It had been a bit of a bitch to realise that the writer was the aforesaid Detective Sergeant but, Joel felt with the confidence of a man two pints in, nothing was insuperable.

He made his way through the groups of drinkers and talkers, and deposited Fowler’s pint of bitter before taking his own from where his left arm clamped it to his side.

“Thanks,” Fowler said. “This is the last one, though. I’ve work tomorrow.”

“Absolutely. Can’t interfere with the strong arm of the law.”

“Long arm. Not strong.”

Your arms look strong enough, Joel thought, though he managed to keep that one to himself. “So it is. I suppose I was thinking of strong-arming people into things.”

“You usually seem to be,” Fowler said, but without offence, which was good, because Joel hadn’t precisely meant offence. He just tended to banter with bite, and all the more when he was nervous. “On the subject of arms...”

“Go on,” Joel said, as permission seemed to be required.

“What did you mean, you don’t want to get used to your prosthesis?”

“Sorry?”

“You said earlier that you didn’t want to, but you were still practising, and—I realise it’s none of my business. I just...” He paused a second. “I struggle to quite work you out.”

Does that mean you want to work me out? Joel felt the tingle all over. Down, boy.

“Ask away,” he said. “I’m very easy, really. A man of simple tastes.”

Fowler narrowed his eyes and lips fractionally, as he tended to do when Joel flirted. It still wasn’t clear if he was disapproving or stopping himself from responding.

“Prosthesis,” he reminded himself as much as Fowler. “Well. The thing is, they wouldn’t give me one for ages. I still had my right hand, and since all right-handers seem to be convinced that left-handers just do it for our own perverse entertainment, apparently I was barely disabled at all. And, in fairness, there were plenty of people in more need than me, but I didn’t ask to have my hand shot off and I do actually feel that the people responsible for the war should be responsible for the consequences. So I made a bit of a fuss and eventually got the hook affair, and it’s awful. I hate it. A hook, like the villain in that bloody play with the flying children.”

“It’s not that bad. You wouldn’t take your eye out if you scratched your nose.”

“It feels that bad when it’s strapped to me. And it’s not independent. It holds things adequately, but it’s a pain to open and close it, and it makes me feel ghastly. I don’t want it.”