Hawkins thanked them and led Frank back the way they’d come, this time noting an alcove in the gawky old building as they re-entered the restaurant. In its arched recess, she picked out two wax-jackets, and the weathered rural types they contained, playing cards under a hand-written wall maxim that said Ham & Eggs: a day’s work for a chicken, a lifetime commitment for a pig.

She advanced, reaching the table before either man looked up.

‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ She placed her warrant card among the sea of empty shot glasses. ‘Which one of you is Ben Albone?’

‘Name rings a bell,’ the shorter man replied. ‘But when you’ve cashed in this many falling-down tokens, it’s hard to say for definite.’ He studied Hawkins before waving at the two empty chairs. ‘Care to join us?’

She registered the aroma of whisky rising from their table. ‘Perhaps not while we’re on duty.’

He gave a cheeky shrug. ‘Shame. It was your round.’

His mate laughed.

Hawkins didn’t rise. ‘Whose is the black Mitsubishi parked outside?’

The men looked at each other before the taller, ruddier one spoke for the first time. ‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’

‘That depends,’ she said, still trying to assess which of the seated forms resembled the gun-toting figure, ‘on who owns the rifle lying on the back seat, and which of you fired it at my colleague and me, yesterday afternoon at Cold Christmas church.’

‘Fire at you?’ the shorter man responded. ‘I wouldn’t use a lethal weapon on anyone, at least until I’d tested it on my ex-wife.’

But Hawkins wasn’t listening, having caught the look of recognition that surfaced briefly through his companion’s sozzled haze.

‘Mr Albone.’ She rounded on him. ‘I suggest you accompany us outside.’

‘Why did you fire on us at the church?’ Hawkins demanded, as soon as Frank closed the patio doors behind the three of them.

She waited while Albone struggled for balance, aware that really they ought to arrest the guy, take him in for questioning. Yet if he was as pissed as he looked, he’d probably be sparko before they got him to a station, and a lot less talkative after some sleep. Anything he said here, potentially under the influence, would have to be verified, but at least whatever was volunteered outside of caution gave them a starting point.

She glanced in through the window, catching sight of his mate, already back at the bar, waving a twenty.

Albone swayed before managing to prop himself against the wall. Hawkins kept her distance, glad to see Frank follow her lead, reminding herself this man could still be involved with three murders; that his inebriation might not be as genuine as it seemed.

He fixed her with a wavering stare. ‘What makes you think it was me?’