‘And you say that you didn’t hear anything during that time, because of your music.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see anybody else, wandering around on the shore of Tagg’s Island for example?’

‘I didn’t notice anybody, but then I might have been busy.’ He smiled.

‘Because of your girlfriend, do you mean?’ Wickens asked.

Anton shrugged, but left the grin in place.

‘Are you an exhibitionist?’ Cottesloe asked. ‘We have a witness who says that there were three people sitting in your car, not two.’

‘No that’s wrong. It was dark, after all.’

‘One of the doors of your BMW was open, the interior light was on,’ Cottesloe continued.

‘Sorry, what are you trying to say?’

‘I need you to be straight with us. Three people were seen in your car. Two black guys in the front, someone else behind.’

‘Says who?’

‘Witnesses, that’s all you need to know. So is your girlfriend actually a big black bloke?’ Cottesloe asked.

‘Obviously not. Your witness was mistaken.’

‘Witnesses plural, which means more than one.’

‘I know what it means,’ Anton said. ‘Don’t insult my intelligence.’

There was a pause and then Wickens leaned across the table, his chin jutting. ‘I understand you’re a chef. Bit of a dab hand with the frying pan,’ he said, looking across at Cottesloe. ‘I looked him up on the website.’ He turned a belligerent gaze back to Anton. ‘Perhaps I should bring the missus around for a meal.’

‘You’d be very welcome,’ Anton said, and tried to make it sound like he meant it, which he did not. ‘Do you enjoy Creole creative fusion?’

The two cops shared a derisive snort. ‘Bit posh for the likes of us,’ said Cottesloe. ‘Fish and chips. That’s what I like. Solid British grub.’ He locked eyes with Anton.

Anton laughed. ‘Fish in batter was brought to the UK in the sixteenth century by western Sephardic Jews who had been living in Holland, having gathered the pescado frito recipe from Portugal. With French fried potatoes, of course.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Wickens, folding his arms.

Anton shrugged. He had vouchers in his jacket for a free starter at J’adore Ça, but he was damned if he was going to give these two any.

‘Do you like Chinese food?’ Wickens asked.

Anton stared at the ceiling, wondering how much more of his time they were going to waste.

‘He asked you a question, sonny boy,’ Cottesloe said, folding his arms to match his colleague.

‘Is that relevant to the inquiry? Should I get a solicitor before I answer?’

‘Do you or did you ever by any chance employ a Chinese chef?’ Wickens asked.

Anton waited a few seconds just in case there was a punchline, but then decided to take it as a straight question ‘No, I’m the chef. I have a female sous chef who is from Guyana. But I’m sure she could rustle you up some pork chow mein.’