The basement cellar of The Red Lion pub on High Street was cool. He smelled of stale draft ale, damp sawdust, and old limestone cellar damp. Imran Bell knelt on a folded rubber kneeler near the coal chute. He held a battery-powered halogen check lamp in his left hand and a six-inch stainless-steel sample spatula in his right.
Beside him stood his cousin and business partner, Sal Bell. She held a yellow plastic clipboard and a light metal carrying case containing sample jars, alcohol vials, and a clockwork hygrometer.
At the bottom of the wooden cellar stairs stood Arthur Finch, the publican, an anxious, portly man in a stained white apron, wringing his hands nervously. “They’re monsters, Imran! I’m telling you, they’re crawling out of the walls by the thousands! My barmaid screamed and dropped a tray of pints yesterday afternoon! If the outside health checker sees one bug on the floor, he’ll shut the pub down before the weekend trade! You’ve got to spray the whole cellar with chemical fogger! Soak every crack!”
Imran didn’t look up from the wall. He adjusted the focus ring on his halogen lamp, shining the bright white beam into the narrow gap between two stone foundation blocks.
