‘Right. Eww . . . stinky. I think we’ve established that.’

  ‘So, who the hell would be holding on to that? Surely Draper can’t be thinking it’s an actual case he’s looking for any more. Or even the hands.’

  Miller thought about it. What Xiu was saying made sense, but that was no great surprise because it usually did. ‘Personally, I’m not convinced that Dennis Draper is quite as concerned with putrefaction and the unpleasant odours resulting therefrom as you are. He probably hasn’t even thought about it. But let’s say he has . . . ’

  ‘If he has, he’s thinking that he’s stuffed,’ Xiu said. ‘Cutler isn’t going to hand over the money without George Panaides’s hands, is he?’

  ‘They weren’t actually Panaides’s hands.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant. What matters is that Draper’s proof’s gone for a burton.’

  ‘You’re forgetting about the rings,’ Miller said.

  ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten about the rings.’ Xiu looked horrified at the suggestion and stood up. ‘That’s my whole flipping point. The rings is where I’ve been trying to get to all along.’

  ‘So why go round the houses with all this rotting hands business?’

  ‘I was putting things in context.’

  ‘Oh, fair enough.’

  ‘Anyway, my point is, I reckon Draper’s thinking that even if those hands have been chucked in a skip somewhere, someone will still be holding on to the rings. So that’s what he’ll be going after.’

  Miller nodded and raised a hand. ‘Right, just so I’m clear, because frankly you’ve made all this a bit complicated with the whole Schrödinger’s rancid hands conundrum. Dennis Draper either thinks the case is still around, with or without severed hands in, or he doesn’t but he thinks that maybe the rings are. Is that the gist of it?’

  ‘More or less,’ Xiu said.

  ‘Or he’s decided the whole thing is a waste of time, thought “sod this for a game of soldiers” and got the hell out of Dodge.’

  ‘Which we both know is the least likely option.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And which would be a shame, because it would mean we’re unlikely to ever catch him.’ Xiu stepped away then turned and winked. Or perhaps it was a twitch. It was hard to tell sometimes. ‘That said, it would get certain people off the hook . . . ’

  Miller watched her walk back to her own desk. He thanked a few of those deities he had any real faith in (Loki, the Norse trickster god, the Lord of the Dance, John Lennon) for partnering him with Sara Xiu, then picked up the phone again and called the next guesthouse on his list.

  The Seaview (there were thirty-seven of them).

  Opened: 1998. Six Rooms. Two Stars. Proprietor: Mrs Kathleen Trimble.

  ‘Oh, good morning, Mrs Trimble, this is Detective Sergeant Miller from Lancashire Police. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but as you don’t appear to have replied to the urgent email we recently sent you, I was wondering if you had anyone currently residing at your establishment who, in your expert opinion and based on your considerable experience in the town’s hospitality industry, looked like they might be capable of murdering someone then cutting their hands off . . . ’

  He couldn’t be arsed beating around the bush.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Isla Duddridge had no truck whatsoever with those tired old jokes about randy seaside landladies. It was just a stupid cliché she remembered from old comedy shows where fat, bald men rolled around with buxom, sex-starved widows in skimpy negligees, or winked and made saucy comments about rooms with ‘extras’ and testing mattresses and all that carry on. A load of sexist old nonsense, that’s what it was! Isla was friends with a great many other landladies (though these days they preferred to call themselves proprietresses) and the truth was that most of them were far too knackered after running around all day cooking and cleaning to even think about you know what.

  To suggest otherwise was ridiculous and frankly offensive.

  All that said though, a single woman had needs.

  Since her old man had run off with a ticket seller from the Tower a few years back, Isla might have entertained a harmless fantasy or two and, yes, perhaps there had been one or two . . . dalliances with attractive men who were taking advantage of all the facilities available. Men she reckoned could count themselves seriously bloody lucky and who (with one unfortunate exception) always left glowing reviews. The miserable buggers who rated establishments such as hers might only ever have seen fit to give the Sandy Shores two and a half poxy stars, but what Isla had very occasionally chosen to offer a handful of specially selected guests was very much a five- star experience.

  A hands on, personal service.

  And a full English breakfast.

  There had been a few enjoyable nights the year before with an electrical engineer who’d been working at the Pleasure Beach, an athletic weekend with a comedian who was bottom of the bill at the Winter Gardens (not funny, good stamina) and a less than successful encounter with a bathroom fitter who, having failed to rise to the occasion, had the cheek to leave a snarky review on Tripadvisor.

  If Isla had a real weakness, though, it was for a tall dark type with a sexy foreign accent.

  She smoothed down her new blouse as she climbed the stairs, then checked herself out in the mirror on the first-floor landing before knocking softly on the door of number three. She could hear the sounds of the TV from inside the room. She spoke slowly and clearly, because that was only polite with the continentals.

  ‘Hola, Señor Diaz? It’s Mrs Duddridge.’ She smiled to herself. ‘Isla. I was wondering if you fancied joining me for a drink. I’ve got a nice bottle of Rioja in and I bought some tapas from M&S. I thought it might make you feel at home.’ She leaned a little closer to the door. ‘Señor Diaz . . . ?’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Well, I don’t mean now this minute. I was thinking a bit later on, you know. We could make a night of it, if—’

  ‘I’m going out tonight.’

  ‘Oh. Righto, love. Just a thought . . . ’

  Isla stepped away and slunk back towards the stairs. Sod him. It was his loss, and tapas was a waste of bloody time anyway.

  Stupid little portions, wouldn’t feed a cat.

  Draper groaned into his pillow, then turned the TV up a little louder.

  He was properly annoyed, because he’d planned a night in. He’d already chosen the pizza he was going to have delivered (the Mighty Meaty Monster) and, having checked, found there was a cracking episode of Hetty Wainthropp Investigates on Alibi. It was no Midsomer Murders, but he’d been looking forward to it. Now, he’d have to go out because that’s what he’d told the landlady and he didn’t want to upset her. He didn’t want to have sex with her either, God no, but it wasn’t her fault that she plainly found him irresistible.

  The heart wanted what it wanted, right?

  It was a pain in the backside, but Draper was sure he could find something useful to do. There were a couple of addresses he could do with checking out anyway because it always paid to get the lie of the land. For a minute or two he considered paying Wayne Cutler a visit, just to remind him that they had unfinished business, before deciding it would be . . . unwise, aside from which Cutler was probably looking for him. No, the next time he wanted to see Cutler was when the arsehole was handing over the ten grand he was owed, though, having been put to so much bloody trouble, he quite fancied seeing him again sometime after that. Popping by one day when Mr Cutler was least expecting it.

  A visit from Sudden De’Ath . . .

  All in all, he supposed that it couldn’t hurt to get out and about again; to go back to work and do what he was there for. He’d been lying low since the near miss a few nights earlier, partly because it seemed sensible with the police all fired up and buzzing about, but also because that business at Slack’s place had slightly discombobulated him.

  What the hell had that weirdo been thinking? Chatting away in that kitchen, all nice and casual like they were discussing the weather or something, then chasing him out into the garden without so much as a water pistol when Draper was brandishing a knife.

  Detective Sergeant Miller was someone Draper would have to think carefully about.

  Even more worrying was why he hadn’t done what he’d fully intended to do and used the bloody knife? He’d legged it, when there’d been plenty of time to carve the little sod up and still get away. So, why hadn’t he? It had been the same with the homeless girl, some scary and ridiculous impulse to be – he could hardly believe he was even thinking the word – merciful.

  Was he getting tired, maybe? Or old . . . ?

  God forbid he was getting soft.

  He shuddered a little at the thought and, to calm himself down, he took out his notebook and lay back to compose a nice, reassuring list.

  HEROES (NO PARTICULAR ORDER)

  John Nettles as DCI Tom Barnaby.

  Jeremy Clarkson.

  Princess Diana.

  Iron Man.

  Mum.

  He drew a heart next to ‘Mum’ and, happy with that, he turned to the page containing his current work-related list and made a few amendments.

  So, Bagnall hadn’t had the briefcase. His mate Slack hadn’t had it and neither had Bagnall’s homeless friend. Somebody did, though, and whatever state the case and its contents were in by now, Draper needed to get hold of enough to convince Wayne Cutler that he’d done the job he was contracted for. So he could get paid and get gone.

  Draper thought back to that note he’d found in Bagnall’s flat.

  There was one more obvious place to go looking.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘Cheer up, mate,’ Miller said. ‘This is great, isn’t it?’

  Imran grunted. ‘It’s my lunch hour.’

  ‘This is the only time I could get away and you invited me, remember?’

  ‘Because I’m an idiot.’

  Miller was already pressed against Imran in the small cabin, but leaned harder into his shoulder. ‘Because you’re a deeply caring and thoughtful person.’ He clapped his hands excitedly like a kid. ‘More importantly, you know how much I love going on the big mower.’

  Imran grunted again then leaned forward to adjust the settings. He was, as always, eager to ensure that the grass was given all necessary help to conserve water. The correct length of cut during each stage of the mow would also improve turf density and colour, promote deep digging roots and prevent diseases. ‘Yeah, but it’s my lunch hour.’

  In order to facilitate any kind of conversation, Imran had dispensed with the ear-protectors he would normally have worn, but they still needed to speak loudly to be heard above the noise of the engine and the blades.

  ‘Stop moaning,’ Miller said. ‘I brought sandwiches, didn’t I?’

  Happy as Larry (Miller had no idea who Larry was or what he’d always been so bloody cheerful about) he stared out at the trees as they moved slowly past, the all-weather sports pitch beyond and the black and grey roofs of the industrial estate beyond that. ‘To be fair, your hours are more flexible than mine,’ he said. ‘And there may even be one or two people who might suggest that my job’s a little bit more important than yours. Now, that’s not my opinion you understand, I’m just putting it out there.’ He held out his palms and then moved them up and down as if weighing one thing against another. ‘Murder or mowing, mowing or murder? It’s a tough call . . . ’

  Imran glanced across and gave Miller the finger.

  The mower trundled up and down the medium-sized field. As usual, Imran was wearing grubby overalls emblazoned with the Lancashire Parks Department logo beneath a high-vis jacket. Next to him, Miller wore his borrowed high-vis along with the ill-fitting plastic helmet upon which Imran always insisted. Miller would never argue with his friend about such things, but he did think it was a little bit ‘health and safety gone mad’. They were progressing at a stately seven miles an hour in an 18-kilowatt single-speed ride-on rotary mower and not tearing around Brands Hatch in an F1 supercar. Realistically, there was little chance of Miller ending up in a tangle of twisted metal or being catapulted out of his seat into the mowing mechanism.

  Still, Imran’s park, Imran’s rules.

  ‘I did a stupid thing,’ Miller said.

  Imran didn’t blink. ‘You’ve done lots of stupid things.’

  ‘Right, thanks, but—’

  ‘Remember when you sent that condolence card and put LOL at the end because you thought it meant lots of love? Or there was the time you called that bouncer at Brannigans a knob-jockey?’

  ‘Yes, I take your point—’

  ‘Who can forget the night you had six cans of Stella and tried to defrost a freezer with a chisel? Now, that was expensive.’

  ‘Have you finished?’ Miller waited until he was sure that Imran had exhausted his supply of stories and told him about the conversation with Dennis Draper. The crucial fact he’d neglected to mention.

  Imran nodded, thinking about it. ‘Sometimes the stupid thing turns out to be the right thing?’

  ‘I suppose.’ Miller could only hope so.

  Imran slowly turned the mower round and they headed back the way they’d come, mowing a parallel track. ‘Course, sometimes it’s just stupid.’

  ‘Deeply profound as always,’ Miller said.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘He hurt Finn.’ Miller watched Imran turn quickly to look at him and raised a hand. ‘She’s OK. A few bruises.’

  ‘Was that because you didn’t tell him about the briefcase?’

  ‘No, it was before. Before I . . . didn’t tell him.’

  ‘Good, because if you doing something stupid had led to Finn getting hurt, I might have had to give you a slap.’

  ‘Sounds fair,’ Miller said.

  ‘As it is, it’s just him I need to . . . have a word with.’ Imran leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘So once you’ve caught this bloke, see if you can organise a walk in the park, yeah? Give me ten minutes in the equipment shed with him.’

  ‘Have a suspect bailed to your equipment shed?’

  ‘Everybody needs a bit of fresh air, right? You take him for a nice afternoon in the park, a slushie maybe, or feeding the ducks, and then he accidentally wanders into my shed. It could happen.’

  Miller shrugged. ‘It might take a bit of wangling, but I’m happy to give it a bash . . . ’

  Ten minutes later they were sitting on their favourite bench, the one with Your Nan Is a Slag carved into it. Miller had made Imran promise never to get rid of it, because it always made him smile.

  They ate their sandwiches, after which Imran lit a cigarette and they sat staring out at the familiar surroundings. Nominally the chief groundskeeper at Claremont Park, Imran Mirza had become responsible for all the public areas – the children’s playground, the various playing fields and gardens, the small café and even (on the three days a year it was open) the ice cream kiosk. The local authority employed specialist horticultural consultants and once or twice a month someone from the ‘pond management team’ showed up to moan about herons nicking the fish, but they all answered to Imran, officially or not.

  ‘I was thinking about you this morning,’ Miller said.

  ‘Pervert.’

  ‘Not long before you rang actually. I was thinking about school. About Graham Trotter and his gang.’

  Imran said nothing for a minute or so, just carried on smoking. Finally, he said, ‘I saw him in the pub once. Stood next to me at the bar. Bastard didn’t even recognise me.’ He smoked for a while longer then nodded towards the putting green, the condition of which was a matter of enormous pride and where he and Miller engaged in a winner-take-all competition once a month or so. The ‘all’ in question consisted of a five-pound note which invariably ended up in the pocket of Imran’s overalls. ‘A bunch of lads nicked all the flags the other day. Like that wasn’t enough, one of them took a shit in the final hole. I mean, right in the hole.’

  Miller shook his head in disgust. ‘You never caught Tiger Woods doing that,’ he said. ‘Not even when he missed that sitter on the eighteenth in the World Match Play. What year was that?’

  Imran clearly didn’t care. ‘I know who they were,’ he said. ‘Those lads. I called the police, but they didn’t even bother coming.’

  ‘Have you tried mentioning my name?’

  Imran looked at him.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. They’d probably have just hung up straight away.’

  ‘I want to be planting trees,’ Imran said. ‘Taking care of the shrubberies and borders, keeping the grass looking good, but I spend most of my time picking up used noddies, empty nitrous bottles and dozens of them disposable vapes which are never disposed of in any of the six different litter bins.’ He sighed out a stream of smoke. ‘I just watch them chucking all this stuff on the floor.’

  ‘Can’t you do something about it?’

  ‘Yeah, I tell them to stop. I offer to show them where the bins are, and they just laugh at me. I’m not going to get heavy about it, am I? Some of these lads are carrying knives.’

  ‘Most of them, I reckon,’ Miller said.

  Imran dropped his butt, ground it out beneath his boot then bent to pick it up. ‘It wasn’t a barrel of laughs at school,’ he said. ‘Graham Trotter and all that . . . but I still think it’s harder for kids now than it was for us.’ He looked at Miller. ‘I wouldn’t want to be sixteen, mate.’

  They watched a woman walk past, her mobile jammed to her ear and a pug they presumed she owned mooching along behind her. The dog was wearing a fluorescent green coat and looked suitably embarrassed.

  ‘Mary’s brought a new woman into the group,’ Miller announced.