‘Because,’ Joe said, if only so Rita wouldn’t have time to say anything, ‘that’s how things like this are often perceived? Racism hiding behind reason?’

Cullen’s eyes widened a fraction.

‘Yes, reason. You heard what I said about the taxi firms? It’s the truth, the reality for the white working class. Every word I said. We’re the racists, though, just because we say it.’

With that, Joe and Rita were done.

‘Last thing, officers,’ Cullen said as they were turning to leave. ‘Grooming gangs. Where’ve the police been on that, in the last few years?’

‘Getting convictions, dick,’ Rita said. ‘Meanwhile your mate Tommy’s doing his best to bring trials down, the twat!’

Joe put himself between Rita and Cullen.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said, trying to marshal her towards the door without actually touching her.

‘It’s not blood on the streets,’ Cullen called after them. ‘It’s semen. Asian semen!’

She spun around, slamming into Joe, who took the opportunity to bundle her out through the doorway.

‘Keep walking,’ he whispered as he shoved her along.

They made their way through to the main bar.

‘Are you all right? Fancy a quick one, take the edge off?’

‘In this place? You must be joking!’ She lowered her voice. ‘Shit, we’ve still got to interview vinegar tits.’

‘I can do that.’

‘All right. I’ll write up the notes for Danny. You do his wonderful spouse, and we’ll swap emails later. OK?’ It wasn’t a question. She was already turning to leave. ‘Speak first thing tomorrow, see where we’re at.’

With that she was gunning for the door. And there was no roll in her shoulders now.

Joe turned and leant on the bar. He looked down the line of lager pumps, and eventually spotted one for Tetley’s Bitter. Keg not barrel, but it was marginally better than nothing. Or lager.

Karen Cullen resolutely avoided eye contact as she served him. He let the awkward silence run on, knowing that she’d have a word or two to impart when she handed him his drink. It was like a little silent drama awaiting its even smaller denouement.

As the beer rose steadily up the side of the glass, an old man shuffled across and stood a few feet away, waiting to be served. He wore a faded duffle coat and a baseball cap, and his beard was grey but streaked with orange tobacco stains around the mouth. He could have been fifty or eighty, it was hard to tell. Whichever, it looked like he’d spent most of that time leaning against bars just like this one.

‘Evenin’,’ Joe said.

The man looked surprised, but only for a second.

‘Evenin’ to you,’ he said, holding up his empty glass as if it was merely a way of greeting someone. ‘And a fine one!’

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Joe.’

‘Andrew.’

‘What you having, Andrew?’