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“I think he slipped in unnoticed around ten o’clock, sat on a stool, end o’ bar, like. Now I come to think of it, he was watching the stag party most o’ night. Nowt bad, mind, I think he were just amused.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Maybe late thirties. Tinted glasses, moustache. Not too tall, about my size.”
“Any hair?”
“Aye, going a bit grey.”
“What was he wearing?” Reilly asked.
“Let me think. He had a blue jacket on, sports coat of some description, with a badge or a logo on, but I can’t think what it was. He wore a blue shirt under that. Never noticed his trousers ’cause he was sat down most o’ time. His jacket was new, not a mark on it.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“No, but our barmaid did. She served him wi’ his drinks.”
“What’s her name?”
“Vicky Murphy.”
“Oh my God,” said Gardener, glancing at his partner. “Another one of your lot.”
“Nothing wrong with a good–”
“–honest, Irish name. I know, you keep telling me.”
“I think she were quite keen on him, like,” said Bannister. “She definitely kept over that side o’ bar.”
“Why are you telling us this, Mr Bannister?”
“Well, because yon lad there” – Bannister pointed to Alan Sargent – “came to bar to order a round, and they got talking, like. Seemed friendly enough, but I remember Vicky saying afterwards that she overheard them. Anyway, bloke we’d never seen afore said his name.”
Bannister made a real point of trying to rack his brains. He’d removed his trilby and began scratching his head. “Rick summat or other. It’ll come to me.”
Gardener hoped it would.
“That’s it,” he shouted, startling the dog. “Ashworth was his name. Rick Ashworth. I remember Vicky saying because she said she were going to look him up on Facebook.”
Gardener thanked him for his time and glanced at his watch: a little after seven-thirty.
He turned to his partner as they left. “I’m not happy about the wheelchair, Sean. Sargent was not disabled.” Gardener stopped walking to answer his mobile as it rang suddenly. “Bob, what can I do for you?”
Gardener said very little else, but listened intently before replying, “We’re on our way.”
Chapter Forty
John Oldham flew into a panic when he spotted the security door at the rear of the ch
emist was ajar. Experience told him he had been burgled, and it had to have been either a professional or an inside job: no locks or windows had been broken. He pushed the door all the way open and ran into the yard, glancing in every direction.
“What’s up with you?” shouted Vincent, from the top of his metal fire exit stairwell.
Oldham glanced up. Vincent was in his dressing gown, which was nothing new. Some days he was in it all day. He had a coffee in his right hand, and a bagel in the other.
“Did you hear anything odd last night?”
“Odd? What do you mean, odd?”
