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manoeuvred into the public bar by the big detective in the hairy sports coat.
    â€œI don’t like pub lounges,” Woodend said, running his eyes approvingly over the sawdust-covered floor of the bar. “Somehow the ale doesn’t taste the same when the room’s carpeted.”
    It was all Hopgood could do to avoid shaking his head bemusedly. Senior policemen, in his experience, didn’t mix with the riff-raff when they went for a drink, and he couldn’t quite work out what game Woodend was playing.
    He cleared his throat. “Uh . . . what are you having, sir?”
    Woodend patted him on the shoulder. “Nay, lad,” he said. “I’m the one on the big wage. I’ll get ’em in. You go an’ sit over there, an’ get to know my sergeant a little bit better.”
    The arrival of two men in suits, accompanied by another in a police uniform, had unsettled the other customers in the bar, who were mainly merchant seamen and dockers. Woodend had already noticed several hands being shoved into pockets as shady deals were rapidly postponed. He grinned to himself, and wondered how many stolen watches, illicit bottles of whisky and contraband cigarettes he could find in this pub if he really tried.
    He bought the beer, and took it over to a cast-iron table in the corner of the bar where Hopgood and Rutter were sitting.
    â€œSo the murder victim’s a teenager,” he said, as he made himself comfortable on the cracked leather settle. “There were no such things as teenagers when I was growin’ up. You were either a kid or you were an adult.” He clicked his fingers. “The change happened just like that. You went straight from short pants an’ comics to dressin’ an’ thinkin’ just like your dad.”
    â€œTimes change, sir,” said Hopgood, who had little patience with anything which smelled of philosophical musing.
    â€œAye, times do change,” Woodend agreed. “An’ it’s a damn good thing, in my opinion. I think teenagers are a fine idea. You might as well have your fun while you’re young, because there’s no bloody time for it later on.” He took a sip of his pint, and smacked his lips with satisfaction. “Course, there are always some little pleasures left, however long in the tooth you’re gettin’.”
    Faced with the choice of disagreeing with the Scotland Yard man or changing the subject, Inspector Hopgood reached into his briefcase and pulled out a typewritten sheet of paper.
    â€œThis is a list of all the people who had access to Eddie Barnes’s amplifier between the last time he used it and the moment he was killed,” he said crisply. “It includes their names, full addresses and – where applicable – their telephone numbers.”
    Woodend scanned the list. There seemed to be at least twenty names on it. He folded it roughly, and stuck it in the pocket of his sports jacket.
    â€œWell, that’ll give us plenty to go at,” he said. “Now why don’t you tell me a little bit about the band Eddie Barnes belonged to – the Albatrosses, isn’t it?”
    Hopgood frowned. “I think you mean, the Seagulls, sir.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Woodend admitted, winking surreptitiously at his sergeant. “I suppose I do.”
    The inspector’s frown deepened as perplexity set in. Why the bloody hell should Woodend want to know about the band?
    How would that help him get to bottom of the murder?
    â€œWhat exactly would you like to know, sir?” he asked.
    â€œAnythin’ and everythin’ would be a good start.”
    Suppressing his own view that the Seagulls – like all the other bands of scruffy youths who made jungle music – should be banned from playing in public for ever, and possibly locked up, Hopgood searched his mind for some scrap of information which might keep Woodend happy.
    â€œI believe