Haskell nodded.
“And second,” Annie went on, “you don’t ever call me bitch again.
In fact, you don’t even use the word in my presence. Got it?”
Haskell glowered, then grinned. “Okay. You got a deal, sweet-heart.”
“Go on.” Annie sighed.
“Was in a pub, wasn’t it?”
“You were in a pub? But you’re only fifteen.”
Haskell laughed. “They don’t care about that in the Red Rooster.
Long as you pay the price.”
“The Red Rooster? Down in Medburn?”
“That’s the one.”
Medburn was a village about two miles south of Eastvale, a short 1 6 6
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
distance off the York Road, not far from the A1. A cluster of ugly stone-clad houses around an overgrown green, it had never been likely to win the Prettiest Village of the Year award. And there was one pub, the Red Rooster. They had live music on weekends and karaoke on Thursdays, and the place had a bit of a reputation for rowdi-ness and the occasional fight, not to mention the sale of drugs. A lot of young squaddies from Catterick Camp went there.
“When was this?” Annie asked.
“Dunno. Maybe two or three weeks before he offed himself. I saw his picture on the TV the other day.”
“What was he doing when you saw him?”
“That’s why I noticed him, man. I was just there having a quiet drink, you know, chillin’ with my friends, and then I see my fucking teacher and I have to get out real fast, or he’ll bring all kinda shit down on me.”
Annie frowned. “Your teacher?”
“Yeah. Mr. Wyman.”
“Let me get this straight,” Annie said. “You saw Derek Wyman in the Red Rooster with Mark Hardcastle a short time before Hardcastle died?”
“That right. You got it.” He glanced at Winsome. “Hey, give the lady a prize.”
Winsome returned Annie’s puzzled gaze. “What were they doing there?” Annie went on.
“Well, they wasn’t doing none of that fag stuff, if you know what I mean.”
“So what
“They just talkin’, man. Just chillin’ and talkin’.”
“Did you see Mr. Wyman hand Mr. Hardcastle anything?”
“Huh?”
“Did anything exchange hands?”
“Nope. This wasn’t no drug deal, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Were they looking at anything? Photographs or anything?”
“You mean, like
“Nicky!”
“No, they didn’t look at nothing.”
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“And there was nothing on the table in front of them?”
“Only drinks.”
“Was anyone else with them? Or did anyone join them?”
“Nope. Can I have my money?”
Annie gave him the ten-pound note. She wanted to ask if there was anything intimate about the meeting, any closeness, touching, whispering, meaningful glances, that sort of thing, but somehow she didn’t think Nicky would be attuned to such subtleties. She asked anyway.
“Don’t know nothing about all that stuff, man,” Nicky said, “but that Hardcastle, he sure seemed angry. Mr. Wyman had to cool him down.”
“Wyman was calming Hardcastle down?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Did they appear to be arguing?”
“Arguing? No. Like they were friends.”
