THE RISING SUN WAS a small, gloomy, one-roomed pub with a run-down, seedy air. The barmaid was a teenager whose whole demeanour described the phrase 'Abandon hope all ye who enter here'. Certainly, with her stringy, bleached blonde hair, her dead-looking, and sludgy grey eyes and pallid face, she looked like she'd abandoned hope some time ago.
'Yeah?' she asked listlessly. 'What can I get yer?'
'I'll have a pint of Adnams and my friend will have a sparkling mineral water. Do you do food?'
'No. No call for it.'
Rafferty wasn't surprised. The bar had a grimy air; he didn't imagine the kitchen was a pan-scrubbed exhibit of the fussy chef's art. Definitely a place to court a dodgy stomach; not something to be risked as he doubted the toilets were up to much either.
'We'll stop off for a s
