Farmer walked over and looked down at Charlie, who was comfortably ensconced behind a pint, regaling his audience with some tale about his past heroics. Charlie looked up at him, his face hardening, and his voice trailed away.

‘Farmer, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Join us, lad. Pull up a pew.’

Lad?

Farmer shook his head. He knew damned well Charlie had never liked him, because he was straight as a die. When he’d been a young and innocent DC, Charlie and that prick Maguire had mocked him. Now Charlie was still playing the big I-am, like he was in charge of matters here. Well, he wasn’t.

‘Charlie, I’d like a word, please. In private,’ said Farmer.

Charlie let out a whistling breath, his eyes wide as he gazed around at his audience.

‘Ooooh, that sounds serious, don’t it?’ He grinned at them.

‘It is serious, Charlie. Very.’ Farmer looked around at the assembled coppers. ‘Give us a moment, will you?’

They all looked at Farmer’s face, picked up their drinks and moved away.

‘Can I get you another pint?’ asked Farmer, indicating Charlie’s empty glass. Charlie nodded. Farmer went to the bar, got Charlie Poulter a pint and himself an orange juice, and returned to the table in the corner.

‘Blimey, what is this?’ Charlie asked, necking half the beer and letting out a thunderous belch.

‘I had Fiona Maguire in the station yesterday,’ said Farmer. ‘Donny Maguire’s wife? She’s still wondering where the fuck he got to.’

‘Oh Christ – that?’ Charlie shrugged and sat back, folding his arms comfortably over his beer belly. ‘What the fuck’s she going on about that for now? Everyone knows what he was like. Like I said years ago, he’s off somewhere foreign with some tart or other and good luck to him.’

‘Any specific tart?’

‘As if I’d know.’

‘That’s what I’m asking, Charlie. What do you know?’

Charlie’s eyes hardened. ‘Fuck all, DI Farmer. Precisely fuck all.’ He gulped back the remains of his pint and let out another belch. ‘Thanks for the drink, though,’ he said, and started to get up.

‘That’s a pity,’ said Farmer, shaking his head in regret. ‘Because this is just me casually asking around, seeing what I can find. I don’t want to make it official. But if I’m forced, then I might have to. And I might start spreading the net further, looking into other things, maybe things involving you.’

Charlie Poulter froze halfway to his feet. Then he sank back into his seat, and all the forced bonhomie was gone now. His eyes were hard as flint. He leaned in to Farmer, emitting a blast of beery breath. ‘Get us another fucking pint then. Lad.’

Farmer went to the bar and did so, thinking that by the time he got back to the table in the corner Poulter would be gone. But Poulter was still there. Farmer looked at his orange juice, thought about Poulter sitting here at the table unattended with it when his back was turned, and didn’t drink. Poulter did, though. He slurped down half the pint, then slapped it onto the beer-stained table.