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wearing?’
    His rheumy gaze brightened, like some part of his brain had coughed into life. ‘Them jackets.’
    ‘Jackets?’ Rachel said. ‘What like?’
    ‘Football,’ he said.
    ‘Football strip?’ Hardly counted as jackets.
    ‘No,’ he sneered. ‘American football.’ What the fuck did American footballers wear?
    ‘Wi’ hoods.’
    Hoodies? Rachel’s sense of progress evaporated. ‘You mean hoodies?’ That would rule in most of the local youth and half their parents.
    ‘Like …’ he waved one crabby fist, thumb and fingers together as though holding the answer, ‘… baseball.’
    Make your mind up.
    ‘Wi’ numbers on,’ he said.
    Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. The couple she’d seen in the alley, puffing billies. Class of 88. ‘Both of them had these jackets?’ she asked.
    ‘One did, the other was further away and these glasses aren’t so good, need a new prescription from the optician. But how am I supposed to get there? They expect me to fork out for a taxi?’ Shit eyesight didn’t exactly make him prime witness material but still.
    ‘You make out the numbers?’ Rachel said.
    ‘Two fat ladies.’
    ‘Eighty-eight,’ Rachel supplied.
    ‘Right,’ he said.
    ‘What time was this?’
    ‘About half past seven. Half an hour later it’s all on fire.’
    Rachel left him and headed for the shops, the buzz that comes with a promising lead simmering beneath her skin.
    She found Janet at the parade. ‘Witness sighting of intruders in the chapel grounds,’ Rachel said. ‘The description matches two lads I saw down here last night. Wore hoodies with matching numbers on the back.’
    ‘A gang thing?’ Janet said.
    ‘No idea.’
    ‘Worth asking about,’ Janet said, ‘see if we can get names. I’ve spoken to the launderette, that’s where Mrs Muhammad works, and I’ve done the tancab. I’ll do the hairdresser’s if you take the off-licence and the chip shop.’
    The off-licence cum newsagent was staffed by a young white guy with elaborate tattoos on both forearms and around his neckline. Rachel had noticed the CCTV camera outside the shop overlooking the entrance, and another behind the counter. ‘The cameras working?’ she asked him once she’d flashed her warrant card and noted his name. Liam Kelly.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘We’ll take any recordings from last night.’
    ‘Sure,’ he said.
    She asked him about the fire but he couldn’t tell her much. The shop was open until ten so he had heard about the fire but not seen anything till after he’d locked up.
    ‘You know anything about the Old Chapel, people breaking in there?’
    ‘No.’ He looked up as the door buzzer went and a woman came in. She picked up a copy of the Sun , asked for twenty fags, paid and left. Once they were alone again Rachel asked him about trouble in the area.
    ‘What, like the shop being done four times in as many months?’ he said.
    ‘Your community policing team—’
    ‘Is a fucking joke,’ he interrupted, ‘and you lot couldn’t catch a cold.’
    ‘I’m sorry you feel that way but I’m dealing with a major incident.’ Before he could moan any more Rachel said, ‘We’d like to talk to two individuals who wear matching hoodies, eighty-eight printed on the back and a picture of an eagle.’ Something like dislike slithered through his eyes, the Celtic knot at the base of his throat rippled. ‘The Perry brothers,’ he said, ‘twins.’
    ‘They live around here?’
    He nodded. ‘Beaumont House, the tower block.’
    ‘They trouble?’ Rachel said.
    ‘The community policing team will tell you all about it.’ She gave him a grin.
    ‘They don’t come in here,’ he said, ‘they’re banned.’
    ‘How come? They nicking stuff?’
    ‘Not that so much,’ Liam Kelly replied, ‘threatening people, nutters, idiots the pair of them.’
    ‘How old?’
    ‘Nineteen, twenty,’ he ventured. ‘Look,’ he gestured to a stack of boxes, crisps and fizzy drinks, ‘I’ve stuff to