‘Try not to fall in this time,’ whispered Markham to Max, and went off to deploy his troops.
Leon and Max, together with Matthew and Mikey, sauntered down to the river to take in the sights, with Matthew pointing out various landmarks on the way. Peterson and Lingoss circled around the pub so as to approach it from a different direction. Evans announced he was too thirsty for subtlety and he and Markham walked straight in through the door.
The King’s Arsenal was very quiet at this time of the afternoon. No customers were enjoying a peaceful drink in the garden.
‘Are they even open?’ enquired Peterson.
Markham and Evans emerged.
‘Three bars,’ reported Evans. ‘One restaurant. A couple of miscellaneous function rooms. Two offices. One kitchen. Cellars and storerooms. The place is practically empty. Lunchtime trade over. Evening trade not yet in. Two barmen setting things up. Four kitchen staff prepping stuff. One gardener/caretaker. There’ll never be a better opportunity.’
Markham nodded. ‘Secure the front door. Never mind the back. No reason the kitchen staff should even know we’re here.’
Evans nodded and pulled a carefully prepared sign from under his jacket which he began to fix to the door. That done, he ushered them all in, and closed and bolted the doors behind them. ‘That should keep people out.’
‘Good work,’ said Peterson.
‘All right,’ said Max. ‘Remember, everyone: a happy family and friends outing. Smile. Enjoy yourselves. Try not to kill anyone. Let’s start in here, shall we?’
They found themselves in a small, comfy room. The bar was set in the back left-hand corner and the rest of the room contained small groups of tables and chairs. There was no thumping music or slot machines. The atmosphere was quiet and intimate.
‘Cosy,’ said Markham, looking around. ‘We should be able to fill the room quite nicely.’
‘And only the one door,’ said Evans, parking himself nearby. ‘Mine’s a pint.’
They spread out to mark their territory.
It was busy, reflected the barman, polishing a glass. Normally this, the smallest and quietest bar, was only ever sparsely populated. People did not usually come to the King’s Arsenal for a quiet drink. As the youngest and most recent member of staff he was always dumped in here. It was a constant source of resentment to him. Lack of customers meant lack of tips. His colleagues in the other bars and the restaurant frequently did better than he did. Tonight, however . . . and to have a full house this early in the evening. He didn’t mind betting he had the only customers in the place. He finished his glass and picked up another.
And they were so quiet and well behaved. The first things he always looked for in a punter. Lots of money and no trouble. They’d shambled into the bar, gone back for a missing professor, and then the shock-headed kid had enquired whether his friend had arrived yet. Luke Parrish? Did he know him?
The barman had been more than happy to inform them that Mr Parrish wasn’t in yet, because he thought it made him look as if he was acquainted with all the punters and that this poxy little bar was the centre of the universe. He’d even remembered to add that the evening was still young. Never mind, had said the shock-headed kid – he’d have a drink while he waited.
One couple sat in the corner, nursing their drinks and chatting. A margarita and a pint. An old married couple, he decided. Nothing much left for them at their age other than to chat. He wondered if he’d ever get like that.
Over by the wall, two elderly gentlemen played virtual chess. Two dry sherries. Both of them were far too old to be any trouble.
The shock-headed kid and his girl sat by the window. The low sun streaming through the window lit up her hair like a halo. He’d suspected there might be trouble from these two. Not old enough to drink had been his first impression, but they’d solved his problem for him by ordering two orange juices. They sat now, quietly enough, holding hands under the table. The barman thought they were rather sweet.
Not like the woman in the corner. Black hair tipped with red. Gave him the creeps. As if she’d dipped her hair in blood. Dark red dress, black corset over the top, and boots. Sitting next to – would you believe? – a quiet bloke with a smart jacket and hair like a haystack. She’d ordered a port. Matched her dress. He was a single-malt man. A Goth and a banker. Who’d have thought? Still, it takes all sorts. He sighed and picked up another glass.
The Goth and the banker were joined by a short man wearing the world’s most blinding Hawaiian shirt and jeans. A cider for Hawaiian shirt.
Sitting alone with his pint, the big bloke – nearly as big as Johnson, the bouncer – sat by the door, arms folded, legs stretched out, almost blocking the door should anyone wish to get in. Although with this lot in here, he already had nearly a full house. And they weren’t giving any trouble. He wished it was always like this.
The last sun slipped from the window. This was the fag end of the day. Not late enough for the real punters. The ones who splashed the cash probably weren’t even out of bed yet, and the afternoon trade had gone on elsewhere. He turned his back to the room and ran an eye over his shelves to see if anything needed restocking.
When he turned back, for some reason, the big bloke had pulled his chair and table right across the door. What a clown.
Squaring his skinny shoulders, the barman assumed all the squeaky authority of his nineteen years. ‘I’m sorry, sir, you can’t sit there. No one’ll be able to get in or out.’
Suddenly, everyone was looking at him and equally suddenly, they didn’t look so nice. He wondered if they were an outing, perhaps. From one of those homes where people over forty went to live. Although they didn’t seem to have any carers with them. And surely, they wouldn’t let old people out on their own.
‘Now then,’ he said, wishing his voice didn’t sound so squeaky. He went to reach for the in-house telephone to summon assistance and found himself face to face with the little bloke. The one with the sunny smile and the blinding shirt.
He stepped back.
‘No, no,’ said the little bloke, smiling amiably. ‘Out from behind the bar, please. We wouldn’t want to do anything inadvertent, would we? You know – set off the panic alarm. That’s always so embarrassing, isn’t it? Shall we sit down? Oh, don’t worry about the boss seeing you – no one can get in.’ He paused meaningfully. ‘Or out.’
Abruptly, he pushed the suddenly frightened barman into a seat. ‘Now, we’re going to ask you one or two questions, and you’re going to tell us what we want to know, and then we’ll go away and you can continue polishing those glasses – very nicely kept bar, by the way, well done – and we can all pretend this never happened.’
‘I don’t know what you want,’ said the barman nervously. ‘I just work here.’