‘What the fuck’s the bastard done now?’ he snapped.

Farmer’s eyes narrowed. ‘What bastard would you be referring to, sir?’

‘My nipper. What’s he done then? You got some ID?’

Both Farmer and Paddy produced their warrant cards. ‘He’s done nothing, so far as I am aware. You’re Mr Michael Jackson?’ asked Farmer.

‘Yeah. And I’ve heard all the jokes, so don’t bother.’

‘What we’d like to talk to you about is the flat you used to live in.’

‘What, the . . .’ This took the wind out of his sails. ‘I don’t think I can tell you nothing. It burned down, years back. And we got this gaff instead, we were lucky. It’s miles better.’

‘Can we come in, sir?’ asked Farmer.

‘S’pose so.’

He led them into a small lounge. A hugely fat woman sat on a purple sofa, her eyes fixed on a TV on which people were taking part in a game. The audience were roaring with laughter. When she saw the two men coming in, she didn’t say a word.

‘Police,’ said the bald man.

‘Is this your wife, sir? Mrs Samantha Jackson?’ asked Paddy.

‘Yeah.’

Farmer looked at the woman. ‘We’re sorry to disturb you, Mrs Jackson. But we’re making enquiries about the flat you used to live in, the one that occupied this site before this block was built.’

‘It burned down,’ she said. She had a high reedy voice, totally out of keeping with her large frame.

‘May we . . . ?’ asked Paddy, indicating the two armchairs. She nodded and Paddy and Farmer sat down. Paddy flipped open his notebook and got out his pen.

Michael Jackson sat down by his wife on the sofa and flicked off the volume so that the game show contestants ran and laughed and threw pizza dough in silence.

‘Do you know how the fire started?’ asked Farmer, glancing between them both. He knew, but he wanted to hear it from them.

‘Chip pan, the fire brigade told us after the event,’ said Michael. ‘Daft sods upstairs burned the whole bloody place down. Must have forgotten it, I suppose. Fucking idiots. No corpses up there, they told us, nobody fried to a crisp. Must have gone out and left it on the gas.’

‘That must have been pretty frightening,’ said Pads. ‘Did you see much of the man who owned the upstairs flat?’

Farmer was staring at the couple. ‘Sods?’ he asked.

‘What?’ asked Michael Jackson.

‘You said sods, plural. Or was that just a figure of speech? Does the name Donny Maguire mean anything to you?’

Michael Jackson let out a snort. ‘Bloody sure it does. He owned the place, didn’t he.’

138

It was only ten in the evening, they’d be up and about for another three hours. Bar work was tiring on your feet. Like hairdressers. Varicose veins, wasn’t that the problem? Angel served yet another punter. The dancers danced on, relentlessly, to Queen’s ‘It’s a Kind of Magic’. Stifling a yawn, Angel moved on to the next customer, then the next. Where the fuck was Simon? Where was Sarah? Out the back having a quick kip, very likely. While she was all on her own in the moonlight, serving an endless tide of customers.