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I know the type, and now this makes sense. Inspector Whymark is keen to make an impression, assert authority or whatever. She needs warning off, and I’ll see to it that that gets done. We have a special understanding with the divisional commander. Jack will suggest that he calls off his dogs or the details of his affair with his chief superintendent’s daughter will suddenly come out.
Underage drinking. For fuck’s sake…
Mind, if the police information is accurate and Jenna has been serving alcohol to kids, I’ll need to put a stop to it. Ethan Savage takes a dim view of such things, partly because he prefers not to exploit young people, and also because it drives away the other punters who don’t want to conduct their business in a kindergarten.
But now, back to the matter in hand.
“Second,” I go on. “Have you any intention of trying your luck there again? Or at any of our places?”
I shakes his head.
“Excellent. Because I don’t want to hear you’ve been sticking your scrawny dick where it’s not wanted. Do I make myself clear?”
“I wasn’t—”
I grab him and shake him warmly by the throat. “Do I make myself clear?” I repeat as he struggles for breath.
He nods frantically, but I don’t let go at once.
“Again,” I press him. “Have I made myself quite clear?”
He’s going puce but manages another nod.
“That’s good,” I purr. “That’s very good. Because if any tales reach me to suggest you’ve been giving women a hard time, I’ll be back. I’ll have a nice big pair of scissors with me, and I’ll cut your miserable dick off. That should solve the problem altogether, I think. Don’t you agree?”
His eyes widen. He tries to speak, but you need air for that, and his ran out a while ago. The best he can drum up is yet another nod.
“Right, then.” I release him again and stand. “I think that just about covers everything so I’ll be on my way. Nice talking to you, Nigel. No need to get up, I’ll see myself out.” I take a couple of paces in the direction of the door, then spin on my heel. “One more thing.” I boot him in the ribs and appreciate the satisfying crack of bone. “I did say Jenna sends her regards, didn’t I? That was for her.”
CHAPTER3
Ruth
I start where my father left off, with the General Grant pub.
It’s in the town centre, a busy place, newly built and even more recently refurbished, though entirely lacking in any charm or character. Plastic-covered furniture, garish tiled floors, and mock lanterns illuminating a main bar offering international football matches and cheap pub food. The clientele don’t appear especially discerning, and no one is remotely interested in a stranger walking in. I suppose it’s that sort of place, no regular customers, just people who pass through.
I ask at the bar, but the girl serving there has no idea who ran the pub before the current incumbent. Neither does the manager himself.
“Harold Sampson? No, love, never heard of him. How long ago did you say it was?”
“He was here in nineteen ninety-six,” I clarify, though without much in the way of optimism.
He shakes his head. “Way before my time, miss. The brewery might have records. Probably confidential, though, come to think of it…”
I suspect he’s right but decide to chance my arm. It’s a national brewery chain, so I phone the HR department and introduce myself as Detective Constable Lowison from Cambridgeshire Police, making enquiries regarding Harold Sampson. I say that I understand he worked for them at one time, rattle off the dates as far as I know them, and ask if they can provide further details. Namely, when did he leave the General Grant, and where did he go?
The woman who speaks to me is reluctant initially, but I pull out my firm but efficient tone, one of the skills drilled into us as soon as we join the police. It works, and she decides she can, after all, assist me. I learn that Mr Sampson transferred to a more upmarket tenancy near York.
I jot down the details, thank her for her cooperation, then set my satnav for the Rose and Castle in the leafy depths of North Yorkshire.
This time, I decide, Harold landed on his feet. The pub is lovely, dripping with olde-worlde charm. Beamed ceilings, open log fire, hand-pulled real ale, and a decent kitchen. I order a meal of steak and ale pie, roast potatoes, and red cabbage, and watch the world go by from the comfort of the beer garden.
The waitress comes to collect my empty plate, so I take the opportunity to ask her who runs the pub these days. “I used to know the landlord here,” I offer by way of explanation. “Harold Sampson. Is he still here, by any chance?”
She shakes her head. “Me and my husband run it these days, but I think the landlord before us was called Harry.”
“He had a little girl,” I prompt. “Called Naomi?”
