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Jason Phythian. Know him?’
    ‘Can’t say I do,’ he said. ‘Lot of people round here aren’t so friendly as to give their names up when you pull ’em their pints.’
    I described Phythian and expected a shrug from the barman, as if I had just described thirty men who used this pub on any given day.
    ‘What are you?’ he asked. ‘Copper?’
    I shook my head and sank a third of the lager. It had a sour aftertaste: there aren’t that many boozers around these days that look after their pipes too well. ‘Just helping to track down a friend for a friend.’
    He nodded and moved away to serve one of the grim-faced regulars, who would no doubt still be in the same position at the bar come closing time.
    He’s making names up , Sweet had said. Maybe I was. Maybe Jason Phythian wasn’t his name, or maybe they were just protecting such a young man from his big sister, who might be angry to discover that her brother was mixing it with the missing links down at the fight club.
    I was almost finished with my drink when somebody else walked through the door. Somebody I knew? I fished about in my memory for a while, until the name came to me. Whitby. Neville Whitby. Freelance photographer of some repute, although he had no formal training. While most pros were busy with their light meters and flash indexes, playing who’s got the biggest lens, Nev was busy taking photos, solid quality stuff that regularly found its way into the papers. I had crossed his path a few times in the past few years, and liked his blatant disregard for his profession, and the prima donnas who worked in it. He had a hard and fast rule when it came to taking pictures, as I remembered him telling me when we were standing in the rain, waiting for some nugget of information at some outdoor press conference ages before. He took his photos in the morning or in the late afternoon; the light was crap at any other time of day.
    I watched him shrug off his coat, and hailed him as he headed towards the cigarette machine.
    ‘All right there, Joel?’
    ‘Not so bad, Nev. Let me get you a pint.’
    I bought him a Guinness and got myself another pint of lager. We sat by the window, one of those thick glass affairs with lots of flaws and ripples in it, so you can’t see clearly in or out. Weird figures wobbled past beyond the glass as they stalked up and down the Holloway Road.
    ‘What brings you out here?’ I asked him. ‘You live down in Oval, don’t you?’
    He nodded and unwrapped his pack of Embassy Regal. ‘I’m supposed to be covering an eviction, but I don’t know if I can be arsed. Got a tip-off that some crusties are about to be forcibly removed from a derelict flat in Fitzwarren Gardens. Unofficial job, apparently. Some real bruisers involved. I thought it would be fun to snap some kid being hurled out of a top-floor window but I’m not so sure now. I just don’t seem to have the appetite for it any more. I haven’t taken a picture of a cheque presentation for fifteen years, and I’m actually beginning to miss it – the humdrum. You need a bit of humdrum in your life. And, anyway, your modern student type doesn’t seem to have the heart for a battle these days. Too cosseted, obviously.’
    He contemplated his cigarette as though an upsetting message were written on it. ‘I’m supposed to be cutting down,’ The light gleamed on his scalp, visible through his sparse, dirty-blond hair. ‘Look at that,’ he said, pointing at the warning that covered two-thirds of the packet in bold, black lettering. Smoking Kills .
    ‘I know,’ I said. ‘They might as well use bigger letters and just print the word DIE on it.’
    ‘Want one?’ he said, more brightly, as if my joining him would lessen his guilt. I shook my head. He sighed. ‘You can’t not smoke when you’re drinking. It’s the wet and the dry. It’s magical. It’s like having a cuppa without a biscuit. Anyway,’ he said, ‘what are you up here for?’
    ‘Missing person,’ I