“We’re from CID,” MacKenzie flashed her warrant card discreetly. “We’d like to talk to you about Claire Burns.”
The young man shook his head in confusion.
“Claire hasn’t turned up for work today. Jimmy’s going mad about it,” he added.
“Who’s Jimmy?”
“He’s the owner.”
Phillips leaned across and grabbed a handful of salted peanuts from a dish on the bar in front of him.
“Listen,” the waiter carried on. “Is something up with Claire?”
“When was the last time you saw her?” MacKenzie decided it was best to be vague, for now.
“Um, it would have been last night, closing time. Has something happened to her?”
“You could say that,” Phillips wiped his fingers on a white paper napkin. “I’m sorry to tell you that Claire was found dead this morning. It would be helpful if you would answer some questions for us.”
The waiter, who turned out to be Barry Denham, aged twenty, paled beneath his tan.
“You’re – you’re joking?”
His eyes watered.
“You must have made a mistake. Claire always took the bus home and she never got in any trouble. She wasn’t like that.”
“Tell us about her usual routine,” MacKenzie advised, taking advantage of a brief lull at the bar.
“She worked as many shifts as she could. She’s usually here more than she would be at home,” he ran a hand over his slick hair and tapped it absently into place as he thought. “She wasn’t into all of this, though.”
He gestured widely to encompass the Diner.
“She was a quiet person.”
They both nodded.
“Some of us go out for drinks or a dance after work, but she isn’t – I mean, that is, she wasn’t interested.”
“She kept herself to herself?”
“Yeah, sort of. She was friendly, like. I think she just had her heart set on being a nurse.”
“Pretty girl,” Phillips commented idly, his laidback attitude giving the impression that he wasn’t beadily watching and listening to every answer the man gave him. Over eighty per cent of killers were known to their victims, after all.
“Aye, she is … was.” Sadness washed over the young waiter with the ridiculous quiff.
“What was her shift like yesterday?”
“She was on from about two p.m. until eleven. It took a while clearing up after closing, but I think she gave us a wave goodbye at around eleven-thirty, maybe quarter-to-twelve at the latest.”
“How do you know?”
“She was making a bit of a song and dance about the fact she might miss her bus home,” he replied. “She always got the same bus after a late shift, from the corner outside, at half past eleven.”
“Nobody went with her?”
“Nah, although Jimmy headed out around the same time, so I assumed he gave her a lift or made sure she got on the bus.” He looked like he was about to say more, but he fell silent.
“Thanks,” MacKenzie nodded. “One of our PCs will be in touch to take a statement from you tomorrow, but in the meantime you’ve been very helpful. Can you point us in Jimmy’s direction?”
“His office is through there,” he indicated a silver door marked ‘PRIVATE’. As they turned to leave, he spoke up again. “If – if I wanted to send some flowers … who … can you tell me where to send them?”
“We’ll let you know.”
Phillips and MacKenzie slid off their stools and with a peremptory knock, walked through the door in question.
Inside, there was a short corridor and a heavily muscled man rose from where he had been sitting reading a smutty tabloid newspaper with dog-eared edges. He wore a dark suit that didn’t sit comfortably across his shoulders and the skin across his face bore the unmistakeable puffy and spotted signs of long-term alcohol abuse.
“Can I help you?”
“We’re looking for Jimmy.”
“He’s busy. Who’re you?”
The question was abrupt and Phillips noticed that the man – clearly some sort of bodyguard – kept one hand in his trouser pocket. He was surprised there was only one such person to protect the likes of Jimmy “The Manc” Moffa, but perhaps his reputation was enough to ward off potential threats.
Jimmy Moffa was one of three brothers who operated a known crime syndicate in and around Newcastle. After one bad deal too many, Moffa Senior had received a swift knife to the belly, in lieu of payment for services rendered. His boys had taken over the family business and moved from Manchester to set up shop in a new city. Jimmy was the youngest, charged with running several of the brothers’ legitimate enterprises. Phillips understood now why the restaurant that had previously occupied the space here had suddenly gone out of business. He may have been the youngest of the Moffa brothers, but Jimmy had packed a lot into his thirty years on Earth, certainly enough for people to run in the opposite direction. From fraud to arson, to assault and GBH, Jimmy had been there. That didn’t count his juvenile history, or the family interests in gambling, prostitution and, of course, drugs.