‘That’s better.’
Shortly after nine, Branson parked the Mondeo on a single yellow line in Arlington Street, just past the Ritz Hotel and opposite the Caprice restaurant.
‘Nice wheels,’ he said, as they walked up the hill, passing a parked Ferrari. ‘You ought to get yourself a set of those. Better than that crappy Alfa you pootle around in. Be good for your image.’
‘There’s a small matter of a hundred grand or so separating me from one,’ Grace said. ‘And lumbered with you on my team, my chances of a pay rise of that magnitude are somewhat reduced.’
At the top of the street they rounded the corner into Piccadilly. Immediately on their right they saw a handsome, imposing building, in black and gold paintwork. Its massive, arched windows were brightly illuminated, and the interior seemed humming with people. A smart sign on the wall said The Wolseley.
They were greeted effusively by a liveried doorman in a top hat. ‘Good evening, gentlemen!’ he said with a soft Irish accent.
‘The Wolseley restaurant?’ Grace asked, feeling a little out of place here.
‘Absolutely! Very nice to see you both!’ He held the door open and gestured them through.
Grace, followed by Branson, stepped inside. There was a small crowd of people clustered around a reception desk. A waiter hurried past with a tray laden with cocktails, into a vast, domed and galleried dining room, elegantly themed in black and white, and packed with people. There was a noisy buzz. He looked around for a moment. It had an old-world Belle Epoque grandeur about it, yet at the same time it felt intensely modern. The waiting staff were all dressed in hip black and most of the clientele looked cool. He decided Cleo would like this place. Maybe he would bring her up for a night in London and come here. Although he thought he had better check out the prices first.
A young woman receptionist smiled at them, then a tall man, with fashionably long and tangled ginger hair, greeted them. ‘Gentlemen, good evening. Can I help you?’
‘We’re meeting Mr Taylor.’
‘Mr Phil Taylor?’
‘Yes.’
He pointed at a bar area, off to the side. ‘He’s in there, gentlemen, first table on the right! We’ll take you to him!’
As Grace entered the bar, he saw a man in his early forties, wearing a yellow polo shirt and blue chinos, looking up at him expectantly.
‘Mr Taylor?’
‘Aye!’ He half stood up. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’ He spoke in a distinct Yorkshire accent.
‘Yes. And Detective Sergeant Branson.’ Grace studied him fleetingly, weighing him up on first impression. He was relaxed and fit-looking, a tiny bit overweight, with a pleasant open face, a sunburnt nose, thinning fair hair and alert, very keen eyes. No flies on this man, he thought instantly. A set of car keys, with a Ferrari emblem on the fob, was lying on the table in front of the man next to a tall glass, containing a watery-looking cocktail with a sprig of mint in it.
‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. Have a seat. Can I get you a drink? I can recommend the Mojitos, they’re excellent.’ He waved a hand to summon a waiter.
‘I’m driving – I’ll have a Diet Coke,’ Branson said.
‘The same,’ Grace said, although, still faced with the nightmare of the drive back with Branson, he could have used a pint of single malt. ‘We’ll pay for these, sir. It’s very good of you to see us at such short notice,’ Grace began.
‘It’s not a problem. How can I help you?’
‘Can I ask you how long you have known Brian Bishop?’ Branson said, putting his pad down on the table.
Grace watched the movement of the man’s eyes, as he thought.
‘About six years – yes – almost exactly six years.’
Branson noted this down.
‘Am I under caution?’ Phil Taylor asked, only half in jest.
‘No,’ Branson replied. ‘We’re just here to try to confirm some times with you.’
‘I did give them to one of your officers yesterday. What exactly is the problem? Is Brian in trouble?’
‘We’d rather not say too much at the moment,’ Grace replied.
‘How did you meet him?’ Branson asked.
‘At a P1 meeting.’
‘P1?’
‘It’s a club for petrol heads that Damon Hill – the racing driver – former world champion – runs. You pay an annual subscription and get the use of various sports cars. We met at one of their cocktail parties.’
Eyeing the key fob, Glenn Branson asked, ‘Is that your Ferrari, around the corner in Arlington Street?’
‘The 430? Yes – but that’s my own car.’
‘Nice,’ Branson said. ‘Nice motor.’
‘Be even nicer without all your damned speed cameras!’
‘Can you give us a little bit of background about yourself, Mr Taylor?’ Grace asked, not rising to the bait.
‘Me? I qualified as a chartered accountant, then I spent fifteen years with the Inland Revenue, most of it on their Special Investigations team. Looking into tax abuse scams, mostly. Through it I saw how much money the IFA community – the Independent Financial Advisers – made. I decided that’s what I should be doing. So I set up Taylor Financial Planning. Never looked back. Wasn’t long after I started that I met Brian. He became one of my first clients.’
‘How would you describe Mr Bishop?’ Branson asked.
‘How would I describe him? He’s a top man. One of the best.’ He thought for some moments. ‘Absolute integrity, smart, reliable, efficient.’
‘Did you ever arrange any life insurance for him?’
‘We’re getting into an area of client confidentiality, gentlemen.’
‘I understand,’ Grace said. ‘There is one question I would like to ask, and if you don’t want to answer it, that is fine. Did you ever arrange a life insurance policy on Brian Bishop’s wife?’
‘I can answer that with a categorical no.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Is it correct, Mr Taylor, that you and Mr Bishop had dinner here, in this restaurant last week, on Thursday 3 August?’ Grace continued.
‘Yes, we did.’ His demeanour had become a little defensive now.
‘This a regular haunt of yours?’ Branson asked.
‘It is. I like to meet clients here.’
‘Can you remember what time, approximately, you left the restaurant?’
‘I can do better than that,’ Phil Taylor said, a little smugly. Fishing his wallet from his jacket, which was lying beside him on the bench seat, he rummaged inside and pulled out a credit card receipt from the restaurant.
Grace looked at it. Bishop hadn’t been lying, he thought, when he saw the items of drink that the two men had consumed. Two Mojito cocktails. Two bottles of wine. Four brandies. ‘Looks like you had a good evening!’ he said. He also privately noted that the prices were no higher than decent Brighton restaurants. He could afford to bring Cleo here. She would love it.
‘Aye, we did.’
Grace did a mental calculation. Assuming both men drank more or less equally, Bishop would have been way over the drink-drive limit when he left the restaurant. Could the drink have brought on a rage about his wife’s infidelity? And given him the courage to drive recklessly?
Then, studying the receipt carefully, he found towards the top right what he was looking for. TIME 22.54.
‘How did Brian Bishop seem to you last Thursday evening?’ Grace asked Phil Taylor.
‘He was in a great mood. Very cheerful. Good company. He had a golf match in Brighton next morning, so he didn’t want to be late, or drink too much – but we still managed to!’ He chuckled.
‘Can you remember how soon after you got the bill you left this place?’