Except tonight Malcolm was drunk and he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Maybe when Fat Val was the landlady and he was young and fit and a bit of a firebrand. There was a painting of Val over the bar and she stared out at him reproachfully. She’d had a son called Rick, sly and weaselly, and remembering the two of them, Malcolm felt a sudden pang of guilt. He carried guilt around with him like extra pounds round the belly and he was so used to it that often he didn’t notice it. He wasn’t sure that he could blame the drink for that. These days he wasn’t usually a heavy drinker – he’d stop in the Coble most evenings after working in the boatyard. Have a couple of pints. Read the Chronicle. Watch Look North on TV if there was no sport on the set. Then take himself back to his little house in Percy Street – all that he could afford after the divorce.

But tonight he’d lost count of the drinks he’d had. Beer first and then red wine, when his bladder wouldn’t take pints any more. No spirits, though. He was proud that he hadn’t moved on to the Scotch. And proud that he was still standing.

The only conversation he’d had was with Jonny the barman, and to jeer at the old slag, Dee, as she wandered through the pub trying to bum drinks or pick up punters. God, he thought, you’d have to be desperate. Another moment of pride, because he hadn’t sunk to that.

Then through the drunken fug he was aware of a buzz of conversation behind him. Sudden animated voices. A name he recognized, even though it wasn’t pronounced properly. He turned to confront a middle-aged couple. He knew them vaguely by sight, thought he might have been at school with the man, but couldn’t trawl a name from his memory.

‘What did you say?’

‘There’s been a murder.’ The woman was scrawny. She’d taken off her jacket and was wearing a pink V-necked top. He could see vertical wrinkles between her breasts. ‘It stopped the Metro.’

‘Nah,’ Malcolm said. ‘That was the snow.’ He reached out for his glass of wine, saw in the mirror over the bar that it had left stains like fangs at the corner of his mouth, and wiped them away with the back of his hand. His fingers were callused and grimy, though he’d washed before leaving work.

‘There was a murder.’ The woman’s voice was high-pitched and carried across the bar. The room went quiet as everyone listened and she revelled in the attention. ‘Wor lass is married to one of the community support officers, and she just texted us. It’ll be on the late news.’

‘Did they tell you who got killed?’ But Malcolm thought he knew already.