1. One Last Pint

Tom Pinder paid the barman, picked up the two foaming pints of IPA (straight from the cask, the good old way), grabbed the bag of dry-roasted nuts, and threaded his way through the crowded pub and out into the garden of the Rose in Flower.

Why don't I come here more often? he thought, standing in the late-evening sunshine and taking a sip from one of the beers. Not many places left these days that know how to serve a pint properly.

But he knew the answer to that. It might only be a few miles upriver from Cherringham, but it would still involve driving. That would be out of the question - unless he stayed totally sober.

And when had he ever gone to a pub and stayed sober?

He spotted a table in the far corner, right under a willow whose branches hung so low they dipped into the river, and headed over to take ownership.

He put the pints down and sat facing the pub so he could see the comings and the goings. He checked his watch.

Eight o'clock. Nearly time.

He took another long draught of the beer, then opened his leather shoulder bag and carefully took out the tools of his trade.

Phone - to record the interview. Back-up digital audio recorder. Spare batteries - just in case. Notebook - already lined down the middle for shorthand.

Pen. And pencil too. Again - just in case.

Twenty years of local papers, ten more on Fleet Street, before ending up back here as a freelance for The Cherringham Times (more like an advertising free sheet than a real paper, but hey, beggars and choosers). All this experience had taught him to back up everything.

Belt and braces, as they say. Better safe than sorry.

Just in case.

Couldn't have anything go wrong this evening - oh no - no way. Not with this interview. This was - oh yes - the big one.

This was the one that would finally get him out of this Cherringham backwater and back onto the front page of a real newspaper!

Who knows? Maybe even into the TV studios again.

"Tonight, on Newsnight, we're joined by seasoned crime reporter Tom Pinder who first broke the story and who's been following today's shocking events in court ."

Tom smiled, enjoying that fantasy, and took another long pull on his beer. He stared through the trees at a pair of swans, gliding out from under the stone arches of the medieval bridge, and past the pub garden.

Just about perfect.

The place had filled up, but here, in this quiet, secluded spot, he felt safely tucked away. Nobody could eavesdrop, he was sure. Anyway, the pub seemed to be filled with the usual boisterous crowd, here for a Saturday night out - nobody suspicious.

No one who looked like they could be sniffing around his story.

As he glanced at the pub's entrance, he saw a face at one of the upper windows of the pub peering down at him - but it pulled back behind a curtain.

Odd.

For a second he was concerned. But the face didn't reappear.

Probably just a guest in one of the bedrooms, watching the sunset.

And what a sunset. A real colour show going on in the sky tonight.

He reached into his pocket and took out his cigarettes, opened the pack, tapped one out. Lit it, popping a little smoke ring out of habit, as he watched it curl in the air in the last of the rosy sunlight.

So much for giving up. Second pack today.

Shame he didn't have a photographer to catch this bucolic moment. Sure was a picturesque setting. He'd have to come back here when he got a book deal - stage the whole thing again for the camera.

The author at the Rose in Flower, seated (left) with John Sheeran at their first dramatic tell-all interview.

First interview - yep, that had a nice ring to it. Course, that was thinking ahead.

Need to get all the facts first, sort the deal with Sheeran, write the story up, sell the whole juicy tale to one of the big papers in London, maybe even The Sunday Times or The Telegraph? Posh readers loved a good crime exclusive too.

He drained his pint, put the empty glass down. Checked his watch. Hmm, if Sheeran didn't turn up in the next couple of minutes, he might as well drink the other pint.

Sure. Then get two fresh ones.

But then a movement caught his eye at the back of the garden where the hedge ran down to the water's edge - and he saw a figure emerge - as if they'd come from the field behind the pub.

As if sneaking in.

A man in a leather jacket, collar up, a wool beanie on his head.

Funny, he thought. Don't recall ever seeing a gate into the pub there?

But that didn't matter. The man walked quickly across the grass towards him, staying in the shadows - and then, closer, and Pinder recognised the face from so many old photos.

John Sheeran. In the flesh.

Tom Pinder felt his heart pounding - that rush of adrenaline he so loved back in the day, that feeling you only got when a story really took off and got real.

He reached into his pocket and clicked the audio recorder on. Then he checked his phone, hit record, placed it on the table, folded back the top page of the notepad, took out his pen, and readied himself for this interview that he was sure would change his life.

*

"You finished with these glasses, mate?"

Tom finished scribbling and looked up from his notebook. One of the young lads from behind the bar stood over the table - tray loaded with glasses and bottles.

"What?" said Tom, pulling his empty glass towards him. "No. I'm having another."

"Not here, you're not," said the young barman. "Called last orders twenty minutes ago. We're locking up - so if you don't mind-"

Tom looked around the dark garden and realised the place was almost empty.

In all the excitement of the interview, he'd totally lost track of the time, sorting his notes, writing it all up fast while it was still fresh, the pints flying by.

Sheeran long gone, the garden lights off, the pub quiet.

Time that he hit the road too.

"Can you get me a taxi?" he said, shoving his notes and recorder into his shoulder bag.

"On a Saturday night?" said the barman. "You gotta be kidding."

Tom swore to himself.

Should have booked a cab hours ago, he thought.

He slung the bag over his shoulder and stood - then quickly grabbed the corner of the table as he swayed and nearly fell.

Whoa.

"You all right, pal?" said the lad, putting down the tray and reaching out to steady him.

Tom shrugged the hand away.

"Yeah, yeah. Sure."

"Walk it off, eh?" said the barman, taking the tray again and heading back towards the pub door. "Back down the river path - nice night for it."

Tom watched him go, and, under his breath, swore again. But then he carefully threaded his way through the empty tables, using them as navigational props when he felt his balance going, as the last strings of garden lights went out, one by one.

By the time he reached the little gate onto the road, the pub was in silence, dark. Didn't seem like a soul was about. He held onto the gatepost, still swaying, getting his bearings.

Somewhere to his right, down the lane, he saw a shadow moving. Then it stopped.

Cat? Dog? Cow? Out here - in the middle of absolutely nowhere - could be anything.

He held his shoulder bag tight against his side, stepped onto the road, took a few wobbly paces onto the old bridge and put a steadying hand on the parapet. The stone felt cold.

He peered over the edge. In the light from the half moon, he could just see the river - black and silver as it flowed beneath.

Damn. A whisky for the road would have been nice, he thought. Then he remembered: there was another pub on the far bank! Maybe staying open late?

After all, it is Saturday night!

He hurried across the bridge as best he could - but stopped halfway. As he peered into the darkness, he could see . the other pub was shut too.

Then he heard the sound of a car in the distance, and he turned. Behind him he saw lights approaching. It was coming fast. The bridge was narrow, and Tom pressed himself against the parapet.

As the car raced past and a horn blared, Tom put out his thumb, almost as a lark, hoping for a lift.

But the car didn't stop - the passengers jeering, laughing and shouting at him as it passed. Tom stuck a defiant middle finger in the air as it disappeared into the distance.

Looked like he didn't have a choice. The walk back to Cherringham along the riverbank would easily take the best part of an hour.

But - hey - it wouldn't be time wasted. Already he was rolling the story in his head, shifting paragraphs, rewriting the intro, adding colour, punching up the moments, the big reveal.

Oh - and what a reveal.

Sheeran had told him everything. Named names. Given him numbers. Nailed the inconsistencies in the original story all those years ago, revealed all the lies.

The interview was everything Tom had dreamed it would be - and more. It would be the making of him.

No - the remaking.

He grinned and started to walk across the bridge - and then...