“Yes please, Esperanza. And a slice of that Snickers cheesecake . . . This is my local,” he added when she’d gone. “You look even better than you did the other day.”
“Thanks,” said Tristan. “Listen. I’ve asked you here for a reason.”
Bishop’s eyes opened wider. “I thought I asked to meet you? My number on the receipt . . .”
“Yes, but to be clear, this isn’t a date. Do you remember me and my colleague, Kate, saying to Max that we’re private detectives and we’re investigating the disappearance of several young men? One of them was living at Jesper’s when it was a commune.”
Bishop was quiet for a moment; he shifted the salt and pepper around on the table. He pushed his bottom lip out, which made him look a bit sulky. “Right. So this is . . . what?”
“This is me asking for your help to find someone from our community who we think might have been murdered,” said Tristan. Bishop looked serious for the first time since he’d arrived.
“Yes. Okay. I thought Max told you that he didn’t know anything?”
“David Lamb,” said Tristan, placing his phone with David’s photo between them on the table. “He went missing in June 1999. He’d been living at Jesper’s when it was a commune, but he fell out with them and had moved in with a boyfriend. Did Max mention anything about David or the commune when we’d gone?”
Bishop studied the picture and shook his head. “No.”
“Okay. Max Jesper. What can you tell me about him?” asked Tristan. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
“No, go ahead . . . Do you think Max is involved in this David going missing?”
“I’m interested to find out some background about him,” said Tristan, taking a notepad and pen from his bag. “He doesn’t have any social media accounts, and beyond the story of him opening Jesper’s, there’s not much else about him online.”
“Max is a bit of an old queen, quite funny. He’ll flirt outrageously, but he’s not touchy-feely. He always pays on time, but he’s not a warm person.”
“Is he single?”
“No. He’s got a long-term partner, Nick.”
“Do you know his second name?”
“Erm, Lacey. I’ve only ever met him once or twice. He lives out at the house.”
“What house?”
“Max and Nick own a house right on the beach in Burnham-on-Sea, on the Somerset coast.”
“Max doesn’t live at the hotel?”
“No. He commutes in most days. He’ll sometimes stay the night at the weekend if things go on late.”
“Is it a long drive?” asked Tristan.
“An hour or so each way, I think. He’s always moaning about the M5, says he spends most of his time on it.”
“What does Nick do for work?”
“He’s a property developer. I’ve never, ever seen him at Jesper’s. I only met him a couple of times at one of their parties. Max asked some of the waiters to travel up to the house to serve drinks at the party.”
“What kind of party?”
“There were two, both costume parties.” Esperanza appeared at the booth with their drinks. She put another espresso in front of Tristan and a huge milkshake in front of Bishop. It was garnished with pieces of fruit. “Thanks . . .” She smiled and left. “She’s ever so good, makes up my protein powder for me,” said Bishop. “You wanna try?”
Tristan shook his head. Whenever he worked out, he saw protein-powder drinks as something to endure, not have served with fruit in a sundae glass. He watched as Bishop eagerly started to suck it up through a straw.
“Do Max and Nick often have parties?”
“I don’t know. I worked at their summer party last year,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Three of us from Jesper’s went to help out and serve food and drink.”
“What kind of people were at the party?”
“Their friends. Rich ones. Local rich people.”
Tristan scrolled through his phone and found the photo taken from the opening of Jesper’s, of Max cutting the ribbon next to the town mayor and the group of local dignitaries.
“Were any of these people at the party?”
Bishop peered at the photo. “Where’s this from? I kind of recognize it.”
“It’s on the wall in the bar at Jesper’s.”
“Oh yes. I’ve stopped noticing those photos, I spend so much time there . . . I remember him,” said Bishop, pointing to Noah Huntley. Tristan didn’t let his excitement show.