However, he had never been tried for any of those crimes. Evidence mysteriously disappeared and witnesses went missing or developed a sudden case of amnesia.
“We need to speak to him about one of his waitresses, Claire Burns. Could you please ask him if he has ten minutes to spare?”
Denise was giving a master class in authority tempered with charm. The bodyguard assessed her with bloodshot eyes, glanced at the warrant card she held out and then spoke quietly into a mouthpiece on the lapel of his blazer.
“Mr Moffa can give you ten minutes,” he barked, then knocked and opened the door behind him.
The inner sanctum was lavishly decorated in shades of grey, black and silver, in a minimalist style. White leather armchairs were arranged in a seating area around a glossy black coffee table. There were wide photographic prints on the wall of various scenes around the UK in dramatic black-and-white. The floor at their feet was a similar glossy black tile.
Easy to clean, MacKenzie thought.
An enormous desk dominated the room, behind which sat the man himself. He was still young, but his pale blue eyes told tales of the things he had seen and gave an edginess to his appearance. He was dressed in clothes which he thought made him look like a successful businessman, inspired by his sixties idols, the Krays – a crisp white shirt, skinny black tie and a fat Omega watch weighed down one of his wrists. His hair was shaven, which drew attention to the sharp bones of his face and did little to detract from the general sense of danger one was inclined to feel in his presence.
That was just how he liked it.
He stood and gestured graciously to the armchairs opposite.
“Please, take a seat. I understand you’re from CID?” He let his eyes roam freely over MacKenzie and he thought that there was something to be said for an older woman.
MacKenzie perched on the edge of one of the spotless leather chairs and Phillips remained standing at her shoulder.
“We would like to ask you some questions about one of your waiting staff, Claire Burns.”
Jimmy leaned back in his chair, very much at ease.
“Claire? Well, this is a surprise. I wouldn’t have thought she’d be the type to get herself mixed up in anything,” he said, the words laced with a Midlands accent he hadn’t quite lost.
“Claire Burns was found dead, early this morning.”
MacKenzie and Phillips both watched the man closely for a reaction, but all they saw was a hint of genuine surprise. No remorse, no particular sadness. But then, this surely wouldn’t have been the first time that he had held similar conversations with the police.
“I’m sorry to hear that. We will be sure to send some flowers to her mother.”
He probably had a running account with the local florist, Phillips thought.
“We understand that you may have been the last person to see Claire, after she finished her shift here last night,” MacKenzie continued.
He shrugged one shoulder and picked up a thick gold fountain pen, rolling it back and forth between thumb and forefinger as he spoke.
“I said ‘goodnight’ to her at about half past eleven. I offered her a lift home, but she was happy to wait for the bus.”
“Was that all? She headed for the bus stop while you went home yourself?”
“That’s all,” his voice grew firmer, brooking no argument.
“Did you happen to notice anyone else at the bus stop?”
“It’s the centre of town, so, of course there were one or two other people about.”
“We noticed a CCTV camera outside the main entrance to the building. Would you be willing to give us a copy of the recording?”
He licked his bottom lip before answering.
“Anything to help our officers in blue.”
By the time MacKenzie and Phillips took their leave, they were both feeling highly claustrophobic. Stepping out onto the pavement, they breathed the free air again.
“Gives me the creeps,” MacKenzie said, after a moment.
“Me an’ all, love,” Phillips muttered, thinking of those eyes that had watched her with an unwavering stare.
“I’m surprised he didn’t shout for a solicitor the minute we stepped into his office,” MacKenzie frowned. “And I nearly swallowed my tongue when he agreed to give us the CCTV footage.”
“Maybe he doesn’t think he has anything to hide.”
MacKenzie snorted inelegantly.
“His closet must be so full of skeletons rattling, it’s a wonder he sleeps at night.”
“He probably sleeps like a baby,” Phillips mused. “And that’s the tragedy of it.”
“Oswald was King of Northumbria from 634 until he died at the hands of the pagan Mercian army at the Battle of Maserfield in 642,” Anna was saying. “The account given by the historian, Bede, suggests that he was a saintly king, following his widespread efforts to bring Christianity to Northumberland.”