‘Not a sniff of him,’ Clough said. ‘Gone to ground, looks like.’

  ‘Wrong,’ Miller said. ‘He assaulted a young homeless girl last night, on waste ground behind the aquarium.’

  ‘That’s great!’ Sullivan said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, not great, obviously, I just mean . . . let’s get her in and get a statement.’

  ‘Not going to happen,’ Miller said.

  ‘What’s this girl’s name?’

  Miller waved Sullivan’s question away. ‘She came to me because she’s one of my confidential informants and she would rather that her name is kept out of the investigation. I promised her that we’d respect that.’

  Miller saw that Xiu was staring at him. She knew exactly who he was talking about even if nobody else did.

  ‘She made a verbal statement, which is all we’re going to get, but I don’t think it much matters one way or another. When we catch Draper, slapping an extra assault charge on top of umpteen murders isn’t going to make a great deal of difference, is it? Life, or life plus six months . . . either way he’s not going to be around to pick up his pension.’

  Sullivan thought about it, then nodded as if he’d already come to the same conclusion himself. ‘Right, so we move forward. Obviously a terrible experience for the girl concerned, but at least we know now that our prime suspect hasn’t gone anywhere.’

  ‘Of course he hasn’t,’ Miller said. ‘He wants that briefcase back. Cutler’s denying all knowledge, obviously, and even if they aren’t actually Panaides’s hands, Cutler doesn’t know that, does he? Either way, that case is the proof that Draper carried out a murder on Cutler’s behalf and Draper won’t get paid until he produces it.’

  Sullivan nodded again. This was solid stuff and the team was making progress. A team that could only ever be as good as the officer in charge.

  It was Andrea Fuller who asked the obvious question.

  ‘Why attack a homeless girl, though?’

  ‘It turns out that she knew Andrew Bagnall,’ Miller said. ‘Smoked a bit of weed with him now and again. My guess is that he found something at Bagnall’s flat after he killed him that made him think the girl might have the briefcase. Or know who did.’

  ‘So, what’s our next move?’ Clough asked.

  Miller was fairly sure that Clough’s next move would involve a trip to the pie shop or a nice lie down, but said nothing. Instead, he looked to their esteemed leader for guidance.

  ‘We flush him out.’ Sullivan pointed to the picture behind him. ‘This photograph is on the front page of today’s Gazette, the Lancashire Evening Post and the Pendle Express, on top of which it will be shown on all today’s local news bulletins. Draper can’t stay hidden for ever, not with that kind of media saturation.’

  ‘Where’s he staying?’ Fuller asked.

  Sullivan pointed. ‘Is the correct question! With a mate? Let’s work through all known associates. A hotel? Let’s check them all out.’

  ‘The bloke’s a sleazebag,’ Miller said. ‘He stinks of it and I don’t think he’d risk drawing attention to himself by staying anywhere half decent. I reckon he’d go somewhere a bit more downmarket, where he’s more likely to fit in. A scuzzy guesthouse, maybe . . . ’

  ‘So, maybe we focus on the scuzzy guesthouses,’ Sullivan said.

  Clough puffed out his cheeks. ‘Have you any idea how many of them there are in this town?’

  ‘Seven hundred and thirty-four,’ Miller said.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘How the bloody hell should I know?’

  Sullivan was pacing now, fired up and buzzing at the way his team was gelling and working together, but even a machine as finely oiled as this one needed someone to press the buttons. He pointed at Fuller again. ‘Andrea, draw up a list and organise teams. Get Clough to give you a hand . . . ’

  As soon as the briefing had finished, Xiu drew Miller into a corner.

  ‘Is Finn OK?’

  ‘She was upset,’ Miller said. ‘Scared and a bit battered and bruised, but no major damage, thank God. Staying with some friends.’

  Xiu nodded, obviously relieved to hear it. They walked out of the incident room into the lobby. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m grand.’ Miller could see the concern on her face. She knew that he and Finn were close, though not quite how close. Or why.

  It was something else he should get around to telling her one of these days.

  ‘That photo of Draper being everywhere.’ Xiu looked worried. ‘Now he’s going to know we’re after him.’

  ‘Oh, I think he’s figured that out,’ Miller said.

  ‘Of course, but now he’s going to have to speed things up, isn’t he? He knows Finn hasn’t got the case, so the only other option is Bagnall’s friend.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s no closer to identifying him than we are.’

  ‘He’s got Bagnall’s phone,’ Xiu said. ‘Remember?’

  ‘You’re a little ray of sunshine,’ Miller said.

  They stood together in silence for a minute, until Xiu said, ‘We’ve got that photo, though. The school photo.’ She began to nod, excited. ‘We just need to trace everyone in it and . . . ’ She stopped when she saw Miller’s expression, like she’d suggested the earth might be flat.

  ‘So we trace then interview another thirty-odd people as quickly as possible, on top of popping round to every one-star hotel and flophouse in Schwarztümpel? How many people do you think there are on this team? We could barely organise a five-a-side game.’ Miller shook his head, then raised it to stare up the steep staircase leading to the first floor.

  Xiu was watching him. ‘What Draper did to Finn . . . ’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You’re not going to make this personal, are you?’

  ‘Me?’ Miller tried to look offended. ‘How could you even—?’

  ‘You have to promise me that, Miller. If you make it personal you won’t do a good job, and . . . ’ She shook her head as though this was painful to admit. ‘I need you at your best.’

  ‘You need me, Posh?’ He sniffed. ‘I may just shed a tear.’

  ‘Oh, grow up, Miller.’

  ‘It goes without saying that my worst is probably far better than most people’s best,’ Miller said. ‘Nonetheless, I promise not to make this personal. OK?’ He looked up at those hard, steep stairs again. He was planning to visit a team on the second floor anyway, but he couldn’t help thinking that, once he had the man they were after in custody, it would be the ideal staircase down which Dennis Draper might accidentally tumble.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Frank Bardsley had a lot to think about.

  In an ideal world, he’d be spending the day on the phone to his distribution team to confirm that adequate supplies of foot-long spicy sausages reached every branch in time for the launch of his brand new ‘Bardsley’s Bangers’ range. At the same time, to guarantee the launch went smoothly, he’d be checking in with other ‘associates’ to ensure that the proprietors of certain rival businesses – A Turn For the Würst in Preston and The Weiner Takes It All in Clitheroe – were busy dealing with the theft of two delivery vans and the mysterious fires at their meat suppliers’ warehouses. As it was, he had all this to deal with on top of his ongoing mathematics conundrum.

  The George Panaides problem.

  It was a problem he had already taken steps to solve, of course, but now it appeared that a different and altogether less satisfactory solution might be on the cards.

  Frank dropped his copy of that morning’s Gazette onto the table and stared down at the photograph of Dennis Draper on the front page; a photograph that sat, somewhat ironically, above a half-page full-colour advert for today’s Bardsley’s Bangers bonanza.

  FREE CHEESY CHIPS WITH EVERY BANGER – FOR ONE DAY ONLY!

  A hundred and fifty quid that ad had cost him, but even so, all Frank could think about was the photo of the man he was sure had shot George. The man whose face was now plastered all over the media and who was obviously being hunted by every copper in the county.

  Draper being arrested would not be a terrible result (even if Draper himself would not be overly thrilled), but it would not make things equal.

  Frank had spoken to Martin Molineux first thing. Torchy had seen the picture too – it was on Granada news apparently – and had assured him that he was on the case, that he would get the job done. Frank had tried to stay calm while stressing the urgency of the situation.

  ‘This is for George, remember.’

  ‘I know it’s for George. Why do you think I’ve already bought a new twenty-one-inch cutting torch with a built-in flashback arrestor?’

  ‘Well, I hope you get to use it sooner than later.’

  ‘Calm down, Frank, I’m on it . . . ’

  It had already crossed Frank’s mind that Wayne Cutler might be on it, too, because Frank had read about the murder of that lad in Blackpool a few days before. He’d put two and two together and the answer to that simple sum was that the likes of Cutler would not want a loose cannon like Draper causing havoc all over the shop, getting himself nicked and naming names.

  If Cutler got to Draper before Molineux did, that wouldn’t be the worst outcome in the world either, but it still wouldn’t feel right. It wouldn’t add up, simple as that. On top of which, Frank had already paid Torchy a hefty deposit and he really didn’t fancy asking for his money back.

  Why was everything so buggering complicated?

  Like all that wasn’t enough to give Frank an ulcer and make him wish he’d stuck to doling out burger and chips from the back of a transit van, Maureen was really starting to kick off. The truth was, she’d been a bit funny even before George was killed, but since then there’d been no dealing with her.

  She certainly wasn’t the woman he’d married.

  Even as he thought it, Frank could hear her complaining that he wasn’t the man she’d married. No, he bloody well wasn’t, because he was a lot richer and a damn sight more successful. He was the Fast-Food King of Preston (and the surrounding area), so what was she moaning about?

  Perfectly on cue, the door to Frank’s office opened and Maureen marched in with her hat and coat on. She had her bag over her arm and a face on her that Frank did not like the look of at all.

  ‘We’re going out for the day,’ she said.

  ‘We’re what?’

  ‘Come on, look lively. We’re going for an adventure.’

  ‘Going where?’

  ‘I don’t much care, Frank. We could drive out to a nice country pub, maybe, go for a walk, then get a ploughman’s. Or we could nip down the Fishergate, see what’s in the sales and there’s that falconry centre on the A59, we’ve been saying we’d give that a go for ages.’

  ‘Have we?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Let’s just do something.’

  ‘But . . . ’ For the second time that day Frank was trying to stay calm. ‘This is a big day. It’s the Bardsley’s Bangers launch.’

  ‘I know very well what day it is,’ Maureen said. ‘But you’ve got a team, haven’t you? You can delegate.’

  ‘I need to be on top of things, Maureen. I need to be here.’

  ‘And what about what I need, Frank?’

  ‘I hear you, love. Just not today.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re hearing me at all.’

  ‘We’ll do something tomorrow, I promise. Anything you fancy—’

  Maureen was already on her way out. She slammed the door behind her then shouted through it, stifling a sob. ‘What about what I need?’

  Frank sat back and shut his eyes. When he opened them again, Dennis Draper was still staring up from the front page of the paper, there were five thousand foot-long sausages waiting to be distributed the length and breadth of Lancashire and his wife was still angry with him. She clearly needed something and lately that was all she seemed to be saying in one way or another, but he didn’t actually know what the something was. He was damn sure it wasn’t a ploughman’s lunch or a chuffing falconry display, but beyond that, Frank was clueless.

  What was he doing wrong?

  He let out a long-suffering sigh and picked up the phone, because it was time to get back to business. Halfway through his call to a vacuum-packing plant in Ribchester, Frank decided that, when he wasn’t marshalling several dozen delivery drivers or transferring funds to a pair of local arsonists, he’d try and find ten minutes to get online and book himself and Maureen a fortnight in Mauritius.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The officers and civilian staff who worked in the homicide unit based two floors above Miller’s were well used to the sight of Miller bowling in like he owned the place. Though Miller knew full well that he was persona non grata with the squad investigating his wife’s murder, he could never stay away very long. He was like a moth drawn inexorably to the white-hot flame of their investigation, though a more suitable analogy – considering how little he thought of said investigation – would have been a dog returning to its own vomit. A dog whose tail was usually wagging because, however frustrated and enraged Miller felt about what DCI Lindsey Forgeham’s team were actually doing – or rather not doing – to catch Alex’s killer, he’d begun to get a perverse kick out of being made to feel so hugely unwelcome.

  It put a spring in his step that even Mary would have applauded.

  Though she would then have asked why he couldn’t apply the same sort of jauntiness to his foxtrot, so . . . swings and roundabouts.

  Whistling as he ambled across the incident room towards Forgeham’s office at the end of the day, Miller was greeted by the same gallery of horror-struck expressions and barrage of muttered curses as usual. He felt like he’d gatecrashed a funeral wearing a Grim Reaper costume, and decided that should any of these halfwits get hit by a bus on the way home he would immediately go out and buy one for the occasion.

  He walked up to Forgeham’s door.

  ‘Oh no you don’t . . . ’

  A young detective he’d had the misfortune of encountering several times before stepped in front of him. The skinny, job-pissed idiot had tried to prevent Miller getting into Forgeham’s office on at least one previous occasion, like some kind of sentinel in a cheap suit.

  ‘What are you then?’ Miller asked. ‘The early warning system?’

  The detective shook his head and barked out a laugh. ‘I was here before you, that’s all. I need a quick word with the boss.’ He knocked on the door, then held up a file as if it contained answers to all the mysteries of the universe, though it was probably just an expenses claim.

  They stood awkwardly for a few seconds, waiting for the door to be opened.

  ‘Urgent, is it?’ Miller nodded down at the file.

  ‘I just need a signature.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Miller smiled. ‘Getting approval for all the overtime you’ve been working on the Alex Miller murder.’ He reached across to pat the man on the shoulder. ‘Yeah, you go right ahead, mate, because you’ve earned it. You and the rest of Lancashire’s finest must be absolutely knackered.’

  The detective had the good grace to redden a little and was momentarily lost for words when Lindsey Forgeham opened her door and stared at the two of them, confused.

  ‘Ma’am,’ the detective said eventually. He held up the file. ‘I just need you to sign off on this.’

  Forgeham nodded then looked at Miller. ‘Right . . . let me just deal with DC Palmer’s paperwork.’ Her tone darkened. ‘Then I’ll deal with you.’

  With the door still open, Miller watched Palmer follow Forgeham back into the office. He saw the DCI take papers from the file and flick through them, while the young DC waited, shifting from foot to foot, clearly impatient because the work he needed to get back to was so important.

  For a few ridiculous moments, Miller wondered if any of the paperwork might relate to Alex’s murder. Then he remembered where he was and who he was dealing with and reminded himself that it was more likely to contain a confession from the Zodiac Killer or a break in the Jack the Ripper case.

  As soon as Palmer had emerged, head down, and walked quickly away towards his desk, Forgeham beckoned Miller in and told him to close the door behind him.

  ‘You can’t keep doing this,’ she said.

  Miller sat down. ‘I know.’

  ‘So why are you doing it? Why do you keep coming up here when you know you can’t be anywhere near this investigation?’

  ‘I can’t help myself.’

  Forgeham nodded, took off her glasses. ‘Look, I know you’re still grieving, and I do understand—’

  ‘I can’t help myself . . . because I think I’m in love with you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve tried to fight it . . . my God, I’ve tried. I keep telling myself it’s wrong, but it doesn’t do any good. It’s like this terrible, wonderful sickness and the fact is that I don’t care that it’s wrong any more. I know what people will say about us, but I don’t care about that either. I don’t care about anything but you, DCI Forgeham. Oh, I’ve tried to stay professional, but I’ve examined this case thoroughly and all the evidence points to the fact that I’m madly in love with you, ma’am. Stupidly, insanely—’

  Forgeham held up a hand and put her glasses back on. Now she was blushing, but she lowered her head and spent a few seconds adjusting papers on her desk until she’d recovered herself. ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘Yes.’ Miller lowered his head for a moment or two, then raised it and began to declaim again. ‘I’m finished with lying to myself and denying my feelings when the truth is—’

  ‘That’s enough, DS Miller.’