Someone in the crowd jostles the guy, and he steadies himself with a hand on Tyler’s elbow. “Sorry,” he says, but the hand lingers longer than is strictly necessary. He has a surprisingly deep voice. Rich and full-bodied. For some reason it makes Tyler think of blackberries.

The barmaid returns with the bourbon, and Tyler orders another pint for himself.

“Not much of a match,” says the pretty guy, pointing to the TV screen above the bar with a hand that’s still clutching a pint glass.

Tyler looks at him rather than the screen. “Do you really want to talk about football?”

The man opens his mouth, pauses, and then laughs. A plump blackberry laugh. “Actually, that’s the sum total of my football knowledge expended.” He’s too confident by far in his ability to charm.

Tyler watches the barmaid singularly failing to pull his pint, engaging instead in a conversation with a colleague. He considers encouraging her along with a choice word or two but resists the temptation.

The pretty guy tries again. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“I have one.”

The man laughs again. “You’re not making this easy for me, are you?”

The barmaid finally returns and slops a pint glass down in front of him. Tyler pays her. He picks up the drinks and glances over to the work crowd where Sally-Ann stands out a head taller than everyone else. “I’m with friends,” he says.

The man shrugs, not obviously disappointed. “Maybe another time.”

When Tyler passes Sally-Ann her drink she immediately asks, “Who was that?”

“Nobody.”

“A cute nobody, though.”

“Drink your bourbon,” he tells her.

“So you’re actually going to pass on a handsome guy that throws himself at you?”

“He wasn’t my type.”

“Sweetheart,” she says, the endearment sounding false from her lips, “he was everyone’s type. Even mine.”

Tyler drains the remains of his first pint, slips the glass back onto the table, and starts on the second. “I can’t stay long,” he says. “I have work tomorrow.”

“Oh, Adam,” she says, shaking her head, but leaves it at that.

He stays long enough that he won’t feel like he’s lying when he tells the DCI he did his bit. He nods politely if anyone talks to him directly, but most of the others don’t. He’s not the only one being given the cold shoulder, though. He notices the two from Uniform have subtly shifted their seats so as to appear slightly removed from the group. Civilian workers never seem to mix well with the ranks; Sally-Ann is the exception that proves the rule. They don’t want him there any more than he wants to be there. He has nothing in common with these people except a label, and he has no intention of categorizing himself in that way.