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spell it for you.’ When she had it down, he asked, ‘Is there some trouble? I see so many police outside.’
    ‘I’m afraid there is. It concerns the man who lives upstairs.’
    His eyes widened. ‘Mr Bygod? Has something happened to him? Please God he is all right?’
    ‘I’m sorry to say he was found dead this morning.’
    Serhati’s face registered immediate concern and dismay. ‘Oh, please, no! This is terrible! He was such a nice man – and very kind to me.’
    This was good, Swilley thought – he evidently knew Bygod more than casually. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about him, if I may,’ she said.
    ‘Of course,’ said Serhati, still with the sorrowful cast. ‘Please sit down, and would you like some coffee? I’ll ask Naza to bring some.’
    Swilley assented, and watched him go to the back and call out to someone out of sight. He returned and sat opposite her at a small table, gave her a searching look, and said, ‘Was it his heart?’
    ‘Why do you say that?’
    He shrugged. ‘Only that at his age it is usually heart.’
    But she could see from his expression he didn’t think it was. Of course, the police would hardly come asking questions about an infarct. It was a problem in the Job, that simply turning up alerted people to the fact that something was wrong, and put them on their guard.
    ‘I’m afraid it looks as though someone killed him.’
    Interesting. He didn’t look as shocked at that as he might have. He sighed. ‘These are bad times,’ he said quietly. ‘So much trouble in the world.’
    ‘What was the nature of your relationship with Mr Bygod?’ she asked.
    ‘He was a customer,’ he said at once, ‘but he was also very good to me. He helped me buy this place.’
    ‘He gave you money?’
    Serhati looked hurt. ‘No! I would not ask him for money. He helped me get loan from the bank. Told me where to go, how to apply. Helped me write a business plan. All sorts of advice. You see, I was a waiter here. Ever since we came to England – Naza, my wife, and me – I have been waiter, and Naza worked in kitchens, but our dream was to have our own restaurant. We saved and saved but never enough. Then I came here, and after a year I was made manager. The owner, Mr Batelli, he owns four restaurants, he can’t run them all himself. He liked me, and I did well for him, and then one day he said, “How would you like to buy?”’
    ‘An Italian restaurant?’ Swilley asked.
    ‘No-one eats Kurdish food – not even the Kurds,’ he joked. ‘But the business is the same. Naza and I are Kurdish, my chef is Spanish, his assistant is Greek, I have one Polish waiter, one from Kosovo, and one from Portugal. Mr Bygod used to call it United Nations. But restaurants are like that everywhere. Catering is the great melting pot, Mr Bygod used to say.’
    A little, round woman came scuttling from the back with the coffee and a plate of thin cinnamon biscuits. She cast one nervous look at Swilley, Serhati said something to her in a very foreign language, and she scuttled away again. ‘My wife, Naza. She doesn’t speak so good English.’
    Which sounded to Swilley like a warning off. But there seemed no reason yet to interview her and she let it pass. She sipped her coffee, which was excellent. ‘Was Mr Bygod a good customer?’
    ‘The best sort. He loved food, he appreciated it. We like people who enjoy what we serve them. And always good wine. He knew a lot about wine. He helped me make up the wine list after I bought the place.’
    ‘So was he well off, do you think? Had plenty of money?’
    Serhati shrugged. ‘There was no show about him. He wore nice clothes, but not flashy. His house was comfortable the same way. I would call him an old-fashioned English gentleman. He spoke like that – like a lord, like Oxford-and-Cambridge. Maybe he had money – I don’t know. I don’t think it mattered.’
    She understood what he meant, or thought she did – that someone like Bygod would