jutting around the border of one of the panels. A large slice of it still remained at the bottom, pointed upwards like a jagged tooth.
Cawley removed a pen and a notepad, for appearance sake if nothing else. He doubted that the bartender would have anything noteworthy to say but he wanted to at least make it look like he was interested in hearing it. “What time did they arrive?” he asked.
The stocky man shrugged, glanced around in a moment of recall. “Early afternoon, maybe one or two.”
Cawley lifted his eyes from the pad where he was doodling; he raised an eyebrow at the bartender. The robbery at the bank had been around twelve. The cameras clocked the culprits leaving just after twelve-thirty. A thirty minute drive North West, along the winding country lanes that peppered this part of the country like snakes in wild grass, would put them at approximately this location.
“And what time did they leave?” he enquired.
He shrugged again, looked distant, mischievous. There was something he wasn’t saying. “They weren’t ‘ere long. Ordered a couple o’drinks, used the toilet and then left,” he seemed to be finished, and then added: “after trashing the place.”
Cawley raised his eyebrows further, asking for clarification, when it didn’t come he asked: “They just smashed the door and left?”
A pause, a look in a false memory and then the bartender answered, “The report about the robbery came on the television,” he shrugged. “They panicked I guess. One of the lads tried to stop them, calmly ya know, then the guy went ballistic. He hit him, shoved ‘im against the door,” he nodded towards the panelled door. “Then ‘e pulled out a gun, ordered us all into the toilets whilst ‘e escaped.”
Cawley flipped to the previous page in the notebook, he’d spoken to the officer who had taken Sellers’s call and made a few notes. “This happened yesterday afternoon?”
“That’s right,” he said with a half-smile of cooperation.
“And yet you never phoned the police?”
The smile disappeared from his face, was replaced by a look of anxiety.
“We wouldn’t have found out if not for an anonymous call yesterday,” Cawley informed him. “Why?”
“I was a little shaken, I guess. He pulled a fucking gun on me ya know.”
“So you said. And the others, like the one they hit, none of them thought to call us?”
He shrugged, tried to avert his gaze.
“Do you have any idea who might have phoned us?”
Something glared behind Seller’s eyes, his features twitched with an instinctive, uncontrollable disgust. He shook his head and denied knowledge; Cawley knew he was lying but that didn’t prove anything. The call had probably come from a drunken patron after watching the story on the news, something that Sellers wasn’t willing to admit.
“Okay,” Cawley said long and slow. The bartender was clearly hiding something. If the bandits had been in his pub he had nothing to hide. He wasn’t harbouring them, the officers had already checked out the building and the bandits weren’t dumb enough to hide in a shit hole run by someone who would sell them out in a heartbeat.
“What’re you not telling me?” Cawley persisted.
“What do you mean?” Sellers wondered without conviction.
Cawley sighed. “You’re hiding something. You’re lying to me.”
“Why would I make up a story like this?”
“You tell me.”
Sellers groaned and grumbled, looked around the room with the air of a troubled soul. “Okay,” he said, softly and resolutely. “The truth is, things got a little heated. We had a full house, usually do…” he paused, checked for the dozenth time that no one else was in the pub.
“Go on…”
“The boys got a little rough. They saw the television report. They just wanted to bring ‘em in, do the right thing.”
“I bet the reward helped.”
He
Cawley removed a pen and a notepad, for appearance sake if nothing else. He doubted that the bartender would have anything noteworthy to say but he wanted to at least make it look like he was interested in hearing it. “What time did they arrive?” he asked.
The stocky man shrugged, glanced around in a moment of recall. “Early afternoon, maybe one or two.”
Cawley lifted his eyes from the pad where he was doodling; he raised an eyebrow at the bartender. The robbery at the bank had been around twelve. The cameras clocked the culprits leaving just after twelve-thirty. A thirty minute drive North West, along the winding country lanes that peppered this part of the country like snakes in wild grass, would put them at approximately this location.
“And what time did they leave?” he enquired.
He shrugged again, looked distant, mischievous. There was something he wasn’t saying. “They weren’t ‘ere long. Ordered a couple o’drinks, used the toilet and then left,” he seemed to be finished, and then added: “after trashing the place.”
Cawley raised his eyebrows further, asking for clarification, when it didn’t come he asked: “They just smashed the door and left?”
A pause, a look in a false memory and then the bartender answered, “The report about the robbery came on the television,” he shrugged. “They panicked I guess. One of the lads tried to stop them, calmly ya know, then the guy went ballistic. He hit him, shoved ‘im against the door,” he nodded towards the panelled door. “Then ‘e pulled out a gun, ordered us all into the toilets whilst ‘e escaped.”
Cawley flipped to the previous page in the notebook, he’d spoken to the officer who had taken Sellers’s call and made a few notes. “This happened yesterday afternoon?”
“That’s right,” he said with a half-smile of cooperation.
“And yet you never phoned the police?”
The smile disappeared from his face, was replaced by a look of anxiety.
“We wouldn’t have found out if not for an anonymous call yesterday,” Cawley informed him. “Why?”
“I was a little shaken, I guess. He pulled a fucking gun on me ya know.”
“So you said. And the others, like the one they hit, none of them thought to call us?”
He shrugged, tried to avert his gaze.
“Do you have any idea who might have phoned us?”
Something glared behind Seller’s eyes, his features twitched with an instinctive, uncontrollable disgust. He shook his head and denied knowledge; Cawley knew he was lying but that didn’t prove anything. The call had probably come from a drunken patron after watching the story on the news, something that Sellers wasn’t willing to admit.
“Okay,” Cawley said long and slow. The bartender was clearly hiding something. If the bandits had been in his pub he had nothing to hide. He wasn’t harbouring them, the officers had already checked out the building and the bandits weren’t dumb enough to hide in a shit hole run by someone who would sell them out in a heartbeat.
“What’re you not telling me?” Cawley persisted.
“What do you mean?” Sellers wondered without conviction.
Cawley sighed. “You’re hiding something. You’re lying to me.”
“Why would I make up a story like this?”
“You tell me.”
Sellers groaned and grumbled, looked around the room with the air of a troubled soul. “Okay,” he said, softly and resolutely. “The truth is, things got a little heated. We had a full house, usually do…” he paused, checked for the dozenth time that no one else was in the pub.
“Go on…”
“The boys got a little rough. They saw the television report. They just wanted to bring ‘em in, do the right thing.”
“I bet the reward helped.”
He
Similar Books
