sugar.’
‘Still a bit of a lucky guess, though. But drugs and murder often make a cosy pair.’
‘So that’s work over for the evening then, Harry. Let’s get another pint in.’
Both men liked their beer, but Rhodes had the bigger tank to fill. Hart had to guzzle the last third of his glass to keep up, although that was no great hardship.
After visiting the bar for a couple of refills, Rhodes nestled his oval frame back into the tiny-looking chair.
‘Sorry, Arthur, there’s one more bit of shop before we get on to important matters and solve the problems of the world. It’s a favour, actually.’
‘Anything for you old boy, you know that.’
‘I need a post-mortem report.’
‘That’s easy enough.’
‘No it isn’t. It’s not a report for a post-mortem you’ve done yourself. Not even in your area, in fact.’
‘Still easy. A man of my exalted status has access to the details of every post-mortem in the country via the wonderful world of computers. Tap in my password and I can gorge myself on all the gory details of unspeakable crimes from all over the realm. Who, when and where is all I need to know.’
‘A girl called Nicola Brown. A little over three months ago. North London, just inside the Met area south from here. I’ll write it down,’ said Hart, reaching into his breast pocket for his pen.
‘No need. Not pissed yet. Brain still functioning.’
‘And, Arthur. Nobody must know. This is you and me only, or I’ll be looking for a job as Santa in the town square before the week’s out. I’ll explain why some other time, but let’s get off this subject or I might as well still be at the factory. I’ve had enough for today.’
‘You’ve got me all intrigued, old lad. You’ll have your report, but only in exchange for the accompanying gossip.’
Hart stood up. ‘Right, that’s it, work’s over. Let’s get our backsides onto those stools at the end of the bar, next to the fireplace,’ he said, looking forward to a simple chat with a mate and an hour or so of respite from visions of murder and cocaine.
They settled themselves down into their new surroundings, and it wasn’t long before they were due another pint. They watched it being pulled with wide eyes, as though they had never before witnessed such a wonder, Don the landlord himself tugging on the pump which dragged the lovely liquid up from the cellar.
‘I don’t know why you two bother to sit over there by the window to do your plotting,’ said Don. ‘I’ve got that table bugged.’
‘You’ve been rumbled,’ replied Hart. ‘I unscrewed the microphone and slipped it under my boss’s desk.’
‘And I thought the thing was broken. That noise that sounded like a train must have been someone snoring.’
The horse brasses were glistening, the background buzz was merry, the festive feel was swaddling the pub, and all was wonderful with the world.
And then Hart thought about Christmas Day. And, as it had for the past four years, the prospect became ever more depressing the closer the event loomed. Christmas was a great time of the year but, ever since his wife had died, Harry hadn’t known what to do with the Day itself.
Two years ago he had gone round to Arthur’s place. A disaster. Husband, wife, three teenage kids; what did they want with a middle-aged man butting in to their family festivities? Working had been an even worse option. The skeleton staff buzzing and bursting with the excited anticipation of getting back to their husbands, kids, girlfriends or whoever. And then someone would drop a clanger and forget, and they’d ask Harry what he would be doing after he had got himself home. The air would turn into a fidgety silence as he kidded no one that maybe he would have a quiet day, but it would certainly be one he would thoroughly enjoy. So, no need to worry about ol’ Harry then, everyone!
Hart did something which surprised even himself. Although he was chatting with a good friend, his best
‘Still a bit of a lucky guess, though. But drugs and murder often make a cosy pair.’
‘So that’s work over for the evening then, Harry. Let’s get another pint in.’
Both men liked their beer, but Rhodes had the bigger tank to fill. Hart had to guzzle the last third of his glass to keep up, although that was no great hardship.
After visiting the bar for a couple of refills, Rhodes nestled his oval frame back into the tiny-looking chair.
‘Sorry, Arthur, there’s one more bit of shop before we get on to important matters and solve the problems of the world. It’s a favour, actually.’
‘Anything for you old boy, you know that.’
‘I need a post-mortem report.’
‘That’s easy enough.’
‘No it isn’t. It’s not a report for a post-mortem you’ve done yourself. Not even in your area, in fact.’
‘Still easy. A man of my exalted status has access to the details of every post-mortem in the country via the wonderful world of computers. Tap in my password and I can gorge myself on all the gory details of unspeakable crimes from all over the realm. Who, when and where is all I need to know.’
‘A girl called Nicola Brown. A little over three months ago. North London, just inside the Met area south from here. I’ll write it down,’ said Hart, reaching into his breast pocket for his pen.
‘No need. Not pissed yet. Brain still functioning.’
‘And, Arthur. Nobody must know. This is you and me only, or I’ll be looking for a job as Santa in the town square before the week’s out. I’ll explain why some other time, but let’s get off this subject or I might as well still be at the factory. I’ve had enough for today.’
‘You’ve got me all intrigued, old lad. You’ll have your report, but only in exchange for the accompanying gossip.’
Hart stood up. ‘Right, that’s it, work’s over. Let’s get our backsides onto those stools at the end of the bar, next to the fireplace,’ he said, looking forward to a simple chat with a mate and an hour or so of respite from visions of murder and cocaine.
They settled themselves down into their new surroundings, and it wasn’t long before they were due another pint. They watched it being pulled with wide eyes, as though they had never before witnessed such a wonder, Don the landlord himself tugging on the pump which dragged the lovely liquid up from the cellar.
‘I don’t know why you two bother to sit over there by the window to do your plotting,’ said Don. ‘I’ve got that table bugged.’
‘You’ve been rumbled,’ replied Hart. ‘I unscrewed the microphone and slipped it under my boss’s desk.’
‘And I thought the thing was broken. That noise that sounded like a train must have been someone snoring.’
The horse brasses were glistening, the background buzz was merry, the festive feel was swaddling the pub, and all was wonderful with the world.
And then Hart thought about Christmas Day. And, as it had for the past four years, the prospect became ever more depressing the closer the event loomed. Christmas was a great time of the year but, ever since his wife had died, Harry hadn’t known what to do with the Day itself.
Two years ago he had gone round to Arthur’s place. A disaster. Husband, wife, three teenage kids; what did they want with a middle-aged man butting in to their family festivities? Working had been an even worse option. The skeleton staff buzzing and bursting with the excited anticipation of getting back to their husbands, kids, girlfriends or whoever. And then someone would drop a clanger and forget, and they’d ask Harry what he would be doing after he had got himself home. The air would turn into a fidgety silence as he kidded no one that maybe he would have a quiet day, but it would certainly be one he would thoroughly enjoy. So, no need to worry about ol’ Harry then, everyone!
Hart did something which surprised even himself. Although he was chatting with a good friend, his best
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