was no different from other Yorkshire pubs in the late nineties. Divided into two rooms – or ‘bars’ – they were separated by doors, but shared the same bar counter. Both rooms generously offered worn, sticky carpet underfoot; aged oak furniture littered with torn beermats; tatty chintz curtains; and faded floral wallpaper throughout.

In the public bar, a TV fought to be heard over the high-pitched sound of two jackpot machines and darts thumping a dart board. Raucous chatter about restrictions imposed on the steel factory which habitually discharged waste in the nearby River Owl harmonised with the large focal point of the quiet lounge next door (occupied only by me and my sister) – a large post-apocalyptic landscape which hung above an unlit fireplace. The oil painting had been commissioned after a beer distributor had stored a handful of kegs in the nearby steel factory before realising the barrels had picked up trace amounts of metal. In the foreground of the canvas, a fisherman proudly held a fish as long as his torso – taken from the thriving river next to him. In the brooding horizon behind the subject, broken pylons, fragile skyscrapers and a destroyed factory had been overlooked by the resplendent sun.

My sister’s leather jacket rustled as she resurfaced from under the table after placing some beermats underneath its uneven leg.

‘You said it yourself, Jess,’ I said quietly but emphatically, ‘someone might have wanted him dead.’ I pressed the hard-back cover of the book in front of me like I was performing CPR – only poorly. ‘And it turns out you were right.’

My message also resembled CPR – an attempted resurrection of the fleeting doubt that once briefly existed in the mind of my sister. I had discovered that one week earlier our friend and landlord of hadn’t died from a heart attack. And one piece of evidence lay dormant in that book in front of me, next to my empty pint of ale.

‘Dill,’ said my fister, screwing up her attractive face, ‘Sir Tony wasn’t exactly cut down in the prime of his life. He drank a half pint every hour of the day – everyday – and he’d lived through two World Wars–’

‘And the murderer knew that!’

To most people, Tony Shoulder wasn’t nobility, royalty, nor a celebrity. But to me, he was all of those things. That’s not to say that his death wasn’t unexpected. After all, he was an eighty-one year old drinker. But contrary to popular opinion, that’s not what caused his death. I not only knew that he had been murdered, but I knew who did it.

Had we not lived in a sleepy North Yorkshire town on the outskirts of York, but rather a ghetto in New York, and had I not been a tipsy sixteen year old, but rather a senior detective inspector with form, perhaps more credence would’ve been given to my words.

‘Oy, filth!’ came a raspy voice from behind us. It was shortly followed by the whiff of nauseating perfume. ‘No more helping yourselves behind my bar. This pub needs money. No more hand outs. From now on you pay for your drinks. And you can forget about underage drinking, Dylan. I’ll be asking for IDs from now on. Tell your friends,’ she said, laughing, ‘I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for this!’

I chose not to turn around. I had seen enough of Sandra Shoulder – Tony’s newly widowed wife – to know that she would be flashing her fake-tanned smile and her pearl-white teeth with unabashed glee.

‘Why did you insist we come back here, Dill?’ said Jessica as Sandra returned to the other bar. ‘This has to be the worst place in the world right now. Apart from having her here, we’re also only metres away from where Sir Tony died.’ She scratched her head, unintentionally freeing a few stray hairs from her loose bun.

‘Precisely,’ I said. ‘Only here can you really see how hard Sir Tony’s death is hitting her,’ I whispered with a dry smile.

My sister’s frown grew stronger. ‘Wait, you think Sandracula killed him?’

I smiled. ‘Recognise this?’ I held up the large bound volume How Did They Die? which I had taken from my father’s bookshelf earlier that day. ‘Shortly before Tony died, you said that he had changed the barrel in the cellar. I’ve seen that procedure. Lifting it onto that rack – or stillaging it – would have its challenges if he was moments away from suffering a heart attack.’ I opened the book, which was bookmarked with a manila envelope, and read a portion aloud.

Heart Failure

Symptoms will have slowly crept up on X. They will have included increasing breathlessness (dyspnea), fatigue, and fluid retention – especially in individuals with known heart disease . . . X will have experienced an unusual amount of breathlessness carrying something they previously handled easily.

‘We’ve been with him a lot, Jess. I know that he didn’t have heart disease and I didn’t see any of those “creeping” symptoms that would suggest he was about to have a heart attack. Carol’ – Tony’s ex-wife – ‘confirmed that when she quickly arrived on the scene.’

My sister nodded her head, examining the book.

‘Then there’s the test tube–’

‘Test tube?’ she said.

‘I poured a sample of his beer into my empty glass and smuggled it back home on the day he died. Preliminary testing revealed it contained something it shouldn’t have–’

‘Preliminary testing?’

I tapped my nose. ‘My nose never lies. It smelt of perfume. The same perfume that Sandra uses. I borrowed a test tube from one of the school science labs and anonymously sent it off to the police with a note and a copy of this – Sandracula’s motive.’

My sister cracked a wide smile. ‘Before you carry on, I need another drink. I’m going home to raid Dad’s stash of coins. Keep our seats warm, I’ll be back in a few minutes–’

‘No need,’ I said, passing her some coins from my pocket. ‘The solicitors are paying me for my work experience.’

* * *

While my sister was in the public bar, my eyes settled on the empty leather armchair which sat by the pub’s bay window. Through the fog of drifting smoke, in my mind’s eye I could still see Tony’s cross-legged silhouette from weeks earlier. After seeing off a local photographer who he had sent to the River Owl with a 35mm camera, Tony gave me one of his metaphorical discourses. Wearing a three-piece suit and wellington boots, he pointed to his toe, his knee and then his shoulder.

‘Toe-knee-shoulder,’ he said, grinning. ‘That’s who I am, Dill. But it’s also the destiny of every human.’ He looked at the portrait of the fisherman above the roaring fireplace. ‘I move forward with risk, but often stump my toe; that requires flexibility and humility as it forces me to bend my knee; and with that I shoulder the consequences of my decisions–’

Interrupting my thoughts, my sister returned from the bar with two pints of ale – which she had assured Sandra were both for her. I resumed the exposition of my theory.

‘Was Sandra working the evening of Tony’s death?’ I said.

My sister nodded her head while drinking a mouthful of beer and pushing the second pint of ale towards me

‘So you saw her?’ I said.

‘As you know, she never came into this room when Tony was around. But I didn’t need to see her. I smelt her. And the bottles of spirits behind the bar had been straightened. All the labels were facing forward. You know how she is with her obsessions.’

‘So that’s opportunity and means. As for motive . . .’ I turned around to look towards the other bar. My eyes fell on a blond employee from Photo World delivering a packet of developed photos to Sandra, which she tossed behind the bar. ‘You might want to read this, Jess,’ I said, removing the envelope from inside the book, while sipping my pint of ale. ‘It proves that–’

‘I warned you, Dylan!’ Sandra’s shrill utterance yanked me from my thoughts. ‘I’ll give you ten seconds before I call the police. Ten . . . Nine . . . Eight . . . Seven’ – she thundered through the doors – ‘Six . . . Five–’

‘Sandra,’ I cut in, looking up at her. ‘I’ll admit to underage drinking if you admit that you knew what was in Tony’s will.’ I held the envelope in the air.

A glazed look varnished Sandra’s made-up face.

‘He was going to cut you out,’ I said. ‘Fortunately for you, he died before he could sign it. In the detective world they call that motive. At a stab, I’d say that your murder weapon – the means – was the perfume that you bathe in, and you put it in his beer. As for opportunity, you were working that night in the other bar–’

‘You’re wrong.’ She smiled. ‘I wasn’t here that night. But I don’t need to justify myself to you . . . You know, it’s tough to pin-point why I’ve always detested you and your . . . I want to say friends, but people like you two freaks don’t have friends, do you? And don’t get me started on your family. What kind of father leaves their children with Tony? A warped undertaker – that’s who. I mean, Tony was continually as drunk as a fish. And Tony would know all about fish – all that time he spent at the River Owl hoping to find salmon.

‘He pushed people away. If he had stuck around long enough, he would’ve pushed you two away as well. He pushed Carol, his ex-wife, into the arms of that titan of industry. No matter what he did, she would never forgive him. If you really believe he was murdered and you’re looking for suspects, you should start with her–’

‘Why would she murder him before the proposed will was signed?’ I said, ‘In the current will, she gains nothing. Everything goes to you. However, if the draft of the will had gone ahead, Carol would have inherited everything.’

Sandra scoffed. ‘And I’m sure that paperwork of yours hasn’t got anything to do with the new-fangled “internet”, right? I hear that you kids will be able to commit forgeries on an unprecedented scale as time goes on.’

‘This isn’t a forgery,’ said Jessica, ‘Dylan has been doing his work experience at Smith & Northern Solicitors . . . As Sandra collected the empty glasses from our table, one of her utterances clung to my thoughts.

Tony was continually as drunk as a fish.

‘Sandra,’ I said, ‘Tony told me about some photos of the River Owl. I’m guessing they’re the ones that were delivered earlier.’

Her eyes returned to the bar. ‘Remember your place – it’s this side of the bar – and even that is looking precarious. If you hadn’t paid for those drinks I would have thrown you out before now–!’

‘You don’t get it, Sandra! Those photos might provide–’

‘You’re pathetic, do you know that, Dylan? You’ll never amount to anything. You’re just like Tony. And you’re just like your father – digging yourself a hole in the ground. Keep digging while I phone the police on you two. Enjoy that pint, it might be your last in a long time.’

With a swift turn she returned to the bar and made a dramatic display of picking up a phone and twisting the coiled cord of the rotary telephone as she loudly spoke to the police.

* * *

‘What’s going on, Dill?’ said my sister. ‘You suddenly look pale.’

‘I was wrong, Jess. She didn’t do it,’ I said under my breath. ‘As much as I wish she did.’

‘What? If Sandra didn’t do it, who did?’

I looked up at the painting and remembered Tony’s words.

I move forward with risk . . . that requires humility . . . and I shoulder the consequences of my decisions.

‘Who would not only know Tony’s habits like clockwork, but the inner workings of the pub. Who would also happen to have a decommissioned cask in storage – contaminated with metals – that she could swap as soon as Tony left the cellar?’

She widened her green eyes. ‘Carol?’

I nodded. ‘Tony had heard about salmon drunk on fresh water swimming in the River Owl again. If that was widely known, new regulations on waste would be implemented and hit Carol’s husband’s factory too hard. She didn’t know that Tony had commissioned someone to take pictures of the River Owl. If I found out about the will, it wouldn’t have been difficult for her to know about it also. It would dismiss her as a suspect and shine the spotlight on Sandra. The perfume must’ve been slipped in at any point afterwards. She was quick on the scene – probably to replace the poisoned cask with a legitimate one. It seems I’m not the only one who believed something that wasn’t true. Tony believed that she had eventually forgiven him–’

Our attention quickly shifted to the arrival of two police officers. With gusto, Sandra received them and escorted them into the bar. Unable to hide her glee, she bore her teeth as she snatched my glass from the table.

‘I’m no detective, but I don’t see any of your red lipstick on this glass, Jessica. These two reprobates are all yours, officers. I’ll be on my way.’

While one of the men walked back to the door, the other took off his hat and made himself comfortable in Tony’s leather armchair. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you, Mrs Shoulder. You’ll want to hear what we have to say.’

She turned and leaned back on the bar, smirking.

The seated man faced me. ‘You are Dylan Jackson, correct?’

‘I am.’

‘The same Dylan Jackson, who, while working at Smith & Northern Solicitors, sent a sample of Tony Shoulder’s beer – preserved in a test-tube – to the regional lab we use in Forearm? As well as a photocopy of that book you’ve got in front of you and the draft of Tony Shoulder’s will – presumably enclosed in that envelope?’

I nodded.

The man approached me and shook my hand. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Sole. After testing that sample, the lab spat out a cluster of peaks consistent with a fragrance compound not typically present in beer . . . Also they found high levels of lead, chromium and nickel. That would generate the same symptoms as a sudden heart failure in someone like Mr Shoulder – who had a battered liver and haggard kidneys. I think it’s time we had a conversation, Mrs Shoulder. Please accompany us to the station, I don’t want to make a scene–’

‘What? I’m not going anywhere!’

‘I advise you to stop digging your heels in, Mrs Shoulder–’

‘Dylan has set all of this up!’ she cried. ‘Talk to him . . . He knows the truth – it’s something to do with that pack of photos behind the bar. Dylan, go and get the photos!’

I considered the desperate woman being forcibly removed from the pub by the two police officers. ‘What would I know, Sandra?’ I said. ‘I’m just a pathetic kid who will amount to nothing. I wouldn’t dream of going behind your bar. Oh, and DI Sole, you can’t leave without appreciating the focal point of this room . . .’