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 English 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.’