Dangerous Games by Sally Spencer

and the walls painted in a soothing pastel shade. The old wooden benches had been replaced by padded red chairs and the long wooden tables by small round ones with beaten copper tops. The pub offered ‘executive lunches’, and most of the customers were in suits.
    The young man standing behind the bar was wearing a fancy red and white striped waistcoat which had a gold badge on it announcing that he was the assistant manager.
    â€˜I’ll be with you in a minute,’ he told Woodend and Paniatowski off-handedly, before rushing to the other end of the bar, where two men smoking large cigars had just indicated – by the very vaguest of gestures – that they’d like some service immediately.
    â€˜Assistant manager!’ Woodend said with disgust, when the young man had gone.
    â€˜What’s wrong with that?’ Paniatowski wondered.
    â€˜Managers are for dull, soulless factories,’ Woodend explained. ‘A pub’s a livin’, breathin’ thing. It doesn’t need a
manager
.’
    â€˜Then what does it need?’
    â€˜If it’s to be cherished as it deserves to be, it needs a
landlord
, who’s invested both his money an’ his heart in the place.’
    Paniatowski laughed. ‘Will you ever acknowledge that the modern world exists, sir?’ she asked.
    â€˜I doubt it,’ Woodend replied.
    The barman working under the alias of assistant manager returned to their end of the bar. He gave Woodend a slightly supercilious look, as if to say that in this haven of made-to-measure suits, his hairy sports coat was acceptable – but only just.
    â€˜What can I do for you, sir?’ he asked.
    â€˜A pint of best bitter, an’ a neat vodka,’ Woodend told him.
    â€˜Neat?’ the barman repeated.
    â€˜Neat,’ Woodend confirmed.
    â€˜Most of our customers consider that the proper way to drink vodka is with a mixer,’ the young man said snottily.
    â€˜Aye, well, most of your customers are probably big girl’s blouses, then,’ Woodend told him. ‘My friend here likes to
taste
what it is she’s drinkin’.’
    The barman shrugged, like a missionary who was not the least surprised to see that his words of wisdom had fallen on stony ground. Then, he reached for a glass and started to pull Woodend’s pint.
    â€˜Were you on duty last night?’ Woodend asked.
    The barman looked up. ‘Might I ask why you require that particular piece of information, sir?’
    Jesus! Woodend thought. Whatever had happened to the old-style barman – the kind of man who would either have given him a straight answer to a straight question, or else accused him of being a nosy parker and then told him to mind his own business?
    The chief inspector slapped his warrant card on the counter. ‘I
require
it, Sunshine, because askin’ questions is what I do for a livin’,’ he said.
    â€˜Oh, I see,’ the assistant manager said.
    â€˜I rather thought you would,’ Woodend told him. ‘So, were you workin’ last night or not?’
    â€˜Yes, I was.’
    Woodend produced a photograph of Terry Pugh, which had been taken in the morgue after Dr Shastri had done all within her power to disguise the fact that the body – like a Chinese puzzle – came in two parts.
    â€˜Do you know this man?’ he asked.
    â€˜He’s lying down,’ the barman pointed out.
    â€˜Boy, but nothin’ gets past you, does it?’ Woodend said.
    â€˜Is he ill or something?’
    â€˜You could say that.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    Woodend sighed. ‘He’s been decapitated, so chances are that he’ll never ride a bike again. But I asked you a question, Sunny Jim. Was this feller in here last night?’
    The barman looked at the picture again. ‘You’d never guess he’d lost his head,’ he said.
    â€˜You’ll lose yours, if you don’t start answerin’ my