He thought about just jumping on a train, but he didn’t have enough money to get him very far. A bus then, to . . . wherever.

  It didn’t make a blind bit of difference, Slack knew that, because the man would find him. Would hunt him down. He’d heard it in his voice and, if it was the man he thought it was, he’d seen it in that face on the front of the Gazette.

  Looks like we’ll have to do things the hard way.

  There was really only one option. It had been the very first thing Slack had thought to do, of course, but he’d hesitated because that’s what the likes of him did. The bad lads and the scallies. When you were already in the system and, more likely than not, would end up getting done for something yourself, even if you were the one in danger. In the end, he decided it was more than worth the risk. Yeah, so he might end up going down for what had happened at the station, but a few months inside was a price well worth paying. At least he’d be safe. Well, safer . . .

  He jumped off the sofa, grabbed his phone and rang the police.

  A few minutes later, when he’d hung up, having been assured that officers were on their way, he sat down again and began to breathe a little more easily.

  He might not have been quite as scared any more, but he suddenly began to feel horribly guilty, because it struck him that Andy had only taken that briefcase to protect him. They had both understood the trouble they were in the moment they’d opened the bloody thing, and even if Slack had been quick with the big talk about flogging those rings, Andy had known all along they were out of their depth. Who the hell had Slack ever thought he was kidding? Nicking money out of fruit machines was out of their sodding depth.

  Slack was close to tears again.

  Andy had taken that briefcase to make sure he was safe. He’d done something brave and daft, like one of those characters he was always pretending to be and had wound up being killed for it.

  It might have been two minutes later, or it might have been twenty when he finally heard the knocking.

  He crept down the hallway and leaned close to the door. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Police.’

  ‘I didn’t hear a siren.’

  ‘I’ve got ID if you’re concerned, sir. I can slide it under the door . . . ’

  Slack waited and, a few seconds later, a laminated Lancashire Police ID card attached to a lanyard appeared. He bent to pick it up, examined it, then began to unlock the door. ‘OK, sorry.’ He fumbled with the key, beginning to jabber as the relief flooded through him. ‘I just thought there’d be a siren or blue lights or something, that’s all . . . ’

  He was just reaching to release the chain when the door was shouldered open, knocking him off his feet. He looked up to see a man step in and move quickly to stand over him.

  ‘Woo-woo-woo,’ Draper said. ‘That do you, mate?’

  THIRTY

  It was already dark and had begun to rain heavily and this, together with the rush-hour traffic, meant it had taken them forty minutes to get there from the station. Xiu received a call just as they were finally turning into the road where Keith Slack lived. She parked up fast and turned to Miller.

  ‘That was the control room on the phone. Keith Slack made a 999 call five minutes ago from this address. He told them he was in danger.’

  Miller was shaking his head as he opened his door. ‘So why are we sitting here like idiots then?’ He didn’t see the twitch around Xiu’s right eye as she reached to open the driver’s side door.

  They closed both doors gently and ran across the road though the rain.

  It was a three-storey house divided into several flats, one up from the end of a terrace. Miller and Xiu moved quickly but quietly up to the front door. Xiu checked the numbers and pointed to the concrete steps leading down to their left. ‘Basement flat.’

  Miller nodded and they began to walk down.

  The curtains were drawn in what he guessed was the front room. There was no light creeping around the edges though, and none visible through the frosted glass in the front door. ‘Maybe a beat patrol’s already been,’ Miller whispered. ‘Taken Slack out of here.’

  ‘In the last five minutes?’

  ‘Yeah, fair point.’ Miller knew that uniformed officers did a difficult job and he still had unpleasant memories of his own time in a pointy hat. He also knew there simply weren’t enough of them, and that of those who might be free to attend an emergency call there wouldn’t be too many in a massive rush to venture out and get soaked; not for a caller whose name would more than likely have come up on the police computer for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘Maybe we should wait,’ Xiu said. ‘We know they’re on their way.’

  ‘I’m not sure we’ve got time.’ Miller nodded towards the front door which had not been closed properly. He leaned forward and ran his fingers up and down the jamb until they found the holes where the safety chain had been forced. ‘No, we definitely haven’t.’

  ‘Miller—’

  He pushed the door open with his boot and shouted. ‘Mr Slack?’ He waited. ‘Keith . . . ?’

  Miller and Xiu looked at one another, then the two of them stepped into the darkened hallway. They stopped and Miller shouted again, but there was no response. Xiu pushed open a door to their left and switched on a light to reveal a front room that, although it would hardly have graced a show-home, showed no signs of disturbance. The light that now spilled out into the narrow hallway revealed that something had gone on just inside the front door. A thin rug was scrunched up against a wall. A low table lay on its side and a collection of junk mail and magazines, which Miller guessed had been piled on it, now lay scattered across the grubby linoleum tiles.

  ‘A struggle,’ Xiu whispered.

  ‘That, or a protest against unsolicited mail,’ Miller said. ‘But let’s go with your theory for now.’

  Xiu rolled her eyes and they crept forward, moving slowly past an empty bedroom and a small bathroom. She pointed to a closed door at the end of the hallway, a light on beyond it, in what was probably the kitchen.

  She shouted Slack’s name again.

  There was a groan from the other side of the door, then the noise of what sounded like a bolt being drawn back.

  ‘Ah,’ Miller said.

  ‘I think Draper’s got Slack in there,’ Xiu said. ‘We should—’

  ‘Maybe he’s making them both a sandwich,’ Miller said.

  There were more noises from the kitchen, feet against the floor.

  ‘Even a nut-job like Draper needs to eat, right?’ Miller was already walking towards the door, asking himself serious questions like how much longer it would take for a squad car to arrive, what he was planning to do if Draper was armed (which he almost certainly was), and why they hadn’t searched the Civic for some kind of weapon. There was bound to be a tyre jack in the boot or a really heavy service manual in the glove compartment.

  ‘Miller, wait . . . ’

  He opened the door like he was simply wandering in to make himself a cheese toastie, then stopped as though embarrassed to be interrupting the people who were already in there. He said, ‘Oh.’

  Dennis Draper stood with his back to the kitchen worktop, no more than two steps away from an open back door. He had his hand over Keith Slack’s mouth and the blade of a kitchen knife pressed against his throat. The lad looked as though he’d already taken a fair beating. The one eye that wasn’t swollen and discoloured had widened when Miller walked in and now he groaned against Draper’s hand, coughing and spluttering blood through the killer’s fingers.

  Draper stared at Miller, then at Xiu when she arrived at his shoulder.

  ‘Well, this is awkward.’

  ‘Not really,’ Miller said. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Miller and this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Xiu and, while I would never dream of speaking for her – because she can be quite touchy about that – I think it’s safe to say that we’re both in favour of keeping things nice and simple.’

  ‘Simple works for me,’ Draper said.

  ‘We’re all on the same page then, which is excellent. So, bearing that in mind, why don’t you just let Mr Slack go, toddle off into the night and we’ll say no more about it?’

  ‘Yeah, I thought you might suggest something like that.’ Draper spoke with a thick West Midlands accent that made whatever he said sound a little depressing, which in this instance it was. ‘Not a goer, I’m afraid. The letting him go bit, I mean.’

  ‘There are more officers on their way,’ Xiu said.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Slack called the police before you got here.’

  Draper leaned close to Slack’s ear. ‘Did you, Keith?’

  Slack eventually managed to nod, a sweaty tangle of red hair falling across his forehead.

  ‘Well, that’s a shame,’ Draper said. ‘But they’re not here yet, so we don’t need to do anything hasty. I doubt you’ve had time to tell them to go round the back anyway.’ He nodded to the open doorway, the rain battering down just outside. ‘I reckon that’s the way I’ll be headed.’

  ‘OK, sounds like a plan,’ Miller said. ‘What’s out the back?’

  ‘Buggered if I know.’ Draper removed his hand from Slack’s mouth and leaned down to his ear. ‘What’s out the back, Keith?’

  ‘Garden.’ Slack swallowed and spluttered. ‘Back gate . . . alleyway leading to the next street.’

  ‘That’ll do.’ Draper put his hand back. ‘But I think I’d best take Keith along to show me the way.’

  Slack shook his head and instantly regretted it, crying out as a thin line of blood appeared behind the knife.

  ‘Steady on, Ginger Nuts, that’s very sharp,’ Draper said.

  ‘He hasn’t got the briefcase,’ Miller said.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what he said.’ Draper sighed, then narrowed his eyes at Miller. ‘How do you know what he’s got and what he hasn’t?’

  Miller said nothing.

  They watched as Draper dragged Slack across to the doorway and stepped out backwards into the rain.

  ‘Just leave him here and go,’ Xiu said. ‘We won’t follow you.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Because it would be stupid and dangerous. Because you’ve got a knife and we’re unarmed.’

  Miller walked towards the open door, thinking that the fact something was stupid had not stopped him doing it before. That perhaps, this time, it should. Then thinking that even one of those hefty cans of de-icer would have been better than nothing . . .

  ‘Don’t come too close.’ Draper shouted at him through the rain. ‘I’m very protective of my personal space.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dennis.’ Miller kept walking, out into the garden and following Draper at a distance towards the back gate. Even though it was dark and the rain was coming down like stair-rods, he could see the terror on Keith Slack’s face. ‘I respect that.’

  ‘I seriously hope so, for the lad’s sake.’

  Draper pulled Slack back towards the gate, reached behind to open it then stepped into the alleyway. He glared a final warning at Miller, then raised the knife to show it again before he and Slack disappeared from view.

  Miller was aware of distant sirens and of Xiu shouting at him from the kitchen doorway as he ran to the back gate, losing his footing several times on the mud and wet grass. He wasn’t surprised when he felt his knee pop, cursing Mary for making him dance that sodding lindy hop at their last session. When he finally moved through the gateway, he could see Draper and Slack at the end of the alleyway.

  The shapes of them, at least.

  Drenched and swearing, he could only stand and watch as Draper pushed the young man to his knees then, just when it looked as if Draper was all set to cut the boy’s throat, he saw him turn and sprint away into the darkness. Miller ran/hobbled/staggered to the end of the alleyway, pausing just for a second or two to give Keith Slack a thumbs-up, and looked both ways along the street.

  There was no sign of Dennis Draper.

  Five minutes later, when Miller finally stumbled back into the kitchen like a drowned rat with only three good legs, Xiu was comforting a sobbing Keith Slack. She had found a blanket from somewhere to wrap around his shoulders and was wiping the blood from his face with a flannel. Looking back down the hallway, Miller could see blue lights beyond the frosted glass in the front door.

  ‘There’s paramedics on the way too,’ Xiu said.

  Miller nodded then looked across at Slack. ‘You’re welcome.’ He flicked on the kettle and grabbed milk from the fridge; then, drying his hair with a tea towel, he limped around the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards. ‘Have you not got any biscuits at all . . . ?’

  STEP TWO

  FOXTROTS & FRIDGES

  THIRTY-ONE

  As Miller had tried (and failed) to point out to Mary, even with the addition of a new member the group still had an odd number of dancers. At least it did if those dancers wanted any music to dance to. As it was, with his knee still painful after going arse-over-tit in Keith Slack’s back garden, Miller was perfectly happy to sit the dancing out and restrict himself to ivory-tickling duties, at least until such time as he could cock up a foxtrot with two fully functioning legs.

  Of course, the numbers issue had not been the real reason Miller had objected to the addition of a new dancer. He hadn’t felt ready to see someone taking Alex’s place, simple and stupid as that. As it turned out, Lovely Rita Meter Maid – or more accurately Perfectly Pleasant Veronica, Erstwhile Parking Enforcement Officer – had slotted into the group very nicely, although Miller was quietly relieved that she chose not to join them all in the pub afterwards for drinks and shared savoury snacks.

  He wasn’t ready for that level of intimacy just yet.

  ‘I think that all went very well.’ Mary was looking at Miller as she raised her glass of gin, as though to toast their new member in absentia. ‘Her dancing is certainly of an acceptable standard, her waltz most especially, I thought . . . but thankfully not so high that she’ll make any of us look bad.’

  ‘Well, that’s got to be a bonus,’ Howard said.

  ‘God, yes,’ Ruth said.

  Nathan nodded enthusiastically. ‘Definitely a plus.’

  Miller raised his glass to signal his agreement, despite thinking that a chimp with two left feet and no sense of rhythm might make one or two of Nathan’s moves look a tad iffy.

  ‘So, come on then.’ Howard leaned towards Miller. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  With Ransford and Gloria having hurried home to attend to the lamb casserole they’d left in a slow cooker, there were five of them around the corner table in the Bull’s Head and they were all keen to hear exactly how Miller had done his leg in. His response to their initial enquiries when he’d rocked up at the hall had been deliberately vague, while equally as demanding of further explanation.

  Howard and Ruth had been doing rudimentary warm-up exercises while the others changed into their dancewear: chiffon training dress and high heels for Mary; a loose skirt and pumps for Veronica; trackies, trainers and a World of Warcraft T-shirt for Nathan.

  Carrying a mug of tea and a large plate of custard creams across to the piano, ‘line of duty’ was as much as Miller had been prepared to say about his mysterious injury.

  ‘Did you knacker your knee kicking the bad guy’s door in?’ Nathan asked now. ‘Draper, was it?’

  ‘Yeah, Draper,’ Howard said. ‘The bloke who was after the briefcase.’

  ‘Bloody hell, he didn’t shoot you, did he?’

  Miller raised a hand to calm everyone down, then told them exactly what had happened two nights earlier at Slack’s place. Well, more or less. He chose to leave out one or two of those more prosaic details – the lack of any sort of weapon while approaching an armed suspect, the failure to call for backup, etc. – that might imply his actions had been a trifle cavalier at best or at worst downright idiotic. Miller never forgot that there were two former police officers around the table. He guessed that Mary would have been as much a stickler for operational protocol when she was on the Job as she now was about dancers always travelling anti-clockwise, never walking backwards onto the dance floor, not talking or chewing gum while dancing (Nathan) and never forgetting to thank your partner once a routine had been completed.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Nathan said, when Miller had finished his tale. ‘You’re a hero, mate.’

  ‘Not sure I could have done that,’ Howard said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have let you,’ Mary said, before turning back to Miller. ‘It was certainly very brave, Declan.’ She was nodding, though something told Miller that she knew very well they hadn’t been given the full story.

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘You saved that lad’s life,’ Ruth said.

  Miller said nothing, knowing all too well that things could easily have turned out very differently. Standing in that alleyway, it had felt like they might be about to. Draper could have decided to use that knife on Keith Slack just for the hell of it and Miller would now be dealing with something a damn sight more painful than a gippy knee.

  He took a welcome slug of IPA and tried not to think about it.

  ‘So, where’s Slack now?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘He’s in protective custody,’ Miller said. ‘A safe house, but we’re just covering our backsides really, because I don’t think he’s in danger any more.’

  ‘Thanks to you,’ Nathan said.

  ‘Well, he certainly shouldn’t be.’ Howard looked at Mary who nodded her agreement. ‘Draper will have scarpered, right?’

  Miller stared down into his pint. ‘Let’s hope so.’