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In the States, Big City Nights would have needed a lick of paint to get called a dive bar. In the UK, it was called a spit-and-sawdust pub. Or a shithole. Or, with the Brit tendency to understate things, ‘a bit rough’. The kind of place that if you left with the same number of teeth you had entered with, you hadn’t been enjoying yourself properly.

It was in Hulme, an inner-city area in Manchester. Danielle said ‘Hulme’ was derived from the Old Norse word for a small island. Which was weird. As far as Koenig could tell, the only thing that surrounded this part of Manchester was more Manchester. They drove past tower blocks and derelict factories and rows and rows of public housing to get there. Danielle noticed Koenig looking at the gang tags painted on the walls and bridges and shuttered shop windows.

‘It used to be really bad around here,’ she explained. ‘It may not look it, but it’s a rapidly improving area. People want to live here now as it’s so close to the city centre. Lots of money being pumped into its regeneration.’

Koenig, who’d switched his attention to a man walking a three-legged dog, said nothing.

Big City Nights was sandwiched between a bookmaker’s that was full and a doughnut shop that wasn’t. Koenig wasn’t surprised. It only had one doughnut for sale and that was priced at five pounds. Six and a half bucks for a ring doughnut. Looked like it had been there for weeks. Koenig reckoned they should be honest and call the doughnut shop what it really was: a money-laundering outfit. It was so blatant it wouldn’t have made any difference.

Koenig turned off the engine. He arranged the rearview mirror so he could see Big City Nights without turning his head. It looked shut. That meant nothing, though. Almost every business on the road looked shut. He watched the bar until a skinny guy lurched outside. He vomited on the road, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then staggered back inside.

Danielle had called in a favour to get the name of a bar that might sell weapons. And although Koenig knew this wasn’t the kind of place a COP .357 could be bought, he reckoned the people inside would know the name of a guy. Maybe that guy was the guy they wanted, or maybe he’d know the name of another guy. District attorneys called it flipping. Over here it was called turning Queen’s evidence. Possibly King’s evidence, now Charles had been promoted. It was the lure of the carrot. Much-reduced prison sentences for useful intelligence. That was a big carrot. Nice and orange and sweet and nutritious.

Koenig didn’t have a carrot. But he did have a stick. A really pointy one.

‘Let’s do it,’ he said, unbuckling his seat belt and opening the door.

‘We can’t go in,’ Danielle said. ‘Not until I’ve called for backup.’

‘Why would we need backup?’

‘Cops around here patrol in threes and only when they’re wearing stab-proof vests.’

‘You wait for backup if you want,’ Koenig said. ‘I’m going inside.’ He paused, then turned so he faced Draper. ‘Unless this is one of those times when I haven’t recognised a dangerous situation?’

‘A bar full of assholes? Hell, I’m not scared, and my brain works just fine.’

Koenig looked at Danielle. ‘Jen says it’s fine.’

Danielle shook her head, not fully understanding what had just happened.

‘You’ll stay with the car?’ Koenig said to Draper.

She nodded.

Danielle said, ‘What about me?’

‘You can stay here, or you can come with me. Your choice.’

‘I don’t think I want to miss this,’ Danielle said, opening her door.

Koenig joined her on the damp pavement. His back was stiff from driving. He twisted it about a bit until it cracked like a glow stick. Rolled his shoulders and neck. Raised his arms and corkscrewed them. He reached back into the car and pulled his Fairbairn–Sykes from the driver’s door pocket. He slipped it into the back of his jeans. Adjusted his jacket until it couldn’t be seen.

Danielle raised an eyebrow.

‘American Express,’ Koenig said. ‘Never leave home without it.’

‘You realise that simply carrying that in public will get you a four-year prison sentence?’ Danielle said.

‘Not me,’ Koenig said. ‘I have diplomatic immunity.’