She aimed an elbow at my stomach; when I tightened my hold, she tried to bite my hand. I pressed it down harder, pulling her head back, till her neck arched and I could feel her teeth crushing against her lip. I said, “When I take my hand away, I want you to think about two things. The first one is that I’m a whole lot closer than anyone else. The second one is what Deco upstairs would think if he knew there was an informer living here, because it would be very, very easy for him to find out. Do you think he’d take it out on you, personally, or would he decide Isabelle’s juicier? Or maybe Genevieve? You tell me, Imelda. I don’t know what kind of taste he’s got.”

Her eyes were lit up with pure fury, like a trapped animal’s. If she could have bitten my throat out, she would have done it. I said, “So what’s the plan? Are you going to scream?”

After a moment, her muscles slowly loosened and she shook her head. I let go, tossed a bunch of Burberry off an armchair onto the floor and settled in. “There,” I said. “Isn’t this cozy?”

Imelda rubbed tenderly at her jaw. “Prick,” she said.

“This wasn’t my choice, babe, now was it? I gave you two separate chances to talk to me like a civilized person, but no: you wanted it this way.”

“My fella’ll be home any minute now. He does the security. You don’t want to be messing with him.”

“That’s funny, because he wasn’t home last night and there’s nothing in this room that says he’s ever existed.” I kicked the Burberry out of the way so I could stretch out my legs. “Why would you lie about something like that, Imelda? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of me.”

She was sulking in the corner of the sofa, arms and legs crossed tight, but that got a rise out of her. “You wish, Francis Mackey. I’ve bet the shite out of a lot tougher than you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have. And if you can’t beat the shite out of them, you run and tell someone who might. You squelt on me to Scorcher Kennedy—no, shut your bloody great gob and don’t be trying to lie your way out—and I’m not one bit happy about it. But it’s easily fixed. All you have to do is tell me who you ran to about me and Rosie, and hey presto, all will be forgiven.”

Imelda shrugged. In the background, the TV baboons were still belting each other with studio chairs; I leaned over, keeping a sharp eye on Imelda just in case, and yanked the plug out of the wall. Then I said, “I didn’t hear you.”