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There was no question about it. She was living on borrowed time.

Quickening her pace, Charlie tried to ignore her vibrating phone, knowing full well who was calling.

Chief Superintendent Holmes had been messaging, emailing and calling her all morning, impatient for an update, for some signs of progress.

As yet, Charlie had none to give her, so was grateful when the call now rang out.

Before the tell-tale voicemail alert could ping, raising her stress levels even further, Charlie plucked her phone from her pocket, switching it off.

Seconds later, DC Malik’s phone started ringing, but a swift shake of the head was sufficient steer for her colleague to ignore the summons.

They had raced to Highfield and were now marching along Rochester Road, taking in the beleaguered assortment of pound shops, convenience stores and takeaways that decorated the shabby street.

Thirty yards ahead of them, the Exodus pub, once a working man’s boozer, now a metal hangout, stood out loud and proud, a large black monolith at once depressing and intimidating.

Hastening to the front door, Charlie tugged her warrant card from her jacket, determined and purposeful.

‘Ready?’ she queried.

‘You bet,’ DC Malik replied, gamely.

‘Then let’s do this.’

Taking a breath, Charlie hauled open the door and stepped inside.

The interior was gloomy, but familiar, the long wooden bar and wrought iron fixtures reminiscent of Victorian pubs up and down the land.

The smell also struck a chord, a mixture of stale beer and citrus bleach, as did the sticky floor, smoothed by a thousand footfalls and marinated by numerous spillages over the years.

There, however, the familiarity ended, most of the tables having been cleared to make space for dancing in front of a wide stage, the walls festooned with posters for bands Charlie had never heard of, bands whose names had aggressive, violent, often Satanic themes.

It all seemed so childish to Charlie, but she wasn’t here to quibble about the music: she had a job to do.

Walking up to the bar, she slammed her bag on the counter, causing the manager to look up.

He had barely responded to their arrival, seemingly engrossed in his rota, but now ambled over.

He was not your usual management material, a huge barrel of a man with a thick beard, unruly hair and a healthy beer gut only partly concealed by a threadbare Metallica t-shirt.

‘Help you?’ he drawled, suggesting he wanted to do anything but.

‘Southampton Central CID,’ Charlie responded with a smile, proffering her warrant card.

The burly manager looked at her photo, then up at Charlie’s badly bruised face, but said nothing.

‘I’m sure you’re busy,’ Charlie continued, ‘so I’ll cut to the chase. Do you recognize this man?’

She held up a copy of Clint Davies’ work photo.

‘Not sure,’ he shrugged. ‘Get a lot of dockers in here.’

‘His name’s Clint Davies, we think he might be a regular of yours.’

‘And?’

‘Well, we’re not after him for anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. He’s dead actually, died two days ago.’

The manager looked shocked, so Charlie was swift to follow up her advantage.

‘We’re trying to trace his last movements. We think he might have met someone here on the morning of Friday 16th. Were you on shift then?’

The curtest of nods.

‘So … did you see him?’ DC Malik now offered encouragingly.

‘Can’t say I did. Get all sorts drifting through here and he hardly has a memorable face, does he? Kind of bloke you walk past on the street every day of the week.’

Charlie regarded him curiously, intrigued as to why he was so determined to impede their enquiry.

‘So if we look through your till roll, your accounts, we won’t find any payments from Davies?’ DC Malik persisted.

‘You’re welcome to look,’ the manager replied, smiling. ‘Most folk pay in cash, though, so I wouldn’t fancy your chances.’

‘What else do they buy in here with cash?’ Charlie said, an edge to her voice now.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Well, it’s not just the beer and music people come for, is it? There’s a good trade in amphetamines too, right? Speed, MDMA, ketamine …’

‘Now, hold on a minute, you’ve got no proof of that.’

‘Come off it, mate, we busted two of your pals less than a month ago for doing exactly that,’ Charlie retorted angrily.

‘Now I guess you get a cut for turning a blind eye, or maybe it’s just loyalty to the low-rent crooks who frequent this place that’s making you so reluctant to assist us, but let me be clear.

Clint Davies was in this establishment two days ago and I want to know who he met.

My colleague and I are prepared to stay all day if necessary, chatting to your punters, talking about the current state of our investigation, explaining our policing priorities.

I’ve got nothing on tonight, so we could stay all evening.

I’m sure someone would be able to help us. ’

Her adversary started at her blankly, suddenly looking deeply uncomfortable.

‘Not sure it’s really my kind of music, but a change is as good as a rest, right?’ Charlie continued brightly. ‘Or you can cut the crap, tell us what we need to know and we’ll be on our way. The choice is yours.’

There was no choice of course, the prospect of the two police officers clearing the bar by their presence an intolerable imposition.

‘OK, he was here on Friday morning, but only briefly …’

‘Who did he meet?’ DC Malik demanded.

‘Middle-aged guy, tanned, muscular. Don’t know him, though he sounded foreign.’

‘Catch any of what they said to each other?’

‘No, they kept themselves to themselves. I can give you a full description of the guy though, if you’d like …’

He was looking at Charlie earnestly, desperately trying to be helpful now, but her attention had drifted to the blinking camera high up on the wall.

‘Or you could just give me your CCTV footage from that day?’

The manager looked nervously up at the camera, suddenly reluctant, but the battle was lost and he knew it.

‘We’ll wait here while you get it for us, shall we?’