He swirls the glass in a lazy arc, ice cubes chasing each other around the bottom. The warm whisky fuzz usually spreads through him like melting butter, but not tonight. He’s been on edge since making the call. The drunk at the end of the bar isn’t helping. George glares at him for a full five seconds, but the man either doesn’t see him, or doesn’t care. His grey hair is all waves and angles. An explosion of burst blood vessels in his nose suggests he’s no stranger to the booze, and his anti-Thatcher rant has all the logic of a five-year-old arguing against bedtime. The barman nods and smiles on autopilot, shooting a what can you do glance at George.

He hopes today’s tip-off is enough to settle his account, but he knows that’s probably wishful thinking. Knows he needs to figure out how to get a guarantee that he’s free and clear. Now he’s a copper he can’t keep moving in those circles. He taps his glass against the bar, gives the universal same again nod. The barman looks relieved to escape the drunken diatribe for a spell. George fishes in his pocket, pulls out a fistful of shrapnel, pokes through it with his finger and stacks the right change on the bar just as his drink arrives.

He tells himself it’s none of his business what will happen to the girl and her father. They might get warned off. Roughed up. He bows his head over the glass, starting to imagine that, and a whole lot worse. Pictures them coming in to make a complaint. Asking how Mr Locke had caught wind of them speaking to the police. Wonders if fingers will be pointed at him. He’s careful to keep work and personal separate, but it wouldn’t take too many layers to be peeled back to see that he’s made some questionable choices as to who he plays cards with, and who he loses to on a regular basis. He tells himself the fact he’s a copper protects him, debt or no debt, but he has no desire to put that to the test. He should have left that all behind him when he joined up. Should’ve. Would’ve. Could’ve.

What if they get more than a warning? More than a slap on the wrist? It’s selfishness that pushes him up from his stool. Self-preservation. He should never have made the call. It could come back to bite him far too easily, but it’s not too late. He knocks back his whisky in one gulp, welcoming the burn at the back of his throat, and heads out into the car park. There’s nobody at the payphone and he taps in the number, clearing his throat as he counts the rings.

‘Hello?’ More of a snap than a greeting, but then again it was almost eleven o’clock.