Before Faye could turn and walk away, Zelda held out the photo. “This is you, isn’t it?”

Faye paused and examined the photograph. “Yes,” she said. “I don’t know where you got it, but it’s me. Perhaps I’d better call the police?”

Zelda took a deep breath. After the next step, there would be no turning back. “I am the police,” she said.

“Do you have identification?”

Zelda wasn’t sure it would pass muster, but she did have her NCA pass, and it did have the words “National Crime Agency” printed on it, along with an impressive logo, insignia and her photograph.

“NCA?” said Faye. “That’s the British FBI, isn’t it?”

“Some newspapers call us that.”

“It must be important, then. But I still don’t know what you’re talking about. This man in the picture isn’t called Phil Keane. His name is Hugh Foley. And, yes, we used to go out together, but not for a while now.”

IT WAS just after five o’clock when Annie arrived at the wood-paneled facade of Le Coq d’Or. Like Banks, she had never eaten there. The restaurant didn’t open until six, so she knocked at the front door and an elegant young woman in a black turtleneck sweater and matching black slacks answered. When Annie introduced herself, the woman said she was Florence and had been expecting someone from the police. She excused herself for a moment, then she returned, carrying a pack of cigarettes, came outside and closed the door behind her. It was a mild evening, and she seemed comfortable enough without a jacket.

“Let’s just go down here,” she said, and led Annie a few yards toward York Road, beyond which the limestone castle was visible, high on its hill against a backdrop of blue sky. They stood outside a closed antiquarian bookshop with a window display of beautiful old maps. “I’m dying for a fag,” Florence went on, “and Marcel doesn’t like me smoking right outside the restaurant, even when it’s closed. Says it looks bad. I suppose he’s right, really.” She smiled nervously, pulled a Rothmans from her packet and lit it with a green Bic. She took a deep drag and let out the smoke slowly. “So what did you want to know?”

“About Sunday night.”

“Yes.”

“I understand a man called Connor Clive Blaydon was dining with Tommy and Timmy, the Kerrigan brothers.”

Florence puffed on her cigarette and nodded. “That’s right.”

“Do you remember what time they left?”

“It was just after eleven o’clock. We’d been closed officially for ages, and they were the only ones left, but . . . well . . . what can you do?”

“It does seem rather inconsiderate.”

Florence shrugged. “A customer’s a customer.”

“Big spenders?”

She nodded.

“And generous tippers?”