Farmer went to the bar and ordered. Then he came back to their table and sat down.

‘Must have been a shock for you, going home to find the place like that,’ he said.

‘It was. Do you think you might find whoever was responsible?’

‘Maybe. I saw him.’

‘Really?’ Angel was startled out of her anxiety for a moment. ‘What did he look like?’

‘Ugly as sin,’ said Farmer with a smile. ‘Face long as a horse’s. And damned big. He knocked me flying coming out of the flat.’

‘Did he hurt you?’

‘No, but my pride took a hell of a knock.’

‘You didn’t know him then? I mean, he isn’t on police files or anything?’

‘I didn’t know him offhand, no. But I’m going to be looking through the mug shots this afternoon. Something might turn up.’

‘So what’s this for? This lunch?’

‘I just wanted to talk a few things through with you,’ said Farmer. And to see you again, he thought. ‘Your mother – Dora – she was involved with DI Maguire, I believe?’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘A lot of evidence to that effect,’ said Farmer.

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘There was a fire that burned down a flat. Donny Maguire owned that flat. And his neighbours had been complaining about parties being held there. And that two women lived there with Maguire, who came and went. They more or less stayed put. One older woman, one younger. Both blonde. The neighbours heard the younger woman arguing with Maguire out in the street one night. Also, the younger blonde showed up at his wife Fiona’s door, and Fiona asked if she was one of his women. Apparently he was quite a player.’

Angel said nothing.

‘I’ve come to the conclusion that Donny Maguire was a bastard,’ said Farmer. ‘I knew him, years ago. When I was a green young copper. He was cruel. Got a kick out of picking on people who couldn’t fight back.’

Angel still said nothing.

‘Did he pick on your mother?’

Nothing.

‘On you?’

Nothing.

‘You’re a quiet one,’ said Farmer, eyes narrowing. ‘I always think they’re the ones who when cornered will react in the most extreme way. Not like hot-tempered extroverts, who let their feelings right out. An introvert – quiet, peaceful – will soak up trouble, just soak it up and up and up, until one day, bam! They snap.’

Angel was staring into his eyes, still saying nothing.

‘You remember the fire?’ asked Farmer.

Remember it? Only until my dying day. Angel gulped. ‘I wasn’t there.’

‘Your mother then?’

‘She was dead by then.’ Which was a relief, really. At least Dora wouldn’t have to suffer through all this. Angel thought that she could take it; the trial, the disgrace, being imprisoned; Dora wouldn’t have been able to.

‘So neither of you were there.’

‘No.’ Suddenly Angel pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do this,’ she said, and walked across the restaurant to the door, and was out on the pavement before Farmer could even draw breath.