‘Busy day?’ Barry’s pouring me a pint. ‘You know how it is.’ I’d spent the day driving around delivering unwanted warrants to unwilling punters, chasing the bastards round backstreets and grey estates - the private investigations business isn’t all glamour. ‘You know City were at home in the Cup last Saturday?’ Barry put the beer on the Carlsberg mat on the bar. I wiped the bottom of the glass. ‘Won easy, didn’t they?’ ‘Two-nil; barely had to break sweat.’ The pub was quiet, so he joined me on my side of the bar. ‘We had a load of the other lot’s supporters in here. Giving it plenty of attitude – like they were a firm, or something.’ Barry was hard as nails. You had to be to run a pub in this city. Even though he was well into his sixties, you didn’t mess with Barry. He was old school and the pub reflected that: rough around the edges, but with a certain charm. ‘They were acting like they owned the place,’ he explained
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