The restaurant was a listed building on a narrow cobbled alley between Market Street and York Road, just behind the market square, an area that boasted a number of bric-a-brac shops, upmarket galleries and antiquarian bookshops. Inside, it was decorated in the old style—dark wood, solid tables and padded chairs, luxuriant wall hangings dotted with a few Impressionist reproductions—rather than some of the more modern, brightly lit, chrome and glass places around these days.

The chef himself, Banks soon found out, was affable and relaxed, not at all the posturing prima donna in a poncy hat that Banks had expected. He wore jeans and an open-neck white shirt and lounged on an easy chair in his office at the back of the restaurant reviewing the evening’s menu, black-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his aquiline nose.

“A detective superintendent,” he said after Banks had introduced himself. “I’ve never met one of those before. Do sit down.”

Banks sat in the other armchair and smiled. “Most people haven’t.”

“Nothing to do with the food, I hope?”

“No. Not at all. I’ve never tasted it myself, but I gather most of those who have agree it’s not an arrestable offense.”

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?”