“Robert Craig—he’s one of yours, isn’t he?”

“Might be,” she says. “What’s it to you?”

“He’s an old mate of mine. I used to know him and his brother when they lived in Taunton.”

“Oh. Well, see, that sounds like bollocks to me, Mr. Jon.” She laughs. It becomes more of a splutter before breaking into a thick, phlegmy cough when she sees my face. “I know that’s bollocks cos no one who actually knew Robbie would ever call ’im Robert.” She rolls the Rs in “Robert,” taking the piss.

I stand my ground even though I feel my face burn.

“Look, I’m just an old mate like I said. I used to know the two of them, Robbie and Tony, when they were small. I’m in town for a night and wanted to see if Robbie’s around for a pint, is all.”

The woman starts fishing around in one of the large pockets of her stretched hoodie. She finds what she’s looking for and pulls out a pouch of green tobacco. She starts rolling a cigarette with one hand, as though her fingers were designed for the work. It’s rolled, licked, and lit in a matter of seconds. One beady eye winces as it fills with smoke. Her lips move around the cigarette as she talks.

“As it happens, yer in luck. Robbie pissed me right off, canceling his trip to Holland at the eleventh hour last week. Said it was family bother, but we all know what that means. Only family he’s got left is that bloody brother of his. Look, I don’t give two shits whether yer a mate like you say or not, just make sure the little prick turns up tomorrow morning for his trip. Tell him from Mandy that if he don’t, then we don’t want ter see him here again. Hear?”

I nod.

She scowls, waits for a second before growling, “I said, hear?”

“Yes, yes I got it. So, do you have his address?”

She snorts at me, like having an address is the poshest thing she’s heard of in her life.

“I might be pissed off with ’im but I’m not that pissed off. I’m not going to give yer his fucking address or his number so don’t even bother asking.”

The paper from her cigarette sticks to her lips as she pulls it free. A curl of tobacco is left on her bottom lip.

“What I will tell yer is that it’s a tradition for blokes before a trip, especially a long haul, to go to the Bull in Rainstead the night before. They think it’s good luck to drink themselves even more stupid before they go.”

Rainstead is just a few miles down the road. I smile my thanks at her. She looks flatly back at me and says, “If yer here for trouble, mind, don’t you let onto him or anyone I sent yer or y’ll have a whole fleet of hard bastards on yer back. Hear?”

I nod and slowly start to back away. As I do, she looks over towards my car, sees Cara in the front seat, looks at me again with her suspicious eyes, and without warning slams the door, the whole modular building shaking as she stamps heavily back to wherever she came from.