Page 2 of Licence To Howl
‘She’s not important. We’re confident that she’s not part of the blackmail and is unaware that it’s taking place.’
Devereau hesitated. Then he glanced through the rest of the papers. ‘The Wasps?’ he asked.
‘That’s what the gang calls themselves.’
‘They sound like an amateur football team.’ His lip curled in disdain.
‘Well, if you manage to infiltrate them and discern the truth of the matter, then you can tell them that for yourself.’ She sniffed. ‘This is an important matter. There is the potential that the safety of our country is being compromised by this gang. They present a very real threat and we are counting on you to help us out.’ She fixed him with a steely-eyed stare. ‘Canwe count on you?’
‘In spades.’ He winked at her. ‘You have nothing to worry about.’
‘I certainly hope not.’ She stood up and prepared to leave. ‘That will be all for now, Mr Webb.’
He doffed an imaginary cap at her. ‘Cheers, Moneypenny.’
* * *
Three hourslater Devereau Webb swaggered into the grimy pub on the corner of Bell Street and took up position at the bar. Initially, the bartender, a short brown haired man with a wiry build and corded muscles visible on his sleeveless arms, barely glanced at him. Never one to be described as a shrinking violet, Devereau cleared his throat. ‘Pint of beer, mate.’
‘Not your mate,’ the bartender replied. Then he glanced up and took a proper look at his latest customer. It took less than a second for the man to pale dramatically. ‘You’re Devereau Webb.’
Devereau didn’t smile and didn’t offer an autograph. ‘Get me what I asked for.’ He leaned slightly over the counter and permitted the faintest shadow of lupine whiskers to emerge around his jaw.
The bartender swallowed and grabbed an empty glass. Devereau grunted in satisfaction as he filled it with amber liquid. In truth, he would never normally be so rude. In his experience, you caught far more flies with honey than vinegar. However, he’d spent the last hour or so reading what Greensmith had given him and then scoping out the pub from a safe distance. It didn’t take a genius to work out that this less than salubrious establishment wasn’t the sort of place where punters were expected to mind their Ps and Qs. If he was going to get anywhere fast with his first mission, he had to fit in. Play-acting as a grizzled werewolf with a nasty temper wouldn’t be hard, especially not with the full moon barely two days away. He’d only been a werewolf for four months but that had been plenty of time to discover how the lunar changes affected his mood, especially when he was working on an empty stomach.
He took off his coat, draping it on a nearby bar stool. Devereau grabbed the sticky, faux leather bound menu sitting on the bar top next to him and scanned its contents. It was highly doubtful that the kitchen here had passed any food hygiene requirements. It was more likely, in fact, that any inspectors had been intimidated into giving the pub a pass. However, beggars couldn’t be choosers and Devereau had a façade to maintain. He shrugged to himself and barked again at the bartender as soon as the pint was presented to him.
‘Five of those burgers,’ he ordered. ‘No salad. No sauce. No buns.’ He paused. He liked all those extra components but he was trying to make an impression. In fact, he might as well go all out. ‘No cooking either,’ he added. ‘Just give me the patties on a plate.’
‘Raw?’
Devereau tilted his head. ‘Did I,’ he inquired silkily, ‘or did I not say no cooking?’
The barman took a step back, colliding with several stacked glasses as he did so. ‘Five raw burgers,’ he muttered. ‘Coming right up.’
Devereau reached for his wallet but the man shook his head. ‘On the house.’
‘Are you trying to suggest that I don’t have the means to pay for my own food and drinks?’ Devereau asked.
The bartender’s eyes widened. ‘N – n – no. I meant no offence. I’m sorry. I - ‘
‘Relax.’ He smirked. ‘I’m only playing with you.’
The bartender stared at him mutely. Satisfied that he’d done enough for now and rather impressed with himself so far, Devereau lifted his glass and turned round to survey the rest of the pub while he took several long gulps of the beer. There weren’t many customers. He glanced at the two middle aged geezers in the corner who were pretending not to look at him. Both wore high vis jackets and stained clothes that spoke of hard labour, probably somewhere on a nearby building site. To their right, there was a spotty kid playing the bandit machine with intent concentration and jangling a collection of coins in his right hand. And finally there was a white haired elderly lady in the corner with a gin and tonic on the table in front of her. She was watching him with narrowed eyes.
‘Fancy a little of what you see, darling?’ Devereau called, splaying his arms out for her supposed delectation.
She bared her teeth at him. He bared his own teeth back – and his were considerably sharper.
‘You threatening me mum?’
Devereau glanced towards the source of the strongly accented voice. It was a man in perhaps his forties, wearing a flat cap and a shabby tweed suit, and looking for all the world like he’d just stepped off the stage as an extra inOliver. Devereau knew a thing or two about carefully cultivated images. He also knew from Sarah Greensmith’s information that this was Ronnie Hitchens, the owner of this grubby establishment and de-facto leader of the Wasps. Well, he pondered, that had been even faster than he’d thought.
He masked his thoughts and snorted. ‘I think she’s the one threatening me.’
Hitchens looked over. Then, surprisingly, he grinned. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s probably right.’ He raised his voice. ‘Ma! Stop staring at the supe! You’re freaking him out!’
The old woman glared. ‘You let all sorts of riff-raff in here, Ronnie.’ She pursed her lips in disgust and turned away.
