She came out from behind the bar. Beyond it were an extra half-dozen dining tables for the rare busy times that came with the summer trade, a pool table and the stairs to the upper floor. She lifted, then replaced, the chain with its sign marked PRIVATE – STAFF ONLY and ran up. Ellie wished she could allow herself a drink. Or that she still smoked. Or that you could still smoke in pubs.

A cold draught, and a voice called “Bye.” Ellie turned to see the old couple slipping out through the door. It clicked shut, cutting off the moaning wind, and outside the window, a few seconds later, the blue Volvo pulled out onto the North Road. Safe journey, folks. The snow was falling steadily now, and thicker than before. She turned back to the bar as someone clumped across the landing overhead and started down the stairs.

Joda Famuyiwa stepped over the chain at the foot of the staircase and clomped over to the bar. He wasn’t a giant, but it was close: he stood six feet five in his socks and nearly three feet wide at the shoulders, and although just past fifty, he was still mostly muscle. He had the same model of home gym as Ellie – in fact, she’d bought hers on his recommendation, given that he clearly knew whereof he spoke. The only signs of softness on him were the small paunch straining his lumberjack shirt and his plump round face.

“Hello, Ellie.” He looked tired, but then he often did. Between the pub, his wife and his daughter, there were a lot of demands on his time. There were crow’s-feet at the corner of his eyes Ellie was sure hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him, and a little more grey hair at his temples and in his neatly clipped moustache.

“Joda.” They shook hands, as always; he was curiously formal like that. “How’s Barbara?”

“Much the same. Maybe a little worse.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is. How can I help?”

“Charlotte said you were minding the bar last night?”

“She had to go out with her young man.” Joda placed a pause before, and an emphasis on, the words to indicate that he could think of several better terms to describe Dave Chapple, none repeatable in polite company. “It was quiet, and Barbara was having one of her better nights.”

“Was Tony Harper in?”

Joda sighed. “What’s he done now?” Like Ellie, he’d always had some time for the black sheep of Clan Harper. Tony had reciprocated his respect, at least to the extent of only getting into fights in the car park, rather than inside the actual pub.

Ellie evaded the question. “Any bother from him?”