‘FREDDIE, HAVE YOU BEEN THREATENED?’‘Aye, he was here yesterday and in a foul mood with it. Looked as though he been in a fight, his knuckles were that cut and bloody,’ Freddie Jackson, the barman at the Working Man’s Institute, said. ‘Then I heard his missus had been killed, but he’d left by then.’
‘Did anybody come looking for him?’ Yarrow asked, fairly certain that Palmer’s attackers would have looked for him in his usual drinking habitats.
‘No, no, nobody,’ Jackson answered but could not look Yarrow or Harding in the eye. He’s lying, Harding though, and scared with it.
‘Are you certain?’ Yarrow asked, sharing Harding’s suspicions.
‘Aye, well, look, I know what I know and I know what I don’t know and there are things I don’t want to know on account it’s bad for my health, you know w
