“That would be Frankie Wallace?” Banks said.

“Yes.”

“What time did you arrive at the restaurant?” Annie asked.

“Seven-thirty, or thereabouts.”

“And what time did you leave?”

“Late.”

“Around eleven?”

“Around that time, yes.”

“That’s rather a long time to spend over your frog’s legs and snails, isn’t it? Doesn’t the restaurant close earlier than that? It was a Sunday night, after all.”

“Marcel is a friend,” said Blaydon. “He’s happy to stay open for his best customers as long as they wish. I mean, it’s hardly your Nando’s or Pizza Express. And you have it quite wrong about the food he serves. There are no snails—”

“We don’t really care about snails, sir,” Banks cut in. “So you were in Le Coq d’Or having dinner with the Kerrigan brothers, and your driver Frankie Wallace was out front waiting to take you home from half past seven until eleven on Sunday? Right?”

“That is correct.”

“And you didn’t leave the restaurant at all during that time?”

“I didn’t nip out to murder someone, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Who was it, by the way? Who was the victim?”

“A young lad,” said Banks. “We think he might have been mixed up with drugs.”

“It’s a terrible thing, these days,” said Blaydon. “One reads so much about the damage drugs can do. I contribute to a number of rehabilitation centers. Try to do my bit, you know. Give something back.”

“For what?”

“I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth,” said Blaydon. “I made my way up the hard way. Through sheer hard slog. You’re just like all the rest. You slag off entrepreneurs like me, but where would you be without us? Still living in fucking caves, that’s where.”

“We already know a bit about how you made your way up in the world,” said Banks. “But that’s not what we’re interested in.”

“I’m still trying to work out what you are interested in. Is this a fishing expedition of some kind? If so, should I have my solicitor present?”

“What might we be fishing for?” Annie asked.

“Don’t ask me.”

Banks took out Peter Darby’s photographic rendering of the victim from his briefcase and showed it to Blaydon. “Ever seen this lad?”

Blaydon squinted at the photo and turned back to Banks. “No, I can’t say as I have. Arab kid, is he?”

“We don’t know where he’s from.” Banks put the photo away. “Do you know a man called George Fanthorpe?” he asked. “Farmer Fanthorpe?”

“Yes,” Blaydon said after a slight hesitation. “We did business occasionally. But it was some time ago. I heard he was sent to prison.”

“That’s right. He’ll be away for a while. What sort of business did you do?”

“Nothing criminal, if that’s what you’re thinking. I had some projects he was interested in investing in. I bought shares in a couple of racehorses he trained. That sort of thing.”

“Pretty pally, were you?”

“I wouldn’t say that. It was a business relationship. Maybe the occasional drink. Besides, what does George Fanthorpe have to do with anything?”