‘All right,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Go on then. What do you want to know?’

Farmer spread his hands. ‘Anything Maguire got up to. I heard that was plenty. Enough for my DI at the time to pull the blinds down on it and mark it closed. You were his DS, you were right on the spot. So what went on?’

‘And this is off the record? No comebacks?’ Poulter eyed him warily.

‘None whatsoever,’ said Farmer.

Charlie Poulter considered this. Then he leaned in to Farmer again and lowered his voice. ‘I tell you, the high jinks we used to get up to, us lads. Tame, you lot are these days. In comparison, like.’

‘Especially Donny Maguire?’

‘Gawd yes. He was my guv’nor but he was wild all right.’

‘Like what?’

‘All done now, innit?’

‘Still – like what?’

‘Big DI now, aintcha, frightening the kiddies.’ Charlie gave a grin that was almost a snarl and indicated the officers who’d been sitting with him minutes ago. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. We worked hard, but we played bloody hard too.’

Farmer sat back. ‘Come on, Charlie. Stop fucking around. I want details.’

‘We had parties. Parties like you wouldn’t believe.’

‘What sort of parties?’ Farmer hadn’t been expecting that.

Charlie winked at him. ‘Real fuckfests, they were. Tarts on tap. All of them wandering about with their tits out. Donny certainly knew how to throw a party, I’ll give him that.’

Farmer stared at him. ‘Where was Mrs Maguire when all this was going on?’

‘What, his missus?’ Charlie let out his breath. ‘Joking, aintcha? She never knew a thing about any of it. Frigid little cow, I reckon. You ever meet her?’

Farmer didn’t answer that. ‘What, was she out or something? And the kids, what about them?’

Charlie was shaking his head. ‘No, no, no. The parties didn’t go on at his house, don’t be fucking stupid. As if!’

‘He hired somewhere private? Some venue?’

‘Oh do have a day off! What, Maguire? He was my guv’nor and we were close as ticks on a cat’s arse, but I have to say, he was a mean bastard with the money. He liked to make it but even more, he liked to hold on to it. He’d never buy you a fucking ice cream, never mind a pint. Catch him shelling out for a fucking dance hall, you must be having a laugh.’

‘Where then? If not at his house, where?’

‘At his flat of course. He had a flat.’

Farmer sat back in surprise. This was the first he’d ever heard of it.

‘Where was this flat?’ he asked.

127

It was weird, being on the outside. Frank Pargeter felt like he’d been caught in a time warp in stir, nothing had ever changed in there. Out here, things were different. He went to his local at lunchtime and didn’t recognize a fucking soul, not even the landlord. Even the decor was changed. Everywhere was busier, so much busier, traffic and people all over the place. No one seemed to know him any more, and he scarcely even knew himself. And he was hearing these rumours. Rumours about that slag Dora O’Brien.