looked
significantly older. It can’t be half term already, surely, she thought.
The Green Parrot was a two storey weather-boarded building,
with a timber loggia to one side. The stained white weather-boarding was rotten
at the edges; the loggia wasn’t in much better condition. Chase swung his
Mondeo into the pub car park and parked well away from the abandoned Sierra and
the burned-out Transit van, both tagged by multiple graffiti artists. No sooner
had he set foot on to the cracked tarmac than a gaggle of small children
clustered around him.
“Mind your car, sir?”
“Two quid to you, mate!”
“Watch it for you, sir?”
“Only a pound!”
“Want it valeted?”
Chase waved the children away as if they were midges,
plipped the central locking, and marched towards the pub. At the door he looked
back, and was surprised to see a crouching Lauren Halshaw deep in conversation
with two of the smallest boys, one white, the other Asian. Both appeared to be
about six years old.
“Hurry up, Halshaw!” he snapped.
Unhurriedly, she straightened, smiled graciously at the two
boys, and strolled over to where Chase waited.
“Nice of you to join us at last,” he grumbled, flinging the
pub door open and gesturing her inside impatiently.
Halshaw smiled at him sweetly and slipped past him into the
pub.
The inside of the pub was no more appealing than the
exterior. In the early seventies, when the pub was built, it was probably
daringly minimalist. After the better part of forty years’ hard use, it looked
battered and bare. The floor was covered with discoloured red linoleum, with a
dozen or so small tables around the edges. An abandoned dart board took pride
of place against one wall. An unattended fruit machine chirruped dejectedly.
The few drinkers, all men, stared indifferently at Halshaw as she strode
smartly towards the bar.
A weary-looking girl in a low-cut pink blouse appeared in
front of the row of spirits and looked at them expectantly. “What would you
like?” asked Chase.
“Oh, just a Diet Coke, thanks,” replied Halshaw. She turned
to the barmaid. “Ice and lemon, please.”
“No lemon,” grunted the barmaid.
“Ice is fine,” smiled Halshaw.
“And a pint of Fosters for me, please,” added Chase.
Halshaw raised her eyebrows and said nothing.
The barmaid was working on their drinks when Chase leant
forward confidentially, a £20 note in his hand.
“Is the manager in this afternoon?”
“Yeah,” replied the barmaid. “What of it?”
“I’d like a quiet word, please.”
“What for?”
“Look,” said Chase, lowering his voice still further. “I’m a
police officer. But I’m not here to make trouble. I just want a quiet word with
the manager. OK?”
The barmaid plonked their drinks down on the bar, snatched
the note out of his hand, and stomped off.
Chase and Halshaw took their drinks and settled themselves
at a table by the window. He craned his neck, but couldn’t see the side of the
car park where he had left the Mondeo.
“Why is this place called Chiltern View, Sir?” she asked.
“You can’t see the Chilterns from here, can you?”
“That’s a good question, Halshaw. You could. Once upon a
time.”
“Once?”
“Yes. In the sixties the council built four blocks of deck
access flats here. Ashridge , Berkhampstead ,
Chesham, and Denham Courts. On a clear day, you could see the Chilterns from
some of the balconies on the top floors.”
“Wow!”
“If you stood on one leg, leant over the parapet, and used
your imagination,” Chase added, grinning.
Halshaw smiled tolerantly. “What happened to them? The
flats, I mean.”
“Knocked down. Or blown up, rather. In the late eighties.
Quite an event, it was.”
I didn’t think you were from round here.”
“Whatever gave you that idea, Constable?”
She looked discomfited. “Well, your accent, Sir. I mean....”
“Here’s your change, officer,” said a soft voice behind
them.
Chase and Halshaw both
significantly older. It can’t be half term already, surely, she thought.
The Green Parrot was a two storey weather-boarded building,
with a timber loggia to one side. The stained white weather-boarding was rotten
at the edges; the loggia wasn’t in much better condition. Chase swung his
Mondeo into the pub car park and parked well away from the abandoned Sierra and
the burned-out Transit van, both tagged by multiple graffiti artists. No sooner
had he set foot on to the cracked tarmac than a gaggle of small children
clustered around him.
“Mind your car, sir?”
“Two quid to you, mate!”
“Watch it for you, sir?”
“Only a pound!”
“Want it valeted?”
Chase waved the children away as if they were midges,
plipped the central locking, and marched towards the pub. At the door he looked
back, and was surprised to see a crouching Lauren Halshaw deep in conversation
with two of the smallest boys, one white, the other Asian. Both appeared to be
about six years old.
“Hurry up, Halshaw!” he snapped.
Unhurriedly, she straightened, smiled graciously at the two
boys, and strolled over to where Chase waited.
“Nice of you to join us at last,” he grumbled, flinging the
pub door open and gesturing her inside impatiently.
Halshaw smiled at him sweetly and slipped past him into the
pub.
The inside of the pub was no more appealing than the
exterior. In the early seventies, when the pub was built, it was probably
daringly minimalist. After the better part of forty years’ hard use, it looked
battered and bare. The floor was covered with discoloured red linoleum, with a
dozen or so small tables around the edges. An abandoned dart board took pride
of place against one wall. An unattended fruit machine chirruped dejectedly.
The few drinkers, all men, stared indifferently at Halshaw as she strode
smartly towards the bar.
A weary-looking girl in a low-cut pink blouse appeared in
front of the row of spirits and looked at them expectantly. “What would you
like?” asked Chase.
“Oh, just a Diet Coke, thanks,” replied Halshaw. She turned
to the barmaid. “Ice and lemon, please.”
“No lemon,” grunted the barmaid.
“Ice is fine,” smiled Halshaw.
“And a pint of Fosters for me, please,” added Chase.
Halshaw raised her eyebrows and said nothing.
The barmaid was working on their drinks when Chase leant
forward confidentially, a £20 note in his hand.
“Is the manager in this afternoon?”
“Yeah,” replied the barmaid. “What of it?”
“I’d like a quiet word, please.”
“What for?”
“Look,” said Chase, lowering his voice still further. “I’m a
police officer. But I’m not here to make trouble. I just want a quiet word with
the manager. OK?”
The barmaid plonked their drinks down on the bar, snatched
the note out of his hand, and stomped off.
Chase and Halshaw took their drinks and settled themselves
at a table by the window. He craned his neck, but couldn’t see the side of the
car park where he had left the Mondeo.
“Why is this place called Chiltern View, Sir?” she asked.
“You can’t see the Chilterns from here, can you?”
“That’s a good question, Halshaw. You could. Once upon a
time.”
“Once?”
“Yes. In the sixties the council built four blocks of deck
access flats here. Ashridge , Berkhampstead ,
Chesham, and Denham Courts. On a clear day, you could see the Chilterns from
some of the balconies on the top floors.”
“Wow!”
“If you stood on one leg, leant over the parapet, and used
your imagination,” Chase added, grinning.
Halshaw smiled tolerantly. “What happened to them? The
flats, I mean.”
“Knocked down. Or blown up, rather. In the late eighties.
Quite an event, it was.”
I didn’t think you were from round here.”
“Whatever gave you that idea, Constable?”
She looked discomfited. “Well, your accent, Sir. I mean....”
“Here’s your change, officer,” said a soft voice behind
them.
Chase and Halshaw both
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