‘I don’t believe this. Do you think I’m going to give my gun to you just like that?’

Fry raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Are you refusing to surrender an unlicensed weapon, sir?’

Ben Cooper got out of the car and ambled towards them. He nodded at the farmer. ‘Give it up, Mr Leach. Be sensible.’

The three of them looked at each other for a minute. Fry was beginning to get impatient. Cooper could see her muscles tense. He turned to the boys waiting to one side with wide eyes.

‘Better clear off, lads,’ he said. ‘You really don’t want to see this.’

‘No,’ said Leach. He turned the pistol round and gave it to Cooper. Fry began to fill in a receipt.

‘Now, if you’ve quite finished,’ said Leach, ‘I’ve got work to do.’

22

Out of tradition, Ben Cooper and Todd Weenink started their evening at the Wheatsheaf. There were three pubs that stood close together around the market place, and three or four more down the side streets that they could take in without walking more than a few yards. But the Wheatsheaf had a whole range of guest beers on the bar, strong ales with names like Derbyshire Black and Old Sheep Dip. Weenink was the one drinking harder and faster, and he soon reached the stage where he wanted to share his personal insights.

‘There’s just no excitement in the job any more,’ he said. ‘Every day you come into work and they tell you to go and detect a burglary or something.’

‘Several burglaries,’ said Cooper.

‘Six burglaries and four car break-ins. Every morning.’

‘And a criminal damage or two, as well.’

‘That’s it. The same day after day. It’s mind numbing. We don’t even get a good ram-raid now. Not for ages.’

Weenink had spilled some beer on his leather jacket, and his sleeve stuck to the table when he moved his arm. Cooper was struggling to keep up with his consumption. He hadn’t seen Weenink drink quite so hard since his marriage had broken up after less than two years. Weenink’s wife had said she hadn’t realized what she was tying herself to. And she hadn’t just meant Todd. She had meant the police service.

‘Ram-raiding has pretty well been designed out in the town centre,’ said Cooper.

‘Well, it’s a shame. They were a bit more exciting than the other crap. All you get now is shoplifting. Where’s the fun in that, Ben?’

They moved on to the Red Lion, a comfortable pub with somebody’s choice of seventies pop music piped discreetly into the bar, and a row of computer games. The landlord knew them both, and they got the first round on the house. It disappeared too quickly for Cooper’s peace of mind.

‘The CCTV cameras have cut out a lot of the other stuff, too,’ he said.