He glanced behind at the thought, checking again, and nearly missed what he was looking for. The Saxon Warrior lay back from the road, an instant antique of sculpted thatch over mock-Tudor beams. Inside he knew there would be mahoganied plastic, fruit machines in every bar and men wearing blazers and cravats solving Britain’s economic ills while they felt the milled edges of the coins in their pockets to decide if they could buy the next round of drinks.

‘Shit,’ said Charlie fervently. He pulled into the car park and looked at his watch. He hadn’t time to find an alternative. Not if he wanted to eat. All he had at the flat was cold beef.

Few people saw Charlie enter, because he didn’t want them to and had long ago perfected being unobtrusive. He reached the bar between a group of men to his left reallocating Britain’s oil wealth and a circle to his right undermining communist influence in Africa. The fruit machine was by the toilets. The people around had formed a kitty, in an effort to recover their money before closing time.

The barmaid was a blonde, tightly corseted woman with the bright smile that barmaids share with politicians. Charlie estimated she was about twenty years older than the pub.

‘Whisky,’ said Charlie, unwilling to risk the beer. There would be no danger, provided he restricted himself to two.

‘And lunch,’ he said, when the woman returned with the drink.

‘There’s mince,’ she offered doubtfully, looking behind her to the serving hatch.

‘No,’ said Charlie. At least last week they’d disguised it with instant mashed potato.

‘Bread and cheese?’

‘No.’

‘Beef salad?’

‘The guide book said three stars.’

‘Trouble in the kitchen.’