‘Of course I will. I’m his wife.’

125

Farmer went to Mrs Maguire’s home address at seven o’clock that evening and knocked on the door. He knocked so long that he thought maybe she was still at the hospital. He stood there in the cold wind, looking around at the mess of the front garden. Grass a foot high. Borders overgrown with weeds. He stepped back down onto the path and was going back to the car when a light came on in the hallway and the front door opened.

Fiona Maguire stood there. Both her hands were bandaged and she was wearing the same scruffy clothes she’d had on at the station earlier in the day. She stared out at him.

Farmer turned back. ‘Mrs Maguire? Can we have a word please?’

She said nothing. Instead, she stepped back, opening the door wider. Farmer stepped inside and the door was closed behind him. Shuffling along in threadbare slippers, Fiona led the way into a sitting room thick with dust and dirt. Piles of newspapers were stacked up beside a stained armchair by the solitary gas fire, which wasn’t switched on. It felt icy in here, and damp. Farmer sat down on a sofa that looked to be on its last legs. Fiona sat in the tattered armchair by the cold fire.

‘Tell me about the last day you saw your husband, Mrs Maguire,’ he said.

Fiona Maguire spoke for over half an hour. Farmer didn’t interrupt her; he just listened. He knew Maguire had been investigating a case with DS Charlie Poulter: drug gangs in the East End. Poulter was retired now, but he often got down the Lion, where most of the people from Farmer’s station congregated after

their shifts finished, shooting his mouth off in a vain effort to impress, enjoying the feeling that he was somehow still part of the force, when he wasn’t.

‘But you won’t bother with any of this, will you?’ said Fiona, her mouth twisting with bitterness. ‘You don’t care.’

Then she got to her feet and showed him the door.

126

From Mrs Maguire’s place, Farmer went down the Lion. Paddy was propping up the bar alongside the female DC who’d helped him with Fiona earlier today. He nodded when Farmer came in.

‘Get you a pint, sir?’

‘Nah, I’m just looking for someone. You seen that mouthy old git Charlie Poulter in here tonight?’

‘No, thank Christ.’ Paddy grinned. ‘Thursdays is his night usually.’

It was Wednesday today. ‘Did you contact social services about Mrs Maguire?’

‘Yep, all done. They’ll get in touch with her soon, they said. See what they could do to help out.’

‘That’s fine, Paddy. Thanks.’

Farmer left the pub and went home. He sat in his clean, tidy flat and thought about missing Donny Maguire and his wreck of a missus. Then he ate a pizza and went to bed.

The next night at eight thirty he was back in the Lion. No Paddy this time, and no female DC either. He wondered where that was going, but decided it was really none of his business. Charlie Poulter was in, Farmer could hear him as soon as he got through the door. Poulter, in Farmer’s estimation, had been lucky to get out of the force with a full pension. It had been discovered that he’d had a lot of scams going on with local bad lads, and it had all been coming briskly to the boil when upstairs had advised him to take early retirement and be grateful there would be no further repercussions. Charlie had taken the money and run. And now, here he was, chatting in his over-loud hectoring voice to the young cops who gathered in here, telling them all about his glory days and what a prince among coppers he’d been.