The girl was lying half on and half off a very dilapidated, dirty PVC sofa. It had once boasted orange nylon cushions but they were now a dull brown – years of neglect had seen to that. The rest of the room was as filthy as everywhere else in the flat. The coffee table and floor were covered with pieces of tin foil, used needles, and all the other paraphernalia and debris that junkies seemed to collect. Amongst it was a dog-eared photo of a smiling baby girl, her deep blue eyes huge in her little heart-shaped face. The dead girl was obviously the child’s mother.

Noel and Jamsie looked around them with complete and utter disgust, unable to comprehend how anyone could choose to live their life like this. The girl’s body was already going rigid but, even in death, you could still see the girl she had once been before the drugs had taken over her life. Her face was bruised – she had obviously taken a battering at some point in the last few days – her lips were blue, and slightly parted, and her eyes were glazed.

They checked the rest of the flat – there was no sign of the child.

Noel opened his coat and took out a whisky bottle full of petrol, and Jamsie followed suit. They poured it everywhere – especially around the sofa – and, as they worked, neither of them said a word.

At the doorway, they paused, taking a final look around to make sure they had not left anything that could be traced back to Jack Bailey. Satisfied, they lit a book of matches and threw them on to the coffee table. They waited for a few moments to see that the fire had a good hold and then they moved carefully along the corridor, starting a fire in each of the rooms, before finally leaving the flat as quietly and as unobtrusively as they had entered it.

Outside they got into an old banger which, contrary to its appearance, boasted a tuned-up engine that guaranteed them speed should the need arise. It blended into the surroundings so well that no one would give it a second glance.

Noel shook his head in annoyance. ‘What a cunt! Who in their right mind would take fucking heroin – it’s a fucking mug’s game. Sell the fucker to animals like her, but keep away from it yourself. Only Jack would be that fucking weak and that fucking stupid.’

The brothers drove away sedately, both relieved that because of Jack the onus had been taken off them. God certainly did move in mysterious ways, as their old mum was forever telling them both, and today it seemed that she was right.

Chapter Seventy-Five

Peter Bailey was still unable to comprehend what his mother and his wife were telling him. He could hear what they were saying, but he could not bring himself to actually believe any of it.