Kill Call by Stephen Booth Page B

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?’
    ‘No, no, it was the other way around. Both gentlemen wanted to pay, and they had one of those terribly polite little argie-bargies over who had got their credit card out first. We see it so often in here. It’s a sort of ritual they go through. My opinion is, there’s a question of status involved. They all want to be the one who paid for the dinner.’
    ‘Did you gain an impression of the relative status between these two, Mr Connelly?’
    ‘Well, I’ve been doing this job for a long time, love. You’d be surprised how good I’ve become at judging that.’
    ‘That’s why I’m asking you,’ said Fry.
    Connelly smoothed down his waistcoat in an unconscious preening gesture. ‘And, in this case, I’d say the two gentlemen were pretty much equals. They knew each other quite well, I’m sure. It wasn’t as if they were meeting for the first time. No ice to be broken, if you know what I mean.’
    ‘Yes, I understand. So they were friendly?’
    ‘Mmm. I didn’t say that, did I? On the contrary, I felt there was a little bit of tension. Nothing was said while I was at the table. I’m afraid they were rather too discreet for that. But, watching from a distance, I could see their conversation was getting a bit heated at times.’
    Fry looked around the restaurant. Despite its reputation, the tables were pushed fairly close together. Or perhaps that was because of its reputation. Restaurants went in and out of fashion