While Miller was happy to keep his head down, all too familiar with the place, Xiu seemed oddly fascinated by the framed posters that lined the walls. She oohed and aahed, seemingly starstruck by the various dance spectaculars and variety performers that had graced the Majestic in years gone by.

  Glenda Brunt is ‘Queen of the Cha-Cha-Cha’.

  The Stars of TV’s ‘On the Buses’ in ‘Stop It, Nurse’.

  Keith Hedges and ‘Jasper’ the naughty duck. (Adults Only.)

  Miller decided that Xiu definitely needed to get out more.

  Standing at the back of the ballroom, they watched a solitary figure throwing extravagant shapes on the otherwise empty dance floor. There was no music and all the lights were on, but the scattered pattern of a glitterball was just visible as it moved across him. He was immaculately dressed in shiny black trousers and a loose-fitting cream shirt, his long silver hair swishing around his head as he stepped and twirled.

  ‘Someone told me you dance a bit,’ Xiu said.

  ‘Did they?’

  Miller was not going to commit himself. He knew there were rumours, of course. The circumstances of Alex’s death had rather let the cat out of the bag, but still, he hated the idea that what he did in his free time had become common knowledge. It wasn’t even the inevitable mickey-taking that bothered him. If you dished it out you had to be prepared to take it, but dancing was a part of his life that was his alone, had been theirs alone, and he wasn’t ready to share that just yet.

  He was spared any further questioning when a member of staff appeared suddenly behind them, like a scary Mr Benn. The man looked as though he’d been smacked repeatedly in the face with a shovel. He probably fancied himself as front of house and wore a nice suit of an evening, but his duties would also have included chucking out drunks. Or selling them drugs then chucking them out.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Xiu produced her warrant card. ‘We’re here to see Mr Massey.’

  Shovel-Face nodded and walked away towards the lone dancer.

  ‘Oh,’ Xiu said. ‘Well . . . you have to admit he’s got some moves.’

  Miller grunted. He knew that Ralph Massey had all sorts of moves, none of which you’d see on a dance floor.

  The bouncer whispered in Massey’s ear. Massey turned and looked across to where Miller and Xiu were standing. He smiled and waved. The man they were here to see might have been dancing like nobody was watching, but Miller guessed he’d known all along that someone was.

  Xiu took half a step. ‘Should we go over . . . ?’

  Massey pointed upwards to where Miller knew his office was and moved towards the stairs at the rear of the building. He threw in a dramatic twirl for good measure before he stepped off the dance floor, stabbing at his mobile as he went.

  TWENTY

  Ralph Massey’s office was in stark contrast to the rest of the building, which he owned and managed and from where he oversaw what might euphemistically be called a successful laundry business. It was all very clean and what Miller guessed was ‘on trend’.

  The desk was made of thick Perspex and the chairs arranged – apparently at random – around the room were glossy plastic, in a range of primary colours. Artfully distressed industrial lamps hung from the high ceiling, a collection of vintage radios had been arranged beneath the window and a stuffed animal of some sort was perched on a stripped filing cabinet in the corner. A polecat, maybe, or a weasel. Miller hoped it was a weasel, which might just as well have been Ralph Massey’s spirit animal.

  The room was putting on a hell of a show, much like its owner.

  Massey had been on the phone, sitting at his desk, when Miller and Xiu had appeared in the doorway. He’d beckoned them in and carried on his conversation.

  ‘It’s just a few stars on the ceiling, love. It’s not the Sistine Chapel . . .’

  Having taken in the room, Miller turned his attention to its two other occupants. Massey was accompanied by a pair of pretty young skinheads, seated a few feet away; one on either side of him, like bookends. They wore matching outfits – jeans, boots, buttoned-up polo shirts – and both stared forward, expressionless. Until he saw one of them blink, Miller had idly wondered if they were stuffed too, like the weasel.

  ‘Yes, another quote would be wonderful. That’s very kind . . .’

  Massey himself had now donned a raffish scarf, but even with that on top of the shimmering trousers and blousy shirt, he seemed what was, for him, a little underdressed. Performing as the Fabulous Miss Coco Popz (‘she’ll have you for breakfast!’), the businessman had once made a decent living as a drag queen and was still known to pull on one of his many flamboyant stage outfits from time to time. On special occasions, or if there was something to celebrate. Miller wondered if Massey had put the slap back on any time recently; if perhaps he’d dug out a frock and feather boa when he’d heard about Adrian Cutler’s murder.

  ‘Well, thank you again and next time please don’t take me for an imbecile or I might not be quite this polite.’ Massey ended his call and gestured for Miller and Xiu to sit. Xiu pulled a bright orange chair a little closer to the desk, but Miller was happier to stay standing.

  ‘Doing the place up a bit?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, it’s looking a bit tired.’ Massey sat back and gave Miller the once-over. ‘As are you. Not sleeping well?’

  Miller said nothing.

  Xiu was staring at the two skinheads, who Miller was already thinking of as the twinheads. Massey saw her looking and grinned.

  ‘My nephews.’

  The skinheads continued to stare. Miller side-eyed Xiu and whispered theatrically, ‘They’re not.’

  ‘So, this’ll be about Adrian Cutler, then. The business at the Sands.’

  ‘Actually, there were two victims.’

  ‘I only knew one of them.’

  ‘You’re very well informed, as always, Ralph.’

  ‘This is Blackpool, Miller, not Los Angeles. A double shooting is still rather shocking.’

  ‘Oh, definitely. But I just want to be clear. The son of your closest business rival is murdered and you’re . . . shocked, are you?’

  Massey smiled. ‘Well, mixed feelings if I’m being strictly honest. You see, I’m not a father myself—’

  ‘A loving uncle, though?’

  ‘Yes, very much so . . . and I can’t really imagine what Mr Cutler senior must be going through. But on the other hand, as per your clumsy implication, it does present a business opportunity. On top of which, Cutler the younger was the most dreadful little shitehawk.’

  ‘Charming,’ Miller said.

  ‘Well, you did ask.’

  ‘Mr Massey.’ Xiu waited until she had the man’s attention. ‘Would you mind telling me where you were between ten p.m. and midnight the evening before last?’

  Massey looked at Miller and nodded towards Xiu. ‘Who’s this one?’

  ‘This one is Detective Sergeant Xiu,’ Xiu said. ‘And I’d be grateful if you could answer my question.’

  Massey sighed and shrugged. ‘I was here, same as I am every night, being fabulous. There are several hundred people who can confirm that because it was a very busy night, but do feel free to check.’

  ‘Oh, I will, and I’ll need the same information as it pertains to all your employees.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘She doesn’t do jokes,’ Miller said.

  ‘Well, it’s an entirely pointless exercise, but if you insist.’

  ‘I do,’ Xiu said. ‘And finally, can you tell me if the name Barry Shepherd means anything to you?’

  Massey puffed out his cheeks, like he was thinking about it. ‘There was a vent act called Gary Shepherd about fifteen years ago. Or maybe that was Larry Shepherd . . . you don’t mean him, do you?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘In which case, I’m afraid that name means precisely bugger all.’ Massey looked bored suddenly, irritated. He picked up his phone, stared at it for a few seconds and put it down again. Then he spun around in his chair suddenly to face Miller, as though he’d just remembered something.

  Miller knew very well that he’d simply been biding his time.

  ‘Oh, I meant to say . . . I was so sorry to hear about your wife, Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘I’m sure you were.’

  ‘She’ll be greatly missed around here.’ He held out his arms. ‘Won’t she, boys?’

  The twinheads nodded sadly, in unison.

  ‘Seeing her dance, I mean. She was quite the little mover. I didn’t really know her that well . . . professionally.’

  Aware that Xiu was watching him every bit as closely as Massey, but not really giving a monkey’s, Miller walked slowly across to the desk and leaned down on it. ‘She knew you, though.’

  Massey nodded slowly and leaned towards him. With one slender finger, he began to drum out a simple rhythm on the desk and to whistle softly, a melody that gradually got louder. The Strictly theme tune.

  Alex’s ringtone.

  It was an odd feeling, Miller thought. Agony and frustration fighting it out. Feeling like something was trying to kick its way out of your stomach, while you so wanted to do some good, hard kicking of your own.

  Wanted to, but couldn’t.

  He turned away and walked towards the door. Behind him, Xiu stood up to follow as the pair of dead-eyed skinheads picked up the cue from their master and began to whistle right along.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Xiu was a few steps behind him as they walked back downstairs.

  Miller kept on walking.

  ‘Something you want to tell me?’

  He didn’t.

  ‘Listen, what you said in there, about me not . . . doing jokes? I mean, is that all right?’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  ‘I just don’t really get jokes. Never have.’ They were back in the ballroom. Miller stopped at the edge of the empty dance floor and stared up at the glitterball. ‘Someone says “knock-knock”, I just want to open the door.’

  Miller wasn’t listening any more. The kicking in his guts had eased a little and now a different sort of pain moved through him, hardening like boiling water turning suddenly to ice. Hearing music that wasn’t there, he froze over in one beat of a quickstep, remembering the worst night of his life.

  TWENTY-ONE

  It was six months or so after he and Alex had started dancing – when the waltzes, the jives and the rumbas had become every bit as important as the beers afterwards – when Mary suggested that the pair of them might want to take things up a notch. That maybe they should think about dancing more seriously. She and Howard had done it years earlier, she told them, without a great deal of success, admittedly, but apparently it had all been ‘good experience’.

  ‘You two should definitely give it a go,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean, “give it a go”?’ Alex asked.

  ‘You should start entering some competitions.’

  ‘What?’ Miller almost spat out a pork scratching. They were all in the Bull’s Head, obviously, and he could only assume that Mary had put away a few more gin and tonics than he’d thought.

  ‘Trust me, you’re good enough.’

  ‘Well, yes, we’re probably the best in the group,’ Miller said. ‘Just about. But with all due respect, that’s not saying much, is it?’ He looked around at their fellow dancers. ‘I mean, no offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ Ransford said.

  ‘I’m doing my best, mate,’ Nathan said, looking a little hurt.

  Howard was quick to agree with his wife, though Miller reckoned it was only because he was scared not to. ‘If Mary says you’re ready for the big leagues, then you’re ready.’

  ‘Big leagues?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Howard nodded and began to reel them off. ‘The Thistleton Open, the Mereside Invitational, the Elswick All-Comers League Championship—’

  ‘Third division’s probably best,’ Mary added, quickly.

  ‘Well, obviously,’ Howard said. ‘Nobody’s suggesting they should run before they can walk.’

  ‘Better make some room on your mantelpiece,’ Ruth said.

  Nathan nodded. ‘For all the trophies.’

  ‘Whoo-hoo!’ Gloria clapped her hands and she and Mary began talking about which new outfits they would wear to cheer Miller and Alex on in their first final.

  Miller stood up to get another drink. ‘You’ve all lost your minds.’

  An hour or so later, after a couple more rounds and a good deal of well-meaning badgering, Alex had put her hand on his arm and leaned in to whisper, ‘Come on, why not?’

  Miller told her he could think of a hundred good reasons. At least.

  Alex started making chicken noises and the others joined in.

  He gamely fought his corner for a while, because it felt like he was being ganged up on, but by chucking out time it was obvious he was fighting a losing battle. Plus, he’d drunk rather more than he’d intended to. On top of which, he’d started to think that Alex might be right.

  Because she usually was.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, eventually. ‘But if I make an idiot of myself, we don’t ever mention it again.’

  ‘It might be fun,’ Alex said as they were leaving.

  ‘As long as I never have to do a bloody foxtrot . . .’

  To begin with, Miller had felt like the two of them were Accrington Stanley going up against Liverpool in an early round of the FA Cup, and there was certainly no giant-killing. After a few early embarrassments, Miller vowed to get better, because he knew that he was the one letting the side down and even Alex was impressed by his efforts to improve. He stayed longer at their practice sessions, he worked harder. Using what little space was not taken up by the ever-expanding rat-world, he would go through steps at home. On the job, filling in unnecessary paperwork would take even longer than it might have done otherwise, as Miller sat at his desk working through routines in his head.

  Accrington Stanley were about to have their day.

  The Liverpool in Miller’s footballing analogy had turned out to be a couple from Bolton named Ted and Sue Dixon. The Dixons always seemed to show up whenever Miller and Alex thought they might be in with a chance and won virtually everything. Alex was not keen on being party to any petty rivalry though, because they were better than that, and Miller couldn’t deny that the Dixons were seriously good. Then, Ted Dixon had collared him at the bar one night after doing Miller and Alex out of a placing yet again. He’d winked, and said, ‘Your rumba is really coming on, pal,’ and things took a bit of a turn.

  ‘That Ted Dixon is a proper little arsehole,’ Mary had said.

  The gloves were off.

  The night Miller and Alex finally beat the Dixons into second place was one to remember, even if, after several hours celebrating in the Bull, neither could actually remember very much of it the following day. They had won their first competition (the Swinton Seniors’ Ballroom Shield) and although they didn’t actually have a mantelpiece, and the trophy looked like something you bought from somewhere that also cut keys and mended shoes, they were inordinately proud.

  Nathan said, ‘The first of many.’

  Howard said, ‘We knew them when they were nothing.’

  ‘Bollocks to the Dixons,’ Mary said.

  They moved up a level after that and began travelling further afield to compete (Morecambe, Blackburn, Keighley), juggling entry to competitions at weekends to fit in around busy work schedules. There were more wins than near misses and a few more trophies to show Fred and Ginger. There was the occasional write-up in a local paper and, on one occasion, a small photograph in Dancing Times that Miller had framed and which, of course, necessitated another big night in the Bull.

  ‘Surprised you’re even talking to us any more,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Mary said.

  Howard rubbed his hands together. ‘The big one, next.’

  Alex even changed her ringtone . . .

  The big one, in amateur ballroom circles, was the North-West Lancashire Over Forties and they had finally decided, after three years of local stuff, that they were ready to enter. They were doing well. They’d come through several heats and three knockout rounds (where they’d knocked out the Dixons and tried not to gloat) and, even though Miller had made a couple of stupid mistakes in a routine he’d thought he could perform backwards, they’d squeaked a win in the quarter-final.

  Mary and Gloria went shopping for those new outfits.

  Miller and Alex had put more than a few killers away in their time, and both came face to face with dangerous individuals on a regular basis, but they were happy to confess (to the rats and to each other) that this was about as scared and excited as they had ever been.

  The semi-final.

  A warm Saturday night, on home turf at the Majestic Ballroom.

  ‘Are you all right . . . ?’

  Only dimly aware that Xiu was even talking to him, Miller stared up at the glitterball. It was spinning faster now, scattering multi-coloured lights across the freshly polished floor and the four-piece band the organisers had hired for the occasion . . .

  Each couple was required to dance twice that night.

  Miller thought that he and Alex had aced their first routine. They’d danced a traditional tango, which was Miller’s favourite. He loved it because at one time it had been considered immoral, because it was the ‘forbidden’ dance and had once been banned by the Pope, but mainly because, whenever they finished, he could lean down to whisper ‘you’ve just been tangoed’ and Alex would always pretend to find it funny.

  The judges loved it when Alex smiled.

  Alex was quick to point out that, even though the tango had gone well, they were only halfway there and Miller shouldn’t get too cocky. He promised to dial the cocky down. They waved to Howard, Mary and the rest of the gang who had been cheering them on all night, got multiple thumbs-up, then hurried backstage to change into their outfits for their second dance.