Manolis wanted to tell the drunk it was actually worth more to him. That if he didn’t answer Manolis’s questions, there was a jail cell with his name on it. Manolis was a senior detective investigating a homicide, not some private dick hired by a suspicious lover to source some dirt – he was above needing to bribe people for information. Still, he did not relish the thought of slapping a pair of cuffs on the burly elder’s wrists and trying to haul him outside. The locals were quiet now but the air was simmering, and he didn’t want to start a full-scale race riot. The sight of a white cop in a black bar dragging away a black man was not a good look.

Manolis opened his wallet, slid a pineapple across the bar. The man’s dark eyes sparkled and grew large. A wrinkle of ash teetered at the base of his smoke. He went to snatch the fifty-dollar bill with a grubby paw before Manolis slapped it down.

‘First,’ the cop said calmly, ‘tell me.’

The publican’s bright eyes remained firmly on the money. He spoke to it, addressing the currency, not the detective. ‘Shrewsbury wasn’t here on Friday night.’

‘Not at all?’

‘Nope.’

Manolis’s hand remained on the fifty. He suddenly felt like he’d been ripped off, that he should’ve offered less, a lobster, a twenty. He wanted more bang for his buck.

‘So where was he on Friday night?’

The man’s pupils flicked up to meet Manolis’s. ‘That’s not what ya asked,’ he said firmly. ‘Ya asked if he was here. And he wasn’t. Ya got what ya came for. Now, if ya don’t bloody mind…’

Manolis assessed him, in case he too was hiding the truth. After a few seconds of intense glaring, he relaxed his eyes, then fingers. The money had vanished by the time he looked down.

The publican showed his teeth, flashing a set of crooked but dazzlingly white choppers. ‘Drink?’ he offered. ‘On the house.’

Manolis’s nostrils flared. At least he had an answer: Joe was lying, and without a verifiable alibi would remain a person of interest.

Checking his watch, the detective saw it wasn’t yet noon, but it had been a long morning. ‘Got any whisky?’ he asked.

The publican’s face stretched in astonishment, confusion. He extinguished his butt into the nearest ashtray.

‘Might have an old bottle out back,’ he grumbled. ‘Wait here.’

Shambling away in bare feet, he disappeared behind a concrete wall and into a darkened room. Just as Manolis leant forward across the bar to get a better view, he felt a hard tap on his shoulder.

‘You ask about Shrewsbury?’