They arrive at The Globe. It’s much quieter than yesterday, but it’s early – they probably just opened. Miles tells the other three to stay outside, but George ignores the instruction, following him through the door. Inside are two men: one behind the bar who unfolds his arms as they enter, and one in a pale pink shirt who doesn’t look up from his laptop. Miles heads straight to the bar, and George skips ahead of him.
The barman smiles. ‘Kia ora. What can I get you?’
‘There was a girl working here yesterday,’ George says. ‘Blonde hair, tattoos, nose ring. Is she around?’
The smile disappears. ‘Are you a friend, or something?’
‘Not exactly. We just need to talk to her for a minute.’
‘She’s got a boyfriend, bro, if that’s why you’re here.’
‘It’s not that,’ Miles interjects. ‘We were in here yesterday and—’
Miles stops at the sound of an old throat being cleared, like a shovel being driven into hard ground. They turn around to see Pink Shirt, a short, grey man with a face full of broken capillaries, who has departed his laptop and crept up behind them. ‘Is there something I can help with? I’m the owner.’
‘They want to talk to Heather,’ the barman says.
‘I gathered that much.’ The owner straightens, summoning as much height as he can muster. ‘But I’m afraid we don’t give out the contact details of our staff to random blokes.’
Miles shows his palms. ‘Look, I’m not some weirdo. It’s just I think she might be able to help me.’
‘And how’s that?’
‘I think’ – Miles exhales slowly – ‘I think I might be being followed.’
‘Right.’
‘So, is she on shift today?’
‘She’s not here.’
‘When will she be in?’
The owner pinches at the loose, ruddy skin under his chin. ‘Look, I know who you are.’
Miles tries not to react. But his heart has just been punched out of rhythm. ‘You do?’
‘You’re Miles, right? One of my staff recognised you when you were in here yesterday. I’m not judging, or whatever, but I don’t want any drama in my bar.’
The heat in the room rises, and Miles feels strangely naked, feels the judgement of the man standing in front of him.
‘He hasn’t done anything wrong,’ George says. ‘He was falsely accused.’
The owner’s eyes flick to George. He opens his mouth, and his attention is drawn towards the door. They all turn to look. Walking in with a backpack hanging from her tattooed shoulders is the bartender from yesterday. Heather, apparently. She stops in the middle of the room, confused by the four sets of eyes locked on her. ‘Hi,’ she says, with a drawn-out rising inflection that makes it sound more like a question. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Give us a minute,’ the owner says. He shoots Miles a look as he leads Heather to a table in the corner. Miles feels the barman’s stare burning into him, also. His cover has been blown – all the staff here know who he is, and they’ll all have been gossiping about him. How on earth was he recognised on the other side of the world? Do the people of New Zealand really take such an interest in the court cases of the UK? It seems unlikely. Although places like this have a high turnover of staff and it’s plausible some of them are British.
‘All right,’ hollers the owner, beckoning Miles over.
‘You stay here,’ Miles says to George. He crosses the wooden boards to the table in the far corner where the owner and Heather sit on one side. Miles takes a seat opposite.
‘Okay,’ the owner says. ‘What’s this about?’
Miles takes a deep breath. How to explain this without sounding completely insane. ‘I think I might have a stalker.’
They wait for him to continue. Heather’s eyes narrow in confusion.
‘Last night, my friend over there’ – pointing to George – ‘ordered four glasses of whisky from you. It was a specific brand, Macallan.’
