Where the hell did you go, Donny Maguire, you bent bastard?

It was a question that had tripped through his brain frequently over the years since Hunter had told him to drop it. As a fully qualified DI, he could consider further investigations, but the whole department was snowed under with work, current work, so would it be wise to even try to start digging up the past, taking up valuable man and woman hours on something that was probably heading nowhere anyway?

It wouldn’t be a vote winner upstairs, that was for sure.

He watched Paddy put down his pen, watched Fiona Maguire get tiredly to her feet, gather up her shopping bag. Saw her cross the room. She paused halfway and looked back. Back not at Paddy but at Farmer, tucked out of the way in his own office. For long uncomfortable seconds, Farmer’s eyes were locked with hers. She hesitated. Then Paddy, who was still watching her, stood up and went to her side. He took her arm and ushered her out of the office.

She was gone, and Farmer felt he could breathe again.

For another week, anyway. Then she’d be back.

Farmer sighed and picked up the next case file.

122

After weeks of preparation, the day of Lenny’s fortieth birthday arrived. Angel was in the master bedroom at the back of the Chigwell house, putting the finishing touches to her outfit for the party. And what a bloody party it was going to be.

She had thought of hiring the ballroom at the Dorchester for Lenny’s fortieth. It was going to be a major piss-up. Lenny loved doing things on a big exuberant scale. But with four acres at home, why not a marquee? There was space enough to entertain an army, so she’d settled on that. Two hundred invitations were sent out to all Lenny’s pals and their ladies, and now it was the big day, the big night.

Angel went over to the window. Out there in the twilight, lamps were lit all around the grounds. People were milling about, drinking, grabbing platefuls of food; she could hear them chattering like starlings. There was a chef turning fillet steaks over on the barbecue, tables loaded with exotic dishes. The DJ who’d set up his decks on the patio was playing ‘West End Girls’ by the Pet Shop Boys, the music thumping out of vast speakers set up on either side of him.

Then Lenny was at the door of the master suite, grinning at her.

‘Come on, honey. Get a spurt on, for Christ’s sake.’

Angel clipped on her earrings, thinking that as always Lenny looked the business. Her husband. Businessman, entrepreneur, importer/exporter. Lenny was still a very attractive man – tall, broad-shouldered. Immaculately dressed. Always tanned. Well, they took a lot of holidays. Mauritius. Barbados. All over the damned place. His thick straight blond hair was bleached from the sun, and he still wore it a bit too long. His startling blue eyes were emphasized by the depth of his tan. He still looked like a rock star, the flashy bastard.