He shrugged. “At this stage, I’m pretty used to being used. But I have to tell you, I haven’t a clue what it’s all about.”

“Hey, Yol,” said Benny. “What time do you start serving?”

“Couple of hours.”

“How about you make me a present of a bottle for now, then. And I’ll make you a present of some money?”

“Not the way it works, Benny,” Yol told him, but even as he was saying it he was reaching under the counter for a bottle of what John could only assume was Benny’s regular tipple: a bottle of Greensand Ridge gin, it turned out. He’d evidently moved on from Brown Ale.

“And three glasses,” said Daisy.

Daisy said, “My problem is, my editor’s problem, you’ve got photos, you’ve got audio—you’ve got sound and vision, basically—but these things can be faked.”

“Not by me.”

“I’m not saying by you. I’m saying you’re the one selling. And last time you came to us with a story, well. Story never happened, did it?”

The bottle was on its last legs, but the bar had opened for business now. So far, all this meant was the door had been propped open and the summer’s afternoon had peeped in. It evidently hadn’t liked what it had seen. Maybe the summer’s evening would be more in the mood, and stop for a cocktail. Meanwhile it was just the three of them and Yol, who’d finished his polishing and was idling behind the bar. Yol, lolling. The words made a nice little circle in John’s mind, and he admired their pirouette for a while before returning to the business at hand.

He still had no idea what story Benny was trying to sell, other than—as Benny had said more than twice—it was huge. Massive. Needed to be told.

“So why not slap it on the web?”

Benny rubbed finger and thumb together. “The old do-re-mi. Can’t make money out of the internet.”

“Nobody says ‘do-re-mi.’ And Amazon seems to manage.”

Benny ignored him. “I’m not a citizen journalist.”

“Thank God,” said Daisy.

She had drunk less than the two men, possibly because she regarded this as working. Come to think of it, John was working too. Sort of.

He said, “Where did the stuff come from, anyway? The photos and what not?”

Benny just looked at him.

“Pick them up on the job, did you?” John turned to Daisy. “Benny used to be a burglar. Did he tell you that?”

“No,” Daisy said. “He did not.”

“Mended my ways, didn’t I?” Benny asked.

“Can’t scale the walls the way he once did, mind,” John said. He slapped the banquette, having aimed for his own leg. He tried again. “Old war wound.”

“In the service of my country.”

Daisy said, “It’s an honour, really. Just sitting in the same booth.”

“I need a cigarette.”

“And I need a . . .” John countered. He waved a hand in the vague direction of the toilets. “Pee.”