Project Hades

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Clare Baines parked her motorcycle outside the Reiver’s Arms and climbed off. She took off her helmet, replacing it with her police cap. The October night was pitch black, and a wind moaned off the moor.

When she opened the pub door she was dazzled by the bright light. Sweaty, smoky air spilled out, and a jangle of overamplified guitar music: Johnny Kidd and the Pirates. She braced herself and walked in.

A punter, brimming pint in hand, lurched towards her, one arm outstretched. “Watch your family jewels, lads, it’s the lady copper!”

Clare said, “Bonny lad, that wandering hand is going to get shoved so far up your jacksie you’ll be picking your teeth from the inside.”

The drunk backed off. “All right, lass, no offence.”

Winston Stubbins approached her, tall, gangly, earnest, wearing a duffel coat and boots. “Clare. I don’t suppose you fancy a Newkie Brown.”

“I’m on—”

“Duty. Yes, we can all see that.”

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