In the Dark by Mark Billingham Read Free Book Online Page A

compartment. ‘Snotty bitch.’
    The pub was set back from a road that ran between Charlton Park and Woolwich Dockyard, in deepest, drabbest south-east London. The river bowed a few minutes to the north. You could probably see the Thames Barrier from the roof; and the Millennium Dome, like a wok with legs, a mile or two beyond. There was scaffolding along one side of the building. The windows had been whited out from the inside with opaque swirls, and there was a sign on the door that said, ‘CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT’.
    Paul tapped on the frosted glass with his car key. There was a school at the end of the street and he could hear the noise from the playground; the kids like squawking gulls.
    â€˜Can’t you read?’
    Paul pressed his face close to the glass. ‘I’ve got an appointment.’
    It was getting warmer. He took off his leather jacket and tossed it across his arm as the bolts were slid back.
    Inside, there was dust in the air, dancing around the electrical cable dangling from the crossbeams. Paul could feel it on the backs of his hands, taste it when he spoke. ‘How’s it going, Clive?’
    The huge black man who had opened the door nodded as he lifted the trap at the end of the bar. He could barely squeeze through the gap; had to turn and shuffle in sideways. ‘Get you something, Mr Hopwood?’
    â€˜You got the pumps hooked up already ?’
    Clive laughed and shook his head. ‘We’ve got a few cans under here. Soft drinks and all that for the workmen.’
    Paul showed him the plastic bag. ‘I’ve brought stuff.’ He walked over to the bar and lifted the protective sheeting. It looked highly polished, but the wood wasn’t solid. Half a dozen old-style radiators were stacked in line, waiting to be installed. MDF had been laid down, ready for a new floor, and several boxes of tiles were piled up against a wall alongside sacks of plaster and ceiling roses. ‘I know he’s had you doing all sorts over the years, Clive, but now he’s got you lined up as bar staff, has he?’
    â€˜Just keeping an eye out,’ Clive said. ‘Same as always.’
    A man walked in through an open doorway at the far end of the room, drying his hands with a ball of toilet paper. He was a little shorter than average, with dark eyes and darker hair that was thinning on top but still long and curly at the back. The face was fifty-something, but the clothes told a different story: a powder-blue V-neck over a patterned shirt, designer jeans and training shoes.
    â€˜What are we eating then, Paul?’
    Paul hoisted up the bag. ‘I stopped off at that fishmonger’s you like in Greenwich.’
    The man nodded, pleased, and asked Clive to toss a rag across. A couple of grubby-looking stools had been placed next to a trestle table covered in a thin sheet of polythene, and he used the rag to wipe the dust from it before he settled down. He watched as Paul produced a French loaf, fresh prawns wrapped in newspaper, large tubs of whelks and cockles. He sent Clive across the road to fetch pepper, vinegar and the rest of it, then laughed when he caught sight of the smoothies Paul had produced from the bag: ‘“Innocent”? You taking the piss?’
    They ate with their fingers, flicking shells onto the plastic-covered tabletop and dipping prawns into a catering-sized jar of mayonnaise. Paul listened while his host brought him up to date.
    â€˜It’s all about bringing boozers like this back to the way they were. Near as you can get, anyway. Brass rail along that bar, Victorian-style lights, all that. Nice Italian-type beer garden out the back.’
    â€˜An old-fashioned pub with an Italian garden?’
    The man ignored him. ‘These places had the guts ripped out of them years ago, got bought up by chains. You ask me, people are sick to death of all the noise and the awful food and everything being the same. Wankers’