‘Bad day, then?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Beef salad,’ said Charlie, resigned. He’d overcooked the meat at home anyway.

The barmaid retreated to the kitchen hatch and Charlie looked around the bar, sipping his drink. There were pictures of men in flying gear standing alongside Battle of Britain aircraft, a propeller mounted over the bar and near the counter-flap a man who was obviously the landlord stood frequently touching the tips of a moustache that spread like wings across his face. Mechanic, guessed Charlie. He’d never met a World War II pilot who wore a moustache like that; something to do with the oxygen mask.

Professional as the barmaid, the landlord isolated a new face and detached himself from the African group, moving down the bar. As the man approached, Charlie was aware of the critical examination; the man kept any expression of distaste from his face. Charlie resolved to get his suit pressed. And perhaps a new shirt.

‘Afternoon.’

‘Afternoon.’

‘Sorry about the food. Fire in the kitchen.’

‘Can’t be helped,’ said Charlie.

‘Repaired by next weekend.’

‘Afraid I won’t be here then,’ said Charlie.

‘Didn’t think I recognised you. Just passing through?’

‘Just passing through,’ agreed Charlie. As always. Never the same place twice, always polite but distant in any conversation.

‘Nice part of the country.’

‘Very attractive.’

‘Been here since ’48,’ said the landlord, hand moving automatically to his moustache.

‘Straight after the war, then?’ said Charlie, joining in the performance. Why not? he thought.

‘More or less. You serve?’

‘Bit too young,’ said Charlie. ‘Berlin airlift was around my time.’

‘Not the same,’ dismissed the man.

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘Had a good war,’ said the landlord. ‘Bloody good war.’

Charlie avoided any reaction to the cliche. It sounded as obscene now as it had when he first heard it. The bastard who had taken over the department had had a good war. And tried to continue it, by setting him up to be killed.