The Mason's Arms in Battersea Park Road was one of those unspoilt pubs – not quite spit-and-sawdust, but not yet turned into a gastro pub as so many in this up and coming location had. This was fortunate, as this meant that while it wasn't busy the landlord had no objection to a clean-ish rough sleeper with a bit of money in his pocket coming in and buying himself a lemonade and then taking it to sit in a window seat. After all, money was money, and the boy wasn't upsetting the few regulars that were in.
It seemed to be a day for strangers, for a little while later two men walked in and ordered half of Guinness and a lemonade, then took their drinks and went and sat at a table near the homeless lad. The landlord shook his head. His was not to reason why – money was money, whoever paid for the drinks.
The landlord was busy in the cellar changing the barrel on his most popular real ale, and so he missed the two men leaving, followed a few minutes later by the lad. Life in the Mason's Arms went on.
"She okay?"
"She will be."
"Was nice to me she was, most coppers ain't."
John nodded, waiting patiently for information.
"Bomber went into the flat over the butcher's."