So Ben simply waited until Mitchell was almost on him, then neatly sidestepped out of his way and tripped him up. Mitchell might have fallen on the broken glass, which wouldn’t have been healthy for him but would have been entirely his own fault. In the event, the glass flew out of his hand and went skittering off into a corner as he belly-flopped to the floorboards with a crash that brought down a sprinkling of dust from the ceiling beams.

Then it was Angus Baird’s turn to re-enter the contest to see who could get most badly damaged. He came at Ben with a demented screech of fury. Normally, in combat against worthy opponents, Ben wouldn’t repeat the same trick twice. But these were not worthy opponents, and the same trick worked just fine. Ben had his back to the bar. As Baird rampaged towards him, big knuckly fists ready to pulverise this impertinent stranger who had dared to humiliate him, Ben danced aside, gently grabbed Baird by the collar on his way past, and simply allowed the big man’s wild momentum to carry him headlong and face-first into the solid oak counter. Baird’s thick skull slammed into the hard wood with a sound like a rifle shot and an impact that made the bottles behind the bar tinkle and rock. He slid to the floor, his body went limp and he lay there very still with his nose smeared sideways across his left cheek like a squished tomato.

‘That mess,’ Ben said to Holly.

Chapter 17

Holly leaned over the edge of the bar to peer down at the shape on the floor. Baird looked like a beached whale. ‘Jesus Christ. Is he dead?’

‘No, but I hope there’s a pharmacy in the village. He’s going to need some headache pills when he wakes up. Not to mention a little reconstructive facial surgery.’

Baird was completely out cold and would be for some time. His friend Kenny Mitchell was dazed and groaning on the floor and the third guy was still buried in the wreckage of the capsized table. Three for three, and Ben hadn’t thrown a single punch or kick. Most of their other drinking buddies had now gallantly fled the building rather than stand up for their mates. None of the remaining pub clientele were coming anywhere near Ben or the bodies on the floor.

Except one. It was the woman he’d noticed when he’d come in, sitting by the window at the far end of the room with her back to him. Now she came marching over, clutching a handbag she’d brought from her table. She was maybe about thirty, with tight jeans and dark eyes that matched the colour of her hair. Her gingery man friend stayed in his seat and looked nervous, but she had a purposeful and self-possessed manner that Ben admired even before he knew who she was.