Ops had been given notification of a demo in Westminster Square on Saturday, organised by Friends of Islam and the Socialist People’s Party. And to add to what was promising to be a really great day, the right-wing protest group UK First were planning a counterdemonstration close to the route in St James’s Street. The chances of the day going off without a major public order incident seemed slim, though thankfully that was not his responsibility. But a messy march could fuel the extremists on both sides and the impact on the deteriorating public mood would be major, he thought. Gabriel’s shitstorm had just been updated to a fully fledged shit hurricane.

#

Bexleyheath, South East London

Whoever had designed the interior of the Castle Inn in Bexleyheath was not overly worried with variety. Keep it brown, was their single thought, and the decorators had not let them down.

The walls were murky brown, the ceilings yellow brown, the furniture was grubby brown, and the bar was brown. Only the sticky, faded carpet wasn’t brown. It was green. It stank of wood polish, beer and tedium.

‘What a shithole,’ said Skeffington to Campbell as they stepped through into the snug. ‘Just your kind of place, Campbell.’

It was just after eight and a dozen regulars were hunched at small tables. An orange middle-aged woman with bleached hair was reaching below the bar to pull glasses from a dishwasher to give them a wipe with a dirty tea towel.

The search of Fletcher’s bank records had led them here. Once or twice a month, always on a Friday, always after closing time, Fletcher had used his bank card in this neighbourhood – in the chip shop, the takeaway and sometimes the ATM. And the Castle Inn was the closest pub.

‘What can I do for you gents?’ the woman behind the bar asked, barely looking up.

Skeffington flashed his ID. ‘We’d like to see the manager, please, love.’

‘That’s me. What’s up?’ She glanced up and down the bar, avoiding eye contact.

‘Wondered if you recognised this man,’ asked Campbell, producing a photograph of Fletcher.

The woman studied it. ‘I know him from the telly. He did the stabbing at Chilton Park, yeah?’ Her voice was deliberate and cautious. There was no emotion, no concession.

‘Did he drink here?’ Campbell asked.

‘May have done, but I don’t remember him.’

Skeffington interrupted. ‘Do you have CCTV in the bar, Mrs…?’

‘Moorhouse. Angela. And no, we don’t.’

‘The car park then?’

Skeffington and Campbell had scouted the pub exterior but seen nothing. That didn’t mean there was no CCTV – cameras were sometimes tucked out of sight.

‘No. The brewery suggested it, but it’s a lot of money and not a lot of benefit for us. Anything else? I’ve got a lot on.’

‘I’m sure you have, Mrs Moorhouse,’ said Skeffington, looking up and down the near-empty pub. ‘All right if we have a chat with the customers?’

She shrugged, picked up the towel and began to wipe the far end of the bar.