‘Not for a while yet. The medication has to work.’ She poured a glass of water from the jug that stood on the table between him and Bert. ‘Drink as much of this as you can, Charley. It will rehydrate you.’

He eyed the water as if it was poison. ‘Can’t I have a beer instead?’

‘No,’ she said firmly, and handed him the glass. She waited until he’d drunk all of it and then poured more. ‘I want to see that jug empty within the next two hours, Charley,’ she said, trying to appear stern. He was the biggest man in Morgan’s Reach, but he was acting like a wilful toddler.

The sound of heavy footfalls made her turn. Jake was striding towards her, his expression grim. Her spirits plummeted. ‘You’re not ill too, are you?’

He took off his policeman’s broad-brimmed hat and shook his head, his gaze drifting over the beds. ‘I’m here on official business,’ he said. ‘I need to have a word with Bert.’

‘Best of luck,’ she replied. ‘He’s been in a foul mood all day.’

‘He’ll be in a worse one when I’ve finished with him,’ retorted Jake.

Becky and her patients watched as Jake strode over to Bert’s bedside. This was clearly no social call, and could turn out to be interesting. Bert might be married to the landlady of the only pub within a hundred miles, but he’d never been popular – and after this episode with the pies his standing in the community was lower than ever. Perhaps he was about to get his comeuppance.

‘Bert!’ Jake snapped. ‘Bert, don’t pretend you’re asleep, cos I know you’re not.’

Bert opened one bleary eye and grimaced. ‘What you want?’

‘I’ve come to tell you I’ve closed the pub until further notice. The kitchen’s a pigsty, most of the food is rancid and I found animal droppings and vermin everywhere.’

Bert shot up in his bed, his ratty face scarlet with fury. ‘You can’t shut my pub,’ he shouted.

‘I already have. And until you get the place cleaned up, it stays shut.’

‘It’s Sal’s fault,’ he yelled. ‘If the bitch hadn’t shot through I wouldn’t have had to cope on me own.’

‘You can shout all you like, mate, but the pub stays shut until you sort it out.’

‘How can I when I’m stuck in here?’ he whined. ‘What kind o’ mate are you, to do such a thing when a bloke could be dying?’

Jake regarded him with loathing. ‘I’m not your mate,’ he said evenly, ‘and you’re about as dead as those maggots I found crawling in your old meat pies. It’s only sheer luck no one was killed.’