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showed the publican her ID. ‘May as well show you the warrant card anyway, just to keep things right and proper. We aren’t here to arrest anyone.’ She slid her ID into her handbag.
    â€˜Good, that really would not be good for business.’ The publican continued to smile. ‘Not very good at all.’
    â€˜We’re looking for a geezer called Holst,’ Ainsclough explained, ‘Des . . . or Desmond Holst, works, or used to work as a builder . . . a bricklayer especially.’
    â€˜Used.’ The publican stopped smiling. ‘He used to be a good brickie so they say, a much sought-after trowel in his day.’
    â€˜Used?’ Ainsclough echoed.
    â€˜Used . . . the Almighty called Des’s name and number about a year ago . . . June now . . . so more than a year. It was the winter before last when Des was planted. Around Christmas time it was, because some old geezer made some remark about what a fine present it made for his old ball and chain . . . but Pearl . . . she’s a foot soldier. She just planted her old man and got on with life. But Des, Des the builder, he was one of my regulars was old Des. He was a nice enough sort; seemed to get a bit quieter in himself in the last years of his life . . . not coming in as often, not drinking as much . . . but still a good regular and it’s the regulars that keep a pub going. Regulars spend two hours in here, drink six pints and then amble home and never cause trouble . . . never cause no bother, like all my customers. Get very few strangers in here; nice local pub and we like it that way.’
    â€˜Good for you.’ Ainsclough glanced once again round the pub.
    â€˜Yes, I’m still ticking over when other pubs are closing, so I don’t complain.’ The publican drummed his fingers on the bar. ‘Don’t complain at all.’
    â€˜Is his wife still with us . . . the foot soldier?’
    â€˜Pearl? Yes, she’s still going strong, she just tramps on, Pearl does. She also nips in here for a vodka now and again. Saw her today, in fact, walking down the High Road just as I was opening up. She just took old Des’s death in her stride, but she must have been getting ready for it; every woman has to G.S.M.W. as my old trouble and strife keeps saying. She tells it to our daughter.’
    â€˜G.S.M.W.?’ Yewdall inclined her head slightly to one side. ‘What does that mean?’
    â€˜It’s a woman’s lot, pet . . . according to my old lady anyway, unless she dies young or becomes a nun . . . Girlhood, Spinsterhood, Motherhood, Widowhood . . . no one escapes except by death or holy orders. It’s a bit cynical but that’s my wife, a cynic, but it’s fair, at the same time; it’s fair enough, men die young and women just keep going.’
    â€˜Or elective spinsterhood.’ Yewdall straightened her head. ‘That is another way out of G.S.M.W., at least the “M” and “W” bits.’
    â€˜Is that your status, darling?’ The publican beamed at Penny Yewdall. ‘An elective spinster?’
    â€˜Possibly. So where does Pearl Holst live?’
    â€˜She’s not in any trouble?’ The publican suddenly wore a solemn expression.
    â€˜None.’ Ainsclough held eye contact with the publican. ‘None at all, we assure you.’
    â€˜Hope you’re right because publicans who grass up customers to the Bill . . . well, they tend to lose custom; tend to lose other things as well . . . like arms and legs, use of, if not completely . . . and Pearl, she’s a small woman with a huge temper. She’s a “pikey”; well not her, not now, but she comes from travelling people stock and they have their own way of settling things. You don’t want to mess with those people. Pearl and I had a run in a few years ago and I took second prize, but I didn’t slap her back because I was frightened of her relatives, not of