Abbott cringed inside. ‘So Greg being taken to hospital, that was nothing to do with what happened outside?’

‘No, you’re in the clear. Nothing to do with you and all to do with the fact that he was dying of cancer.’ Nigel leaned forward. ‘Listen, pal, I know when a bloke is on edge. When they’re likely to do serious damage to themselves or someone else. I’m looking at it now.’

‘It’s in hand, mate,’ Abbott assured him. ‘Believe me, it’s in hand.’

He sank the rest of his pint, ordered another. And because that went down almost dismayingly easily, he ordered another.

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Walking along Finchley High Road, Cuckoo could hear the noise from The Sportsman. It sounded like a party in full swing at – he checked his watch – just after three on a Tuesday afternoon.

At the door of the pub, he paused. The music was loud, punctuated by shouting and laughter. This wasn’t your normal pub atmosphere. This was New Year’s Eve or wedding reception stuff. And since it wasn’t New Year’s Eve, and Abbott had about as much chance of being invited to a wedding as Typhoid Mary, then it seemed unlikely he would even be in there.

Cuckoo was about to turn and go elsewhere when he heard a distinctive voice from inside.

That distinctive voice was Abbott. And he sounded very, very drunk indeed.

Here goes nothing, thought Cuckoo, and pushed open the door.

Inside there were not as many customers as he might have guessed, considering the amount of noise they made. The place was lively but still only half full. As Cuckoo entered, drinkers were raising what seemed to be the latest in a long line of toasts in honour of the memory of someone called Greg.

Cuckoo waited for the toast to end and then made his way to the bar. ‘Abbott,’ he said, placing a hand to the other man’s shoulder. Abbott turned to look at him. His eyes shone, his grin was sloppy, the stink of beer came off him in waves.

‘It’s Greg, man,’ said Abbott. ‘Join us. We’re celebrating the life of Greg.’ He said this last bit loudly, raising the glass, a gesture that was met with a cheer from other regulars.

‘Who is Greg?’ asked Cuckoo.

‘A fallen soldier. A great man. He had cancer. Having cancer is worse than losing a son. I know that now. Yesterday he was sitting where you’re standing. Got taken to hospital. Next thing you know he’s dead. We have to celebrate life, Cuckoo.’

Looking around, Cuckoo saw that what Abbott said made perfect sense. There was a strange sense of wired euphoria among everybody in there. Professional drunks to a man. Broken-down derelicts in waiting. They all knew that they could be next.