‘Can you tell me your mother’s Christian name?’

Angel crossed her arms over her body as if she suddenly felt cold. ‘Why would you want to know that?’

He made his voice harder. ‘I just do. What is it?’

She looked down at the floor, then her eyes raised and met his again. ‘It’s Dora,’ she said.

And there it was, confirmed. Farmer nodded slowly. Now he had a toe-hold on this mystery and what he ought to do, whether anyone else on the force liked it or not, was take her down the station and really start putting the screws on her. Get the whole story. He knew there was so much more to all this that she wasn’t telling him yet. But . . . whatever had happened to Donny Maguire, one thing Farmer was sure of: the bent bastard had deserved it.

‘Miss O’Brien?’ said Farmer.

She looked at him and her eyes were full of terror.

Farmer took a breath. He knew damned well what he ought to do, right now.

But . . . ah, fuck it.

‘Miss O’Brien, I need to talk to you some more. I was thinking it might be easier to chat over a bite to eat.’

‘Yes,’ she said, having no idea what she had just agreed to, but at least she was still a free woman, for now. ‘Yes, all right.’

The pub was quiet. Not much lunchtime trade. But Angel couldn’t have cared less right at that moment about food. He was going to soften her up in nice surroundings, that was his plan, she could see that. He’d question her all over again about Donny, Dora, about the whole damned mess that her life had been before she’d murdered Donny, and then Lenny had rescued her. But in the end, even Lenny had let her down. Now, she felt fatalistic about it all. She was guilty, and this sharp-eyed detective knew it. It had been like a fever in her blood for years, all the guilt and the stifled pain; perhaps now it was time to get it all out in the open. Lance the boil. Just get it done. Maybe then those rotten nightmares would stop.

‘What would you like?’ he was asking her.

Angel looked across the table at him. His eyes were not only honest, they were a deep chestnut brown. He had quite beautiful eyes, densely fringed with black lashes, set out neatly under the two straight black bars of his eyebrows. His skin was clear – apart from the cut and the bruise on his cheek – and his jaw was strong. He wasn’t very tall, but he was solidly built, muscular but not muscle-bound. He was attractive, and she liked his manner. She didn’t want to like it, though. That could be dangerous.

‘Anything,’ said Angel, feeling that food might choke her. ‘You choose.’

‘The steak pie’s usually good. Some wine?’

‘No, just water.’ Give her a few glasses of vino and she would soon be telling him her whole life history.