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hotels, and I didn’t have to walk very far before I was back in medieval Europe . . . people sharing their houses with farm animals . . . beasts of the field on the ground floor . . . humankind above them.’
    â€˜Point taken.’ Yewdall slowed the car so as to negotiate a bend in the road. ‘But I think you’re right, there’s a hidden agenda there. Roy Cole has been the victim of something he doesn’t want the police to know about.’ She paused. ‘And Alexander Montgomery? Your views?’
    â€˜Well, he has form stamped all over him.’ Ainsclough took a deep breath. ‘I’ll do a criminal records check when we get back to the Yard.’
    The remainder of the journey to Seven Kings was passed in a comfortable and relaxed silence. It was the sort of silence that can only develop between two people who know each other well, who like each other on whatever level, and who work well together and who know exactly what the other is thinking.
    The Neptune pub on Seven Kings High Road, Ilford, was easily located by Ainsclough and Yewdall, being where Roy Cole had described, to wit, close to Goodmayes Railway Station. It was found to occupy a corner site, as did many pubs of the Victorian era, which were built into terraces comprising a parade of shops with family accommodation above the business premises, and such was the location of The Neptune. It stood on the corner of a small street which joined Seven Kings High Road at right angles, with the front of the pub, and the main entrance, on the High Road. To the left of the pub, as viewed from the outside, there was a row of ten small shops until the terrace of buildings was interrupted by a junction where another side road joined the High Road. Ainsclough glanced along the row of shops, and noted a newsagent’s, a betting shop, a café, a butcher’s, a grocer’s and a fishmonger’s, with a military surplus shop occupying the other corner site. He ran his eye back along the row of shops to The Neptune, which had, he saw with some pleasure, retained many of the original Victorian features. It had stained-glass windows with a band of royal-blue above the windows with the name ‘The Neptune’ in large, gold letters. The wooden sign, at that moment hanging quite still above the doorway, showed a bearded male with the body of a fish from the waist down.
    Having parked their car as close to The Neptune as they legally could, Ainsclough and Yewdall walked across the high street and entered the pub. It contained, they noted, few patrons at that time of day and what hushed conversation was being carried on instantly stopped upon the entry of the two police officers. Taking in the interior in a single sweep of his eyes, Tom Ainsclough noticed a pub which, just as on the outside, had retained many of the original features. It had the high ceilings favoured by the Victorians, with the solid wooden beams being covered in ornate plasterwork. It had a long bar of solid and polished wood, a dark blue carpet on which stood circular tables of wrought iron topped with polished wood and wooden chairs surrounding each table. It was, noted Ainsclough, only the electric lighting and a large, flat screen television mounted on the wall opposite the bar which showed that The Neptune was in the twenty-first century. The officers walked up to the bar where the publican stood, barrel-chested, with his hands resting on the bar, clean-shaven, and wearing an expensive-looking shirt and wristwatch. As the officers stood at the bar the low hum of conversation in the pub resumed.
    â€˜They’re just a little suspicious of strangers.’ The publican grinned warmly, showing gold-capped teeth. ‘Especially if it’s the Old Bill.’
    â€˜It shows?’ Ainsclough returned the smile.
    â€˜It’s stamped on your forehead, mate.’
    â€˜No matter,’ Yewdall added, ‘we don’t take it personally.’ She