Darkness Falls (Kate Marshall, #3)(62)

When they reached the outskirts of the town, they had to drive round the ring road a couple of times before they found the turnoff toward the canal and the sloping road down to the Brewer’s Arms.

They parked on a piece of scrubby, litter-strewn grass and walked up to the pub’s entrance, which was under the first arch in a line of brick arches running along the water’s edge. The canal shimmered in the heat, and there was a strong smell coming off the stagnant water, which was a soup of discarded rubbish and a half-submerged shopping trolley.

“Why do shopping trolleys always end up in canals?” asked Tristan.

“It’s mostly homeless people who use them for all their belongings, and they’re thrown in, or fall in along with their owners,” said Kate, remembering from her time in the police.

A tall, stringy young man with terrible acne emerged from the front entrance with a bucket. He wore old ripped jeans, and he was shirtless. He emptied the bucket in the grass.

“Hello, do you work here?” asked Kate.

“Do I look like I’m doing this for my health?” he snapped.

“We’re private detectives looking at the death of Hayden Oakley.”

“Des!” shouted the young man over his shoulder. “Someone here to see you!”

Without saying more, he walked off around the side of the building.

“I wonder if he was hired for his customer service,” said Tristan. Kate smiled, and they went in through the narrow entrance. The inside was lit with bright fluorescent strip lights, and it smelled of stale beer and vomit. An older man with thinning hair and grimy glasses was behind the bar, refilling a small fridge with brightly colored alcopops.

“What can I do you for?” he asked, pushing his glasses up his greasy nose.

Kate explained who they were and asked if he’d been working on the night Hayden Oakley went missing.

“I’m here every night, for my sins,” he said with a smile that reminded Kate of the keys on an old piano. “I pretty much see everyone and everything. I knew that Hayden could go either way in life when he started coming here.”

“How do you mean?” asked Kate.

“He was good looking. Athletic. And I’ll make no bones. This pub is a dodgy pickup joint . . . but dodgy pickup joints can be lucrative. We don’t have to worry about stocking fine wines or making cheese and olive platters. People come here to find sex . . . Hayden was popular with the regulars. Sometimes you see these lads work their way through these older blokes, find someone rich, and then strike out and start a business or move away. And sometimes they hang around for too long, get old, and start looking a little used up and worn out.”

“Who are your regulars?”

“I want to say suave divorcés and local intellectuals, but it’s mainly dirty old men,” he said without blinking.

“Has what happened to Hayden affected your business?” asked Kate.

He thought for a moment.

“Not that I’ve noticed. A lot of the gay bars round here have Facebook groups, and they’ve been putting out warnings to young lads about a potential killer on the loose, but we were packed over the weekend, as usual. I think it’s that attitude people have: it won’t happen to me . . . Can I get you a cuppa or a coffee?” he added, indicating a grimy plastic tray with mugs, an old kettle, and a kilo bag of granulated sugar covered in tea stains.

“No, thank you,” said Kate. “I presume these older men come here because you get young, attractive guys here?”

“Well, they don’t come for the decor,” he said. “The police asked me if I get a lot of rent boys coming in. Hayden was, according to rumor, a rent boy, and I’ll say to you what I told the police. I just serve the drinks and provide the seats, and as long as no one does anything illegal in these four walls, live and let live.”

“Hayden went missing after he left here?” asked Tristan.

“Yes. It was the last time he was seen.”

“Did he leave with someone?” asked Tristan.

“He did. He was a big fella. Long dark hair and a baseball cap. Looked a bit like a country and western singer. Well, he did under the dance floor lights. I’m sure if I’d had these daytime lights on, he would have looked a bit more like a local who enjoys line dancing in his spare time.”

“Did they leave on foot or in a car?” asked Kate.

“We’re off the beaten track here, so everyone arrives in a taxi, or they come in a car. The police think that they left in a car, but no one saw the make or model, and there were no taxis waiting outside who saw them either. It was a Monday night, so it was a bit quiet.”

“Do you remember what this guy looked like, his facial features?” asked Kate.

“The police sent over one of them artists, who worked with me to put together a picture of the fella Hayden left with . . . Hang on—Kenny! KENNY?” he shouted behind him. A moment later, the young man with the acne came through from the back. “Are you going deaf?”

“What is it, Des? I’m down doing barrels.”

“Have you got that picture on your phone, of the police sketch?”

Kenny pulled a smartphone out of his pocket, swiped the screen, and found a photo. He handed it to Des, who peered at it over the top of his glasses and handed it to Kate. Tristan moved closer to see the screen.