‘That would be correct, Mr Connelly.’

‘Most people I don’t remember for very long. If you’d asked me next week, it would probably have gone clean out of my head. I have that sort of mind, you know. I always need something new.’

Within a few minutes, Fry had obtained the credit-card record which would confirm Rawson’s identity, and established that there had been no reservation made. At least, none that had been entered in the book. A walk-in, then. Around eight or eight thirty, the manager thought.

‘What do you remember about him?’ she asked.

‘Well, he was rather loud. Not drunk or anything awful like that, you understand. He was just one of those terribly over-confident men. Ridiculously masculine, wanting to be dominant all the time – and wanting everyone else to see it, too. It turns me right off.’

‘Interesting.’

Fry smiled at him, feeling a growing surge of relief that she wasn’t going to have to dig for details. Connelly’s impressions of Patrick Rawson would be as valuable as gold.

The manager warmed to her approval. ‘Oh, I suppose he was quite good looking in a rugged kind of way. Knew it, too.’ He studied the photograph again. ‘Mmm. Has to be the centre of attention all the time. You can see it in his eyes.’

‘Was he having dinner with a woman?’

‘Oh no, love. His companion was an older man.’

‘Can you describe him for me?’

Connelly shook his head. ‘We see so many middle-aged businessmen in here. There was nothing about him that would have made him stand out from the rest. Greying hair, clean shaven. A suit and tie. What else can I say? He was a diner. We don’t exactly look at the colour of their eyes.’

‘Just the colour of their money.’

‘The colour of their plastic. Our customers rarely use cash.’

‘Had either of these two men been in the restaurant before?’

‘I couldn’t say.’ The manager hesitated. ‘I suppose I could go back through the book and see if your chap made a reservation some time, or check the credit-card records –’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Fry. ‘We can get hold of his credit-card statements ourselves.’

‘That must be fun. I’d love to be able to do that.’

Powerful smells of cooking were starting to drift from the kitchen. They made Fry think of garlic bread, which she daren’t eat during the day, even if it was offered to her. That didn’t stop her salivating, though.

‘I’m interested in this second man,’ she said. ‘Did you hear him speak at all, Mr Connelly?’

‘Yes – when he ordered, of course. And at the end of the meal there was a bit of an argument about who should pay the bill.’

‘Oh? Mr Rawson didn’t want to pay?’