Chapter Twenty-one
“I’ll have a pint of the black stuff, thank you very much.”
The landlord reached up and removed a clean glass from the shelf. As he poured the Guinness, he stated, “Not seen you in here before.”
“No. I’m meeting someone. Place comes highly recommended.”
“Pleased to hear it.”
Reilly pulled up a barstool. From his vantage point, he had an unobstructed view of the whole pub. The bar was long and straight, running almost the full length of the room. Opposite the bar in the far corner, leading to the toilets – and the so-called beer garden – was a pool table. Of the twenty or so people in The Black Bull, only half were seated. The rest lined up at the bar, except for four playing pool. The jukebox cranked out a Sixties number by The Monkees.
“Got any sandwiches?”
“One or two, nowt special, mind. Beef, ham, cheese and pickle, corned beef...” He left the sentence unfinished as if he’d lost interest.
Reilly sipped his pint, sizing up the publican. He was small and bald, aside from a few wisps of grey hair, which snaked along his pate. His eyes were black and soulless, much like his attitude. His teeth were false. A Band-Aid held his glasses together in one corner. He was dressed in an old grey woollen cardigan with tweed trousers. Reilly wondered if he’d left his slippers on.
Further down the bar, a pot-bellied pensioner cackled in delight, squeezing the backside of a woman half his age.
“Made your mind up, yet?” questioned the landlord.
“Not yet, no.”
“Suit yourself. What brings you round here, then?”
“I’m looking for someone. I’m told he drinks in here.”
“Who might that be?”
“Herbert Plum.”
The Irishman noticed the landlord stiffen. Although slight, it was enough to arouse Reilly’s curiosity.
“Never heard of him. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got other customers to attend to. If you want that sandwich, give us a shout.”
The landlord shuffled down to the other end of the bar. Reilly wasn’t so naive as to think he could have walked straight in and obtained the information with ease. He hadn’t expected such an abrupt change of attitude, however. The publican conversed with a couple of customers, but still threw occasional glances in his direction.
The detective checked his watch, wondering where his partner was. He left his stool. On his way to the toilets, he glanced at a few black and white pre-war frames hanging on the wall, of what he surmised to be Rawston and the surrounding area. On his way out, he was greeted by a reception committee. The four pool players.
The man Reilly assumed to be the ringleader stood with his arms folded, his cue neatly tucked across his chest. Although he was big, he was out of shape, with a beer belly that somehow managed to defy gravity. His visible skin was heavily tattooed. Of his three colleagues, Reilly considered only one of them a possible problem: a barn door of a man, cracking his knuckles, probably more at home on the rugby field.
“Gentlemen,” said Reilly, nodding his head.
“We don’t want your sort round here.”
The ringleader had spoken. Reilly made some quick observations. No one else seemed willing to back up the four. The people sitting at the nearby tables made a hasty exit, expecting trouble. The landlord conveniently turned his back. The music stopped.
“What sort?”
“Perverts!”
Gardener walked through the front door, dressed in a black sweatshirt, jeans, and trainers. He chose to sit at the bar. He gave Reilly a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
“If I was you, I’d be a little more careful when you’re addressing people you don’t know,” Reilly said, his tone even.
“What?” the tattooed man asked. He glanced around at his colleagues, pointing towards Reilly, and laughed. His grin revealed uneven, tobacco-stained teeth.
“Some people are easily offended.” Reilly paused. “Now me, I’ve been around a bit. I’ve developed what you might call a ‘thick skin’. But I draw the line at being called a pervert.”
The atmosphere grew heavy. From the expressions in their eyes, Reilly could see that two were reluctant to become involved. Gardener was still ignoring the publican, who seemed content to disregard the brewing trouble.
“Shouldn’t hang around with other perverts then, should you?”
“I don’t,” replied Reilly. “I said I was looking for him.”
“Come on, Craig, let’s leave it.”
“Now that sounds like good advice to me, Craig. So, I’m going to go over there and finish my wee drink. I suggest you go back to playing pool. We’ll let this little matter drop, and no one will come to any harm.” Maintaining eye contact, Reilly pushed his way past the man.
“Sean!” Gardener shouted suddenly. As Reilly turned, the ringleader was raising his cue, ready to bring it down across the detective’s head. All hell broke loose.
Reilly brought his right arm up, wrapping the cue up and yanking it toward him, out of the way. He slammed his left fist into the tattooed man’s face, then followed through with a knee to the man’s testicles and a right uppercut to his jaw. He then snapped the cue across his knee and hurled it the length of the bar, narrowly missing the landlord as he frantically made a phone call.
Gardener rushed past Reilly, shouting, ‘Police!’ It made no difference. One of the remaining two pool players took a swing at the senior officer. Gardener avoided the blow by raising the barstool he’d brought with him, smashing it into the man’s face.
The pub might as well have been in the middle of the football ground for all the noise that erupted. Two women at the bar screamed, encouraging the pool players. Glasses were smashed. Tables were overturned.
A pair of hands grabbed Reilly, one on his
