‘Fuck it, Tom,’ she whispered in desperation, trying not to bawl her eyes out. She was usually so composed but seeing him like this was heartbreaking. ‘Please don’t die on me, OK? Just don’t die.’

139

‘He was a good-looking bastard,’ said Michael Jackson to Farmer as they sat in the overheated and none too clean little sitting room. ‘Didn’t like the look of him much, truth be told. Flashy, you know? But cold. And we knew his name because the postie chucked a couple of his letters in our door by mistake. Handed them to him, and he didn’t even say thanks, kiss my arse or nothing. Just took them.’

So not only did Donny Maguire have a secret flat, he also had mail coming there. From who? Farmer wondered. From someone he didn’t want his wife knowing about.

‘So it was a chip-pan fire,’ said Paddy.

‘Yeah,’ said Michael. ‘Fucking frightening it was. Lucky we got out. We heard noise, sort of a roaring. And bangs. A lot of bangs. Fire brigade said it was the tiles popping off the walls in the kitchen up there. The heat, you know? But we thought it was maybe something outside. Something in the road. Then a bloke came and banged on our door, said upstairs was aflame and to get out. Think he saved our bacon – don’t you, Sam?’

Sam shifted her bulk and nodded.

‘What bloke?’ asked Farmer.

‘What?’

‘The one who knocked on your door. Did you know him? Was he a neighbour?’

Samantha and Michael exchanged blank looks. ‘No, we didn’t know him,’ said Michael. ‘The neighbours don’t talk much around here anyway. He could have lived cheek by jowl with us for ten years, and we wouldn’t know the man.’

‘Describe him?’ asked Farmer.

Michael shrugged and dredged his memory. This involved scratching his bald head and frowning at the ceiling. ‘Big man, he was. Like a bouncer. Dark hair and eyes. It was night. Black, nearly, but for the street lights. Couldn’t really see too much.’

‘What was he wearing?’ asked Paddy.

Michael blew out his cheeks. ‘I dunno. Something dark.’

‘After that night, did you ever see him again around here?’ asked Farmer.

Michael shook his head. No.

‘You said you thought there were other people living in the flat when Donny Maguire owned it . . . ?’

‘That’s right,’ said Michael.

‘You see them?’

‘I did,’ said Samantha. ‘Mike didn’t, he was working shifts and getting home dead-tired, but I saw them. Occasionally. They never spoke.’

‘What were these people like?’ asked Paddy.

‘One was a woman. Mid thirties maybe. The other was a girl who looked just about ready to leave school. Mother and daughter, I always thought. They looked alike.’

‘But you never spoke to either of them,’ said Farmer.

‘That’s correct.’

‘D’you think Mr Maguire was renting the flat to the older woman?’

Samantha gave a grunt of disgust. ‘Oh, I think there was more to it than that.’