But before they saw any more of Upper Bucklebury they found the pub. It was two buildings, a small whitewashed cottage and a larger red-brick house that had been built against it. Outside were picnic benches enclosed by a white fence and on a pole at the front was a double-sided illustration of the pub’s name, showing the cottage in some Berkshire dreamtime of golden hay wains and piebald cattle. The pub’s name – the Cottage Inn – was printed in gold lettering underneath; and the subs automatically competed to make the best joke about cottaging. Anna said to Will, ‘See what I mean?’

They clattered inside. There was a step down and Will ducked under the lintel, blinking in what seemed like gloom after the day’s brightness. The ceiling was held up by dark wooden beams with stiff cracks running along the grain. There were a few locals on stools at the bar and, at a small table in the corner, two oddly flummoxed-looking men sitting behind a laptop. The younger had grass stains all down the front of his suit.

The chief pushed through to the bar and in the quiet since they’d come in addressed the landlord: ‘Hail there, Moonshine Sally, six pints of your cheapest piss for the rabble and one of your finest ale for me.’

Max leant forward to add, in a mollifying voice, ‘Make that seven pints, please.’

The chief glared at him and put his black expenses card down on the bar. ‘And we’d like to open a tab.’

The landlord, a deep-chested man in a synthetic short-sleeved shirt, started pulling on one of the long wooden levers behind the bar and said, ‘I don’t know how it is where you come from – London, I should think – but just so you know, I don’t serve piss in my pub.’

‘You’ve got Carling,’ said the chief, with the glib momentum he’d had since admitting that he was going to leave. ‘That’s just piss with extra water.’

The landlord eyed him. His regulars maintained a wary quiet, watching the muted flatscreen TV in the corner and pretending not to have noticed the new arrivals.

‘Um, excuse me,’ said Max. ‘I’m sorry about him. He’s a bit worked up.’ The chief fixed Max with ardent hate. ‘You see, we’re from—’

‘I know who you are. You’re staying at the facility down the back road to Thatcham.’ He pointed at the TV. ‘I’ve been watching the news all morning. They’ve deployed four thousand officers just in the capital.’ Inside the TV’s shiny black frame they could see a demonstration at Trafalgar Square. The crowd were holding up black placards printed with a white slogan: #BeastReader.