‘Hey, Finn . . . ’

  ‘Hey, Miller . . . ’

  Miller was thrown and, for a few moments, he wasn’t sure what to say. He’d been calling and leaving messages several times a day since Finn had walked out of Howard and Mary’s place, but this was the first time she’d picked up.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Your name came up on my phone. It’s why I just said, “Hey, Miller”.’

  ‘All right, smartarse. I’m just surprised you answered, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve been a bit busy.’

  Miller swallowed back all the obvious questions about how busy someone who sat in a doorway most of the day could possibly be. Actually of course, they were ridiculous questions, because he knew very well she did other stuff. Most importantly, however easily he was able to imagine the things Finn got up to – and Miller wished more than anything that he wasn’t – he did not need to be told in any detail what those things actually were.

  He looked across again, but Alex had gone.

  ‘I was just . . . checking in, really,’ Miller said. ‘How’s the face?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s OK.’

  Miller could hear the hum of traffic close to her, the sounds of an argument somewhere nearby. ‘Has the bruising gone down?’

  ‘Well, I won’t be launching a thousand ships any time soon, but I don’t look too scary.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘It’s been quite good for business, as it goes. People feeling a bit more sorry for me than normal, you know?’

  ‘Oh well . . . swings and roundabouts.’ Miller thought about those stairs at work and Dennis Draper smacking his head into every one of them as he fell.

  ‘Have you caught him yet?’ Finn asked. ‘The bloke who did it, the one who killed Andy.’

  The answer was easy enough, obviously, but Miller didn’t really want to get too far into it. The close calls and the stupid decisions. ‘No, but Imran says I will.’

  ‘Oh, well that’s all right then.’

  They said nothing for a long few moments. The argument close by grew a little more heated. Someone was a useless tosser and someone else was sick of being treated like scum.

  ‘Sorry for being a cow the other night,’ Finn said.

  ‘Now you’re just being daft,’ Miller said. ‘You were upset.’

  ‘All the same.’

  ‘Well, you can always make it up to me by coming round for dinner or something. We can get a takeaway.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Have you got enough warm clothes, by the way? I know it was a bit nicer today, but it’ll get cold again soon enough.’

  ‘I can go to a charity shop if I have to,’ Finn said. ‘You don’t need to worry.’

  ‘I know I don’t need to—’

  ‘Listen, I’ve got to be somewhere, but will you say thanks to Howard and Mary for me?’

  ‘No problem,’ Miller said.

  ‘You know, next time you and them are tripping the light fantastic or whatever.’ There was an intake of breath and a papery crackle; it sounded like she was smoking. ‘And you, obviously.’

  ‘Me, what?’

  ‘Thanks. I mean . . . I probably don’t say it enough.’

  ‘Don’t be soft—’ She’d hung up before Miller could say anything else, but it didn’t matter. He knew that she wouldn’t come round any time soon and it was annoying because he had any number of old coats and sweaters he could give her.

  But that single, muttered Thanks would last him a good long while.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  His favoured mode of transport was not allowed on the motorway, which Miller considered to be a heinous and discriminatory piece of legislation, but after a pleasant enough forty-five-minute pootle along the A583 – through Little Plumpton, Kirkham and Ribble – he parked the moped next to an HMP Preston ‘meat wagon’ and submitted himself to the purgatory of gaining entrance to the prison.

  The routine of searches, property confiscation and X-ray machines took more than fifteen minutes and was one from which Miller’s warrant card did not excuse him. He was fine with it, because he’d gone through the process a good many times before. He cheerfully parted with his rucksack (not a big deal), his mobile phone (far too big for any prisoner to shove up his backside, but hey ho) and only became a little chopsy when the hatchet-faced officer on duty demanded that Miller hand in his crash helmet.

  ‘That’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a potential weapon that, sir.’ The officer smacked the helmet into his palm and nodded. ‘You could brain someone with that.’

  ‘If I was so inclined,’ Miller said. ‘However, were anything to kick off in there, don’t you think my having a crash helmet might actually help?’

  Hatchet-Face just stared, so Miller didn’t press the point.

  The walk from reception took him through several areas of the prison where inmates were milling about. He was escorted at all times, of course, but this remained a journey that one or two of his colleagues might have found a little daunting. The merest sniff of a copper would elicit abuse if you were lucky or something far nastier if you weren’t. On one occasion a year or so back, Tony Clough had been the target for a nicely aimed turd, the memory of which had cheered Miller up many a time.

  ‘Morning . . . nice day for it . . . how’s it going?’

  Miller smiled and gave a thumbs-up as he was led past an eclectic group of prisoners gathered at the far end of the wing. He wasn’t overly concerned about any possible reaction. Yes, there was always a slim chance that he might actually be recognised but he couldn’t recall having banged anyone up in this particular prison and, that possibility aside, he knew very well that he didn’t look like most people’s idea of a detective.

  The prisoners stared blankly back at him. Miller knew that most of them would think he was there to check stock in the prison library or teach a pottery class.

  Half an hour after arriving, he was finally seated in the visits area, watching as Craig Pickering was shown in and pointed across to the table where Miller was waiting.

  Miller raised a hand to wave.

  Pickering slunk across and slid into the chair opposite Miller like he had nothing better to do. He was short but wiry-looking, the predictable prison pallor contrasting nicely with dark hair that hung down across his forehead like spider’s legs. He didn’t appear to have a great many teeth.

  Miller introduced himself.

  Pickering just stared, looking bemused and apprehensive at the same time, which Miller thought was a good trick.

  ‘I’ve got one a bit like that.’ Miller pointed at the regulation prison tabard that Pickering was wearing. ‘It’s yellow, though, so other drivers can see me when I’m on my moped. Actually, I was wearing one yesterday when I was on a big mower, but that one was green . . . ’

  ‘What you on about, mate?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I was just trying to make conversation really,’ Miller said. ‘Keeping it light, you know, because I’m afraid that I’ve come with some rather upsetting news.’

  Now, Pickering just looked apprehensive.

  ‘It’s about your brother. Gordon. Thinking about it, maybe I didn’t need to say his name because obviously you know who your brother is. But yeah, it’s about him.’ Miller waited, hoping that Pickering would say, ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ like people did on TV, but he didn’t.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Miller said. ‘No easy way to say it, I’m afraid.’ He was aware there were probably easier ways to say it than that, but he didn’t have all day.

  ‘Right,’ Pickering said. He looked down at the metal tabletop and when he looked up again a minute or so later, there was a film of tears across his eyes. ‘Right, then.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Miller said.

  Pickering nodded. ‘So, what happened?’

  Miller sucked his teeth and shook his head, because now they were straying into slightly trickier territory. ‘Well, I can’t tell you that with any real certainty because we don’t actually have your brother’s body or indeed have any idea at all where it is. But I can promise you that he’s dead. He’s very dead.’ Miller nodded. ‘That much we do know.’

  ‘How can you know for definite, though?’

  ‘How do we know he’s dead?’

  ‘If you haven’t got his body?’

  ‘You sure you want to get into that? It’s a bit grisly.’

  ‘Tell me . . . ’

  Miller did as he was asked and, when he’d finished, Pickering sat staring helplessly down at his own hands, both thankfully still attached to the end of his arms. ‘So yeah, that’s how we know he was murdered and – in a roundabout way that I don’t really need to go into – it’s also how we know who murdered him.’

  ‘I’m listening.’ Pickering looked up, both his hands now clenched into fists. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘A contract killer who we believe your brother occasionally did some business with. A man named Dennis Draper . . . ?’ Miller could see immediately that Perks’s instinct had been right and that Craig Pickering knew exactly who Miller was talking about.

  ‘Him?’ Pickering barked out a bitter laugh. ‘Yeah, well that’s not his real name for starters.’

  ‘No, we’re aware of that,’ Miller said. ‘But as you and I are pals now, maybe we can start with you telling me what his real name is.’

  ‘I’m not your pal.’

  ‘Come on, Craig, I think we’re definitely heading in that direction, so why don’t you tell me anyway?’

  ‘How do you reckon he murdered him?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘How did Draper kill Gordon?’

  It was another awkward question. Dennis Draper had used a plastic bag to suffocate Andrew Bagnall and had most recently been seen brandishing a kitchen knife, but Miller’s hunch was that he’d killed Gordon Pickering the same way he’d killed George Panaides. ‘It’s hard to be sure because, as I’ve already explained, we don’t know where Gordon’s body is, but my best guess, and it is only a guess, would be a bullet to the back of the head. That’s definitely one of Draper’s favourites.’

  Pickering let out a long sigh.

  ‘Would have been quick, though. If that’s any comfort.’

  ‘Not really.’

  Miller leaned forward. ‘Now, if we’re going to get justice for your brother . . . for Gordon, which I’m sure is what you want too, we’re going to need a bit of help. So, tell me about Draper.’

  Pickering sat back and shook his head slowly. ‘I’m telling you nowt.’

  ‘Nowt?’ Miller stared. Nowt was of no use to him at all.

  ‘You heard me. I don’t tell coppers nowt.’

  ‘Yes, I heard you and I fully appreciate the ideological stance you appear to be taking here, but . . . he killed your brother.’ Miller helpfully shaped his fingers into a gun and pulled the ‘trigger’ in case Pickering required a visual aid. ‘He killed him and chopped his bloody hands off.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Pickering said. ‘I’m not a grass.’

  Miller sat back and sighed. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed, Craig, because I am.’ He reached into his pocket for a card and slid it across the table. ‘Maybe you need a bit of time to reflect on things, though, so I’m going to leave you with that. It’s got my number on, in case you change your mind.’ He waved at the officer in the corner to let him know he was ready to leave. ‘Just to say that were you to reconsider, and I can’t promise anything, but there might be a little more enthusiasm when it comes to locating your brother’s remains. Which would be nice.’

  Pickering looked at him; sniffed.

  ‘I’ll leave you to chew on that then, shall I?’ Miller stood up then pointed down to Pickering’s mouth, which most definitely contained fewer than the recommended number of teeth. ‘Presuming you can chew on anything . . . ’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The last dance of the evening’s session was an up-tempo, full-on team extravaganza.

  Mary had put together a short and energetic routine based around a basic swing, but with a few fancy moves of her own invention thrown in that she’d decided would stretch ‘certain members of the group’. Those she felt (she was trying hard not to look at Nathan and Ransford when she said it) needed a ‘bit of a push’. Miller suspected that Mary – who moved between the couples delivering instructions and shouting encouragement – was just keen to impress the newest member of the group with her skills as a choreographer and, while he didn’t think ballroom aficionados would be getting too excited, he couldn’t deny that she’d made a decent job of it.

  Craig Revel Horwood might even have cracked a smile.

  With his knee still a bit iffy and with negotiations with Alan from the community choir ‘ongoing’, Miller was once again happy to provide accompaniment for the evening. With the choice of suitable swing music down to him, he played ‘Got to Get You Into My Life’ – singing along with himself, parping out the horn parts for his own amusement and choosing to ignore the odd disapproving glance from the choreographer.

  Miller decided he wouldn’t tell her that he was playing what was famously Paul McCartney’s ‘love song’ to marijuana.

  He turned at the piano to watch them, relishing the glee on Ransford’s face as he spun Gloria around, Nathan’s rictus of concentration as he tried not to trip Veronica up and Mary’s beatific smile as she counted out the steps and marshalled her troops. It was bittersweet, of course, Miller’s joy tempered only by knowing how very much Alex would have enjoyed it.

  How she would have nailed Mary’s routine.

  A few minutes later, they were all getting changed and making plans to repair to the Bull, as usual. Veronica had just announced that she would be coming along – if that was all right with everyone – and that the first round was on her, when the door at the back of the hall creaked open and Miller turned with the rest of them to see a familiar figure step in and wave.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Nathan asked.

  ‘Never you mind,’ Howard said. He and Mary knew exactly who the man in the scarlet trousers and soft leather jacket was. Ralph Massey had just been beginning to make a name for himself during their last few years on the force.

  While Miller hung back, the rest of the gang filed past their visitor on the way out. At the door, Howard gave Massey a good hard look, shouting back to let Miller know that there’d be a pint with his name on waiting for him at the pub.

  Massey smiled and bowed.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you back with your little troupe again,’ Massey said, once he and Miller were alone. He fashioned a sad face. ‘Can’t be quite the same though, can it? Not now—’

  ‘Don’t,’ Miller said, an edge to his voice he hoped was obvious.

  Massey shrugged and moved further into the hall. He wandered around, tut-tutting at the faded floorboards and cracked paintwork and grimacing as he fingered the dust on window ledges. ‘You know, I’d be very happy to organise a space for you all at the Majestic. Far cleaner and better equipped than this hole.’ He smiled. ‘Mates’ rates, obviously.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Miller asked.

  ‘Well, as an entrepreneur for whom dance is, to say the least, fundamental to his business, I do like to keep abreast of what’s happening in the community. The moves being made, as it were. It’s heartening that there’s so much genuine enthusiasm among the amateurs.’

  Miller asked the question again.

  ‘I was just wondering how it was going, that’s all,’ Massey said. ‘Your investigations. I’m understandably keen to know if you and your colleagues have made any progress. I’m referring of course to your laudable efforts to rid our town of the one individual whose nefarious activities continually drag it down into the gutter.’

  ‘The one individual?’

  Massey smiled and sat down at the piano. He began to slowly play some tune which was probably meant to convey a message, but Miller didn’t recognise it. He waited, fighting the temptation to smash the lid of the piano down on to Massey’s perfectly manicured fingers.

  Massey finished playing and looked up. ‘Well? Is Wayne Cutler going to get what he deserves any time soon?’

  ‘Since when do I or anyone I work with report to you?’

  ‘You don’t, obviously.’

  ‘As long as you understand that.’

  ‘Let me put it another way.’ Massey took a few seconds. ‘How adjacent are we to those theoretical circumstances we discussed last time we spoke?’

  For a drag queen turned gangster, whose reading habits didn’t go much beyond a subscription to OK!, Massey’s habit of speaking as though he were far more erudite and sophisticated than he actually was remained as annoying as ever, but Miller understood him well enough.

  You put Cutler away, I tell you what I know about your wife’s murder.

  The thought of doing anything that would further Ralph Massey’s twisted ambitions was a deeply unpleasant one, but Miller knew he didn’t have a lot of choice. He said, ‘I’m . . . hopeful.’

  ‘Hopeful’s good,’ Massey said, beaming. ‘Hopeful makes me happy.’

  ‘I couldn’t be more thrilled,’ Miller said. ‘Now, I’ve got friends waiting.’ He took a few steps towards the door, then stopped and turned. ‘Just before I go, though, a nice long prison sentence for Wayne Cutler is good news for . . . well, the whole of humanity, that’s a given. But what guarantee have I got that my life’s going to get any easier when the only villain I’ve got to worry about is you?’

  Massey laughed. ‘Oh, I’m much nicer than Wayne Cutler,’ he said, mock-outraged. ‘And even if I wasn’t . . . ’ He held out his arms towards Miller and gave him the full ‘jazz hands’. ‘At least I can dance!’