A little light seemed to go on in his head. "Ooohhhh," he said, at first happy that he got it, and then slowly letting it sink in that he looked like a total plonker. I felt a wee bit sorry for him, so I assured him that no one would ever mistake him for a detective hunting terrorists, and he must really be good at his work. This seemed to buck him up a bit. The most important thing is that he let go of my book and I could finally look up my puzzle.
He kept saying that he had three days off and he wanted to buy me a beer. He was metaphorically gripping me like a book and he wouldn't let go, so I knew the only answer was to leave, despite the fact that I really liked this bar and didn't want to go. I packed up my puzzles and left a tip on the bar.
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"Good luck with Osama, Inspector Morse," I said to him as I left.
"Lewis!" he corrected me. My bad.
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