose.
‘A detective superintendent,’ he said after Banks had introduced himself. ‘I’ve never met one of those before. Do sit down.’
Banks sat in the other armchair and smiled. ‘Most people haven’t.’
‘Nothing to do with the food, I hope?’
‘No. Not at all. I’ve never tasted it myself, but I gather most of those who have agree it’s not an arrestable offence.’
Marcel laughed. ‘That’s good to know. So what can I do for you?’
‘It’s about one of your customers.’
Marcel raised an eyebrow.
‘Connor Clive Blaydon,’ said Banks.
‘Ah, yes. Mr Blaydon. What about him?’
‘He told us he was dining here last Sunday night. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he left around eleven o’clock?’
‘I can’t vouch for that personally. I wasn’t here at that time. Service was over and it had been a long day. But Florence, our maître d’ and general factotum, did complain to me the next day that he and his friends had rather overstayed their welcome. She mentioned eleven o’clock. In an establishment such as this, Superintendent, you don’t chase your customers out until they want to leave.’
‘What time did he arrive?’
‘Around half past seven.’
That matched the times on the ANPR. ‘So he was here all evening with the Kerrigans?’
‘Yes. I know their reputation, but I can’t take the moral character of my diners into account. I don’t ask for character references.’
‘Only bankers’ references.’
‘Ha. So you’ve heard that one. Not true, of course. But I’m a firm believer that you get what you pay for. In the case of Le Coq d’Or, it happens to be food of a very high order, and service to match. The Kerrigans like their food, they don’t cause any trouble and they’re willing to pay the price.’
‘I understand that,’ said Banks. ‘I’m really just trying to find out if Blaydon’s alibi stands up.’
‘Alibi? What’s he supposed to have done?’
‘He’s not done anything, as far as I know. Just dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.’
‘Well, they were here all right. The three of them. Went through a fair bit of champagne and claret with their meals. Cognac and Sauternes later, too, I heard. I hope none of them was driving.’
‘No. It’s not about that. And they weren’t. At least Blaydon wasn’t. He had his driver waiting out front.’
‘Not here, he didn’t.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you’ve seen the street for yourself. It’s little more than a snicket, hardly the most welcoming surface for motorised vehicles, though you can just about get a Mini down it. He’d never get that Merc of his out at the York Road end. It’s narrower there. Besides, if he had parked outside, he would have blocked the entire street, and nobody would stand for that. It’s double yellow lines all the way, even for the likes of Mr Blaydon and his driver.’
Blaydon had said his driver was waiting ‘out front’. It might have been just a casual turn of phrase, meaning that he was waiting somewhere nearby. Or perhaps Blaydon wanted to give his driver an alibi? Frankie Wallace could have driven anywhere in the area, done anything, while Blaydon tucked into his garlic snails. Even Annie’s theory that they had dumped the body early could be possible, if Mrs Grunwell and her neighbours were mistaken in what they said they heard later, or what it meant. And if Dr Galway’s assessment of times was not quite accurate.
‘Did Blaydon pay by credit card?’
‘I’m sure he did. He usually does. But I wasn’t here when the party left so I can’t say for sure. I can dig it out for you if you like?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
McGuigan reached for a folder and sorted through the stack of receipts, finally handing one to Banks. It was paid at ten fifty-six. By the time they had all got outside and into the car, it would have been eleven or after. Banks nearly did a double-take when he saw the amount. The tip alone was far more than he had ever spent on dinner for three. He handed the receipt back and asked, ‘What time did you go home?’
‘Good Lord, don’t tell me I’m a suspect, too?’
‘Nothing of the sort.’
‘I left at about half past nine. They were well into their sweets, and the first bottle of Sauternes, by then.’
‘Other diners?’
‘The place was fully booked, as usual, but people were beginning to drift away by then. Florence said Mr Blaydon’s party was the last to leave.’
‘Is Florence here?’
‘Not right now. She doesn’t start until about five.’
‘That’s OK,’ Banks said. ‘I’ll have one of my officers talk to her later today or tomorrow.’
‘You’re being exceptionally thorough for someone who’s simply dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s.’
‘Aren’t you?’ Banks countered. ‘Thorough. When you’re cooking dinner?’
Marcel laughed. ‘I must say, you display a certain degree of ignorance when it comes to a chef’s duties,’ he said. ‘I don’t do a great deal of cooking, though I’m quite happy to muck in if someone’s sick. I’ll even help with the washing up.’ He tapped the papers in front of him. ‘My job is doing things like overseeing the menus and checking out the quality of ingredients, rather than actually cooking. I’m up well before everyone else, driving around the county sourcing the freshest local meat and produce. I may supervise the preparation of a few sauces this afternoon, but my main job’s usually done by the time the diners get here, apart from some last-minute touches. Of course, the prices they pay, they like to see the chef in full regalia, so I usually make a few appearances on the floor – you know, have a chat at each table, make sure everyone’s happy, take a bow. But I try not to overdo it. You won’t find anyone dropping by the tables here every five minutes to ask if you’re enjoying your meal. I also like to hang around the pass and check on what comes out. That’s an important part of the job.’
‘So you don’t cook?’
Marcel shook his head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. At least, not very often. I can cook, if that’s what you’re worried about. I have certificates to prove it, somewhere, and I’ve worked my way up through the kitchens of many a cafe and restaurant. Have you ever read Down and Out in Paris and London?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Banks, who had been intending to get around to Orwell for years, ever since reading an essay of his called ‘Decline of the En
glish Murder’.
‘You should,’ said Marcel. ‘It’s a revelation. Especially the bit about working in the kitchens in Paris.’
‘It’s on my list.’
Marcel glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but . . .’
‘Fine,’ said Banks, getting to his feet. ‘Sauces to prep. I understand. I’m done, anyway.’ He held out his hand. ‘Thanks for your time.’
‘No problem. I just hope Mr Blaydon hasn’t done anything criminal. He’s a regular customer, and I need the money.’
Banks smiled. ‘Oh, I think he’s done plenty of things we might describe as criminal, but he’s got away with them so far. No reason to think he shouldn’t continue to do so.’
Marcel narrowed his eyes. ‘I should imagine that his chances are somewhat diminished now, with you on his tail. Still, c’est la vie. I can always go back to washing dishes.’
‘I hardly think that will be necessary.’
Marcel walked Banks through the empty restaurant to the front door. ‘Look, Superintendent,’ he said. ‘You seem like a fellow who enjoys his creature comforts. Why don’t you dine with us here one evening? Bring the wife or a lady friend.’
‘Thanks for the invitation, Mr McGuigan,’ said Banks, ‘but I’d have to mortgage my cottage to do something like that.’
‘On the house. My treat. Be my guest. I’ll even cook for you. Give me a chance to show off. You’d love it, I guarantee.’
‘I’m sure I would,’ said Banks, ‘but it wouldn’t look too good to the chief constable, would it? Fine dining for free.’
‘She need never know. As a matter of fact, she’s not averse to dining here herself on occasion. She pays her own bill, though.’
‘She can afford to.’
Marcel laughed. ‘I suppose you’ve got a point. Shame. But if you change your mind . . .’ He handed Banks his card.
‘You’ll be the first to know. Thanks, Mr McGuigan, and goodbye.’
On several occasions during February and March, Zelda had sat by the same window of the same pub, from which she could watch the restaurant where Hawkins had met Keane and his girlfriend just before Christmas, but to no avail. She had thought they might be regulars and that was why Hawkins had met them there, but she hadn’t seen either the woman or Keane since.
While she had watched, she had puzzled over the extent of the woman’s involvement. In Zelda’s experience, very few women were involved in the criminal enterprise of sex trafficking – there were some, she knew, but not many – so what was her role? She had been with Keane, a forger, and they had gone window-shopping on Oxford Street together afterwards – so if Hawkins had met him to warn him of Zelda’s interest, then the woman would most likely have been party to that warning. Or would she? Would it have even meant anything to her? Did they just pass it off as ‘business’ and say no more about it, or wait to discuss it until she visited the ladies? And if Keane and the woman were still together, might they turn up at that same restaurant again?
This time, Zelda decided to be a little bolder and go into the restaurant rather than watch it through a pub window over the street. After all, neither Keane nor his girl had the slightest idea who she was, unless Hawkins had shown them a photograph of her.
It was a large, bustling, dimly-lit space with a separate bar area, crowded with people fresh from their day’s work grabbing a quick drink or two before heading home to face their families. Like most of the English, they seemed to prefer standing outside smoking or crushed together around the bar. The dining area was separated by a small step down, and consisted of a number of tables with white tablecloths and gleaming silver cutlery. It was just as noisy down there as it was at the bar.
Zelda took a table at the back of the dining area, which gave her a panoramic view of the whole restaurant, and settled in with her book. Just another bored businesswoman in town for meetings. She ordered a glass of Chardonnay and a clam linguine, and watched the people come and go.
When her plate and glass were empty, and Willie Garvin had saved Modesty Blaise’s bacon, still Zelda had seen nothing of Keane or his girlfriend. She was beginning to think it was a restaurant that Hawkins had chosen because it was near his place of work. But wouldn’t he have picked somewhere further away, and perhaps less public, in case he was seen, if the choice of location had been up to him? Maybe so, but perhaps she was overthinking the case. Perhaps Hawkins hadn’t been meeting Keane to mention his concerns about her interest. After all, nothing had come of it. She was still alive. Perhaps he had never even known that she was especially interested in the photograph of Tadić and Keane. Loath though she was to contemplate it, if Hawkins had succeeded in getting Keane paranoid about Zelda’s behaviour, and they were somehow involved in a criminal conspiracy to do with trafficking, then Keane and Tadić might have thought they needed to do something about her. Something permanent. But they hadn’t. And work with Hawkins had gone on as normal, with no further incident, until she had returned from Croatia to discover that he had died in a chip-pan fire.
The conversations rose and fell. Someone kept emitting a laugh like a witch’s cackle, and another a deep foghorn rumble. As usual in crowds, one voice was louder than all the others and had nothing interesting to say. It was still fairly early and the restaurant wasn’t too crowded. The later it got the more the throng at the bar thinned out and quietened down, and the more people – mostly couples – came to sit down and eat.
‘Would you care to see the dessert menu?’ said the waitress.
‘No, thanks,’ said Zelda. ‘But I’ll have another glass of wine, if that’s all right.’
‘No problem. Same again?’
‘Yes, please.’
While the waitress took orders from another table, then went off to get the wine, Zelda came to a decision. She took the best photo she had of Keane and his girlfriend from her bag and set it on the table. When the waitress returned with her glass, she said, ‘Have you been working here long?’
If the waitress was surprised by Zelda’s question, she didn’t show it. ‘Three years,’ she said.
Zelda showed her the photograph. ‘Could you please tell me if you recognise either of these people?’
The waitress frowned. Zelda was expecting to be put on the spot, asked why she wanted to know, or some such thing, and she had a weak answer prepared, but it didn’t happen. The waitress simply plonked her wine down, then bent slightly to look at the photo.
‘They used to come in here,’ she said finally. Then, ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘She’s an old friend, and we’ve lost touch,’ Zelda said. ‘This was taken a while ago, and she seems to have moved since then. I don’t have a forwarding address. I recognised the sign outside, and I was just wondering . . .’ Zelda held her breath, fearing the waitress was going to ask her why she had something that looked very much like a surveillance photograph.
She didn’t. ‘Sorry, but she’s not in today,’ she said. ‘She does come in from time to time. You might catch her if you come back tomorrow. Or I could give her a message to contact you next time she comes in?’
‘What time does she usually come in?’
‘Around six-ish, maybe once every week or so. She works at Foyles, just around the corner.’
So Zelda had simply had the bad luck to miss her on those times she had sat watching from the pub across the street. ‘And her boyfriend?’
‘Haven’t seen him for ages. I think they must have split up. Would you care to leave a message?’
‘No,’ said Zelda. ‘Thank you very much, but no. I’d rather surprise her.’
‘Suit yourself.’
The waitress walked off, casting a puzzled and suspicious backward glance. Zelda felt her heart beating fast. It was partly the thrill of finding the courage to play detective and partly the sweet smell of success. She had found her. Found Keane’s girlfriend. She had been about to ask the waitress if she knew the woman’s name, but realised that, having passed herself off
as a friend, such a request would hardly seem necessary. At least she now knew where the woman worked.
Foyles bookshop was huge, but unless the woman worked in the back all the time, it shouldn’t be impossible to track her down. Zelda checked her watch. It was after eight. The shop remained open until nine, she knew, but she might have a better chance if she waited until the following day and took her time. Instead, she lingered over her wine and her Modesty Blaise until after nine, just in case the woman showed up. When she hadn’t turned up by a quarter past, Zelda set off back to her hotel, walking all the way in the soft May evening twilight, down Charing Cross Road and over one of the Golden Jubilee Bridges, then along the waterfront, smoking a cigarette as she walked, past the Southbank complex. She checked behind her once or twice, stopped to look in a shop window, paused on the bridge to admire the view downriver, but was aware of nobody following her.
Chapter 6
The informal meeting took place in Banks’s office on Thursday morning. The three Homicide and Major Crimes detectives sat around his low, circular table, with coffee and notepads before them: Banks, DI Annie Cabbot and DC Gerry Masterson. Banks missed Winsome; she was always a welcome voice at meetings such as this, often coming from an unexpected angle or picking out a connection others didn’t notice. But her pregnancy had been a difficult one; her blood pressure was too high, and her doctor had insisted she needed complete rest. Her husband, Terry Gilchrist, was only too happy to care for her at home. Still, Banks thought, even if the team was diminished, it was still pretty damn good.
‘Anything more on Blaydon?’ he asked Gerry.
‘DI MacDonald did a thorough job of covering what we’ve got on him, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘And so far, he’s managed to avoid arrest or even questioning for anything. It’s all circumstantial, all guilt by association. And some of the people he associates with are known criminals, like Leka Gashi, who we know has strong connections with the Albanian Mafia. Quite clearly there are deals going on. The drugs squad are aware that the Albanians are taking over the drugs trade, especially in cocaine and heroin. I talked to a DS Norcliffe at County HQ, and he said it’s a worrying development. They’ve forged alliances with the Colombian cartels and pay a pretty low price at wholesale for the stuff, which they bring in through gang-controlled European ports like Rotterdam and Antwerp. And they pass that saving on right down the line. Top quality merchandise, too. They’re intent on taking over the county lines, and God help anyone who gets in their way.’