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case. He was happy to wait another couple of days to see if Skinner surfaced. If he didn’t we’d have a rethink. I was ten minutes late when I read the name of the Tap and Spile’s landlord above the door and strolled in.
    I’d been in the Tap before. I’ve been in most pubs at least once. The style was nineteen thirties Odeon: all big open rooms, dark wood and half-tiled walls. A drinking palace, nothing more. Back in the fifties they’d tried ballroom dancing, and the mirrored globe still hung in the middle of the ceiling. Pool tables and a jukebox were an impoverished attempt at attracting a newer,younger, clientele. They had the money, these days, and were happy to pay two quid for a bottle of cheap foreign lager and not bother with a glass. Hopefully, it would be a long time before I came in again. I spotted Sparky in a corner contemplating a glass of orange juice and made a drinking gesture as I headed to the bar. He shook his head.
    The place was nearly deserted. I ordered a glass of orange juice and soda and told the landlord who I was. ‘We’d like a word,’ I said, pointing to where I’d be sitting. He vanished for a few moments and returned with a female sumo wrestler who looked as if she’d been dragged out of hibernation. She stayed behind the bar and he came to join us.
    ‘This is DC Sparkington,’ I said, and launched straight into it. ‘We’re looking for a man who is known to be a customer of yours. He’s about five-six, five-seven, late twenties and a snappy dresser. Three piece suits and a tie. Close cropped hair. He comes in on Thursdays and Fridays and stands at the bar, but we don’t think he’s been in since before Christmas. Does he ring a bell?’
    The landlord nodded. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were black with tattoos. ‘Yeah. I fink I know who you mean,’ he said. ‘’Asn’t been in for a while, though.’
    ‘He was in on Christmas Eve,’ I said.
    ‘Might ’ave been,’ he admitted. ‘Can’t be sure. It was ’eaving in ’ere.’
    ‘Do you have a name for him?’ Sparky asked.
    ‘Nah. I chatted to ’im, like, now and again, if you know what I mean. You ’ave to, in this job. Never asked ’is name.’
    ‘He’s called Darryl,’ I said.
    He stroked his stubble with nicotine-stained fingers. ‘Yeah, now you mention it, I did ’ear someone call ’im Darryl. What’s ’e done?’
    ‘Nothing, we hope. You know what we say: just want him to help us with our enquiries. So what can you tell us about Darryl? What did you find out when you had these little chats?’
    He tapped the table with the edge of a beer mat, rotating it in his fingers, gathering his thoughts. How much did he ought to tell us? ‘’E was a good bloke,’ he announced, when he was ready. ‘I liked ’im. He ’adn’t lived in ’Eckley long, ’e was finding ’is feet, if you know what I mean.’
    ‘Any idea where he came from?’ I asked.
    ‘Nah. Never asked.’
    ‘Or his second name?’
    ‘Nah, sorry.’
    ‘Did he come in a car?’
    ‘Good question. I fink ’e did, sometimes, but now and again ’e’d ring for a taxi, if ’e’d ’ad a skinful, if you know what I mean.’
    I turned to Dave. ‘You know what he means by a skinful, don’t you?’
    ‘I’ve heard of it,’ he said.
    ‘’E ’as some funny tastes in booze,’ the landlord declared. ‘Funny? In what way?’
    ‘’E kept asking if we ’ad any Benedictine. Said there was nowt like it with a drop of ’ot water for keeping t’cold out.’
    ‘I’ll remember that,’ Sparky said. ‘Anything else?’
    ‘Nah, I don’t fink so.’ He studied for a few seconds, his brow furrowed with concentration until enlightenment brightened his face. ‘Yeah, there is one fing. I know what ’e does for a living. ’E’s an estate agent. ’E said that if I ’eard of anyone who wanted an ’ouse, or a mortgage, to let ’im know. ’E was their man, ’e reckoned.’
    ‘An estate agent. That’s