The Pig, as it was most commonly known—marginally ahead of ‘that shitehole on the corner’—had all these features baked in. On top of those, it added red leather seating patched up with silver tape, a dartboard with a bulge around the treble twenty, and the heady aroma of old men’s piss.

It was, Logan thought, the perfect pub.

“How’s your Chicken Kiev?” he asked, through a mouthful of overcooked beef that was refusing to allow itself to be swallowed.

Tyler looked up from pushing a rock-sized mound of something brown and crispy around his plate with a fork. “Don’t know, boss. Can’t get into it,” he replied. “Think if I ask they’ll give me a chisel?”

Logan looked past the DC to where the tattooed barman stood flicking through a copy of The Daily Star.

“Aye, but I’d be worried where they might shove it,” he replied.

“Thought you said the food in here was good?”

“I did say that,” Logan admitted. He moved the gristly ball of beef to the other side of his mouth, in case the teeth there had more luck. “In hindsight, my memory might’ve been playing tricks on me.” He tapped the edge of Tyler’s plate with a knife. “Still, eat all that and there’s a Wall’s Viennetta with your name on it, son. My shout.”

Tyler smiled. “You’re too generous, boss,” he said.

The front door opened. Logan’s head didn’t move, but his eyes shifted to check out the shifty-looking younger lad who came striding in. He had trouble written all over him. But then, so did the eight or nine other punters in the place.

Logan followed the newcomer by watching his reflection in the big dirty mirror behind the bar, then turned his attention back to his lunch when the man ordered a drink.

“And you like this pub?” Tyler asked. There was a heavy note of scepticism to the question, like a ten-year-old asking if Santa is really really real. “I mean, you actually like it. Not in an ironic sort of way?”

“How do you like a pub in an ironic way?” Logan asked. He grunted and gestured around with a fork. “And aye. I like it. It’s not fancy.”

Tyler agreed that ‘fancy’ was not a word that was ever likely to be applied to the establishment.

“It’s a proper pub. It’s honest.”

Across the table, the DC almost choked on his half-pint of non-brand cola. “Honest? This place?” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I could lob this Chicken Kiev in any direction and hit a crook in here, boss. Mind you, I’d better not. I’d probably kill him with it.”