'Yep. The dead spit.'

He was quiet for a bit.

'While I'm on,' I said, 'why would you change your name in the first place? And then why would you change it from James Douglas to Jim Dougan, which is hardly changing it at all?'

'Not that it's any of your business, but I got out of that shitehole because I was in prison for a couple of things.'

'What sort of things?'

'Nothing much, low-level paramilitary stuff, but I was getting dragged in deeper and deeper, I was unemployed, I had a crap girlfriend . . .'

'The aforementioned dead Jean.'

'Yes. Okay. Jean. I decided to get out, reinvent myself, so I moved over here. And I have reinvented myself. I'm doing very well, thank you very much.'

'And the name?'

'Well, not that it's still any of your business, you don't really want anyone from your new life finding out that you've changed your name, it makes you look a bit shady. At the same time, it really is a small world, and particularly with Manchester, half of Northern Ireland comes over to see United play every other week, so there's a reasonable chance that one day I'll bump into someone from my old life, and when that happens, there might well be someone from my new life with me, so I thought I'd give myself a new name that was close enough to my old one that neither side of my life is going to realise the difference. Jim for James, Dougan for Douglas, everyone's going to think they heard their own version of the name. Okay, see where I'm coming from?'

'Absolutely,' I said. 'Glad I asked. Anyway, what about your son, Bobby? The apple of his mum's late eye.'

James or Jim took a deep breath. 'Look, I'm at work now, I can't talk about this. It's just a bit of a shock. I told her to get rid of it. She chose to have it, I washed my hands.'

'He's still your son. And he's a good kid. Smart. Sporty. He's been left without a mother. He's not looking for much. He just needs a leg up.'

'Just . . . just . . . let me think about it. I have your number, okay? All right?'

He had my number.

And I had his.

There was still nothing from Tracey. I called her and it went to voicemail. I tapped my oven glove on the steering wheel. I wanted to know more about Nanny the nanny and Blondie, and Tracey was my in. I checked my watch. Jack had about ten minutes left on his show. He wouldn't be back for at least half an hour. Fuck it. It was her own fault for not answering her phone. I got out of the car and walked down the slight incline, and then across the road up the drive to her front door. I rang the bell. No response. I stepped back and looked up. I caught a very slight movement at the top window on the left. I rang the bell again. Nothing. I would have shouted something through the letter box, but lately I was wary of them.

'Tracey!' I shouted. 'C'mon. I know you're up there!'

Nothing.

'Tracey! For fucksake! I'm standing here like a fucking eejit!'

Nothing.

'Right! Have it your way! Just . . . just give me a call!'

I stomped back down the drive. I love women, but the half of them are fuckwits.

As I waited for traffic to pass, I glanced to my right and saw two builders manoeuvring a Portaloo into place just inside the entrance to the house next door. Apropos of nothing much, I wandered up.

After watching them in the throes of gainful employment for a bit, I said, 'Yon Portaloo, is it like the Tardis, small on the outside, massive within?'

One, squat, said: 'No, it's just somewhere to shit in.'

I nodded up at the house. 'Starting work again?'

'Wasn't us last time,' said the other guy, 'but yeah. You live next door?' He nodded in the direction I'd come from.

'Yeah,' I said. 'Just worrying there's going to be a lot of noise, we have a young one.'

'Oh, right,' the squat one said. 'Well, because of the delay, they want it done pretty quick, so I think we're working nights too. You'll maybe want to have a word with the boss.'

'Who he?'

'She,' said the other one, with a smirk. He turned and pointed behind him, not at the half-built, but at the larger, more imposing house directly behind it. 'Speak to yer woman up there, she's the boss. At least, she gives the orders, if you know what I mean.'

'I know exactly,' I said. 'What do you call her?'

'Sir,' laughed the other one.

'Dunno, we answer to our foreman, and we see him answering to her, tugs the auld forelock, so he does.'

'Not all he's tuggin',' laughed the other one some more, with a big stupid grin. 'Sorry, mate,' he said to me, 'no offence.'

'None taken,' I said.

'But she is a bit of a ride.'

He gave me a big wink.

I thanked them in my matey fashion and looked up at the other house. It was well set back from Jack's. With the shell of the new build in front of them, neither the ride nor her family would have had a view of the road where Jimmy was snatched, and therefore probably wouldn't be much help. Nevertheless, I made a mental note, adding her to the list of people to talk to when all else failed. She was right up there with the Samaritans.

24.

The buzzer woke me. It was three in the afternoon. My feet were on my desk. My mouth was sour with the whisky. I would have slept through it, but the buzzer buzzing was sufficiently unusual to pique my interest. I yawned and popped a Smartie. I pressed my end of it and said, 'Lambert and Butler, Attorneys at Law.'

'Starkey? It's DS Hood, can we come up?'

That pesky officer saw straight through me.

'Are you making house calls now?' I asked.

He didn't respond. I pushed the buzzer and tidied my desk while they mounted the stairs. This consisted of removing sweetie papers and sweeping crumbs. The only reason I was working in a paper-free environment was that I had no cases from which to generate paper. I had a notebook in my desk drawer, so I was prepared for any eventuality, though with cops coming up to see me, I'd have to be careful in case they misinterpreted the swastikas.

Gary Hood came in first. Behind him there was another detective in plain clothes. I did not recognise him.

'Where's Maxi?' I asked. 'I thought you two travelled in pairs.'

'Maxi's back on the desk,' said Hood, 'at least until Friday. Then he's gone. This is Detective Inspector Springer.'

I shook his hand.

'Like the dog,' I said.

He had a needlessly strong grip. He was about the same age as Hood, but looked as if he'd been around a few more corners.

'He's the senior investigating officer,' said Hood.

'Mad but lovable,' I said.

'Excuse me?' said Springer.

'Springer spaniels. You would only get one as a guide dog for the blind if you wanted rid of someone. I'm sorry have a seat. Both of you. You're lucky there's only the two of you, because I only have two seats. If there were three of you, one of you would have to stand, and that would be awkward. I should invest in a third seat.' I nodded at them. They nodded back. 'If there were four of you, it would be absolute chaos.' I sat down. They sat too. 'Senior investigating officer for what?'

'The murder of Jean Murray,' said Hood.

'Oh yes. Poor Jean.'

'What is it exactly that you do?' Springer asked.

'Good question,' I said. 'With no easy answer.'

'We believe you spoke to her shortly before her death,' said Springer.

'Day before,' I said.

'Did she intimate any particular fears to you? Threats received, et cetera.'

'Intimate, no. State bluntly, yes. But you know this.' I nodded at Hood. 'You know who's responsible. She was round the station often enough telling anyone who'd care to listen.'

'Well we're interested in your take on it,' said Springer. 'Who do you think was responsible?'

'Apart from the bleeding obvious, I have no idea. Who do you think caused it?'

Springer ignored my question.

Hood said, 'Would you be prepared to come in and make a statement about what Jean Murray said to you, when you met her?'

'You mean about her accusing the Miller boys of shooting her son in the leg, and them threatening her and trying to burn her house down on previous occasions?'

'Yes.'

'Well, no, obviously.'

'It would help us build a case.'

'Well come back and see me when you're putting the slates on, because I'm pretty sure if I give you a statement it'll be the only one you have, which means I'm down in the foundations somewhere, which is where I'll end up if the Miller boys get wind of it.'

'You're refusing to cooperate?' Springer asked.

'Yes,' I said.

'You can be compelled to, by a court of law. You're withholding information.'

'Really?' I looked at Hood. 'Does he always talk like this? He doesn't exactly have a winning way about him.'

'We're serious,' said Hood.

'You can give us a statement now, or we can take you in.'

I nodded some, and contemplated the skylight. It was more of a skydark, but that wasn't a word.

'Have you ever heard the expression, you can take a horse to water but you can't make him drink?' I asked. 'Or maybe, you can take a whore to culture but you can't make her sing?'

I put my feet back on the desk. I clasped my hands behind my head. It was supposed to give the impression of being relaxed and cool. They didn't look overly impressed. But I wasn't of a mind to care. Besides, I didn't believe they were the slightest bit interested in my statement. And almost immediately they proved it.

Springer said: 'When you were at the Murray house, did you speak to her son, Bobby?'

'Bobby with the one leg?'

'Yes.'

'No.'

'You didn't speak to him?'

'No.'

'Have you spoken with him since the fire in which his mother was killed?'

'No.'

'Do you know his whereabouts?'

'No.'

'You're sure about that?'

'I think no pretty much covers it.'

Springer shifted forward in his chair. 'Cards on the table here, bucko. You were seen with him.'

'Bucko?'