The Common Enemy. Paul Gitsham

A couple of early morning drinkers got up and pushed past them, leaving their half-finished pints behind. Hastings suspected they probably had something weighing on their conscience.

      There was no mistaking Drake. His shaved head sat directly atop his shoulders, with no visible evidence of a neck. As if to stand out from his customers, rather than the ubiquitous England football shirt, he wore a Six Nations England rugby shirt.

      Hastings glanced over at his companion; ordinarily he might think twice about bringing such an inexperienced colleague to this environment. But Moray Ruskin was six feet five inches tall and weighed over eighteen stone, none of it excess fat. He could handle a bit of verbal abuse over his Scottish accent.

      Drake leant over the bar and leered at Hastings.

      ‘How may I be of assistance, officers?’

      Hastings resisted the urge to ask for a bottle of Cobra; somehow, he doubted they served the popular Indian lager

      ‘May we have a word in private, Mr Drake?’

      He looked at the two officers hard, before lifting the serving hatch and motioning them to follow.

      ‘Jaz, I’m taking a break,’ he called out.

      The back of the pub was narrow, a state of affairs not helped by a ceiling-high stack of boxes containing bar snacks. To the left of the entrance a flight of stairs presumably led towards the landlord’s private accommodation. Following Drake to the right, into his office, Hastings caught a glimpse through beaded curtains of a small, dingy-looking kitchen area. He hoped the food preparation surfaces were cleaner than the carpet sticking to his shoes. The air was so heavy with the smell of air-freshener, Hastings couldn’t help wondering what he was covering up.

      Drake dropped into a rickety-looking leather office chair; it creaked alarmingly, but didn’t collapse under his substantial weight. He waved vaguely across the desk in what Hastings decided to interpret as an invitation to pull over one of the moulded plastic seats.

      ‘Thank you for taking the time to see us, Mr Drake,’ Hastings started.

      ‘Don’t really have much more to tell you than what I said Saturday night.’

      ‘Nevertheless, it may help us to piece together what happened that afternoon.’

      Drake sighed. ‘Suppose it’s the least I can do for Ray’s boy.’

      That seemed to be as good a starting point as any, Hastings decided.

      ‘I knew Ray way back when, when we used to do jobs together.’ Hastings fought the urge to ask what he meant by ‘jobs’.

      ‘We’d go to the footie on a Saturday afternoon, you know to get away from the wives.’ He smiled. ‘That Mary of his was a cracking bird – he was punching well above his weight – but she can’t half nag.’

      ‘And did you get to know his boys then?’

      ‘Yeah. He started bringing them along to the matches when they were nippers. It was a cheap afternoon’s entertainment, not like today. When they was old enough, he used to bring them in here for a bag of crisps and a glass of lemonade.’ He smirked slightly.

      ‘Did you keep in touch with the boys and their father after they went away?’

      ‘If by “went away”, you mean after they got banged up, yeah I did.’ He glared fiercely at the two officers. ‘It’s times like this you find out who your real friends are.’