Free The Wharf Butcher by Michael K Foster

front of him, his story began to unfold. ‘It was the same routine every night; you could almost set your watch by him. He would arrive at seven, and leave dead on the stroke of eight. Same order every night, a pint of Foster’s lager and packet of salted peanuts . . . this one never failed.’
    Carlisle stood for moment, and tried to get his head around it all. Whoever this stranger was, he was undoubtedly the talking point of the village. How much of the innkeeper’s story was pure fantasy, he had no idea. But he guessed most of it was.
    ‘What about you guys?’ said Carlisle, swinging on his barstool to confront the inner sanctum. ‘Did he talk to any of you?’
    The ringleader glanced at the others.
    ‘What is it you’re after, mister?’
    ‘Netherton, that can’t be far from Barrow Burn,’ Carlisle said.
    ‘Barrow Burn covers a lot of ground, mister,’ said the man in the threadbare, blue jumper.
    Carlisle’s eyes narrowed as the ringleader banged the flat of his hand on the table, and raised his empty glass. There was mischief in his face, as if another free pint of beer was in order. ‘Out there is hostile territory, mister, especially in winter. Besides, it all depends on which direction you’re travelling from.’
    ‘Not an easy place to get to?’ Carlisle acknowledged, feeling somewhat pressurised.
    The ringleader breathed more quickly, and his face had grown pale. ‘Not from here it ain’t, especially on a dark winter’s night. A person can easily get lost.’
    ‘But that’s where this stranger was living rough . . . Barrow Burn?’
    There followed an awkward silence, a coming together of the inner sanctum.
    Fast running out of ideas, and conversation, Carlisle was desperate to break the deadlock between them. But how? That was the question. These people were far too set in their ways. Perhaps the stranger never existed in the first place, he reasoned. It was then he noticed the pub had no CCTV, only an alarm.
    ‘This stranger you talk of, did he have a car?’ Carlisle asked.
    ‘Nobody said he did,’ the innkeeper replied, fervently.
    ‘But it’s logical, especially if he was living rough out there.’
    ‘How would I know?’
    ‘So he must have walked here every night,’ Carlisle shrugged.
    He watched as the innkeeper began to pull another fresh pint of beer, the froth tumbling over the side of the glass and down into the catch tray. Seconds later, he placed the half-filled glass on the bar and moved to confront him.
    ‘For a stranger, you ask an awful lot of awkward questions.’
    Carlisle hunched his shoulders, a defensive stance. ‘I’m just making conversation, that’s all.’
    A faint hint of a smile crept across the innkeeper’s face. ‘Well, if he didn’t have a car, then yes, he would have had a bloody long walk home every night, wouldn’t he.’
    Laughter broke out over his shoulder.
    Fast losing his patience, the innkeeper began to clear a few empty pot glasses from the corner of the bar. There was suspicion in his glances. ‘So tell me, mister, what’s your interest in Netherton; you’re not a reporter by any chance, are you?’
    ‘No. I’m not.’
    ‘What then?’
    ‘There’s a rumour doing the rounds that two farmers around here were viciously murdered in the middle of the night. Just wondering if there’s any truth in the story?’
    ‘I wouldn’t know, you’re asking the wrong person,’ the innkeeper said, guardedly.
    Carlisle shoulders slumped. ‘It’s not a problem.’
    The innkeeper stared at him, the distance between them as great as ever. ‘The next time you go poking your nose round these parts, try asking questions at the local Post Office. Not here.’
    That had done it. The mere mention of murder had changed everything. Perhaps there was some truth in the lone drifter after all. Stepping out from behind the bar, the innkeeper began another tour of empty pot glass collecting. Stacking them one inside the other, he purposely made towards