At the door to the female dressing room, Alex stopped and said, ‘Listen, if we do win this—’

  ‘When we win this.’

  ‘Cocky!’

  ‘Sorry . . .’

  ‘You should go out and buy a flipping tuxedo. For the final. I’m fed up with telling you, but renting one every single time we enter a competition is a bit of a false economy. Don’t be so tight, Miller!’

  Miller laughed and told her he would treat himself. Alex had no such worries, of course, always looking fabulous in one of the amazing dresses her sister knocked up for her. Tonight’s was one of the loveliest ever and Miller knew she had something even better lined up for their second routine.

  Had he told her how spectacular she looked?

  He thought he probably had . . .

  ‘Break a leg,’ Miller said. ‘I mean, obviously don’t because then we’ll have no bloody chance.’

  Alex kissed him and walked into the dressing room. ‘See you in a bit . . .’

  Fifteen minutes later, the Master of Ceremonies stepped up to the microphone. ‘Please welcome back to the floor couple number thirty-seven, Declan and Alexandra Miller . . .’

  The lights went down as the decent-sized audience applauded politely, except for the slightly more raucous section where Mary and the others were gathered. They whooped and cheered and Nathan produced a super-loud whistle with his fingers in his mouth.

  Miller walked on in semi-darkness and took up his opening position.

  The band struck up the first notes to ‘Another One Bites the Dust’, the song Alex had chosen for their climactic paso doble. Eight bars in, the spotlight picked Miller out and he thrust his arms towards the opposite side of the floor, where the second spotlight hit Alex.

  Where it was supposed to hit her . . .

  Because Alex wasn’t there.

  The band stuttered, then stopped and, after some feverish discussions at the technical desk both spotlights went out. Half a minute later, the whole routine began again, but the result was the same. There was silence, then murmured questions and the stirrings of muffled laughter from some of those watching.

  Where the hell was she?

  Miller stared helplessly at the empty space where Alex should have been, then out at the crowd. He could just make out Mary and Howard, the shock and confusion on their faces. Shielding his eyes against the glare of the spotlight, he looked up and saw the unmistakable figure of Ralph Massey gazing down from the balcony as the embarrassing fiasco unfolded below him. Miller couldn’t swear to it, but even from that distance, Massey did not appear to be awfully bothered.

  He might even have been smiling.

  As the muttering from the audience grew louder, and one or two began a slow handclap, Miller ran across the floor and away into the wings. Behind him he could hear the MC saying something about disqualification, but that was the last thing Miller was concerned about.

  Maybe Alex had somehow managed to lock herself in the dressing room, or had fallen asleep or, God forbid, she’d hurt herself . . .

  He rushed along the corridor, past smirking members of staff and several of the other competitors, who pressed themselves against the wall as he bolted towards the dressing room.

  He burst through the door without bothering to knock.

  The room was empty and Miller’s eye was drawn immediately to the sequined dress Alex had been planning to wear. It had been tossed across the back of a chair. Abandoned on the counter, beneath a smeared mirror with lights around it, he saw the cardboard square with their number – 37 – drawn on it and next to that was Alex’s phone.

  Miller snatched the handset up and entered Alex’s PIN. He looked at the call log and saw that she had received a call just ten minutes earlier from a withheld number. He checked her emails, but there was nothing. He scoured the room for a note, but there was . . . nothing.

  Clutching the phone, Miller wandered out of the room in a daze. The band was playing and the competition was back in full swing. He found Mary, Howard and the others waiting for him in the foyer and he could do little but stand there shaking his head, his mind racing, as they fired questions at him.

  ‘Maybe she just wasn’t feeling well and didn’t have time to let you know,’ Mary said, finally.

  ‘She gets those migraines, right?’

  ‘Yeah, that’ll be it.’

  ‘She’s probably waiting for you at home,’ Howard said.

  Miller was not surprised when he arrived home to an empty house.

  He watched the rats for a while and stared at Alex’s phone and he was still sitting in his tuxedo two hours later, when the uniformed officers arrived at the door.

  He’d known, as soon as heard the knock.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Miller and Xiu had been summoned back to the station before they’d even left the Majestic Ballroom. Xiu had taken the call from DI Sullivan. He’d told her that he was in the process of collating the case intelligence and was very keen to hear what information had been gained from the conversations with Scarlett Ribbons, Michelle Cutler and Ralph Massey as soon as possible.

  ‘Well, we mustn’t keep the incompetent wankspangle waiting,’ Miller said.

  ‘You’re not a big fan of his, are you?’

  ‘Blimey, there’s no flies on you.’

  Xiu was working her way slowly through rush-hour traffic, trying to get them out of town.

  ‘He doesn’t seem too bad.’

  ‘People said that about Hitler,’ Miller announced. ‘And Prince Andrew.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true.’

  ‘Well, someone probably did. “Oh, look at his nice big teeth and his lovely . . . ears, and he does such a lot for charity.” I’m talking about Prince Andrew now, by the way.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like you’re being very fair—’

  ‘He made a pass at Alex once.’

  Xiu turned, open-mouthed. ‘What?’

  ‘Sullivan, I mean, not Prince Andrew.’ Miller was about to say something pithy about Alex not being young enough, but Xiu didn’t give him the chance. She wanted details.

  ‘This was while you two were married?’

  ‘No, it was well before we met, actually . . . but that’s not the point.’

  ‘Oh, I kind of think it is.’

  Miller nodded and smiled conspiratorially. ‘Sullivan doesn’t know I know about it, and I’ve got no intention whatsoever of telling him. I don’t want him to know why I don’t like him. Let him lie awake, moaning and drenched in sweat, trying to work it out.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’s that bothered,’ Xiu said.

  They caught a red light which Miller would have been happy to jump, but Xiu had no intention of doing any such thing. She hit the brakes instead and swore under her breath.

  ‘Potty-mouth,’ Miller said. ‘So, to be clear . . . I didn’t like our beloved leader a lot even before he was promoted. It’s not just because he’s now my boss, OK? I mean, you can accuse me of a lot of things . . .’

  Xiu looked sideways at him as though she’d already compiled a healthy list.

  ‘. . . but you can’t say I’m inconsistent.’

  Once they’d pulled away from the lights, Xiu was able to speed up a little, the traffic thinning out as they turned inland.

  ‘So, what information have we gained?’ she asked. ‘From the interviews.’

  ‘Well, we can’t rule Miss Ribbons out just yet,’ Miller said. ‘Though I’m fairly sure the fact that Adrian Cutler enjoyed a light spanking isn’t relevant. Quite funny, but not relevant. His widow, though . . . she seems a bit too nervous, if you ask me. I mean, that might just be because Michelle’s worried she’s now become a suspect, and she’s scared that we’re on to her. She’s certainly scared about something.’

  ‘What about Massey?’

  ‘Yeah, well. Massey . . .’

  Xiu waited, but Miller turned and stared out of the window, rather less talkative suddenly.

  ‘Some of that stuff between you and him, in his office. It wasn’t about this case, was it?’

  ‘Not really.’ Miller knew that he’d have to tell Xiu about it all eventually. It would certainly be a lot better coming from him than the likes of Clough or Sullivan. He knew that various heavily embroidered versions of the story had been flying around ever since Alex had died, but he’d already decided that Xiu deserved to know the truth.

  Just not quite yet.

  ‘Massey has to be in the picture,’ he said. ‘Somewhere. Even if the slimy bugger’s got alibis up to his carefully sculpted eyebrows.’

  ‘I’ll start looking at his associates first thing tomorrow,’ Xiu said. ‘See if their alibis are quite as solid.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘So, you still think it’s a gangland thing?’

  ‘Well, it was obviously professional,’ Miller said. ‘So that has to be favourite. I reckon we’ll know a lot more when I manage to catch up with Chesshead.’

  Xiu turned to him. ‘Right, him again.’ She sounded a little irritated. ‘Are you ever going to tell me who this mystery man is? There’s obviously some story and all you’ve said so far is that I won’t believe it.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘So—’

  ‘Hello . . . look who it is.’

  Miller pointed to a familiar figure walking briskly along the pavement up ahead and asked Xiu to slow down. They stopped once they were level and Miller wound down the window.

  ‘Do you need a lift, Mrs Shepherd?’

  Pippa Shepherd looked a little alarmed initially, and Miller quickly apologised for startling her.

  ‘I’m a bit surprised to see you out and about, if I’m honest.’

  ‘I had to get out.’ She stepped closer to the car and bent down. ‘I was going mad just sitting there, so I sent that policewoman away for a few hours. I mean, is that OK?’

  Miller knew that a good Family Liaison Officer like Fiona Mackie was well used to the mood-swings of those recently bereaved and guessed she would probably be waiting on the doorstep when Pippa Shepherd got home. ‘It’s entirely up to you,’ he said. ‘So, can we run you somewhere?’

  Pippa shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’m just on my way to work and it’s only five minutes from here. I’m quite enjoying the walk.’

  ‘Work?’ Miller didn’t know that Pippa Shepherd had a job. It hadn’t been in any of the notes.

  ‘You know Gemelli’s?’

  Miller told her that he did. It was actually a place he and Alex had been to several times. Decent seafood, though he thought the pizzas were a bit on the pricey side.

  ‘I work on the desk in there, answering the phone or whatever. A bit of waitressing too, if they’re short-staffed. It’s just a couple of nights a week, but it gets me out of the house and, like I said . . .’ She turned away briefly and took a few deep breaths.

  Xiu leaned across from the driver’s seat. ‘We can’t tell you what you should and shouldn’t do, Mrs Shepherd, but it has only been a couple of days. Are you quite sure you’re ready for this? To go back?’

  The woman shrugged and tried to smile. ‘No, I’m not sure at all. I might be being very stupid, but what else am I going to do?’ She stepped away from the car. ‘Sorry, but I really don’t want to be late—’

  ‘Just quickly, then,’ Miller said. ‘We’ve got a bit more information on the man who was killed at the same time as your husband.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘Yeah, the man in the next room. Adrian Cutler. That name still not ringing any bells?’

  Pippa shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Anyway, I just thought you’d be interested to know.’

  ‘So, who was he?’

  ‘Well, weirdly, it turns out he’s from a family with well-established links to organised crime.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘So, I just wondered if that made any sense to you.’

  Pippa stared at him, confused.

  ‘As far as any connection to your husband goes, I mean.’

  ‘No . . . it makes no sense at all.’

  ‘Because organised criminals need the likes of your husband from time to time. Accountants, computer experts and so on. To actually do the organising, help them hide their ill-gotten gains or whatever.’

  Xiu leaned over again. ‘Please don’t think that we’re suggesting your husband might have been knowingly involved.’

  ‘Right,’ Miller said. ‘Sometimes people don’t know who they’re actually working for, that’s all. I mean, your nice Italian restaurant might be a front for the Mafia for all we know. All . . . spaghetti carbonara and friendly smiles one minute, then the next thing you know, the manager from the Domino’s over the road is waking up next to a horse’s head.’

  Pippa smiled and thrust her hands into the pockets of her overcoat. ‘I get what you’re saying, detective, but no . . . not my husband. Knowingly or otherwise. The idea that Barry might have been involved in anything like that, or even known those sorts of people is just . . . ridiculous.’ For a moment it looked like she might even laugh. ‘It’s totally ridiculous.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought you’d probably say that,’ Miller said. ‘It never hurts to ask though, right?’

  Pippa took half a step away. ‘OK, then . . .’

  Miller started to wind the window up, then stopped and wound it down again. ‘By the way, is there actually a Mr or Mrs Gemelli?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, would you mind having a quick word with whoever’s in charge for me? You know, if you get a chance. The pizzas are nice, don’t get me wrong, but considering what they charge for them, they’re a bit mingy with the toppings.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Back in the days when performing had been his primary source of income, Ralph Massey had never considered himself vicious. Naturally, if some other drag queen had decided to get particularly catty, he’d been able to hold his own and spit a few choice insults right back. He had bitched with the best of them and doled out plenty of withering tongue-lashings in his time, but there had never been anything . . . physical. That had all changed one night, after a try-out show in Preston, when the flinty-eyed manager of the Boilermaker’s Arms had tried to stiff him – or rather to stiff Miss Coco Popz (‘she’ll have you for breakfast’) – out of her fee.

  ‘I’ll give you half and that’s me being generous,’ he’d said. ‘I don’t think that kind of thing is what my regulars are going to go for.’

  The manager had quickly seen sense when Coco held a pair of nail scissors close to his eye and had not only agreed to cough up, but to hand over twice the original fee.

  Massey/Miss Popz had been pleasantly surprised.

  He/she hadn’t known he/she had it in him/her.

  That was definitely the turning point.

  Reputation counted for a good deal, he’d always known that. Up to then, he’d made a good enough living thanks largely to his reputation for lavish outfits and, above all, for selling a number. For being able to out-Liza Liza and to be even more Cher than Cher (he had fantasised about working with his idol one day and the pair of them being billed as ‘Cher and Cher-Alike’). When he found out that he’d earned himself a reputation as someone not to be messed with, Massey began to think that there might be easier ways to earn a few quid. Or better yet, a few thousand.

  As it happened, he’d been considering a career move anyway. His voice was not what it had once been and though he’d never stopped being a crowd pleaser, he was definitely starting to feel his age a little. There were one or two older acts on the circuit, but he’d always found that a little bit sad. He didn’t want to wear corsets because he had to, or still be flouncing about when arthritis kicked in. Much as he loved to drag up, he didn’t want to still be doing it when dodgy knees and liver spots were dragging him down.

  It was tacky and undignified.

  So, eventually, the performing had become a hobby. Coco had slipped somewhat reluctantly into semi-retirement, and Massey was delighted to discover a remarkable aptitude for business of an altogether different sort. One that was a little easier on his hips. He’d rarely needed to ‘get the nail scissors out’ since that transformative night in Preston, but it had never really mattered because, if that brand of viciousness became absolutely necessary, he employed plenty of people who would.

  It was a rule he tried to live by, one of the many things experience had taught him.

  Never get your hands dirty.

  Shaving your legs is a pain in the arse.

  If a piece of business needs doing, it’s always better to do it fast.

  The visit from DS Miller and his absurdly serious partner – though it had not been entirely unenjoyable – meant that now, a piece of business did need attending to. It was annoying, because he had the ever-more-expensive ballroom refurb and a thousand other things to think about, but still, he was not about to dawdle.

  Massey turned to the skinhead on his left, whose real name he had forgotten, but who he chose to call Pixie. Pixie and the second skinhead, who he called Dixie, did look remarkably alike, which was why Massey had been drawn to them in the first place, but Pixie was his favourite. There were, after all, key differences between them that were not immediately apparent.

  ‘I’d be grateful if you could put the word out,’ he said.

  Pixie nodded, even though he was yet to discover what the word was.

  Dixie nodded, too, because he thought he’d better.

  ‘I’m keen to talk to our old friend Gary Pope. Sooner rather than later, if possible.’ Massey picked up his phone, ready to shout at his interior designer again. ‘Though someone will need to find him first.’