The pub, The Green Man, bore the traditional emblem of a bearded and slightly sinister face surrounded by leaves and tendrils. The building appeared authentically old, its Tudor beams listing alarmingly. The doorway was low and Purkiss had to duck as he stepped inside, Hannah behind him.
The scattered late afternoon clientele was as listless as the day outside. Four men sat at the bar counter itself, murmuring their conversation into pint glasses while the florid landlord roved across from them, rubbing crockery dry. A clump of farmers sat around a table to the left, gently joshing one of their number who looked morose. To the right of the counter a girl and a boy, both temporary staff, flirted almost invisibly. A middle-aged tourist couple ate their late sandwich lunches in hasty silence in a booth near the entrance, as if conscious of their outsider status.
One or two of the farmers at the table glanced round as Purkiss and Hannah entered, their gazes lingering on Hannah before they turned back to themselves. A fresh laugh rose from the table.
Purkiss eased himself in among the drinkers at the bar, Hannah beside him. The landlord beamed tiredly.
‘What’ll it be, sir?’
‘We’re looking for Dennis Arkwright,’ said Purkiss, a little more loudly than necessary.
The low hum of conversation in the pub didn’t quite stop entirely, but there was an almost tangible change in the atmosphere, a tightening. Purkiss was aware, on the periphery of his vision, of faces turned towards them.
The landlord’s smile had faded a degree, though it lingered as if unwilling to let go of his face.
Hannah said, ‘Do you know him?’
After a pause, the landlord said: ‘I know him, yes. But he’s not here.’
Purkiss half-turned, addressed the room. One or two more people had wandered in since he and Hannah had arrived. ‘Does anyone here know where Dennis Arkwright might be?’
‘Who wants to know?’ a voice called. It was one of the farmers sitting round the table. Their boozy cheeriness was gone, and they stared at Purkiss and Hannah with open curiosity and a trace of belligerence.
Purkiss held up his fake warrant card. ‘Police,’ he said.
Now all conversation did stop, even the tourists near the door staring across.
The landlord said, quietly, ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘We just need to ask Mr Arkwright a few questions. So if anyone here knows where he might be at the moment, it really would be a great help.’ Purkiss’s tone suggested that, on the other hand, not to reveal where Arkwright was might be seen as obstructive.
One of the farmers pushed his chair back, the legs screeching on the rough wooden floor. He reached for his pocket.
Purkiss tensed. A blade? A gun, even? But the man took out a phone. Holding Purkiss’s stare, he murmured into it, then put it away.
He stood up. Purkiss stepped away from the counter and towards him.
The man was in his late twenties, burly, with the ruddy face and neck of someone who spent most of his day in the sun. His build suggested a life of physical labour.
‘Can you help us?’ Purkiss asked.
The man appraised him, then glanced past him at Hannah who was close behind. He jerked his head.
‘I’m Dennis Arkwright’s son,’ he said. ‘He’ll meet you outside.’
The rest of the farmers didn’t move. All eyes followed the three of them as they made their way to the door, the younger man in the lead. The tourist couple cringed away, not making eye contact as if to do so would rope them into the situation somehow.
The man glanced back to make sure Purkiss and Hannah were with him, and turned left, walking along the road in front of the pub. At the side was an open wooden gate leading into the car park, where a few vehicles were scattered about.
The man stopped, turned.
‘He’s on his way,’ he said.
Purkiss studied him. The photo Vale had sent of Dennis Arkwright had been of low quality, and the man’s features had been so generic that it was difficult to see any resemblance in the son.
‘What’s your name?’ said Purkiss.
The man stared back, said nothing.
‘Behind us,’ murmured Hannah.
Purkiss stepped back and turned, so that he could keep Arkwright’s son in his field of vision.
Walking towards them from the car park gate were two more men, of a similar age to the one who’d led them there. One of the men was taller and even broader than him. The other was smaller, wiry, his face drawn and tight, his eyes glittering.
There was a distinct similarity in the features of all three men.
The bigger man held a crowbar, hanging down by his side so that the end tapped against his leg. A length of chain was wrapped around the fist of the smaller man, the end swinging as he walked.
The first man, the one whom they’d met inside the pub, reached into his pocket, pulled out a small metallic object. The blade sprang free with a snick.
The two newcomers stopped ten feet away from Purkiss and Hannah.
‘Who are you?’ said the big man.
Twenty-four
Using his fingertips, careful not to make the movement look threatening, Purkiss took out his warrant card again and opened it.
‘Detective Inspector Peter Cullen. Metropolitan Police.’
The big man peered at the car from were he stood, but didn’t step closer. He nodded at Hannah.
‘Who’s she?’
‘She can answer for herself,’ said Hannah. ‘Detective Inspector Hannah Holley.’ Her tone was cold, unyielding.
The man didn’t drop his gaze down her body, as Purkiss had expected. He glared at her face as if trying to stare her down. Then he turned his free palm upwards, raised his eyebrows.
‘So where’s your ID?’
Damn, thought Purkiss.
‘You’re not coppers,’ said the smaller man. He gave the chain the slightest tug so that the end flicked through a circle.
Purkiss said, ‘You men need to back down right now. There’s no going back if you cross that line. Assaulting a police officer. That won’t be overlooked, or forgiven.’
‘Impersonating a police officer’s a serious offence, too,’ said the first man, the one with the knife.
The small man smirked.
‘You’re all sons of Dennis Arkwright, I take it,’ said Purkiss. ‘All we want to do is talk to him. We’re not here to arrest him, or to make trouble in any way.’
‘So why are you pretending to be coppers, then?’ said the big man.
Purkiss looked at Hannah.
‘If you’re not going to help us,’ he said, ‘then please let us pass.’
He took a step forwards. The big man, surprisingly, moved aside.
As Purkiss drew level with him he saw the man was grinning.
‘That proves it,’ he said. ‘If you were real coppers you’d have busted us for threatening you.’
It was a cliché: go for the biggest one, the leader, first. And usually it was a sound tactic. Not always, though, in Purkiss’s experience. Sometimes the biggest one, the apparent leader, wasn’t the most dangerous. And Purkiss didn’t like the knife, and would rather have dealt with its wielder first.
Still, the biggest man was also the nearest of the three, and was the one who was initiating the attack, so Purkiss started with him.
The man’s crowbar whipped across sideways rather than downwards onto the crown of Purkiss’s head, in a backhand slash aimed at the face. Purkiss stepped back, arcing his neck away, and felt the end of the bar swipe past inches from his face. The movement left the man’s torso exposed for an instant and Purkiss closed in with a one-two punch, the first landing in the man’s abdomen just below the breastbone, the other connecting with the stubbled jaw as it tipped forwards. The man stumbled, his flailing body uncertain whether to drop to its knees or collapse backwards. Purkiss made the decision for it, crashing a right hook into the side of the man’s head, the blow spinning the man round almost one hundred and eighty degrees to sprawl face-down in the dirt.