It was almost five minutes before Constance Wells came back, and by then she seemed more composed. Ginger had stayed in her chair, but Annie was standing by the window looking down on Park Square, people- watching. She turned when she heard the door open.
“I’m sorry,” said Constance. “I suppose that was rude of me, but it’s . . . well, it’s all rather unusual.”
“What is?” Annie asked.
8 6 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
“Karen’s case. Look, Julia, that’s Ms. Ford, one of our senior partners, would like to see you. Can you spare her a few moments?”
Annie and Ginger exchanged another glance. “Can we?” Annie said. “Oh, I think so, don’t you, DC Baker?” And they followed Constance down the corridor.
5
TEMPLETON HATED GROTTY OLD PUBS LIKE THE FOUN-tain. They were full of losers and tossers drowning their sorrows, and an atmosphere of failure hung in the air along with the stale smoke and ale. Just being in such a place made him cringe. Give him a modern bar, chrome-and-plastic seating, pastel walls and subdued lighting, even if the beer did come in bottles and the music was too loud. At least he didn’t walk out smelling like a tramp.
The place was almost empty at three in the afternoon, only a few pathetic diehards with no lives worth living slobbering over their warm pints. A young man in jeans and a gray sweatshirt, shaved head and black- rimmed spectacles, stood at the bar polishing glasses. They still looked dirty when he’d finished.
“You the landlord?” Templeton asked, f lashing his warrant card.
“Me? You must be joking,” the man said. He had a Geordie accent.
Templeton hated Geordie accents, and he heard far too many of them around Eastvale. “The landlord’s away in Florida, like he is most of the time. I don’t think he’s set foot in the place more than twice since he bought it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jamie Murdoch.”
“Manager, then?”
“For my sins.”
8 8 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
“You look too young.”
“And you look too young to be a detective.”
“I’m a quick study.”
“Must be.”
“Anyway, much as I love a bit of banter, I’ve got a few questions for you about Saturday night.”
“Yeah?”
“Who was working?”
“I was.”
“Just you?”
“Aye. Jill called in sick, and we couldn’t get anyone else at short notice.”
“That must have been fun, on your own on a Saturday night?”
“Hilarious. Anyway, it happens often enough. This about the poor wee lassie who got killed?”
“That’s right.”
He shook his head. “A tragedy.”
“Did you serve her?”
“Look, if you’re asking me were her and her friends intoxicated, they might have had a few, but there was no way they were so drunk I would have refused to serve them.”
“Do you know they got kicked out of The Trumpeters before they came here?”
“No, I didn’t. They must have been rowdy or something. They were well behaved enough here. It was the end of the eve ning. Things were winding down. It wasn’t them causing the trouble.”
“But someone was?”
“Isn’t someone always?”
“Tell me about it.”
“Nothing much to tell, really.” Murdoch picked up another glass from the dish rack and started drying it with the tea towel. “It was Saturday night, wasn’t it? Saint Patrick’s Day, too. There always seems to be something, even on a normal Saturday. You get used to it. Didn’t Elton John have a song about it? ‘Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting’?”
“Don’t know that one,” said Templeton. “And this time?”
F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
8 9
“Gang of yobs from Lyndgarth got into a barney with some students in the poolroom. Eastvale’s version of town and gown. It came to nothing. Lot of sound and fury signifying nothing.”
