[b]The Pale Horse
Battersea
1:02 PM[/b]

Eddie Dunphy sat alone at a corner table in his favourite haunt. The Pale Horse was a good pub. It was never too busy, the staff were discrete, and best of all they served a mean pint of Guinness. He’d become something of a regular in the past few months. The turf war between the Binneys and Carlisle’s clan had dragged on longer than anyone had expected. Carlisle had been got in the first month and Alan and Albie expected the rest of the old man’s inner circle to see sense and fold. They hadn’t done. It had created a lot of work everyone down at Scotland Yard, Dunphy included.

Between that and the kerfuffle at Wembley last year it had been tough going for Eddie. The side deals he used to make to supplement his copper’s wage had all but dried up. That failed venture with Hanky Harry had set him back some and now he’d been forced to work all the overtime he could get his hands on. It was all a bit of a nightmare.

It’s why Eddie had jumped at the chance when word came through this morning of a little side action. Nothing major from the sounds of it. A punter trying to track someone down. Low-risk, low-reward work. Dunphy had agreed to meet them here at quarter to one. It one o’clock now and the bastard hadn’t shown yet. Dunphy was getting antsy when he spotted the door opening.

Through it stepped a slightly heavy-set man in his mid-to-late forties. A thick moustache sat atop his top lip. Eddie could tell from the way he carried himself that it was his man.

The man reached into his pocket and produced his wallet. “What’s your poison?”

“A pint of Guinness will do me fine,” Dunphy said. “Get us some pork scratchings while you’re up there, would you?”

“Of course,” the man said with a nod.

After a short wait the man returned holding a pint of Guinness in each hand and the scratchings that Eddie had requested. He set the pints down expertly and then plonked the packet of pork scratchings down in front of Dunphy with a cheerful smile. To anyone watching on, the two men could have easily been two friends meeting to blow off some steam after a long week at work.

Dunphy tore open the scratchings and pushed them into the centre of the table. He offered some to the man, who shook his head disapprovingly, before lifting his pint to take a sip. At the last second he stopped himself and pushed the Guinness out towards Eddie. Dunphy muttered a quiet “cheers” and they clinked their glasses together with thin, unconvincing smiles.

“How’s business?”

“Business?”  Dunphy replied nonchalantly. “Oh, busy as usual. You know how things are at this time of year – it’s always one thing after another. And you?”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “Can't complain. The old ball and chain’s still breathing down my neck but that’s to be expected.”

“Women, eh?” Eddie chuckled and then took a healthy mouthful of Guinness that left his upper lip covered in foam. “What is it that they say? You can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

They shared a sincere laugh. Dunphy crunched on another pork scratching and shot a polite smile to the pub landlord. He nodded knowingly and broke of his gaze towards a customer that had just entered. Eddie took another sip of his Guinness, after which he let out a contented sigh.

The man cleared his throat. “On the phone you mentioned you had a tip for me. A sure thing?”

“Ah, that’d be the 3:15 at Aintree,” Dunphy smiled and began to root around in his pockets. “Give me a second, I can’t remember the bastard’s name for the life of me. I’ve got it written down somewhere here.”

Eddie produced a folded up piece of paper with the details the man had asked for on it. The registration details of the owner of a burgundy coupe. Thankfully the motor hadn’t set off any alarm bells. When Dunphy was starting out on the force he’d had some little fucker ask him to run some plates, only to find the vehicle in question belonged to his uncle Jack Donoghue. As far as he could recall the poor lad ended up at the bottom of a canal somewhere.

Dunphy stood up from his seat and tipped the rest of the Guinness down his throat. Once he was done he set the empty glass down on the table with a slam.

“Tell the missus I send my love.”