‘British?’
‘No, Bulgarian.’
‘Then I reckon he was in here. I saw him come up the road from the Mallard. I thought he’d head for Bissett’s or the Golf, but he came in here.’
‘Are you saying you hoped he’d pass you by?’
‘No, everybody’s welcome here. He came in, asked for a pint.’ Bravo smiled. ‘He blinked when he saw what it cost, mind you.’
‘Did he speak to anyone?’
‘No, not at first. The regulars ignored him; they guessed where he was from, and so did I, to tell the truth. This is Gullane; travelling people stand out.’
‘No trouble, though?’
‘Inspector George,’ said the barman mildly, ‘I don’t have trouble.’
Regan understood why not. He laid a five pound note on the bar and picked up his rock shandy. ‘Not at first, you said.’
‘That’s right.’ Bravo picked up the banknote, folded it and slid it into the detective’s breast pocket. ‘Another guy came in just after; stuck his head round the door as if he was looking for him, then when he saw him, came in. Bought two pints, one for him, one for the little guy. Then they went over and sat in the window.’
‘Can you describe the second man?’
‘Ginger,’ the barman replied at once. ‘Red beard, red hair, stocky guy, thick wrists, looked quite strong. Wore a work shirt; looked hot in it. Wore boots too. Reckon he might have been a soldier.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Regan asked. The description matched Hugo Playfair, beyond a shadow of a doubt, but no one had ever suggested that the man might have had a military background.
‘The boots. They were polished. I see a lot of guys come through here, and a lot of them wear boots, especially in the winter. But I never see anybody polish them, save for soldiers.’
The DI took a drink, and filed the thought away.
‘Could you hear the conversation?’
‘No, but I could see them. I thought they were both on edge. They didn’t stay long. Finished their drinks and headed off together.’
‘What time?’
‘By then? About nine.’
‘And Mustafic had the two pints while he was here, that’s all?’
‘Yes.’
On top of one in the Mallard, Regan thought. There was more than that in him when he died, for sure. Must have gone somewhere else. Oh, Mr Playfair, I really do want to talk to you.
He finished his rock shandy and nodded farewell to Tony Bravo. ‘Thanks a lot, big man,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you around.’
He left the pub and, leaving his car parked, walked back to the main street, where the other two village pubs stood, on opposite sides but only around a hundred yards apart. He decided to stay on the south side of the road, although Bissett’s bar was the further away. As he reached it, he saw a powered wheelchair parked outside, flanked by two men, smoking. He nodded to them as he passed and stepped inside, into a big square bar, complete with dartboard and pool table, although neither was in use.
‘What can I get you?’ the bartender asked him. The contrast with Tony Bravo could not have been greater; the man was shorter, overweight, and looked as if he spent too long indoors.
The inspector decided against another soft drink. ‘Information,’ he said. ‘Police, DI Regan.’
‘The murder, eh.’
‘That’s right. We’re trying to establish the dead man’s movements last night. I know he was in the Mallard and the Old Clubhouse, but I’m pretty sure his drinking didn’t end there.’
‘Well, he didn’t do any of it in here.’
‘And how would you know that?’
‘It was Sunday night and the Fire Training School was empty. I knew everyone who came in here last night.’
‘Everyone?’ Regan asked sceptically. ‘On a nice summer evening you only had locals in?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘But not entirely?’
‘Maybe not,’ the man conceded.
‘The victim was a small man, skinny, not very well dressed, and he probably wouldn’t have been alone. My last sighting has him with another man, stocky, red hair, red beard.’
‘Oh aye. I remember them.’
‘So they were here.’
‘Not for long. I wouldn’t serve them.’
‘They were the worse for drink?’
‘The wee man probably had had a couple, but no, that’s no’ why. I didn’t fancy them, that’s all. I reckoned they were travellers. There’s bad feeling about these people around here, and I didn’t want any of it in this bar. If I let trouble develop, my boss would be down on me like a ton of breezeblock. So I showed them the door.’
‘How did they take that?’
‘The wee man didn’t take it too well, but him wi’ the red hair, he hustled him outside.’
‘He did?’
‘Aye, no argument.’
Regan was surprised, given Playfair’s position as a self-appointed champion of the people of the road, but he realised that there was no point in pressing the barman further. He headed for the door himself, wondering who, among the half-dozen drinkers he had seen perched on stools, was the owner of the wheelchair, and trying to recall any applicable law about driving under the influence.
He crossed the road and walked into the public bar of the Golf Inn. Its layout was different, split into two areas, the first equipped with comfortable seating, some of it around an unused fireplace.
‘Evening, Inspector,’ said the thin, fair-haired steward.
‘That obvious?’
The man smiled. ‘No. There’s a guy in the back bar who just came in from Bissett’s. You wanting to know about the dead guy and his pal?’
‘They were here?’
‘Yes. They came in around half nine. Two pints of Eighty Shilling. My name’s John, by the way.’
‘Who paid?’
‘The red-haired bloke. It’s the other fella that’s dead, right?’
Regan nodded. ‘Yes. How long did they stay?’
‘The wee man was there until after eleven; the pair of them sat over there.’ He pointed to a corner of the bar, next to the window.
‘The red-haired guy left first?’
‘Yes, about half ten. They finished those pints, red-haired guy got another couple in. They were halfway through them when they had some sort of a barney. We were fairly busy on Sunday night. . the good weather brings out some of the older people as well as the regulars. . so I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the wee man started shouting at the other bloke. Not in English, but I could tell he wasn’t complimenting him on his dress. . or anything else for that matter. I was about to tell them to pipe down or piss off, but Red-head beat me to in. Got up and walked out with a face like. .’
‘Angry?’
‘Oh aye, he was all that.’
‘And the other guy?’
‘He finished both pints, his and his mate’s, then got another in for himself; and another after that. He might have been only a wee guy, but he could put it away.’
‘What sort of state was he in when he left?’
‘About one more pint short of dazed and confused, I’d say.’ John looked at the detective. ‘Was Red-head waiting for him, then? Is that what happened?’
Regan smiled, grimly. ‘Let’s just say that’s a possibility I’m starting to consider very seriously.’
Forty-nine
Bob pulled into the driveway, coming to a halt a few feet short of the garage door, which was closed, as usual. He glanced in the rear-view mirror to ensure that the gate had closed properly behind him, in response to his remote signal, then eased himself from behind the driver’s seat and retrieved his jacket from its hook in the back.
He frowned, wondering why for a few seconds, until he realised that his usual welcoming committee was conspicuous by its absence. Normally, when the children were at home, at least one of them would be in the doorway to greet him before the car had stopped moving. And if not them, Aileen, whose high office carried with it chauffeur-driven travel to and from the Parliament, and who usually made it home before he did.
He opened the door and stepped into the hall, but still there was no rush of feet, nor the sound of any presence. He turned to his right and looked into the kitchen, but that too was empty. ‘On the beach, I guess,’ he murmured, feeling a tinge of disappointment. He transferred his mobile to a trouser pocket, slung his jacket as usual over the post at the foot of the banister, and headed for the garden room.