‘Your dance group?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Imran nodded, carefully considering this nugget of new information. ‘Is she hot?’

  Miller stared at him.

  ‘OK, probably not appropriate. So . . . what do you think about it? This new woman.’

  ‘To be honest, it’s not so much about what I think as what Alex would think.’

  ‘What would she think?’

  ‘I sometimes wonder which would upset her more,’ Miller said. ‘Me being with someone else, you know, in every sense . . . or me dancing with someone else.’ He looked over and saw that Imran was waiting for the answer. ‘Oh, the dancing, no question.’

  ‘In which case my first question is still valid,’ Imran said.

  ‘I’m just going to ignore you now . . . ’

  They rode back on the mower to the large equipment shed where all Imran’s gear was stored. Miller took off his helmet and high-vis jacket and handed them back to Imran. He thanked him and said that the next time they went putting, that fiver was definitely coming his way. ‘I presume you have cleaned the final hole out?’

  Imran uncoiled a hose and began spraying the mower down. ‘You’ll catch him,’ he said. ‘That bloke you didn’t tell about the briefcase.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘You usually do.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The launch of the ‘Bardsley’s Bangers’ range three days before had gone more or less as well as could be expected. Better than Frank had thought it would, considering that he’d been so distracted by Maureen’s foul mood and therefore unable to give his bangers the attention they deserved. On and on at him she’d been, for bloody days now. She kept insisting that he wasn’t giving her enough time or consideration even when he tried to tell her that these weren’t exactly normal circumstances. Trying to keep his temper, he’d explained that right now he was having to consider if he’d ordered sufficient sausage meat and consider why a huge shipment of brioche baguettes was currently sitting in the back of a truck at Dover; all this on top of a horrendous situation in Blackburn where there seemed to be a calamitous shortage of ketchup and mustard.

  ‘I don’t give a tuppenny stuff about your ketchup,’ she’d said. ‘Or your mustard.’ This was a few minutes ago in the kitchen.

  ‘Please, Maureen.’

  ‘Am I not more important to you than a bit of bloody sausage meat?’

  ‘It’s more than a bit, love—’

  ‘I’ve had enough, Frank . . . I’ve had it up to here.’ Maureen had slumped against the worktop and begun sniffling and no amount of comforting or reassurance from Frank had seemed to make any difference.

  Eventually she’d begun shouting again, and when Frank t ried to tell her that they could definitely go away together – somewhere luxurious for at least a couple of weeks – just as soon as the condiments situation had sorted itself out, Maureen had lost it altogether. Things might have got even nastier had his phone not rung while Maureen was ranting about playing second fiddle to an oversized hot dog, and Frank had discovered who was calling.

  He’d immediately slapped his hand across the handset. ‘I really need to take this.’

  His wife was still shouting about sausages as Frank hurried away down the corridor, closed his office door behind him and sat down to focus on his phone conversation.

  ‘I’m all yours, Mr Cutler.’

  ‘Call me Wayne for God’s sake,’ Cutler said, chuckling. ‘We can dispense with formalities, can’t we? Things being as they are.’

  ‘You sound a bit . . . echoey,’ Frank said. ‘Are you in a toilet?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Good, because I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with that.’

  ‘I just thought we should have a quick natter—’

  ‘You’re not recording this, are you?’

  ‘I’ve got you on speaker, Frank,’ Cutler said. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Frank leaned forward to straighten the ‘Lancashire’s Best Burger’ award which he’d now won three years on the bounce and which had his name engraved on the faux-marble plinth. It wasn’t the prettiest trophy he’d ever seen, but he was fiercely proud of it. ‘What did you mean, “things being as they are”?’

  Cutler laughed again. ‘Oh, come on, Frank. The Panaides business. I know you think I was responsible for what happened to him.’

  ‘You’re not seriously going to deny it, are you?’

  ‘Well, I’m hardly going to admit it, am I? For all I know you might be the one recording this conversation.’

  ‘I know all about Dennis Draper,’ Frank said.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ Cutler said. ‘At the same time, I’m impressed that you know his name.’

  ‘You’re not the only one with a few talkative coppers in his pocket, Wayne, so I’m well aware he’s the one that killed George and that you were the one who hired him to do it.’

  Frank could hear Cutler sigh, a bit wheezily. ‘You remember when we talked on the phone a while back?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘When you first opened up in my town?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think that strictly speaking it’s your town,’ Frank said. ‘I’m sure the Unitary Authority would have an opinion about it for a kick-off, but be that as it may—’

  ‘You assured me I had nothing to worry about in terms of competition or what have you. “Burgers are my business”, that’s what you said.’

  ‘And they are.’ Frank leaned forward again to wipe a line of dust from the silver-plated replica of his signature quarter-pounder. ‘I’m looking at a trophy which proves it.’

  ‘Your mate had other ideas though. That was the problem.’

  ‘Yeah, George were a bit misguided, I can’t argue with that, but all the same, I’m not sure he deserved what you decided he should get and I just couldn’t look myself in the eye if I didn’t do something about it. See, I need to balance the equation, because now it’s all gone to cock.’

  ‘I’m not with you, mate.’

  ‘Come on, Wayne, I know you’re not that thick. It’s basic sums at the end of the day. I’ve lost one of mine, so things have to be . . . balanced up.’

  Cutler lowered his voice which Frank supposed was an attempt to be menacing. ‘With one of mine, that what you’re on about?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, but don’t get your knickers in a knot, because I’m only talking about Draper and he’s not actually one of yours, is he? He’s more of a . . . freelance, so I reckon you should count yourself lucky, all in all.’

  ‘Oh, is that right?’ Cutler scoffed. ‘I’d best nip out and get myself a couple of scratch cards; you know, seeing as my luck’s in.’

  ‘Aye, it can’t hurt . . . ’ Frank paused, seeing a text message pop up on his phone: an update on the Blackburn sauce drought. ‘On top of which I’m doing you a favour. With all the other stuff this feller’s been up to and the information he could pass on should the police get hold of him, I’m guessing you’re as keen to get Draper out of the way as I am.’

  While Cutler considered his response, Frank checked his text message and was relieved to see that an emergency consignment of ketchup was on its way from Chorley. It was a small piece of welcome news.

  ‘You’re telling me you’ve taken steps, are you?’ Cutler asked, eventually.

  ‘I’ve had a quiet word with someone,’ Frank said. ‘Stumped up a few quid.’ It reminded him that he needed to put a call in sharpish to Torchy Molineux and find out just what the money he’d doled out was actually buying him; when that spanky new bit of welding kit Frank had paid for was going to be put to some use.

  ‘Right you are then, as long as you understand that if anyone I’ve had a quiet word with comes across Draper before whoever it is that you’ve had a quiet word with, we might save you the bother.’

  ‘Well, I’d rather it was my bloke, seeing as George and me go back a long way, but . . . fair dos. I won’t make a fuss.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Cutler said. ‘Nobody likes a fuss, do they?’

  ‘Not if they’re sensible,’ Frank said.

  ‘It’s been good to catch up,’ Cutler said. ‘Oh, I meant to say, my wife had one of your burgers the other day. She said it was very tasty.’

  ‘That’s nice to hear.’ Frank tapped his trophy and smiled. ‘Tell her to mention my name next time. I’m sure we can chuck in some free onion rings or what have you.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ Cutler said. ‘But I think it was probably a one-off.’

  Jacqui Cutler crept away from the door of her husband’s office and started up the stairs. She waited until she’d closed the bedroom door behind her before swearing as loudly as she needed to.

  God, Wayne was so full of . . .

  She’d only told him she’d been into a Bardsley’s to wind him up and she’d certainly never said anything about the burger being ‘tasty’. It tasted like dog-meat, for heaven’s sake! She’d taken one bite and binned it, yet here was Wayne using her name willy-nilly to butter up a business rival. No, it wasn’t the worst thing her husband had ever done, not by a long chalk, but it was a measure of the man. He lied without thinking. He committed acts of violence because he enjoyed them and he continually put his own family in danger.

  And he still hadn’t apologised for the Creme Egg incident.

  Once she’d calmed down a little, she opened the notebook she kept at the back of her make-up drawer and scribbled down a few of the things she’d overheard. The latest snippets of ammunition.

  Of course she hadn’t gone to Bardsley’s dog-meat emporium because she was hungry. She’d popped into Booths and picked up a smoked salmon sandwich on the way there, for pity’s sake. No, she’d just gone along to put out a few feelers or what have you. As it turned out, there’d been some kind of promotion on and there, propped up on the counter, was a stand-up postcard thingy with a picture of the boss himself – brandishing a sausage and grinning like he’d just had it off.

  An arm around the shoulder of his smiling wife.

  So, Jacqui had ordered a burger and fallen into conversation with the young girl dishing up the dog-meat.

  ‘Oh, they’re such a lovely couple, Frank and his wife. What’s her name again . . . ?’

  Downstairs, Wayne would doubtless be thinking about that phone call and about the best way to handle Frank Bardsley. Now, sitting at her make-up table and re-applying her lipstick, Jacqui was thinking about the best way to handle Wayne. It hadn’t become any less scary, the prospect of making a big change, and Jacqui had decided that it wasn’t one she was brave enough to make without a little help. Without a partner . . .

  It was hard to imagine that any other woman in her position (certainly not one with two kids at home) would feel very differently. A woman with a husband for whom business had become everything; whose efforts to maintain his position now meant that murder was as much part of his daily business practice as negotiating a wholesale price on frozen meat patties.

  She might be barking up the wrong tree, of course. There might not even be a tree. Maureen Bardsley might be every bit as happy as Jacqui was miserable, but there was only one way to find out.

  What was the harm?

  Jacqui stared at herself in the mirror and thought about that film from years back, where the two women decided to change their lives and drove off the cliff together at the end. She smiled when she remembered what it was called.

  A good Lancashire name, Thelma.

  THIRTY-SIX

  His hour or so in the park with Imran (and riding on the big mower, obviously) had lifted Miller’s spirits considerably. It usually did. Back in the office, he picked stray bits of grass from his jacket while he caught up with Xiu over a coffee. He checked out the latest slew of messages from Mary on the ‘dance buddies’ WhatsApp group (she was making ‘solid progress’ in her attempts to poach Alan, the community choir’s pianist) and had a conversation with Tony Clough that could even have been described as ‘pleasant’. He was as close to . . . perky as he was likely to get – all things considered – when he sat down to tackle an afternoon on the phone to some of Blackpool’s least desirable guesthouses, the prospect of which would otherwise have filled him with dread.

  None of them had any current residents that so much as resembled Dennis Draper, but even once that had been quickly established, Miller resisted the temptation to hang up immediately. He didn’t waste time, but found just enough of it to take in a litany of complaints from one or two of the more bolshy proprietors. Helping the police with their enquiries was all well and good, but what about having to deal with vomit in the waste-paper basket, towels stained with hair dye and greedy guests pilfering from the breakfast buffet?

  ‘Never mind your chuffing suspect, this bleeder was helping himself to half a dozen ketchup sachets at a time,’ said Mrs Irene Williams of the Sunnyside Inn. ‘Stuffing his pockets with hard-boiled eggs!’

  That might have been the one time Miller was less than polite.

  Had he been asked, he might have claimed it was a simple desire to see justice done – though it was probably just guilt – that saw him still at his desk nearly an hour after going-home time. Sitting in an almost empty office, he’d finally decided to knock it on the head for the day and had just stood to gather his stuff together when he got a call from DCI Bob Perks.

  Miller seized the opportunity to vent his frustration.

  ‘It’s just bloody endless . . . there’s more beds for rent in Blackpool than there are in London, did you know that? And for all we know, Draper’s kipping in a tent somewhere or sleeping in his car. He might not even be around any more.’

  ‘Maybe I can help,’ Perks said.

  ‘You going to come down here and get on the phones, are you, Bob? Listen to landladies banging on about hard-boiled eggs—?’

  ‘We know who those hands belonged to.’

  ‘Oh, finally.’ Miller sat down again. ‘You found a body?’

  ‘We don’t need to, because we got a DNA match.’

  ‘That’s handy. In every sense.’

  ‘Too right it is, and between you, me and the Police Conduct Authority, now we know whose body it is I don’t think we’ll be pulling out all the stops to find it.’

  ‘So, not the local vicar then?’

  ‘A rotten little shitehawk named Gordon Pickering. Known to have supplied assorted weapons including at least one surface-to-air missile to a variety of dodgy characters across the north-west. My guess is that Draper had bought guns off him at some point.’

  ‘So why kill him?’ Miller asked.

  ‘Don’t know, don’t much care,’ Perks said. ‘Maybe they’d fallen out or Draper owed him money or something, so he thought he’d kill two birds with one stone. He didn’t want to look very far because he needed those hands in a hurry, remember?’

  Miller nodded. ‘Maybe Amazon were out of stock.’

  ‘Here’s the important thing, though. Pickering has a brother. Craig Pickering – another upstanding citizen – is three years into a seven-year sentence for GBH. Just up the road as it happens, in HMP Preston. Now, other than being sure Draper killed Gordon Pickering and chopped his hands off, we don’t know the full extent of their previous relationship.’

  Miller had a stab at where this was going. ‘But if they did know each other before, there’s a strong possibility his brother knew Draper as well.’

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘Well enough to steer us in the right direction, maybe.’

  ‘Worth a punt, I reckon.’

  Andrea Fuller – who had also been working late – waved as she passed Miller’s desk on the way out. Miller waved back. ‘It might be nice to pay him a visit.’ He stood up and pulled on his jacket, his phone wedged between his shoulder and his chin. ‘Tell poor old Craig about his brother.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ Perks said. ‘Which is why I’ve sorted a visiting order for you tomorrow morning.’

  Miller picked up his crash helmet and followed Fuller towards the door.

  ‘Should I take him a bit of cake, d’you think? I find that a nice slice of Battenberg always goes down well when you’re breaking bad news.’

  Once Miller had treated Fred and Ginger to some fruit salad and put paid to the mushroom risotto he’d picked up from Gemelli’s on the way home, he sat down to watch the video again. He’d lost count of the times he’d watched it now, but each time he opened his laptop, he did so in the hope that whatever was nagging at him about it – about what the man was doing after he’d handed Alex the envelope – might transform itself from a niggle into a full-blown, case-breaking revelation, so that Miller would never have to watch the damn thing again.

  It didn’t.

  He snatched up his guitar and sat on the sofa for a while, noodling at a few of his favourite Beatles tunes. He played McCartney’s ‘Here There and Everywhere’ then Lennon’s ‘In My Life’. To prevent the mood from becoming too soppy, he started to play ‘Rocky Racoon’, and when he glanced up he could see Alex watching him from the doorway.

  He nodded at her and she nodded back.

  It was clearly not a night for conversation, jokey or otherwise, and Miller knew that was because he was still thinking about what he’d just been watching. The unexplained encounter. Miller knew well enough by now that Alex could only ever answer questions he already knew the answers to.

  When he was flailing around in the dark, she had nothing to say.

  He found himself starting to play a lesser-known Beatles song called ‘Not Guilty’ but for whatever reason the chords wouldn’t come, so he set his guitar aside and picked up his phone instead.