Finn turned his attention to it. The warped white-painted walls spoke of centuries of use, and above a small open door, a swinging wooden sign squeaked slightly in the summer breeze. On the sign was an old painted black dog baring its teeth on a hill and the words “The Grim Dog” in antiquated black writing.

  “Do all old English pubs have such welcoming names?” Finn asked.

  “Yes,” Winters said, walking past him with a smile toward the open doorway. “It’s good to put off undesirables.”

  “I’m not undesirable.”

  Winters laughed. “Keep telling yourself that, Finn. Come on.”

  Finn liked the back and forth with Winters, but it was time to put his game face on. Devon Langdon had motive and connections to both victims, and Finn was hopeful for a quick resolution to the case. Then he could turn his attention to deciding whether to return to the US or not.

  Stepping through the doorway behind Winters, Finn felt like he had been transported further back in time. The pub interior was almost entirely made of wood. Floorboards groaned, and the beams overhead had warped to such a degree that Finn didn’t quite trust them to hold up the ceiling above. A couple of the drinkers in the place were sitting alone. A few sat together at a table discussing something amongst themselves.

  The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, no doubt spilled somewhere, congealing in the afternoon heat.

  “I’ll keep an eye on the exit,” Finn said quietly, wondering if Devon Langdon was among the handful of patrons in the dimly lit old pub.

  Winters nodded. She approached the bar and smiled. “Hello,” she said to the short, stout red-faced barman behind the counter.

  Finn thought the man looked like he regularly consumed more beer than he sold.

  “How can I help you, young lady?” the man said in a thick accent that Finn instinctively felt was more at home in the north of England than where they currently were near London.

  “I’m Inspector Amelia Winters with the Hertfordshire constabulary,” she said, showing her badge. “It’s come to our attention that Mr. Devon Langdon has his place of business registered to this address.”

  The barman looked suddenly ill at ease, his face turning redder still. But he didn’t say anything.

  “Do you know Devon Langdon?” Winters followed up.

  A low hush fell across the pub, the patrons dotted around the place no longer staring into their pints of beer, but at the unusual conversation being had over the bar top.

  Finn watched closely as the barman’s eyes darted around, looking anywhere but directly at Winters.

  He knows something, Finn thought.

  “Withholding information from the police is a serious matter, Mr.…” Winters said.

  “Beatson,” the barman finally said now in less jovial tones. “Kenneth Beatson.”

  “Then, Mr. Beatson,” Winters continued, “now that we are more acquainted, can you tell me if you know of Devon Langdon’s whereabouts?”

  “I… I wouldn’t know,” he said.

  “Does he own this pub?”

  “Oh Lord, no!” the man said, wiping sweat from his brow. “No, he does not. You can be assured of that. This is my establishment. The Grim Dog has been in my family for three generations, and standing here for a few hundred more than that.”

  Finn started to notice something odd. The man was moving to the side of the bar slowly but surely. For no good reason. He was simply moving to the left side of the bar, but not in a way to escape.

  Finn’s thoughts turned to his training back in Quantico. He remembered reading a paper by Dr. Will Cooper about body language and evasion.

  He’s avoiding something, Finn thought. But what?

  “Then why is his business registered to this address?” Winters pressed.

  “I… I don’t know why,” the barman replied.

  Watching the man’s body language, Finn noticed he had now reached the end of the bar and was shiftily turning his attention to a photograph that hung on the back wall, pretending to straighten it.

  Finn felt that if the man had been any further out from behind the bar, he’d have been a customer.

  What are you trying to escape from? Finn thought. He moved his eye line to the opposite end of the bar, the place the barman was psychologically trying to distance himself from.

  And there it was.

  “Bingo,” Finn said under his breath.

  Along the bar were several beer taps, mostly for various ales and lagers, many of them popular brands. But there was one tap that was suspicious. There was no label on it, no way for the customers to identify what type of drink came out of it.

  Looking above the bar, Finn then saw the chalkboard. Clear as day it said “Special St. Albans Brew,” and the price was significantly below that of the others.

  “I am parched,” Finn suddenly said loudly, stepping forward. He walked up to the bar and placed his hands on the old, darkened wood.

  “What are you doing?” Winters asked quietly.

  “I don’t know about you, Winters,” Finn said, “but I am parched.”

  The barman was now looking at him wide-eyed and nervous.

  “Looks like you have a good selection of ales here,” Finn said, casting his eye across the beer taps. “But I’m looking for something a little local. Something that I can’t get anywhere else.”

  Finn touched the shiny beer taps one by one, slowly walking the length of the bar until his finger rested on the final tap. The tap with no identifying label.

  “Oooh, no name,” Finn said in a cheeky voice. “I like a good mystery. I’ll have a pint of this, please.”

  “You can’t drink, Finn,” Winters sighed. “You’re on duty.”

  “Consultant, not a police officer as you so often like to remind me.” Finn grinned. “Give me a nice cold pint of this, please, barkeep.”

  “You’re driving,” Winters then said.

  “I hate the car,” he retorted. “You can drive me back.”

  “Finn… what are you…”

  “Now that’s very interesting,” Finn said to the barman. “You seem to be hesitating. I take it from your chalkboard up there that this beer tap is for the Special St. Albans Brew?”

  Finn’s voice was booming, and as he asked this question loudly, he heard something above his head. Someone was moving around on the floor above, the aged beams and floorboards groaning along with the movement.

  “Come on… Beatson, isn’t it?” Finn asked. “Why not give me a pint of your special brew?”

  “It’s off,” the man said, his face beaming red. “Would you like something else?”

  Finn leaned over and pushed the tap forward. A stream of frothing beer momentarily poured out from it, splashing onto a plastic drip tray underneath. Finn then turned it off.

  “Looks like there’s plenty to go around, Beatson,” Finn said. “Or is it just that you don’t want us to know that you’re selling illegal booze here for a quick profit? I’ve seen plenty of bootlegging operations in my time back home in Florida, but never one so brazen as to be sold out of a bar so openly. This wouldn’t be a little business arrangement between you and Devon now, would it?”

  Beatson stared red-faced and silent. Fear and anger exuded from the man.

  Footsteps now sounded worriedly from above, and then the sound of something scratching or scrambling just above the entrance doorway.

  “Excuse me, Winters,” Finn said with a knowing smile.

  He walked quickly to the entrance and stuck his head out into the sunshine. Looking up, he saw a man in a shirt and tie, precariously trying to climb down an old drain pipe to the street below. When he was only a few feet away from the sidewalk, Finn shouted:

  “Boo!”

  The man let out a surprised gasp, lost his footing, and fell toward the ground. Finn stretched out his muscular arms and half caught the man, making sure he didn’t slam into the concrete.

  “Hello there,” Finn said. “Devon Langdon, I presume?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Winters walked with purpose along the fluorescent-lit hallway. She hadn’t been convinced by the murder hypothesis, but the more she had looked into Devon Langdon’s background, the more she believed he was quite capable of it. In her hand was the suspect’s case file, faxed through thirty minutes before. This had given her some time to study it, and it made for some interesting reading.

  Carnwell police station was the nearest place to St. Albans with an interview room, and while she was thankful that the staff there had been able to furnish her and Finn with a place to question Devon Langdon so quickly, the place felt like a throwback to the 1970s. Even the local constable seemed surprised that a woman was heading up a murder inquiry.

  But Winters knew the drill, and as long as she could help put a murderer behind bars, she could tolerate out-of-date notions. As long as those notions didn’t get in her way.

  As she turned a corner, the beige door to the interview room came into view. Leaning with his back against the wall next to it was the tall, muscular figure of Finn Wright, arms folded, still wearing his sunglasses indoors.

  “Finally,” Finn said. “I thought I’d have to take all of the glory for myself.”

  “We’re not even certain both victims were murdered,” Amelia said. “Let’s not get carried away that we’ve found a murderer so quickly.”

  “Oh, come on!” Finn replied. “This guy is shady, and he’s got a motive and a rap sheet as long as your arm. All we need now is a confession.”

  “I’ll reserve my judgment,” Amelia said. “Let’s talk to him first. We have him detained for selling illegal alcohol, that could be the end of it.”

  Finn sighed, running his fingers through his Nordic blond hair.

  “What’s up with the grumpy special agent?” Amelia asked, putting on a babyish voice. “Is it because I didn’t let you try some of St. Albans’ Special Brew?”

  “Just a sip would have sufficed,” Finn replied. “Would it have killed you? I wanted to know if it was any good.”

  “We’ll have a pint together as soon as we’re done with this case,” Amelia said. “Would that make you feel better?”

  “Are you buying?” Finn grinned.

  “Sure.”

  “Deal.” Finn nodded toward the interview room. “He’s lawyered up in there.”

  Amelia sighed. She knew legal representation was necessary to protect the innocent, but that didn’t make her enjoy the process any more.

  “I’m telling you, he’s guilty as sin,” Finn said, pushing himself off of the wall and straightening up.

  Amelia was still taken aback at times by Finn’s physical presence. She was glad he was on her side.

  “You got his file then?” Finn said, pointing to the folder under Amelia’s arm.

  She nodded and then said, “I’ll take the lead, but chime in if you think of something in that big old brain of yours.”

  Finn nodded. “Thank you. It is massive.”

  “Such a burden for you to carry,” Amelia said with a smirk, then took a serious tone. “Shall we?”

  “Ladies first,” Finn said.

  Amelia opened the door to the interview room. It was a tight room with a small bland white table and four metal folding chairs situated around it. Devon Langdon was seated in one of them, his lawyer in another beside him.

  Devon was a man in his late thirties, his black hair and beard trimmed so perfectly that Amelia knew that putting on an appearance was important to him. To her, though, he exuded the demeanor of a con man.

  His lawyer was around the same age, with thick glasses, thinning fair hair, and a shirt collar that was too tight for his neck. He looked to be under more stress than his client. Amelia hoped it was because the solicitor knew they had Devon hook, line, and sinker.

  Finn took a seat next to Amelia and she smiled across the table at Devon and his representative, hoping to put them at ease before turning the screw.

  Leaning over, she pressed Record on an old tape recorder that was the only way the station had to record interviews.

  “Cassettes?” Devon Langdon said in a disapproving voice. “Next thing you’ll be doing is filming me on VHS. What sort of operation is this?”

  “A serious one,” Amelia said in a strong, cold tone.

  There was a silence for a moment.

  “This is the police interview on August twelfth at Carnwell police station of Mr. Devon Langdon. Mr. Langdon’s solicitor, Graham Weathers, is present, as is Finn Wright, an FBI agent working as a consulting detective with Hertfordshire Constabulary, at the bequest of the Home Office. Inspector Amelia Winters leading the interview. The time is currently four thirty-two p.m.

  “Mr. Langdon,” Amelia began, “you were arrested this afternoon trying to escape questioning by us, why was that?”

  “I’ve met dodgy coppers before,” he said in a thick cockney accent. “I was worried you were trying to stitch me up.”

  “That doesn’t seem reasonable,” Amelia answered back. “Why were you really running?”

  “My client,” Weathers said, clearing his throat, “has recently been the victim of police persecution. Several members of the local constabulary have been putting unfair pressure on him simply because, as a younger man, he served a sentence at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”

  Amelia looked down at the case file before her. She opened it, knowing full well that she could use it as a way to put pressure on the suspect. “Yes, I see you have a pretty colorful career as a criminal.”

  “That’s all behind me, love,” the man said.

  Amelia winced at being called “love.” It was a term that could be used endearingly at times for a woman, but often it was used to dismiss something that a woman was saying.

  She tried her best to ignore it.

  “You spent three years in prison for causing grievous bodily harm,” Amelia continued.

  “My client served his time many years ago. He is fully reformed and has paid back society in full,” the solicitor said, like a well-rehearsed soundbite from a politician.

  “But still a criminal?” Finn sat forward. “How’s the illegal booze industry going for you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Devon answered, pointedly.

  “Your place of business is registered at the Grim Dog pub,” Amelia said. “And other officers are questioning the bar owner, Mr. Beatson, about selling St. Albans Special Brew without a license. Who is the mastermind behind that little scheme?”

  “You don’t need to answer that,” Graham Weathers interjected.

  Devon Langdon looked at his watch, a gold Rolex. “Can we wind this up quickly? I have some important business to take care of.”

  Amelia was about to throw a wrench in the works. She had riled the suspect up enough, talking about what was a low-level charge. Devon Langdon would have been advised by his solicitor that he would be out on bail in no time.

  But not before Amelia dropped a bombshell in his smarmy lap.

  “Tell me,” Amelia said, sitting back in her chair in a relaxed fashion, “what do you know of the DeGrey family?”

  And there it was: The man’s confidence was stopped dead in its tracks. His mocking grin melted away, replaced by a flicker of worry, the blood draining from his face.

  His solicitor turned and looked at Langdon with a puzzled expression and then turned back to Amelia.

  “What does this have to do with anything?” he asked.

  “Two people are dead, Mr. Weathers,” Amelia said. “Both of them members of the DeGrey family. And both of them had a business arrangement with your client. A business arrangement that they were trying to dissolve in courts.”

  “I wasn’t aware of this,” Graham Weathers whispered to his client.

  Langdon shook his head. “I’m using a different solicitor’s firm for that one. The damned DeGreys are trying to swindle me out of a business we put together. All that hard work! And they want to dismantle it and sell off the assets.”

  “And that made you angry, didn’t it, Mr. Langdon?” Finn asked.

  “Well… of course. But I’m doing everything by the book through the courts,” he replied nervously before turning to his solicitor. “I told you! These coppers are trying to stitch me up! I didn’t have nothing to do with anybody’s death.”

  “But you are aware that Quentin DeGrey died two weeks ago?” Finn continued.

  Up above, one of the fluorescent lights clicked off for a moment, casting shadows from the four figures seated around the sterile table. Then, without warning, the light went bright again.

  This place is falling apart, Amelia thought.

  “I know Quentin died,” Langdon said. “But he was old and sick.”

  “There is some evidence it may have been foul play,” Amelia said, matter-of-factly.

  Langdon shook his head and ran his fingers through his gelled hair. “No. No way. You can’t put that on me.”

  “Do you know Maggie DeGrey?” Amelia then asked, turning the screw. “She was found dead this morning. Killed in a hit-and-run.”

  Weathers looked at Devon Langdon. “Perhaps we should have a conversation about this in private before you answer that?”

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell,” Langdon said, seemingly pulling himself together.

  “Perhaps you know her better as Mrs. Stewart DeGrey? Stewart DeGrey, Quentin DeGrey’s nephew and business partner? Both of whom were trying to dissolve your company in the courts.”

  Langdon slammed his fist on the table. As if in answer to his anger, the light above flickered again. “No! You’ve got this wrong. I haven’t killed anyone. I was handling it in the courts!”

  “Where were you this morning between the hours of six a.m. and eight a.m., Mr. Langdon?” Amelia asked, leaning forward.

  “I was still at the Grim Dog. I was there! You can ask—”

  “Mr. Beatson?” Amelia asked. “You mean the man who is selling illegal alcohol for a quick profit with you? A man with a vested interest in keeping you out of prison?”

  Langdon’s shoulders sunk slightly, and he slumped down in his chair. No longer the super-confident con man, Amelia thought, he looked more like a little boy who had been told off by his headmaster.

 

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