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“So he was his usual self? You didn’t notice anything bothering him?”
“He was fine. He had a takeaway menu in front of him.”
“From where?” asked Reilly.
Prosser glanced out of the window and pointed. “Across the road, The Flying Dragon.”
The radio on the desk in front of Prosser interrupted Gardener’s next question. He quickly directed the driver to another pick up.
“Did he use The Flying Dragon regularly?”
“Every night. He used to place his order around seven and walk across to collect it around nine.”
“Is that what happened last night?”
“I expect so. After the airport run, he sent me into Baildon to pick up a couple who were having a night out at that Russian place, Caffe Natta, in Shipley.”
“Then what?” Reilly asked.
“That’s where it got a bit strange.”
“How strange?”
“Most of the drivers had seen him, or they’d at least heard his voice. We never heard anything after ten o’clock. One driver said he’d had no jobs, and he hadn’t been able to contact Barry after nine.”
“I’ll need a list of all the drivers and the jobs they were on last night.”
Prosser was about to pour another mouthful of tea down his throat, but stopped.
“Here, I don’t like this.” He stood up. “Has something happened to Barry?”
“What time did you come back to the office last night?”
The driver hesitated. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“Why? What have you done?” Reilly asked.
“I’ve done nowt.”
“Then you don’t.”
“But what’s with all these questions?”
“You’re helping us with our inquiries.” Gardener repeated his question.
“I’m not sure. After the Russian restaurant I collected a bloke from Elland Road, and then another couple from the First Direct Arena. It might have been around eleven.”
“Do you have CCTV?”
“Aye.”
“Good,” replied Gardener. “That will show us what time you came back, so don’t worry too much. Was Barry here then?”
“No. But he’d been here, that much was evident.”
“Go on,” encouraged Gardener.
“A half-smoked cigarette was left in that ashtray.” Prosser pointed. It was still there.
