She closed her eyes and let her head drop back. She rolled her neck a few times then sat up and had another drink. ‘So, how’s it going?’

  ‘What . . . me, or the investigation into your old man’s murder?’

  ‘Have a guess.’

  ‘Well, to be fair there haven’t been too many developments since I spoke to you . . . yesterday. Unless you’ve come all the way here because there’s something you want to tell me?’

  Michelle smiled and downed the rest of her wine. ‘I know you’re amazed that I give a monkey’s, but everything I told you at the house doesn’t mean I don’t care about what happened. That I’m not cut up.’

  ‘Like Adrian’s suit,’ Miller said.

  He’d been fairly sure that Michelle had seen him pocketing the contents of her kitchen bin the day before. So he wasn’t surprised when she shrugged and nodded or that the smile she eventually managed was as empty as her glass. Miller reached down for the bottle and topped her up.

  ‘Look, I get why you think I might have had something to do with it.’

  ‘Did you?’ She appeared to have no problem meeting his steely glare, so Miller held up his hands. ‘OK, then. It’s important to get that out of the way though, don’t you reckon? I mean, I’ve got to ask . . . it’s kind of in the job description.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘But you’re not the only one who thinks I might have.’

  ‘Killed Adrian?’

  ‘Killed him . . . had him killed, whatever.’

  Miller had a drink himself because he sensed that Michelle was keen to get something off her chest; that now would be a good time to shut up and let her talk. He watched her look towards the window. He watched her pull up her legs and hug her knees, keenly aware that Adrian Cutler’s widow was no longer the cocky and entitled princess she’d been on her home turf. Miller could see how tense she really was. He’d only caught the faintest whiff of nervousness in that fancy kitchen, but suddenly it was stinking up his front room.

  ‘A couple of the cousins have said things . . . the usual snide comments from Jacqui.’ She talked quietly, staring at Miller’s carpet. ‘They’re all watching me a bit too closely, you know what I mean? Keeping tabs.’ She looked at the window again. ‘Truth is, I bloody hate running. I just needed to get away for a bit.’

  ‘I understand,’ Miller said.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yeah. I hate running as well.’

  She flashed a smile and nodded, a little more sure of herself. With Miller, at least. ‘Adrian’s brother’s been muttering stuff as well, which is a bit rich coming from him.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘No reason really . . . just that I don’t think he’s quite as upset about what happened as he’s making out.’ She glanced at Miller and saw that he was waiting for her to carry on. She was breathing nearly as heavily as she had been on the doorstep. ‘Look, Justin’s actually older than Adrian and he was a bit jealous, that’s all. Because he thought Adrian was their dad’s golden boy and he’d been overlooked.’

  Miller nodded. ‘So, he’s like Fredo. Obviously I mean the character from The Godfather as opposed to the chocolate frog.’ Seeing that Michelle didn’t get the joke, Miller decided that Fred and Ginger would probably be a more receptive audience. He might get a giggle, at least. Then again, in light of Xiu’s reactions, or lack of them, maybe he just wasn’t as funny as he hoped he was.

  Rather more important, what Michelle had told him confirmed Miller’s notion that it was worth taking a closer look at Justin Cutler.

  ‘It’s all so stupid,’ Michelle said. ‘Thinking that I could have had anything to do with what happened to Adrian. I mean, yeah . . . Adrian was a nightmare, but he was my nightmare. And I’d more or less got used to how he was, but lately . . .’ She took another sip of wine, but suddenly she didn’t seem to like the taste.

  ‘Lately, what?’

  ‘It felt different. His . . . messing around. Like maybe it wasn’t just the tarts, or maybe there was one he’d actually fallen for. I was starting to think I might lose him.’

  Miller could see that she was close to tears and that she was fighting it, much the same way he’d done himself a couple of hours earlier. A woman like Michelle Cutler would not want to cry in front of a copper. ‘What about your own family? Couldn’t you get them round if you need a bit of support?’

  She shook her head. ‘My lot don’t tend to hang around with the Cutlers very much. They find them all a bit . . .’

  ‘Scary?’

  ‘I was going to say intimidating, but I suppose it’s much the same thing. Talking of which . . .’ She looked at her watch and quickly put away what little was left in her glass. ‘I’d better get back.’

  They both stood up and Miller walked her towards the door. Michelle stopped halfway there and stared at a framed photograph of Alex.

  ‘Nice picture,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah . . .’

  ‘She looks . . . kind.’

  Half a minute later, Miller watched Michelle grimace then jog away towards the road. He waited until she’d disappeared from view but, just before he closed the door, he heard an engine start up and watched a car pull away and follow her. It was too dark to make out the model or see who was driving, but Miller caught just enough of the number plate.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘I didn’t have you down as a devotee of “the dance”,’ Massey said.

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘A fan of dancing.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Wayne Cutler stared down from the balcony at the pulsating throng below. ‘I don’t think I’d call that “dancing” anyway.’

  ‘Rave night.’ Massey sniffed, his fingers tapping against the dusty velvet-covered railing. ‘Not my cup of Earl Grey either, but it gets the youngsters into the ballroom a couple of nights a week. Pays the bills.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Pays a few of yours, too, judging by the state of some of them.’ He stepped away and nodded. ‘It’s quieter in my office.’

  ‘It’s quieter anywhere,’ Cutler said.

  A few minutes later, once the door was closed and the unpleasantries were out of the way (insincere condolences dismissed, a drink offered and refused) they got down to business. It had been a long time since the two businessmen had met face to face, but when Cutler had phoned saying he was keen to talk, Ralph Massey had seen no real reason to refuse. At any other time he might have demurred because Death in Paradise was on or explained that he was washing his hair, but silly excuses would have been a little churlish, given the circumstances. So he’d sent Pixie and Dixie off to amuse themselves for an hour and got the gin out.

  Massey knew that Cutler hadn’t come alone, of course: that several of his entourage would be downstairs, looking laughably incongruous as they tried to mingle with the ravers. It was fine, because there were plenty of his own boys down there too. It amused him to think they were probably propping up the bar together, telling war stories or showing each other scars.

  A machete done that one.

  That’s a scratch, mate. Let me show you what two hedge trimmers and a nail gun can do . . .

  ‘This doesn’t have to take all night,’ Cutler said.

  ‘Shame.’ Massey poured a G&T for himself. ‘I thought we could have a good old catch-up.’

  ‘Don’t try and wind me up, Ralph.’ Cutler shifted on one of Massey’s bright red plastic chairs, uncomfortable in every sense. ‘I’m really not in the mood.’

  Cutler could not be doing with Massey’s waspish carry-on at the best of times. It set his shiny new teeth on edge. It had taken a great deal of restraint not to toss the spidery sod off his own balcony.

  ‘Let me just get it out of the way, then.’ Massey leaned back, cradling his glass. ‘What happened to Adrian was horrible, and I can see how much it’s eating you up, but I can promise you it had nothing to do with me.’

  Cutler nodded, unsurprised. ‘Or nowt to do with anyone connected to you?’

  ‘Are you referring to Gary Pope, perchance?’

  Perchance? Why did the pretentious tosspot have to talk like he was in Downton bleeding Abbey? ‘Yeah, that name crossed my mind.’

  ‘It’s really not Chesshead’s style,’ Massey said.

  ‘You want someone dead badly enough, you don’t care about the style.’

  ‘Well, let’s agree to disagree, but I am doing my very best to find him so I can make absolutely sure.’

  ‘You and me both. In London, someone said.’

  ‘I heard the same, but he’ll be back soon enough. He’s hardly Dick Whittington, is he?’ Massey sighed and shook his head. ‘Seriously though, Wayne, how could you think I was involved with this in any way? Why would I want you on the warpath and the police swarming all over the place?’

  ‘Miller?’

  ‘Oh yes . . . he came by.’

  ‘So, did he believe you?’

  Massey smiled. ‘I think it’s safe to say that his head’s not quite back in the game just yet.’

  ‘The business with his wife, yeah?’

  ‘Indeed. I think poor Detective Sergeant Miller’s rather . . . preoccupied with that.’

  ‘Right, and now I know how he feels.’

  ‘Well, of course you do.’

  Cutler grunted as he repositioned his backside again. ‘Sounds to me like they might never find out what happened that night.’

  ‘A “seaside mystery”.’ Massey said it like it was the title of a marvellous new show he was promoting.

  ‘Oh yeah. Definitely a mystery.’

  They were like schoolboys in a staring competition, until Massey sat back and spread out his arms. ‘Well, she was alive and well when she left my ballroom, I know that much.’

  For a few seconds, there was only the insistent thud of the bass from the dance floor below and the chink of ice in Massey’s glass.

  ‘Dick Whittington,’ Cutler said. ‘That’s a pantomime, right?’

  ‘It certainly is,’ Massey said. ‘One in which I was delighted to star myself as it happens . . . many moons ago, at the Civic in Accrington.’ He slapped his thigh and winked. ‘Five miles to London and still no sign of Dick!’

  ‘Leave it out, Ralph,’ Cutler said.

  Justin Cutler was playing games on his phone when his father returned to the car. He slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  ‘It’s not Massey.’ Wayne was shaking his head as he started the big BMW. ‘I never really thought it was, but I needed to hear him say it. To watch him while he was saying it.’

  ‘Yeah, OK . . . I mean, whatever you think.’

  Wayne turned the engine off. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Justin yanked his seat belt across and clicked it into place. ‘Just that if it was him, he’s hardly likely to come out and tell you, is he?’

  Wayne laughed, but not because he thought anything was funny. ‘You think I’m daft?’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘You think I don’t know that? I can read people, son.’ He looked long and hard at Justin. ‘So, I always know if I’m being mugged off.’

  ‘Yeah, course you do,’ Justin said. ‘Everyone knows that.’

  ‘Right, good.’ Wayne started the car again. ‘Now let’s get home.’ He nosed the car out and watched for a break in the traffic. ‘If we’re going to find out who is responsible for Adrian, there’s a few more people I need to talk to.’

  ‘All I meant was, it might be a mistake to rule Massey out completely, yeah?’ Justin shrugged, like he was trying to be casual, because it rarely paid to be too pushy with his old man. ‘Or at least wait until you’re sure you can rule him out before you start looking elsewhere.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Wayne said.

  ‘Right. Well, it’s your call, obviously.’ Justin took out his phone again, turned away and went back to his game. ‘Don’t forget, you promised to bring a kebab back for Mum.’

  Wayne grunted. ‘Oh, Christ, yeah. Our lives wouldn’t be worth living if we turned up without your mother’s large doner . . . come on, let me out, you muppet!’ He pushed his way into a gap that wasn’t really there, ignored the blast of a car horn and accelerated away.

  A mile or so up the road, he double-parked in front of a parade of shops and fast food joints. He flicked on the hazards, then turned and dropped a meaty paw on to his son’s knee. ‘Listen, we’ve got to face the fact that your brother’s not with us any more, may he rest in peace.’

  ‘Yeah, rest in peace,’ Justin said. ‘Totally.’

  ‘So, painful as it is to think about the future, we have to, because you’re going to have to step up, all right, son? I’ll need you there when I want some good advice or even . . . a bit of guidance, who knows? I need to know I can count on you to do what’s right for this family.’

  Justin nodded, solemn. ‘Extra chilli sauce and no salad. She’ll go mental if there’s salad.’

  ‘Well, that’s a start, I suppose,’ Wayne said.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Miller lay in bed listening to the radio, but it failed to spark his interest because everyone was being far too sensible, so he turned it off and looked at Alex instead. She was sitting at the end of the bed, watching him. He folded back the duvet and patted the mattress.

  ‘You can get in, you know?’

  ‘Not right this minute,’ she said.

  ‘No funny business, I promise.’

  ‘I should hope not, because that would be weird.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem fair.’ He hauled the duvet back over himself. ‘I’m the one doing the imagining . . . and I’ve imagined it a lot.’

  She nodded, unsurprised, but she had her business face on. Her copper’s face. ‘Maybe if you stopped thinking about you-know-what and thought about this case a bit more, you might actually get somewhere.’

  Miller sighed. ‘Fine.’

  ‘So . . . Barry Shepherd.’

  ‘Yeah, I think we should look at him again.’ Miller sat up. ‘By which I mean we should actually look at him, because we really haven’t. Not as anything other than a victim, anyway.’

  ‘Which might be all he is.’

  ‘Yeah, it might.’

  Alex got to her feet and walked to the window. ‘Pippa told you that her husband hadn’t been behaving any differently before he was killed, and maybe he wasn’t. Or perhaps he was and she didn’t notice. Or she was lying.’

  ‘Well, I know she’s lied to me once already,’ Miller said. ‘The other day when I spoke to her in the street, she wasn’t on her way to work. I talked to the restaurant and they confirmed that her shift wasn’t due to start until hours after I saw her. Nobody’s that keen, are they?’

  ‘So talk to her again,’ Alex said. ‘Or maybe talk to some of Barry’s workmates, see if they noticed anything.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Miller said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  He was thinking about the conversation he’d had with Sullivan at the first briefing. That spiky exchange about making assumptions. From that point on, the team’s enquiries had all been based on the theory that Adrian Cutler had been the killer’s target and Miller had gone along with the consensus.

  ‘Not like you,’ Alex said. ‘Not like you at all.’

  ‘First day back.’ Miller turned to punch his pillow into shape. ‘I wasn’t quite myself.’

  ‘It’s been nagging at you though, right?’

  ‘Yeah, and now you are.’

  Alex smiled and nodded. ‘It’s a good job I’m dead, because you know I wouldn’t let you get away with that under normal circumstances.’

  ‘Every cloud,’ Miller said, smiling back.

  The dance floor aside, Miller knew very well that he was usually out of step with everyone else. That was how he liked it. Clumsy and awkward as they were – stepping on toes and walking in the wrong direction as like as not – he was starting to feel as though he might finally be finding his feet again. The conversation he’d had with Michelle Cutler a couple of hours before had certainly altered his opinion of at least one suspect. It might even have revealed another one, and he’d be letting Sullivan know about that first thing in the morning. Telling, as opposed to suggesting, because some toes needed stepping on more than others.

  ‘Well, we know that Shepherd was hiding something,’ he said.

  Alex walked back across the room and stood at the end of the bed, looking down at him. ‘Maybe he was involved in something dodgy and upset the wrong person. Someone like him . . . good at using computers to hide money . . . maybe he decided to take some for himself.’

  Miller knew that, without evidence, this was still just supposition, but it was as good a working theory as any other. Barry Shepherd had not been shot in the head because he’d looked at someone’s girlfriend or spilled their pint. ‘Hopefully we’ll know a bit more once Carys has had a chance to look at that flash drive.’

  ‘It could be that Cutler was the person Shepherd had stolen money from,’ Alex said, ‘and Shepherd didn’t know he’d been rumbled yet. Maybe he went to that hotel for what he thought was going to be an amicable business meeting. He asked for a room next to his “friend”, remember?’

  ‘OK, but if Shepherd was the target, why kill Cutler?’

  ‘Same question the other way round,’ Alex said. ‘If the killer was there for Cutler, why was Shepherd killed?’

  ‘You’re not helping any more,’ Miller said. Then, he had another thought. ‘Unless Shepherd was in bed with Cutler. I mean, not literally, obviously . . . but maybe someone was sent there to kill both of them.’

  Alex looked unconvinced.