Banks tried to think when he had last heard a metaphor as mixed as that last speech, but he couldn’t. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Just a couple more questions, then I’ll leave you to your evening. I understand Mr. Blaydon received a phone call on his mobile in the restaurant at about ten o’clock last Sunday evening. Am I right?”

“I believe so. Yes. Though I can’t say I made a note of the time.”

“Can you tell me who it was from?”

Kerrigan made a steeple of his chubby fingers. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea. He simply answered the phone, listened for a moment and then excused himself.”

“How long was he gone?”

“Not long. Five minutes, perhaps.”

“How did he seem? Did the phone call upset him, make him happy, unhappy, what?”

“Neutral, really. He just said he had a small business matter to take care of, and he’d be back in a few minutes. We were finishing our sweets at the time.”

“I understand Chef McGuigan does an excellent job there.”

“We’re lucky to have such an establishment in town, Mr. Banks. You really should try it.”

“Not on a poor policeman’s salary.”

Kerrigan paused and licked his lips. “I’m sure something can be arranged.”

“Are you offering me a bribe, Timmy?”

“Heaven forbid! Nothing of the sort. Merely a favor for a friend. I’m afraid that when it comes to the good things in life, I’m a champagne socialist. I think we should all be able to enjoy them, not just an elite few. Don’t you agree?”

“Would that I could indulge myself,” said Banks. He put his empty glass down on the desk and stood. “Well, it’s been a pleasure.”

“All mine, Mr. Banks. All mine.”

Kerrigan stood up and they shook hands. His was pudgy and clammy. The dance floor on the way out was a lot noisier and more crowded than it had been when Banks first came in, and he had to thread his way through the bobbing, gesticulating crowd of dancers. The DJ was hopping about playing with two turntables against the electrobeat, speeding them up, rotating them backward, slowing them down. Banks was relieved when he got outside into the relative quiet of the market square. It was after dark, and a few couples and groups of young people were drifting over from the pubs toward The Vaults. Banks eyed the Queen’s Arms, still lit up and relatively busy, but he had already had one drink that evening, and he decided he would be better off heading home and enjoying a drop of Macallan in his conservatory, perhaps with some Marianne Faithful to go with it.