Do You Know This Man?

  Miller raised his hand. ‘Is it Alan Titchmarsh?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He looks bugger all like Alan Titchmarsh,’ Clough said.

  Carys Morgan was nodding. ‘Actually, there’s definitely a resemblance.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Miller said.

  ‘The bad news,’ Sullivan raised a hand, ‘is that he’s not our killer. He’s actually a member of the town council called Geoffrey Phipps and the reason he took a little longer than might be expected to come forward is that he was there that night to visit a . . . gentleman friend.’

  Clough smirked. Miller guessed he didn’t have many friends of any sex or persuasion.

  ‘Anyway, we should be grateful that Mr Phipps finally did the right thing.’

  ‘Not sure Mrs Phipps would agree,’ Clough said.

  ‘So . . . as you can see from your packs, we’ve now got a full ballistics report.’ Sullivan swiped again to display the relevant charts and images. ‘It shows very clearly that the bullets taken from the bodies of Adrian Cutler and Barry Shepherd came from the same gun.’

  Miller nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Good to have that confirmed.’ He looked around the table. ‘Just out of interest, does anyone know what usually happens if two hitmen show up together at the same place? I presume there is some kind of protocol. Is it like two people turning up at a party wearing the same outfit?’

  ‘DS Miller—’

  ‘Does one of the hitmen have to nip home quickly and change?’

  ‘I’m sure some people might think that your interjections are . . . good for morale.’ Sullivan shook his head. ‘Personally, I’m not convinced, but they certainly aren’t a great deal of use.’

  The DI turned his attention back to his beloved iPad. It wasn’t a big surprise. Miller knew that, irritated as he was (and Miller was doing his very best), Sullivan wasn’t the type to enter a battle of wits unarmed, certainly not in front of others. He was more likely to put something in writing to HR or go belly-aching to Susan Akers and Miller was fine with either of those.

  ‘Right . . . so Tony, you’ve looked through all the financials?’

  Clough glanced down at his notes. ‘Yeah, and Adrian Cutler’s look every bit as dodgy as you’d expect. Plenty of payments out and some major payments in, all of them untraceable. Nothing that suggests a particular motive, though.’

  Sullivan called up an image of Adrian Cutler. He then produced some sort of screen-pen and drew a circle around the picture, just in case anyone in the room remained unclear as to who they were discussing.

  ‘Not very much to get excited about with Barry Shepherd,’ Clough said. Another photo appeared on the screen, quickly followed by another circle for emphasis. ‘Not unless he’s got a secret stash we haven’t found yet.’

  Sullivan nodded. ‘Well, we might know more about that when we’ve got the Digital Forensics report. Carys?’

  Carys Morgan held up a sheaf of papers substantially thicker than Clough’s, though not quite as thick as Clough himself. ‘We’re still working on Barry Shepherd’s computers, but as you’d imagine, there’s a fair few of them. Five different laptops. Plus there’s any number of external hard drives and there’s even a whole bunch of floppy disks, believe it or not. I swear, the bloke had more kit than Curry’s, but we’re getting there.’

  ‘Phones?’

  ‘Well, we still don’t know what happened to Shepherd’s phone. His wife has confirmed that he definitely had one, because she was ringing it all night. So, we’ve got to presume that it was taken by whoever killed him.’

  ‘Maybe it was a really fancy one,’ Miller said.

  ‘We’re going through Adrian Cutler’s phone, but honestly, it’s like pulling teeth. No prizes for guessing that a lot of the numbers on there belong to burner phones.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that Mr Cutler may have been keeping some unsavoury company?’ Miller harrumphed. ‘How very dare you?’

  The Welshwoman’s grin suggested that Miller was doing wonders for her morale, at least. ‘On top of which, the phone company aren’t exactly being helpful. As per bloody usual.’

  ‘I’ll get on to them,’ Sullivan said.

  Miller knew how trying the process could be, with network providers refusing to provide passwords and PINs until all manner of bureaucratic hoops had been jumped through, and then demanding that they be paid for the privilege. He had endured much the same pantomime with Alex’s phone. Although he’d seen the call log himself and knew most of her passwords, he’d happily handed it over to the DFU for a deeper dive.

  He might just as well not have bothered.

  ‘We need the permission of the account holder.’

  ‘The account holder’s dead.’

  Pause. ‘We need the permission of the account holder . . .’

  Sullivan clapped his hands together. ‘OK, come on, team. We need to keep working, keep digging. There are two grieving families out there, let’s not lose sight of that. They won’t rest until we bring whoever’s responsible for that grief to justice, and neither will we.’

  Sullivan clearly thought he was Jürgen Klopp giving a half-time pep talk, but the only thing Miller felt motivated to do was visit his house in the dead of night and pop a turd through his letterbox.

  Sullivan said ‘Neither will we’ again, like he was now channelling Martin Luther King.

  Miller leaned close to Xiu. ‘Thank God he reminded us. Otherwise I might have spent the day fishing, or gone to see a movie or something.’

  Walking back to their desks, Xiu said, ‘So where did you go?’

  ‘I just needed to ask some questions about another case.’

  ‘Your wife’s?’

  Miller stopped and looked at her. ‘Blimey, you’re good.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If I’m ever bumped off, promise me you’ll lead the investigation.’

  ‘How am I going to cope with that many suspects?’

  ‘Now, that was definitely a joke.’

  ‘I don’t think it was.’ Xiu pointed across to her desk. ‘Right, I’m going to start chasing up Massey’s employees.’ She waited. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ve got a few calls to make.’ Miller could see that she was waiting for him to elaborate, but he wanted to see how the calls went first. ‘I’ll fill you in later,’ he said. ‘A spot of lunch, perhaps?’

  ‘Chips again?’

  ‘No, let’s go mad and dine in,’ Miller said. ‘The pub across the road does an overcooked lasagne to die for.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Whatever Pippa Shepherd had told Miller, she had wanted to get out of the house and it was no different today. Fiona, the Family Liaison Officer, had looked every bit as dubious as she’d been the day before, but that was fine because Pippa knew the woman couldn’t actually stop her. Pippa hadn’t done anything, after all.

  She was the one who’d had something done to her.

  The worst thing.

  So was it really any wonder she felt the need to spend some time away from the house? From all the things in it that reminded her of Barry; the smells and the memories? If the Family Liaison Officer didn’t understand that, then she was obviously in the wrong job.

  ‘It’s your call,’ Fiona said. ‘I’ll just wait here until you get back.’

  ‘If you want.’ Pippa heard herself being snappy, and however messed up her emotions might be, she didn’t much like it. ‘I mean . . . thank you.’ Fiona nodded. Pippa was already pulling on her coat, and nothing else was said before she closed the front door behind her, hurried down the front path and turned towards the sea.

  She walked along the front and kept going until the crowds thinned out and the noise of people enjoying themselves had faded away behind her. It wasn’t as cold as she’d thought, or perhaps it was just that walking as quickly as she was had made her sweat a little. She undid the buttons of her coat and sat down on a bench.

  There was so much to think about.

  All those ‘arrangements’ Miller had mentioned when he’d first been round to see her. The funeral for starters, which was ironic, because that was probably the easy bit. She knew there would be all manner of legal stuff to untangle – mortgages and insurance policies and whatever else she hadn’t even considered yet – and Barry had always handled that side of things, so she had no idea where to begin.

  If this was happening twenty or thirty years from now, when it might not have been unexpected, she knew that she’d be able to find some file with everything explained. Who to call, and when, and where all the necessary documents were. Barry would have thought ahead and taken care of everything, so she wouldn’t have to worry.

  Because that was the kind of man he was.

  She remembered Miller pulling her into his arms that day. He’d talked to her about carrying on, about moving forward even when it felt impossible. If he’d been sitting on the bench next to her right that minute she might actually have given him a piece of her mind, because words like that were so easy to trot out when you didn’t know what you were talking about.

  She’d tell him as much, next time she saw him.

  A man walked towards her with a big, scruffy-looking dog. The dog veered across the path to sniff at her legs, and when Pippa bent to make a fuss of it the man sat down next to her.

  ‘Sorry, she’s a bit over-friendly.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Pippa said.

  The man looked at her. ‘It’s Mrs Shepherd, isn’t it?’

  Now she looked at the man. She knew she had never met him before because she felt sure she would remember, but something about his face was familiar.

  ‘I wanted to pass on my condolences.’

  Pippa said ‘Thank you’, because by now it had become an automatic response. ‘I’m very sorry, but I don’t think—’

  ‘My name’s Wayne,’ the man said. ‘Adrian Cutler was my son.’

  ‘Oh . . . right.’ Pippa looked around. There was a woman in the distance moving in their direction, and she could see a young couple smoking on a bench fifty yards or so away. A black 4x4 was parked a little way up the road with two men sitting inside. ‘Well, in that case you have my condolences, too.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Wayne Cutler reached down to stroke his dog, staring out at the black water, then up at the grey sky. The shape of a large boat was just visible in the distance, between the two. ‘You don’t know what to do with yourself, do you? Something like this happens and you’re . . . lost.’ He shook his head. ‘Husband, son, it doesn’t matter.’

  Pippa had no idea what to say, so she nodded. She glanced towards the 4x4 and began buttoning up her coat again. She was thinking she should probably be getting along.

  Cutler turned and stared at her. ‘Look, I can see you’re uncomfortable and I really don’t want to bother you. I just thought you might have a bit more idea than me about what happened, that’s all.’

  ‘Well . . . he was shot, wasn’t he? Your son.’

  ‘Yeah, he was.’

  ‘The same as my husband.’

  ‘Sorry, that’s not quite what I was getting at. Have some idea why, I mean.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘Take your time.’

  ‘Well, I don’t really need to,’ Pippa said. ‘Because I’m not sure why you think I might be able to help.’

  ‘Because your husband was there.’ Cutler shrugged. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Yes, I know he was. Which is why the police asked me much the same thing, in a roundabout way.’

  ‘So, what did you say?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  He asked nice and slowly. ‘What did you tell the police?’

  ‘That I didn’t have any idea who your son was. That I hadn’t got the faintest idea what my husband was doing there.’

  Cutler nodded, as if that was fair enough, then leaned a little closer. ‘You must have asked yourself why, though.’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘I mean, a hotel . . . ?’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything you haven’t already thought about yourself, Pippa.’ He raised a hand and smiled when she recoiled slightly. The dog had begun to bark at a seagull and he told it to be quiet. ‘Listen, I’m really not trying to upset you. I know you’re upset enough already. I just want answers, same as you do.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t got any.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’ Pippa stood up and stepped away from the bench. ‘I suppose we’ll both just have to wait for the police to give us some.’

  Cutler sighed, then stood up too. ‘Thing is, I’ve never been very good at waiting,’ he said. ‘That’s always been my problem.’ He looked down as the dog began jumping at him, scrabbling at his thick anorak.

  Pippa took her chance and began walking away.

  He shouted after her. ‘It was lovely to meet you, Pippa . . .’

  She was trying not to walk too quickly, but she could already feel the sweat prickling again on her chest. Without quite knowing why, she kept her head down as she passed the 4x4, which she now saw had blacked-out windows. A few moments later, she heard the car start and turned to see it pull slowly away, like it was obediently keeping pace with Wayne Cutler and his dog.

  TWENTY-NINE

  When the landlady reached for his empty plate, Miller looked up and kissed his fingers. ‘My compliments to the chef, as per usual.’

  ‘Bugger off, Miller.’

  ‘I’m telling you, the unique way that man caresses the button on the microwave . . . he’s a real artist. He’s burnt-on, reheating royalty and that’s a fact. He’s the Sultan of Ping.’

  The landlady sighed and turned to look down at Xiu’s plate, which had hardly been touched. ‘Not hungry, love?’

  ‘No, I’ve—’

  ‘She’s got slightly higher standards than I have,’ Miller said. ‘By which I mean she has standards.’

  ‘I’ll only charge you for one,’ the landlady said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Xiu said.

  ‘And I’ll chuck in a ham and cheese baguette to take away.’

  ‘See?’ Miller nodded at Xiu. ‘You don’t get that at the bloody Ivy, do you? Mind you, you don’t get salmonella either, so swings and roundabouts.’

  ‘It’s nice to see you,’ the landlady said.

  ‘Back at you . . . and thanks for sending flowers, by the way.’

  ‘Our pleasure.’ The landlady winked at Xiu. ‘His wife was the nice one.’

  Once the landlady had gone, Miller sat back and said, ‘So, how was your morning at the crime-fighting coalface?’

  ‘No joy with Massey,’ Xiu said. ‘Everyone on his payroll seems to have an alibi, which is then conveniently backed up by one of the others.’

  ‘You can’t buy that kind of loyalty.’ Miller placed a beer mat on the edge of the table. ‘Oh, wait, you absolutely can.’ He flicked the beer mat up and failed to catch it with the same hand. ‘I’m not sure it matters, though.’

  ‘Because . . . ?’

  ‘Because I’m not convinced it’s one of Massey’s lot we’re after. Yes, I might be spectacularly wrong, and you’ll be surprised to hear that it wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Xiu said.

  ‘I don’t see Ralph Massey being quite so . . . provocative, that’s all. On top of which, I’m sure that in the course of his short, but glittering criminal career Adrian Cutler had managed to upset a lot of people.’

  ‘His wife for a kick-off.’

  ‘Absolutely, and there’s probably plenty of others we haven’t winkled out yet, but we will, because you and I are highly skilled winklers.’

  Xiu seemed pleased; bemused, but pleased. ‘Anyway, nothing to get excited about as far as Massey is concerned, but I did find out one very interesting thing.’

  ‘Is it the fact that dolphins sleep with one eye open?’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘OK, that was a bit of a stab in the dark . . . let me have one more guess. Is it the fact that the man who invented Pringles had his ashes buried in a Pringles can? Original flavour, if you want to be precise.’

  ‘I’d been thinking about Scarlett Ribbons,’ Xiu said.

  ‘Oh . . . I never had you down as the type.’

  ‘What you said about not being able to rule her out quite yet?’

  ‘I did say that, didn’t I, and the pleased-with-yourself expression on your face tells me that was intuitive yet superb detective work on my part . . .’

  Xiu’s raised eyebrow would have put Roger Moore to shame.

  ‘. . . and clearly there’s now been some similarly brilliant detective work on your part.’

  ‘I did a bit of digging,’ Xiu said, ‘and it turns out that Pauline Baker isn’t Scarlett’s real name either. She changed it eight years ago, after being released from a Young Offenders Institute.’

  ‘Oh, please tell me she was inside for shooting someone in the head.’

  ‘Stabbing them in the groin, actually.’

  Miller winced. ‘Shame.’

  ‘Selina Carter, aka Pauline Baker, aka Scarlett Ribbons did three and a half years for wounding with intent. So, we’ve got a proven tendency towards violence.’

  ‘Well, it’s definitely a smidgen more serious than whacking someone on the buttocks with a spatula. Shall we pop in and say hello?’

  ‘I’ve already got the address.’

  ‘Of course you have.’ Miller sat back. ‘We should probably let our food go down first.’

  ‘So, how was your morning?’

  ‘Pretty good, as it happens.’ Miller folded his arms and smiled. ‘I’ve found Chesshead.’