Page 17 of When You're Safe

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

Finn thought the man looked likehe 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 inthe north of England than where they currently were near London.

“I’m Inspector Amelia Winters withthe Hertfordshire constabulary,” she said, showing her badge. “It’s come to ourattention that Mr. Devon Langdon has his place of business registered to thisaddress.”

The barman looked suddenly ill atease, 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’seyes darted around, looking anywhere but directly at Winters.

He knows something, Finn thought.

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

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

“Then, Mr. Beatson,” Winterscontinued, “now that we are more acquainted, can you tell me if you know ofDevon 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. Thisis 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 somethingodd. The man was moving to the side of the bar slowly but surely. For no goodreason. He was simply moving to the left side of the bar, but not in a way toescape.

Finn’s thoughts turned to histraining back in Quantico. He remembered reading a paper by Dr. Will Cooperabout body language and evasion.

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

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

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

Watching the man’s body language, Finnnoticed he had now reached the end of the bar and was shiftily turning hisattention to a photograph that hung on the back wall, pretending to straightenit.

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

What are you trying to escapefrom? 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 hisbreath.

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

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

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

“What are you doing?” Wintersasked quietly.

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

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