'Dan! Will you leave him alone? Things break!'

'I didn't do nothin'!' Bobby shouted.

'I can't believe I'm hearing this!' I yelled. 'If it's broken, go and buy another one with your earnings! Oh, that's right, you got yourself sacked!'

'Dan,' said Trish, 'if you hadn't scrimped on a secondhand one in the first place . . .'

'Scrimped! So it's my fucking fault?'

'Yes! No! Okay! Just everyone settle down!' Her shout was louder and higher-pitched than we could match, like a dog whistle for humans, annoying to the point of acquiescence. 'Okay, fine, that's better. Bobby is it broken beyond repair?'

'I don't know. It was in shit shape to start with.'

'Will I just throw it out, then?'

Bobby and I both laughed at the same time.

'Trish, Jesus,' I said, 'how long were we married? Don't you know anything about men? We never, repeat, never throw electrical equipment out.'

'Why would you throw it out?' Bobby asked.

'Because it's broken and beyond fixing?'

'Nothing is beyond fixing,' said Bobby.

'And even if it can't be fixed,' I said, 'you can cannibalise it for parts.'

'Dan Starkey, you can't wire a plug.'

'I can learn.'

'Christ, one minute you're bickering like a couple of kids, the next you're uniting against me. Here!' She threw her keys at me. 'Take the bloody car. And take the Xbox and either get it fixed or dump it.'

I was this close to high-fiving with Bobby, but he cut me off at the pass by snapping: 'My high score's on there. Try not to lose it.'

Trish had a Peugeot 107. Silver. It was comfortable, unremarkable, and benefited in terms of clandestine surveillance by not having PEDOFIAL etched on the side. I was parked in Boucher Crescent, about half a mile from Cityscape FM, and opposite the headquarters of Malone Security, hoping to catch up with Paddy Barr. It operated out of a two-storey building, glass-fronted. A receptionist's stacked blonde hair was just visible behind a high counter. There were two cars with the Malone logo outside, and others came and went. A few of the faces I vaguely recognised from my beating. I had their website up on my phone. It said they offered a bespoke service. It was definitely the cool thing to offer. They were established in 1996. They were all about protecting the community. They had thirty employees, all highly trained, without specifying where they'd received their training or what in. In another country it might have said they were ex-police or army; here, that would alienate half their clientele. There was a photo of someone called Derek Beattie, the managing director and founder. Fat face, bald head, stern look.

I phoned the invisible blonde and asked to speak to Paddy Barr. She said he was out on a job at the moment and could she take a message. I said it was urgent and asked for his mobile number. She gave it without a problem. How secure. I phoned him. He was in the middle of a conversation with the cruiser when he answered. Something about Manchester United. There was music playing, and the sounds of traffic.

He said, 'Hi.'

I said, 'I'm a Liverpool man myself.'

'Tragic, mate, tragic,' he said jovially. 'Who's this?'

'It's Dan Starkey.'

For some reason, his joviality faded. 'You . . . Where the fuck did you get this number?'

'I looked it up in the book.'

'What book? It's a fucking mobile.'

'The Penguin Book of Wee Skinny Fuck Faces.'

'What the . . .'

'Shut up, Paddy, and listen to me. I'm sending you a photo by SMS.'

'Photo? What the . . .?'

'Take a good look at it, because I'm on the verge of sending it out to every newspaper in the land. When you've had a look, you come and see me. I'm going to be in the cafe, first floor, House of Fraser, Victoria Square, in thirty minutes. You come alone. You try anything smart, I've people wired to send it out anyway.'

'Send what? What are you . . .? Do you never fucking learn? You don't mess with-'

'Paddy.' I said it quietly.

'What?'

'Just look at the photo.'

He said nothing for a bit. I could hear the Script on the radio, and the cruiser singing along.

'Why House of Fraser?'

'Because it's comfortable and offers a wide range of quality goods. Should you give a fuck? No. Just be there. And Paddy?'

'What?'

'Bring my Xbox.'

'How the fuck do you-'

I cut the line. Then I sent the photo of him outside Jean Murray's burning home.

He approached warily, the Xbox in a large green plastic M&S bag. His eyes roved over the customers at the other tables. He pulled out a chair and sat. He reached the games console across to me. From the weight of it, I guessed the money, drugs and gun were still safe inside.

He said, 'It doesn't work.'

'I know. Why didn't you just throw it out?'

'I was going to get it fixed. How did you know I had it?'

'Because you would have checked my car over before you had it towed. It was probably in your boot, n'est-ce pas?'

'You what?'

'Was it in the boot?'

'Yes.'

'And how much did you get for the car?'

'I told you, we had it flattened.'

'Bollocks, it's a four-year-old car, it's probably out there already, new plates, new history and you're a couple of grand to the good.' Paddy shifted uncomfortably. 'Anyway, this isn't about the car. Do you want a cup of tea?'

'What? Yeah, sure.'

'Get us one while you're up, then.'

He almost spat something back, I could see it in his eyes and the corners of his mouth, but he held himself in check. He headed for the counter.

'Paddy,' I said. He stopped, turned. 'I take it black. Like my men.'

I gave him a wink. It confused him. He wasn't the sharpest tack in the box. He came back with two teas and two buns.

'I didn't ask for buns,' I said.

'They were part of a deal,' he said. He stirred plenty of sugar into his cup. 'So. Where'd you get the photo?'

'Doesn't matter. Good, isn't it? And you'll note there's also the last four digits of a number plate in the corner. Amazing if it turned out to be your car. Though I'm sure you wouldn't be that stupid.'

'It proves nothing.'

'Really? So why're you here?'

He drummed his fingers on the table. 'What do you want? I don't have any money, I'm barely scraping by as it is.'

'I'm not interested in money, Paddy. I want information.'

'I don't know anything about anything. I just do my job, keep my head down.'

'Jobs like Jean Murray?' He shrugged. 'How do you know the Millers?'

'What Millers?'

'Don't fuck with me, Paddy. The Shankill Road UVF Millers.'

'I don't know them.'

'So who told you to burn Jean Murray's house?'

'I got a call.'

'From?'

'Just a call.'

'Paddy, do yourself a favour. The cops are being hounded. When they get hold of this, they'll throw everything at you. It's murder; you're on twenty, minimum. You think the Millers are going to ride in with a high-powered barrister and rescue you? Catch yourself on. You'll be on legal aid; some kid who looks about twelve years old and came last in his class will try and fail to defend you. The Millers know you won't squeal, because if you open your mouth they'll rip it right round till it meets the other side and your head flops back.'

'And what if they don't get hold of it?'

'Then you carry on doing what you're doing, nobody needs to see the picture or know we had a chat.'

'Why would you do that?'

'Because it's not you I'm after.'

'Who then? The Millers?'

'Maybe.'

'Are you mental?'

'Probably. But that's neither here nor there. Who called you about Jean Murray?'

Paddy stirred his coffee. 'The boss.'

'Which one of them is boss? Windy or Rab?'

'Not them. The boss. Of Malone.'

'Derek Beattie?'

'Aye. He phones me and tells me what he wants done.'

'Don't you ask why?'

'I don't care why. I just do what I'm told.'

'Is this a regular thing?'

'Once in a while. Not burning people out. Kneecaps and stuff. They're just extras. Like overtime.'

'Did you do Jean Murray's son?'

'No, that wasn't me. One of the other crews.'

'From Malone?' Paddy nodded. 'You're all at it?'

'Nah. It's not like that. It's . . . there are some who do . . . and some who don't. I mean, like, ninety per cent of what we do is . . . you know . . . just security, like it says on the tin, but there's some other stuff too . . . that only some of us do, you know what I mean?'

'And this all comes from Beattie?'

'Yeah.'

'And the Millers employ him to do their dirty work?' He rubbed his hand across his jaw. There was sweat on his brow.