Main moved his attention to the various couples dotted around the room. Most were young but there was a middle aged duo whose complexions said that they drank a lot. The man had a small suitcase at his feet, the kind people used in the nineteen fifties, the sort that German spies used to carry in early British films, the sort that Crippin might have carried his implements in. Main couldn’t guess what the couple did. Shopkeepers maybe? An off-license, perhaps.
There were two working men standing at the bar, still in their overalls. They obviously hadn’t been home. Both had hands that were stained with black grease. Main guessed at mechanics. He probably could have found out if he had wanted to by listening to their conversation which had been animated for the last fifteen minutes but half the verbiage seemed to consist of four letter words. Main took in a sound bite.
“I fuckin’ telt him fuckin’ straight, I’m no doin’ any more of these fuckin’ jobs.”
“Fuckin’ right,” replied the other man.
Three men in their early twenties sat at a table near the cigarette machine. They would burst into laughter periodically and Main guessed by their glances that some joke had been made at the expense of the students. He could sense the animosity between the two factions. There didn’t have to be a specific reason. Students were like a red rag to a bull to certain groups of other young people. One of the girls got up from the student tables and went to the lavatory. She had to pass the table where the three men were sitting. One, the tallest, dressed in a leather jacket and denim jeans leaned across and said something to her. Main did not catch what it was but the girl reddened and the man’s companions burst into laughter. Main looked at the student tables where he saw one boy start to get up angrily. He was restrained by his friends. “Let it go Neil, let it go,” he was advised. “It isn’t worth it.”
Sound advice, thought Main. The boy looked no match for the man in the leather jacket no matter how sound his cause. The girl returned from the toilet, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the three on the way as she passed. Nothing more was said and the students got up to leave soon afterwards.
As they passed out through the door a thickset young man in a denim jacket came into the pub. He had red hair, cut short with such a well defined shave line over his ears that he must have had it cut that day, thought Main. The man looked around him, spotted the three men and joined them at the table.
Main was just about to lose interest when he heard the newcomer say, “I see that lying old bastard McKirrop’s snuffed it.”
Main froze at the mention of the name. He had turned back to the bar but he could see what was happening behind him in the bar mirror.
“Who?” asked one of the others.
“The old wino in the bone-yard.”
Main’s throat was tight with apprehension and anticipation. Just as he had been on the verge of giving up hope, someone had mentioned McKirrop’s name. His fingers were wrapped round his glass but nothing moved. He remained completely immobile as he strained to hear every word that was being said.
“No kidding?” said the man in the leather jacket.
“It was on the telly. Some geezer smashed his head in.”
“Serves him right.”
“He didn’t mean any harm really,” said another of the four., but he was pounced on by the others.
“That old bastard could have gotten us into real deep shit, you stupid git,” said the newcomer.
“All right, all right!” protested the one who’d dared to run against the herd. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I’m bloody right!”
“Well, he isn’t going to get anyone into trouble now is he?” said another.
The four fell silent for a few moments before one asked, “What else did they say?”
“Not much,” shrugged the red haired man. “Just went on about him being the geezer who put up such a brave fight in the boneyard.”
“Bunch of crap!” sneered the man in the leather jacket. “Anything else?”
“Just that the police weren’t getting anywhere.”
This brought laughter from the others.
Main could feel the blood pounding in his temples. He had come out this evening hoping to pick up a rumour, any snippet of information but he’d hit the jackpot! These four were the actual men he was looking for. But satanists? These yobs? It didn’t make sense. Unless of course, they were just the hired help and they’d been paid by others to do the grave robbing. That would make more sense. But where was ‘sense’ in all of this?
Main recognised that somewhere along the line he had decided that Satanism and witchcraft were middle-class ‘pastimes’, like tennis and skiing — the province of the white collar worker, educated people but maybe this was wrong. The truth was that he had no idea what sort of people were attracted to the occult. One thing was for certain, however: whatever these four were, they knew something about the disappearance of Simon’s body.
Main’s eyes narrowed as he watched the men in the mirror. In his mind he saw them lift his son’s body out of his grave to expose him to the night. The thought made him ball his fists and close his eyes tightly for a moment while he fought to muster self control over the urge to create mayhem.
“Are you all right?” asked a female voice. There was no real concern in it.
Main opened his eyes and said to the barmaid, “Yes, thank you, fine. Just a bit of a headache.”
The girl looked at him suspiciously and Main sensed that she was wondering whether or not to summon the manager. He managed a smile in the hope of changing her mind.
“Migraine,” he said. “It’s the bane of my life.”
“Well, if you’re sure you’re all right...”
“I’m fine.”
The girl went about her business, but kept glancing back at him every few moments. He saw her confide something to another customer who immediately looked in his direction. The customer said something that made the barmaid laugh. The sound made him think of a duck flying across the marshes.
One of the men had left the table to go to the Gents. This gave Main his plan of action. He would wait until the weakest of the four did the same. He judged the weakest to be the one who had shown some semblance of feeling about McKirrop’s death. He would follow him and try to get whatever he could out of him. They were all drinking beer so he shouldn’t have to wait too long. Just as long as the silly barmaid did not try to bring some excitement into her dreary life by drawing too much attention to him. He noticed her looking at him again and summoned up another smile. It was hard.
Main’s target was the third of the men to go to the gents. Main followed thirty seconds later. He had to stop himself from tackling the man immediately when he suddenly realised there was another man already in the toilet. He had overlooked this obvious possibility and alarm bells rang in his head. Be more careful.
Main pretended to look at himself in the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair until the unwanted man left. As soon as the door swung shut Main turned round and walked up quietly behind the yob who was urinating at the wall. The man seemed to sense that something was amiss and stopped whistling. He had half turned his head to the side when Main pushed his face hard up against the tiled wall and held it there.
“What the fu—”
The heel of Main’s hand sunk into the yob’s cheek making speech impossible. He had wet his trousers and his shoes before he managed to stop urinating.
Main felt an almost overwhelming desire to cause pain to the man he held. He wanted him to suffer. He wanted to smash his fist into this man’s face with every ounce of strength he possessed and just at that moment, it seemed formidable. With the greatest of difficulty, he held back and hissed through his teeth, “I am the father of the boy you dug up you shit-faced little cunt! Start talking or, so help me, I’ll turn you into a basket case. Where is my son?”