I look at his eyes, his mouth, his hands; have they seen, spoken to, and touched Grace? My chest tightens and I have to take a big gulp of beer and look away, to get my shit together. I take my phone out of my pocket, flick the camera on, and fix Robbie in the viewfinder. I try to look like I’m searching for a signal, and just as my thumb lands on the red button one of the fat-bellied older men at the bar slaps Robbie on the back, blocking him entirely. Shit. The fat bloke has a drinker’s nose, bulbous and red like a cartoon. He takes a pint off Robbie and, after swallowing a few deep gulps, makes a sound like air being released from a tire. Relief.

“So, Robbo, word is you’ve got the southern route—all the way down to Sorrento, isn’t it?”

Robbie says something I don’t catch, he tries to steer past the man, but he’s awkward, trying to hold five pints.

“Bloody typical. Favoritism, that’s what it is. Mandy sends you off to look at all those Italian girlies in their bikinis—even after you were a no-show for the Holland job—and I’m off to the fucking sour-faced north again.”

Robbie shrugs, tries to move away, but the bloke suddenly looks like he’s having a lightbulb moment. His eyes widen, his brow lifts, beer spills over Robbie’s hand as the bloke grabs his arms and says, “Wait a minute, Robbie, you little swine, you’re not shagging fat old Mandy for the best trips, are you?”

The others turn towards him, sensing sport more interesting than darts. But Robbie just shakes his head, his tattoo flashing.

“Nah, mate. I’m too knackered from shagging your missus,” I hear him say.

There’s a beery, excited rumble from the others and for a moment the smile below the red nose drops, his hands ball, and I think he’s about to punch Robbie, before he suddenly smiles again, broader this time, and slaps Robbie on the back, spilling more beer as he does so.

“Cheeky bastard, that’s exactly the kind of thing your dad would’ve said, isn’t that right, lads?”

There’s another low rumble of agreement before Robbie slowly makes his way back to the table, greeted with nods of thanks as he hands out the glasses. I turn away quickly as the red-nosed bloke looks over at me, his eyes narrow, before taking another long pull on his pint. Coldness runs through me. Does he recognize me? But then he moves over to a bald guy who’s quietly watching the others play darts. Red nose says something, starts laughing in the bald guy’s face, but the bald guy flicks him away like a mosquito. Robbie says something to the guy in the flat cap, careful not to involve the others, who are all gripped by the dartboard again. The older bloke nods slowly. It looks as though Robbie’s asking for advice. The man talks for longer than Robbie, but he doesn’t look at him. He hardly moves his head, but makes small gestures with his hands, as though explaining something. Robbie stares at him intently, taking it all in. Then he seems to repeat something the older man has just said, who nods as Robbie talks. After just a couple of minutes, the flat-cap man shrugs his heavy shoulders as though casting off a heavy weight and the conversation is over, but not before, under the table, in a practiced sweeping motion, Robbie passes him a small roll of notes, which he takes and puts into his breast pocket without even glancing at it, like he knows Robbie wouldn’t dare be so stupid as to shortchange him. There’s a shout and some swearing from the darts players but the two seated men stay perfectly still while a couple of the others give each other high fives. Red nose shouts, “Fucking bull’s-eye, mate!”