room without at least one drink inside them, they moved straight from the sumptuous reception area into what passed for a bar.
It wasnât yet eleven oâclock but the place - half a dozen tables and some artificial plants - was virtually empty. Two middle-aged men in suits were huddled at a table by the door and a woman in her early thirties sat at one end of the bar, flicking through a magazine. There was no sign of any staff.
âJointâs jumping,â Holland said.
After a few minutes, a balding bundle of fun in a plum-coloured waistcoat materialised behind the bar and Thorne bought the drinks: a glass of Blossom Hill for himself and a pint of Stella for Holland. He asked about ordering some sandwiches and was told that the kitchen was short staffed. They carried their drinks to a table in the corner, Thorne grabbing half-eaten bowls of peanuts from the three adjacent tables before he sat down.
âTheyâre covered in piss,â Holland said.
Thorne already had a mouthful of nuts and was brushing the salt from his hands. He looked across and grunted, âWhat?â
Holland nodded down at the bowl. âFrom people who go to the bog and donât wash their hands. I saw a thing on Oprah where they did these tests and found traces of piss in bowls of peanuts and pretzels, stuff they leave out on bars.â
Thorne shrugged. âIâm hungry.â
Holland helped himself to a handful. âJust telling you,â he said.
The piped music had changed to what was probably Michael Bolton, but could also have been a large animal in great pain. The wine went down easily enough, though, and Thorne enjoyed the banter when Holland commented on the fact that he was drinking rosé. Thorne informed him that Louise had started buying it, that according to an article heâd seen, it was now extremely trendy.
âExtremely gay,â Holland said.
Thorne might have said something about that kind of comment upsetting Phil Hendricks, were it not exactly what Hendricks would have said himself. Instead, he pushed his empty glass across the table and reminded Holland it was his round. A few minutes later, Holland returned from the bar with another glass of wine, half a lager and four packets of piss-free crisps.
âDonât you feel a bit guilty?â Holland asked. âAbout Paice, I mean. He obviously didnât know about the Garvey thing.â
âI donât know about âobviouslyâ.â
âDid you see his face?â
Thorne took a few seconds. âMaybe he and his new girlfriend cooked that story up.â
âWhy would they do that?â
âBuggered if I know.â
âWell, they deserve Oscars if they did.â Holland downed what was left of his pint and poured the half into the empty glass. âAnyway, who says sheâs his girlfriend?â
âIt was the first thing I thought, I suppose,â Thorne said. âAs soon as I walked in.â
Holland shook his head. âNever occurred to me. Some people have got nasty, suspicious minds.â
âDifficult not to.â
âThat make you a good copper, you reckon?â Holland smiled, but it didnât sound as though he was joking. âOr a bad one?â
âProbably just one whoâs been doing it too long,â Thorne said.
Holland leaned forward to see if there were any crisps left, but all the packets were empty. âSo, how long was it before you stopped giving people the benefit of the doubt?â he asked.
âThatâs the juryâs job, not mine,â Thorne said.
âSeriously.â
âI donât think I ever did . . . ever do .â Thorne took a mouthful of wine. It was a little sweeter than the one Louise bought from Sainsburyâs. âIf you start off assuming that everyoneâs a twat, youâre unlikely to be disappointed. â He glanced towards the bar and saw the woman looking in their direction. He smiled, then
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