An hour later Hanlon was studying the outside of the Rob Roy. Paisley had seen better days, in her opinion, that much was for sure. Like many high streets, its centre was full of boarded-up shops and there was an air of sad desperation about the place. Its locals looked pallid and depressed. But it was not all bad news. She walked past the abbey, which was beautiful, and the imposing Catholic bulk of St Mirin’s Cathedral.
If Paisley had seen better days, the Rob Roy had probably never had a good day in its life. Unlike The Sleeket Mouse, it was exactly the kind of pub that she could well imagine Kai working in. Unlike The Sleeket Mouse, it didn’t have a website but was listed in a website of Paisley pubs. Possibly there was nothing to recommend about it other than it being a pub. As she stood outside it certainly looked that way.
It stood on a street corner as a tired old prostitute might, soliciting trade, and not doing very well. Its sign was peeling; a chalkboard advertised ‘Exotic Dancers’ on Saturday afternoons. A poster said, ‘Food available’. In the Rob Roy that sounded more like a warning than a promise. It also had live football and a pool table.
The windows were three quarters covered in a metal grill, so you couldn’t throw a brick through them, and painted over with advertising for Tennent’s lager, so you couldn’t see through them. Only the top strip was clear glass. Cigarette butts littered the pavement by the door. Over the lintel it said, ‘Emmanuel Johnson, licensed to sell beer and spirits.’
It didn’t say anything about ambience.
Hanlon walked in.
It wasn’t as bad as she had feared from the outside. The pub was high-ceilinged and spacious. A large flat-screen TV was angled at the rear, high up on the wall so you could see it over the heads of the customers.
The furniture was chunky dark brown tables and upholstered, heavy chairs. They looked as if you could take a sledgehammer to them and they wouldn’t break. Almost certainly why they were chosen, not for their aesthetic but their durability in a pub brawl. The floor was lino in a brown and yellow tile effect. There were three small, old men standing by the bar with their backs to Hanlon, drinking half-pints of beer with whisky chasers.
They didn’t turn around.
There was a table by the door with three young guys that appeared to be in their twenties. They looked as if they could have been part of Kai’s extended family. Perhaps they were. Two of them wore trainers, nylon tracksuit bottoms and hoodies, the third, with his back to Hanlon, had dyed blond hair, a blue nylon tracksuit with Partick Thistle logoed on the back and trainers. One of the hoodies said something to him and he turned in his seat and stared at Hanlon. A tough, thin street face, gold necklace, a couple of gold teeth and heavy sovereign rings on his fingers.
She knew without looking that his trainers would be top of the range, that his phone would be the latest model. She knew that he would be the local coke dealer. She also knew that he would have recognised her immediately as police. Well, anyone would. What sane woman would be in this pub otherwise? Unless he mistook her for a down-on-her-luck exotic dancer.
She walked up to the bar.
‘Yes, can I help you?’ said the barman. He too was small and slim with a small moustache and brown hair in a kind of a quiff. He had a good-humoured face. He was certainly the single most pleasant feature of the place. The old men stared at her with outright dislike, a woman, invading their space.
‘Lap dancing’s on Saturday, hen.’ The voice came from behind her. It was harsh and aggressive. It was tracksuit boy. Hanlon rolled her eyes. Ignored him.
‘Can I have a word with the landlord?’ she asked.
The barman nodded,
‘Aye, I’ll go and fetch him.’
He walked to the far end of the bar.
‘Dinnae fancy yours much, Frank,’ called out tracksuit boy loudly to the friendly barman and burst out laughing, pleased with his wit. Frank half turned, caught Hanlon’s gaze and rolled his eyes heavenwards. He disappeared through a door marked ‘Private’.
Muttering and sniggers from the table.
Hanlon felt something hit her hair. She turned to face them. A scrunched-up beer mat. Tracksuit had moved his chair round so he was facing her.
‘Whit? Whit youse looking at?’ he sneered.
Hanlon walked over to him. She felt she had no choice. If she didn’t, it would prey on her mind for ever. The day she backed down from an aggressive yob. She didn’t back down. She heard a quiet, intelligent voice from a chic Hampstead flat saying, ‘You deliberately put yourself in positions of extreme danger…’
Hanlon ignored Dr Morgan, stared into the hate-filled eyes of the youth half her age on his chair. Is today the day I get knifed? she wondered. Well, only one way to find out.
‘Can I make a suggestion?’ she said politely.
‘A suggestion? A suggestion?’ His voice rose mockingly, parodying her accent, putting on a strangled faux-English posh accent. ‘Oh, aye, by all means… suggest away…’
‘Here’s my suggestion.’ Hanlon’s voice was level; she moved slightly closer, leaned her face close in, invading his body space, intimidating, stared into his slightly glazed blue eyes. He smelled faintly of cheap aftershave, cigarettes, weed and rank sweat. ‘Why don’t you fuck off?’
The kid blinked, staring up at her in disbelief. ‘Sonny,’ added Hanlon, for insulting good measure.
‘You auld bitch…’ he snarled.
He leapt to his feet, fists clenched. Now that it had kicked off, she felt good. She felt confident, light on her feet, fast and strong. She was super-fit. More to the point she was spoiling for a fight.
Most people didn’t know how to punch hard; Hanlon did. Twenty years of boxing, two decades of sparring. Years ago her then trainer had urged her to
