Nods and grunts all round, Gaz and George up for another night talking Leeds United, Paul Kelly looking at his watch, shaking his head.

I stood up, downing my Scotch. “I’ll give you a hand.”

Back at the bar, Kathryn down the other end talking to the barman and Steph the typist.

Barry Cannon, straight out of nowhere, “What’s your plan then?”

“Hadden’s fixed me up an interview with George Oldman for tomorrow morning.”

“So why aren’t you smiling?”

“He doesn’t want me to push the unsolveds with Oldman, just get some background shit together, try and interview the families, if they’ll see me.”

“Merry Christmas Mr and Mrs Parents of the Missing, Pre sumed Dead. Santa Eddie, bringing it all back home.”

Down pat: “They’ll be following Clare Kemplay. Be right back there anyway.”

“In fact you’ll be helping them. Catharsis.” Barry smiled for a second, looking round the room.

“They’re linked, I know it.”

“But to what? Three pints and a…”

Not following, catching up late, “A Scotch and water.”

“And a Scotch and water.” Barry Cannon was looking down the bar at Kathryn. “You’re a lucky man, Dunford.”

Me, guilt and nerves jangling, too much Scotch, too little Scotch, the conversation strange. “What do you mean? What do you think?”

“How long you got?”

Fuck you, too tired to play the game. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

But Barry had turned his back to talk to some kid at the bar, pencil thin in a fat maroon suit with an orange feather cut; nervous black eyes darted my way over Barry’s left shoulder.

Bad fucking Bowie.

I tried to listen in but the Feather Dress upon the small stage lurched into Don’t Forget to Remember.

I looked to the ceiling, I looked to the floor, and back to the bar.

“Having a nice time?” Kathryn’s eyes were tired.

Me thinking, here it comes. “You know Barry. Gets a bit obtuse,” I whispered.