“Only one way to find out,” he told himself.

There was music blaring from loudspeakers, and a glamorous blonde on the TV reading out the sports news. Half a dozen sullen drinkers examined Rebus as he made for the taps. He studied the available beers, then checked the glass-fronted chiller.

“Bottle of IPA,” he decided. The barmaid was young, with tattooed arms and an array of facial piercings. Rebus reckoned she had chosen the soundtrack, whether the punters liked it or not. As she poured his beer, he asked if Frank was coming in.

“Frank who?”

“Hammell—this is still his place, isn’t it?”

“No idea.” She threw the empty bottle into a bucket with more force than was strictly necessary. Rebus handed her a twenty-pound note, which she checked beneath an ultraviolet scanner, prior to opening the till.

“How about Darryl?” Rebus tried again.

“Are you from the papers?” She placed his change on the bar top rather than handing it to him. It comprised a few coins, plus three of the ropiest-looking fivers Rebus had seen in quite some time.

“Guess again,” he said.

“He’s a cop,” one of the drinkers called out. Rebus turned to face the man. He was in his sixties and nursing a glass of dark rum. There were three empties in front of him.

“Do I know you?” Rebus asked.

The man shook his head. “I’m right, though.”

Rebus took a mouthful of beer. It was too cold, and a bit flat. A door to the left of him was rattling open. A sign explained that it led to the beer garden as well as the toilets. The man who walked in was coughing as he pocketed his pack of cigarettes. He was well over six feet tall, shaven-headed, and wearing a black three-quarter-length coat over dark trousers and polo-neck.

Stood to reason the Gimlet would have someone manning the premises. Rebus’s arrival had coincided with a break, that was all. The man stared hard at him, knowing him for a stranger and sensing the atmosphere in the room.

“Problem?” he asked.

“Cop,” the barmaid answered.

The doorman stopped a foot or so from Rebus and studied him from top to toe. “Too old,” he offered.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I was hoping to talk to Frank or Darryl.”

“Is it to do with Annette?” one of the other drinkers asked. The doorman warned him off with a look before turning his attention back to Rebus.

“There are official channels,” he said, “and you’re not following them.”

“I didn’t realize I was speaking to one of Frank’s legal team.” Rebus took another sip of beer and put the glass down, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. Without saying any more, he headed for the door, letting it swing shut after him. As he had guessed, the beer garden was a rectangle of cracked concrete with weeds growing through. No tables or chairs, just empty aluminum kegs and beer crates. The walled enclosure was topped with plenty of razor wire, stray ribbons of polythene snagged in it. Rebus lit his cigarette and walked in a circle. There was a high-rise block in the distance, a couple staging a shouting match on one of its balconies. The traffic at the roundabout would be oblivious. Just another small scene in a world full of them. Rebus was wondering if the door behind him would open. Someone might want a quiet word or a boxing match. He looked at his watch and his phone, just passing the time. With the cigarette reduced to little more than butt, he flicked it onto the concrete, where it joined dozens of others. Then he opened the door and went back inside.