‘I think we ought to let social services know about her,’ said Farmer.

‘Consider it done.’ Paddy stood up, grimacing at the crunch underfoot of the glass, and left Farmer’s office.

Enough, Farmer thought. She’d made her point and, truthfully, he had never been happy to let the matter rest in the first place. So he was going to pay Fiona a visit this evening, which would give her time enough to calm down, he hoped, and to have her wounds patched up. That afternoon, he went down to archives and, out of curiosity, got out the Donny Maguire file again.

124

It turned out that Lenny had been lying to everyone, including his own wife. Over the weeks that followed the knock, Angel started to get a true picture of her husband’s business, and none of it was kosher.

The bailiffs arrived at the door of their plush pad. They ferried the Mercedes, Lenny’s pride and joy, onto a low-loader, then they showed their papers and came into the house and started carrying out the most expensive items they could lay hands on, right under Angel’s nose. Over a gruelling couple of hours, her whole lifestyle disappeared. The huge marble dining table with its eight big gold-leafed rococo chairs were carried out the door; then the bronzes of running horses Lenny had loved so much; then the TV, stereo, a massive and priceless etched glass coffee table, four huge sofas that had cost the fucking earth, six chandeliers, his cinema equipment, all the costly pool accessories, even the billiard table.

All the friends Lenny once had vanished into thin air. Only Tom came to see Angel, to see how she was coping, but she was in shock. Once again her world was crumbling around her. She couldn’t believe it. The day after Lenny’s party the marquee people had come and taken it down and asked her – not in friendly terms – when they were going to get paid. It was at that point that Angel thanked God for her own cautious nature. Lenny might have laughed at her own little bank account into which she tucked money – like a squirrel putting away nuts for winter, he’d often said – but here was the proof that she hadn’t been such a fool after all.

The only foolish thing she’d done had been trusting him.

She paid the marquee people out of her own money.

Then she made herself and Tom tea and sat in the kitchen with him on a couple of the outside deckchairs that were too beaten up for the bailiffs to have whipped out from under them.

‘Tell me everything you know about this,’ said Angel to Tom.

Tom looked at her.

‘Come on,’ she prompted. ‘What’s he been up to? Do you know?’

Tom gave a glance out at the bailiffs, who were trooping in and out of the front door, admitting blasts of freezing cold air as they loaded Angel’s life into the backs of their vans. He lowered his voice. ‘I heard on the grapevine it was about bringing cannabis and cocaine into the country. But I think that was fuck all, that wasn’t the real meat, that was only the gravy.’