53 LOUISE

Partridge Bark

Does anyone know who Phil had a drink with last Saturday? Someone saw him drinking at the Bells before he died. If not, I’ll stop by and ask them. Because I’m getting the feeling that whoever had that drink with Phil might have been the last person to see him alive.

Yaz (Hercules’s Mum)

Phil drank at the Bells? Voluntarily?

So it would seem.

Yaz (Hercules’s Mum)

Huh. Maybe he saw something there – it’s not as dodgy as the George (soz Gav!) – or pissed someone off bad enough that they killed him. Maybe we’ve been making this too complicated?

It was possible. Anything was possible. But there was only one way to find out and the Bells wasn’t that far.

‘Come on, boys,’ I told the dogs. ‘We’re making a slight detour.’

We moved from one canal path to another. Jake had warned me that Luther liked ducks. What he hadn’t mentioned was just how obsessive his dog was about them. And maintaining constant vigilance over a forty-pound Staffie determined to follow them into the canal was proving to be a serious workout.

We approached the pub from the back. Klaus perked up, pulling me through the sad-looking beer garden and stopping short of the door.

He gave me the side-eye. You sure you want to go in there, Mum?

I wasn’t sure I did, but I didn’t have a choice. I pushed through the doors.

The Bells was an old pub and wore every year like a new burden. On the street, the brick façade mostly held up; on the canal side, even the whitewash was trying to flee. Inside wasn’t much better and enough paint had chipped to make the walls look like some sort of abstract artwork. The fruit machines outnumbered punters at about two to one and the bunting over the bar wore enough dust to make me wonder if it’d been put up for QE2’s coronation.

Yaz was right; it wasn’t the sort of pub I could see Phil going to. At least not voluntarily.

In fact, it wasn’t the sort of pub I could see most of the Pack going to, with the exception, maybe, of Gav. No wonder Annabel had been in such a state about trying to get it redeveloped when I’d seen her at the Hound.

Ignoring the slight sucking of the wood floors, I walked the dogs to the bar and the grizzled bartender behind it, hoping they wouldn’t lick anything that could harm them.

‘Afternoon,’ I said cheerfully, dialling up my best American accent. ‘Can I get a glass of white wine, Sauvignon if you have it. Anything dry, if you don’t.’

Up close, with iron-grey hair exploding around his head, the bartender resembled a budget version of that Brexiteer pub mogul. He grunted and pulled a green bottle from a fridge under the counter. From the number of bottles in there, it seemed that alcopops were far more popular than the vino. I braced myself and wasn’t disappointed: the wine had gone off and was cruising around Via Vinegar.

I forced it down and hazarded a smile. I knew I wasn’t the sort of client the pub usually had, but leaned in anyway. ‘A friend of mine was here last Saturday. I was wondering if you might remember them?’

‘She look the same sort as you?’

I looked down at myself. My T-shirt had a picture on it of a dachshund holding a glass of wine, along with the slogan ‘Stop and sniff the rosé’. Nice jeans but with pawprints on the knees. A delicate gold chain circled my left ankle, only just visible above my rather well-loved muddy trainers. Phil’s weekend look had to be more upscale than mine.

I cleared my throat. ‘No. My friend’s a man. Early thirties. He was dressed in jeans and a blue-and-white checked shirt?’ Assuming of course that he hadn’t gone home to change clothes between leaving the pub and ending up dead in Partridge Park.

I scrolled through my photo feed. While there were plenty of old pics of Klaus and Alfie, there wasn’t one of Phil. So, I brought up the picture from the BBC article and showed it to the bartender.

‘American,’ the barman said, not bothering to look at it before glancing away.

‘Nope. That’s just me. My friend was English.’

‘Rozzers was already here asking ’bout him,’ he said, thrusting the card machine at me for payment.

‘O’course they was. He were found dead in the park, like,’ a young woman sitting along the bar guffawed, readjusting the strap of her vest top. An old man, further along, made a point of ignoring us, staring out the window at the cars passing along the high street.

Luther started to growl, and I pulled him closer.

‘Yeah, that’s the guy. Before he was found dead, he was drinking here. Do you remember him? Anything that might have happened with him that night?’

‘If you’re asking if he got killed in here, he didn’t.’ The barman scowled at me.

‘Okay. Did he have an argument with anyone? A disagreement, maybe?’

‘Why d’you want to know?’

‘I’m the one who found him. I feel like I owe him, and let’s face it, the rozzers are crap at doing anything round here,’ I said, the Cockney word sounding ridiculous with my Connecticut accent.

I looked at the three people around me and decided to ramp up the charm. I gave them a smile and ratcheted up my accent until it sounded almost Texan. ‘I don’t have a warrant card. But I have one dead friend and two that’ve been attacked. Can y’all help me? I just want to know who he was with that night.’

There was silence and I could almost see the East End wall slam down. It was a them-or-us sort of thing, I knew. Gav would have been far better at this than me. He was one of them, but he hadn’t answered my last text, so it was up to me. And all I could do was my best.

Silently offering him an apology, I proceeded. ‘Like I said, since Phil died, two more of my friends have been attacked. You might know one of them. Gav. Gav MacAdams?’

The barman paused and exchanged a glance with the old man on the stool.

‘Sounds like you’re the dangerous one to know, love,’ he sniggered. ‘You sure you ain’t the killer?’

I ignored him and continued, ‘You do know Gav, don’t you?’

‘Everyone knows Gav,’ the young woman replied, again fidgeting with the strap of her top.

‘You know that he was attacked in the market square last Sunday? The day after my friend was drinking here?’

‘Look, wha’cha getting at?’ the barman said, plonking a tea towel down between us like some sort of terrycloth line in the sand. ‘You come in here, talking shite about two people. None of it’s to do wi’ the Bells. Your man, he left here alone an’ alive. Gav, he drinks at the George. We don’t know nuffin about what happened to him. To either o’ them. And we don’t want any problems here.’

The other two nodded. I had a feeling that if Luther wasn’t sitting quietly at my feet, they might have asked me to leave.

Standing, I turned and met their eyes, one by one. By the time I reached the young woman, Klaus was pawing at my leg, asking to be picked up.

I leaned down and gave the command, catching him neatly as he leapt into my arms. With his head tucked under my chin, I tried one last time.

‘Okay, that’s fair. I don’t want any problems either. I just want whatever’s happening to stop. I was friends with Phil, the dead guy. And Gav, who was attacked.’ I took a deep breath and locked eyes with the barman once more. ‘What wouldn’t you do if they were your friends?’