I stayed there, in the doorway, waiting. Imelda shot a fast glance over her shoulder, but I wasn’t moving and she didn’t have a choice. After a second she said, “The place is in bits—”

“You think I care about that? You should see my gaff. It’s just good to see you again.”

By the time I finished talking, I was past her and through the door. The place wasn’t quite a shit hole, but I saw her point. One look at Mandy at home had said this woman was contented; not permanently ecstatic, maybe, but her life had turned out to be something she liked. Imelda, not so much. The sitting room felt even smaller than it was because there was stuff everywhere: used mugs and Chinese takeaway cartons on the floor around the sofa, women’s clothes—various sizes—drying on the radiators, dusty piles of bootleg DVD cases toppling over in corners. The heat was up too high and the windows hadn’t been opened in a long time; the place had a thick smell of ashtrays, food and women. Everything except the telly-on-steroids needed replacing.

“This is a great little place,” I said.

Imelda said shortly, “It’s shite.”

“I grew up in a lot worse.”

She shrugged. “So? Doesn’t stop this being shite. Will you have tea?”

“Love some. How’ve you been?”

She headed into the kitchen. “You can see for yourself. Sit down there.”

I found a noncrusty patch of sofa and settled in. “I hear you’ve got daughters these days, yeah?”

Through the half-open kitchen door I saw Imelda pause, with her hand on the kettle. She said, “And I heard you’re a Guard now.”

I was getting used to the illogical shot of anger when someone informed me I had turned into The Man’s bum-boy; it was even starting to come in useful. “Imelda,” I said, outraged and wounded to the bone, after a second of shocked silence. “Are you serious? You think I’m here to give you hassle about your kids?”

Shrug. “How do I know? They’ve done nothing, anyway.”

“I don’t even know their names. I was only asking, for fuck’s sake. I don’t give a rat’s arse if you’ve raised the bleeding Sopranos; I only wanted to say howya, for old times’ sake. If you’re just going to throw freakers about what I do for a living, then tell me and I’ll get out of your hair. Believe me.”

After a moment I saw the corner of Imelda’s mouth twitch reluctantly, and she flicked on the kettle. “Same old Francis; the bleeding temper on you. Yeah, I’ve three. Isabelle, Shania and Genevieve. Holy fucking terrors, the three of them; teenagers. What about you?”

No mention of a father, or fathers. “One,” I said. “She’s nine.”