Still unsure whether or not to go out she picked up her instruction manual, but feeling fidgety she soon put it aside and decided she would meet Sarah after all. The thought of a lonely night in didn’t appeal. When her hair was almost dry she put on a little make-up, jeans and a T-shirt, but reprimanded herself again as she had packed only her work shoes. She looked at herself: the shoes with the jeans were not suitable so she put on her old ballet-style velvet slippers and grabbed a small purse for her room keys and money.
Sarah was waiting by the warden’s desk and wearing a patchwork coat with bright yellow flared trousers. As they walked over to the pub together Sarah told Jane that because the pub was a regular haunt for police officers the landlord Ron would often have a ‘lock-in’, closing all the curtains and continuing to serve well after hours because he knew he wouldn’t get busted.
‘He’s a friendly old goat. Sometimes we stay that late he goes upstairs to bed and lets us help ourselves.’
‘You drink for free?’ Jane asked, thinking it was tantamount to stealing.
‘Good God, no. We leave the money for our drinks on the till, along with a few pence extra for his hospitality. Last one out locks the door and shoves the key through the letterbox. You get a few bad ’uns in here, though mostly they’ve got form for petty crime, like a bit of thieving, handling nicked goods and the like, but they’re no problem and use the separate public bar.’
Jane followed Sarah as they entered the saloon bar of the pub which was reasonably busy and a tad noisy for Jane’s liking. A few people were sitting on stools at the bar chatting, some on the long velvet cushioned seating around small wooden tables, and a couple of young men were playing bar billiards in the corner.
Jane didn’t have a clue which of them were police officers as everyone was dressed in plain clothes.
‘Hard to tell who’s police,’ she remarked to Sarah.
‘Blokes are easy – short hair and a bulge in their pants.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Jane said, wondering what on earth she was inferring.
Sarah laughed as she walked up to the bar. ‘Trousers… back pocket… it’s where they keep their warrant cards, and the detectives have long hair and the bulge in the front,’ she said and laughed at her own crude innuendo.
‘What yer havin’, Sarah?’ Ron the landlord asked her in a strong Cockney accent. He had a large pot belly and thick dark hair in a quiff and his forehead was covered in beads of sweat. The top buttons of his shirt were undone revealing a chunky gold neck chain that bit into his flabby skin.
‘G and T with ice and lemon. What’ll you have, Joyce?’
‘It’s Jane actually and an orange juice is fine, thanks.’
‘Do you like white wine?’
‘Yes but-’
‘She’ll have a dry white, Ron,’ Sarah told him and turned back to Jane. ‘It might be a bit on the warm side but it’s palatable.’
Sarah looked around the pub, and two women drinking in the far corner waved to her; they were with two men who both had long hair. Jane recognized one of them: he was the detective inspector at Hackney, but he wasn’t on the murder team as he had to oversee the day to day crime investigations.
‘Hey, how yer doing?’ Sarah bellowed across the bar as she picked up her drink and went over to join them while Jane sat on a stool and waited for her wine.
‘You want ice?’ Ron asked, holding up her glass of wine.
She nodded and noticed how dirty his hands were as he plopped in two large ice cubes.
Jane looked over at Sarah, who was in deep conversation with her friends, and didn’t know whether or not they’d mind her joining them. She felt uncomfortable as she sipped her wine and now wished she hadn’t come to the pub.
‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t WPC Tennison.’
Recognizing the voice she turned sharply to see DCI Bradfield leaning on the bar beside her.
‘Hey, Ron, give us a large one,’ he said, holding up a £1 note.
‘Can you not see I’m already serving someone, so get your own, Len, and there’s ice under the counter.’
Bradfield lifted the counter flap, went behind the bar and helped himself to a double Scotch before picking up a bottle of white wine. From his slightly slurred speech, glazed eyes and cheesy grin Jane could tell he’d had a few already.
‘Want a top-up?’ he asked, tilting the bottle towards her glass.
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Rubbish,’ he replied and filled her glass to the brim.
She sat on a bar stool and watched as he slapped two £1 notes down next to the till and shouted to Ron that he was going to have another large one. He lifted his glass, said ‘Cheers’ and knocked it back in one before helping himself to the next.
‘So, Tennison, tell me what you are doing in this dive.’
She sipped her wine. ‘I’ve just moved in across the road and it’s-’
