‘Bloody cameras. It’s a bit too much like Big Brother, if you ask me.’

Cooper was impressed by Weenink’s literary knowledge. He wouldn’t have put him down as a George Orwell fan. 1984 was one of Cooper’s favourite novels, along with Lord of the Flies.

Then he frowned. ‘We are talking about George Orwell, aren’t we?’

‘Never heard of either of him,’ said Weenink, and belched. ‘Is he from another division? I suppose you’ve met him at Police Federation meetings, or something.’

Cooper took another sip of beer. So Todd Weenink only read the TV pages in the Eden Valley Times, after all.

The third pub was the Station Hotel. They were heading downmarket now. There was no piped music here, no TV screens or bar meals – only a pool table and salt-and-vinegar crisps, and a jukebox full of heavy metal CDs. The customers all seemed to be wearing old Iron Maiden T-shirts. A woman walked past towards the bar in a pair of leather trousers.

‘Eat my pants, look at the arse on that,’ said Weenink.

‘Don’t say that. It’s disgusting.’

Over the next beer, Weenink studied Cooper with exaggerated care.

‘You’re a fucking poofter, you are, Ben. Do you know that? A fucking poofter. But I love you. You’re my mate.’

They nodded at each other, bleary-eyed. There was no need for words, really. The beer fumes drew them together in a warm, sentimental embrace.

Weenink took out a packet of cigarettes and offered Cooper one. Cooper took it. He hadn’t smoked since he was sixteen years old. He looked at it for a minute. Weenink tried to give him a light, but Cooper shook his head and laid the cigarette carefully on his beer mat, lining it up alongside his glass. This particular mat had a picture of a female pop singer on it. Cooper laughed and laughed. It looked as though she had a cigarette up her nose.

‘You know, Ben,’ said Weenink after sufficient silence. ‘You and me, we won’t take any shit from anybody.’

‘Right.’

‘Am I right?’

‘You’re right, Todd.’

Weenink watched the woman with the leather trousers walk back across the room and took a drag of his cigarette. ‘What was I saying?’

‘Let’s go somewhere else, shall we?’

Cooper and Weenink walked out of the pub, across the street and through Market Square, staggering slightly as their feet slithered on the cobbles.

‘Here, we can play leapfrog on these,’ said Weenink, swinging on the black cast-iron street furniture, not noticing when he banged his shin on the metal. His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the square. A middle-aged couple getting into their car turned to look at them. Cooper could almost hear them tutting. For once, there were no noisy groups of youths in the square to distract attention.

‘Come on,’ he said.