at his scar self-consciously as Karl pushed the swing doors.
The place hadn’t changed and nor was it ever likely to, unless some developer ripped its soul out. The saloon bar walls wore regimental shields like medals. He would have stayed awhile for a history lesson but Karl pointed him towards the bar and took out a mobile. Meantime, no one paid him any attention and that included the barman.
He waited, browsing the labels on the optics and fighting the urge to wave a fiver in the air like a one-fingered salute. Eventually the barman made the supreme sacrifice, finishing his conversation and ambling over.
“Two shandies and two bags of crisps please.”
Karl ended his call as Thomas reached the table. “Sure, just give me a bell when you’re outside.”
Thomas slid a glass towards him. “What did I miss?”
“They’ll pick up the buggy and we should get the analysis pronto, as a favour.”
He chalked it up as another debt. Item one on his mental checklist was Charlie Stokes. Typically, Karl was a step ahead of him.
“The word is that Mr Stokes is one nasty piece of work.” Karl took a mouthful of shandy. “What? You were at the bar so long I had time for two calls.”
Yeah, Thomas thought, and look which one you made first. He whipped out a ballpoint and paper; he always thought better visually.
“Could Charlie be behind the attack on little Jacob?”
“Maybe.” Karl pawed at the crisps. “Why though, unless he was after scaring Greg into lifting the drugs to settle his debt?”
“Doubtful — Greg only found them recently.”
“Aye, so he says.”
“Then why stop at one bag and why now? Jack’s been inside for a while.”
Karl shrugged. “Beats me. You ponder on that; I’m off for a piss.”
Thomas lifted his head and casually scanned the room. No one else was drinking alone. He envied them their camaraderie. The swing door caught his attention — a silhouette against the glass, immobile and poised. The old fear slithered to the surface. Yorgi may have died on the moors but was there unfinished business with the people he’d worked for?
A stranger entered the saloon and looked straight at him. He returned the favour, sizing him up. The bloke seemed indifferent, skirting the room to end up at the bar. Karl returned, phone in hand and stopped, halfway across the carpet. The stranger stalled too and Thomas tried to fathom what was happening. Karl seemed to change tempo, smiling at the stranger as he approached him.
Their voices stayed low and Thomas watched, fascinated, as some part of Karl’s private world gate-crashed the evening. The stranger ordered a drink, which Karl insisted on paying for, and the two of them came over. Karl reached across to grab a nearby empty chair.
“Thomas.” Karl laid a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “Ken’s a friend of mine — from the old days.”
Ken didn’t seem to be in on the joke. He took a seat and dived into his beer. Karl tried again.
“It’s been a while. I didn’t know you were living in London now.”
Ken didn’t reply until he’d downed most of his pint and had to surface for air. “Been moving around, Karl — you know how it is. Spent a lot of time in the north, only things don’t always work out.” His eyes fixed on Thomas. “And how do you come to know Karl then?”
He went for cryptic. “We work in the same office.”
“Never had you figured for a desk job, Karl,” Ken took on a mocking tone. “The way I heard it, you left the forces under a bit of a cloud. Still, needs must I suppose and at least you’ve remembered the old days.” He gazed around the bar.
If that was meant to be bait, Karl wasn’t biting.
“Anyone fancy another drink — Tommo?”
“Here,” Ken pulled out a crisp twenty. “This round’s on me — have what you like. Where are you from, Thomas? I cannae place the accent; it’s not all London.”
Not many people noticed — or cared. Miranda reckoned it was only the odd inflection
The place hadn’t changed and nor was it ever likely to, unless some developer ripped its soul out. The saloon bar walls wore regimental shields like medals. He would have stayed awhile for a history lesson but Karl pointed him towards the bar and took out a mobile. Meantime, no one paid him any attention and that included the barman.
He waited, browsing the labels on the optics and fighting the urge to wave a fiver in the air like a one-fingered salute. Eventually the barman made the supreme sacrifice, finishing his conversation and ambling over.
“Two shandies and two bags of crisps please.”
Karl ended his call as Thomas reached the table. “Sure, just give me a bell when you’re outside.”
Thomas slid a glass towards him. “What did I miss?”
“They’ll pick up the buggy and we should get the analysis pronto, as a favour.”
He chalked it up as another debt. Item one on his mental checklist was Charlie Stokes. Typically, Karl was a step ahead of him.
“The word is that Mr Stokes is one nasty piece of work.” Karl took a mouthful of shandy. “What? You were at the bar so long I had time for two calls.”
Yeah, Thomas thought, and look which one you made first. He whipped out a ballpoint and paper; he always thought better visually.
“Could Charlie be behind the attack on little Jacob?”
“Maybe.” Karl pawed at the crisps. “Why though, unless he was after scaring Greg into lifting the drugs to settle his debt?”
“Doubtful — Greg only found them recently.”
“Aye, so he says.”
“Then why stop at one bag and why now? Jack’s been inside for a while.”
Karl shrugged. “Beats me. You ponder on that; I’m off for a piss.”
Thomas lifted his head and casually scanned the room. No one else was drinking alone. He envied them their camaraderie. The swing door caught his attention — a silhouette against the glass, immobile and poised. The old fear slithered to the surface. Yorgi may have died on the moors but was there unfinished business with the people he’d worked for?
A stranger entered the saloon and looked straight at him. He returned the favour, sizing him up. The bloke seemed indifferent, skirting the room to end up at the bar. Karl returned, phone in hand and stopped, halfway across the carpet. The stranger stalled too and Thomas tried to fathom what was happening. Karl seemed to change tempo, smiling at the stranger as he approached him.
Their voices stayed low and Thomas watched, fascinated, as some part of Karl’s private world gate-crashed the evening. The stranger ordered a drink, which Karl insisted on paying for, and the two of them came over. Karl reached across to grab a nearby empty chair.
“Thomas.” Karl laid a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “Ken’s a friend of mine — from the old days.”
Ken didn’t seem to be in on the joke. He took a seat and dived into his beer. Karl tried again.
“It’s been a while. I didn’t know you were living in London now.”
Ken didn’t reply until he’d downed most of his pint and had to surface for air. “Been moving around, Karl — you know how it is. Spent a lot of time in the north, only things don’t always work out.” His eyes fixed on Thomas. “And how do you come to know Karl then?”
He went for cryptic. “We work in the same office.”
“Never had you figured for a desk job, Karl,” Ken took on a mocking tone. “The way I heard it, you left the forces under a bit of a cloud. Still, needs must I suppose and at least you’ve remembered the old days.” He gazed around the bar.
If that was meant to be bait, Karl wasn’t biting.
“Anyone fancy another drink — Tommo?”
“Here,” Ken pulled out a crisp twenty. “This round’s on me — have what you like. Where are you from, Thomas? I cannae place the accent; it’s not all London.”
Not many people noticed — or cared. Miranda reckoned it was only the odd inflection
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