The only concession to twenty first century life at ‘The Eagle’ was a plasma screen telly and the demolition of the saloon bar to create an open plan area sprawled around an ‘L’ shaped counter. Behind this, bar staff pulled pints and dispensed spirits. Otherwise the glossy tiles on the wall complemented by polished tables and wooden chairs padded with leather seats and backs seemed authentic for a traditional London pub. Regulars at ‘The Eagle’ knew better than to trouble Crombie for his fancy in the 2.30 at Ascot while he perused paperwork. They also knew he worked at the local ‘nick’ and not to be too free with offers of dodgy gear, in this manner the pub remained neutral ground. The few coppers who didn't abide by this unofficial rule were soon persuaded to patronise the wine bar further along Ladbroke Grove. Running his fingers inside his tightening waist band decided Crombie against a second meat and potato pie. Instead pushing his empty plate away, pulling his pint towards him, Crombie settled back to re-read the handful of reports on crimes committed in the early hours of this morning on his ‘manor’.
Most were petty incidents, usually resolved by a neighbour or ‘friend’ grassing up the perp. A couple of trouble makers – so called ‘loveable rogues’ would be good for the moped and car thefts. He’d send a policewoman, not Hewes – she didn’t have the necessary empathy – round to the domestics. After jotting a few lines in his notebook, he shuffled those reports to the bottom of the pile.
That left old man Stern. Crombie swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of ale, wishing not for the first time that life imprisonment meant life. The poor old sod survived the holocaust only to die from terror when his home was burglarised. It seemed he’d put up quite a struggle, defending his precious books. Crombie drained his glass just as the young Australian barmaid claimed his empty plate, shaking his head at her mimed invitation for a refill. Time to show his face again at the station. Hiding a smile at the obvious relief of dodgy Dave seated across the other end of the pub, Crombie shuffled paperwork back into their files. Then a previously unnoticed report caught Crombie's eye, and he frowned, fumbling behind for his seat again. Across the room, Dave the Dealer scowled but this time Crombie didn’t notice.
‘How did I miss this?’ he murmured, pulling a single sheet aside to scrutinise, vaguely annoyed his daily ration of ale was finished. Getting old Crombie. He mocked himself. But it wasn’t too late. Pulling out his mobile, he caught PC Rodgers, who’d been a beat bobby for far too long but was likely to remain so for the rest of his career, just before the skiving copper disappeared on his so-called ‘Neighbourhood Watch’ beat.
Dave the Dealer’s day was ruined when Crombie ordered a pot of coffee and the telly to be muted. The landlord grimaced, but didn’t complain. Crombie’s presence deterred the hard nuts dealing in far dodgier goods than Dave could ever aspire to.