Dangerous Games by Sally Spencer Page A

question soon,’ Woodend threatened.
    â€˜Yes, he was in here,’ the barman said hastily.
    â€˜Now you’re not just tellin’ me that to keep me happy, are you?’ Woodend demanded.
    â€˜No. I promise you that he was here. Came in about half past seven, bought a pint, and took it over to the table in the corner. And fifteen minutes later, he was gone.’
    â€˜You’re very precise,’ Woodend said suspiciously.
    â€˜Well, he stood out, didn’t he?’
    â€˜In what way?’
    The barman shrugged awkwardly. ‘You know.’
    â€˜No, I don’t.’
    â€˜Most of our clientele are management. They come in here either to discuss business with each other or to entertain their lady friends. They give the place a certain tone.’
    â€˜I imagine they must.’
    â€˜This chap – the one in the picture – was wearing overalls when he came in. Of course, there’s no law against that …’
    â€˜Though you probably think there should be!’
    â€˜â€¦ but it did make him rather conspicuous.’
    â€˜You probably wondered what he was doing in here at all,’ Woodend suggested.
    â€˜I did at the time, but now I know that he was supposed to be meeting Mr Hough.’
    â€˜How do you know that?’
    â€˜Because after he’d left, Mr Hough himself came in, and asked me if I’d seen the man.’
    â€˜So if he’d got a meetin’ with this Hough feller, why did he leave?’ Woodend wondered.
    â€˜Probably because the other chap asked him to,’ the barman said.
    â€˜What other chap?’
    â€˜He came into the bar about five minutes after his friend. At least, I’m assuming the man in the boiler suit was a friend of his.’
    â€˜Get to the point,’ Woodend growled.
    â€˜He didn’t order a drink. He went straight over to the table where his friend was sitting. I sent a waiter across – that’s part of my responsibility as assistant manager – but the new arrival just waved the waiter away.’
    â€˜That could almost have been construed as a challenge to your considerable authority,’ Woodend said. ‘You can’t have liked that.’
    â€˜I didn’t,’ the barman told him, oblivious to the sarcasm. ‘I was just about to go across to the table myself, and tell him quite firmly that, in case he hadn’t noticed, this wasn’t a bus shelter …’
    â€˜By God, you’re right!’ Woodend said, looking around him. ‘It isn’t a bus shelter at all!’
    â€˜â€¦ and that if he wanted to remain in this rather pleasant environment, he’d have to order something to drink.’
    â€˜But you didn’t, in fact, do that?’
    â€˜No, because the two of them stood up and left before I had the chance. The man in the boiler suit hadn’t even finished his drink. There was more than half a pint left.’
    â€˜What did this
friend
look like?’ Woodend asked.
    â€˜He was a big man, around forty-five years old. He had black oily hair, and he was wearing a rather crumpled suit in a garish pattern.’
    â€˜Anythin’ else?’
    â€˜He was very dark – “foreign” dark, if you know what I mean.’
    â€˜Are you saying he was coloured?’
    â€˜Are you asking me if he was a nigger?’
    â€˜No,’ Woodend said, with a sudden sharp edge to his voice. ‘I’m asking you if he was
coloured
.’
    â€˜No, he wasn’t. But his skin was a lot darker than yours or mine. I used to know a chap in Manchester who ran a Greek restaurant. He was from Athens, and this man rather reminded me of him.’
    â€˜So let me see if I’ve got this straight,’ Woodend said. ‘This Greek-looking feller comes into the bar an’ talks to Terry Pugh, and five minutes later, they leave together.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Did Pugh look as if he wanted to go with the other