Walking away towards the door, Miller heard Massey picking out another melody on the piano behind him, and this time the message was clear enough.

  The Strictly theme tune.

  Alex’s ringtone.

  Miller was quiet in the pub afterwards, but nobody questioned him about it. He guessed they’d been advised by Mary and Howard not to, for which he was extremely grateful; content to listen to the rest of them talk about promenades, basic passes and triple steps, while he sat and drank and thought about what Massey had said.

  Those theoretical circumstances.

  Maybe he was naïve or just being an idiot but, unlike DCI Lindsey Forgeham, Miller chose to believe that Massey did have information about what had happened to Alex and that, if Miller was able to put Wayne Cutler away, the owner of the Majestic would stick to his part of the bargain.

  What other options did Miller have?

  The only fly in this uncomfortable ointment was that his best shot at putting Cutler away was catching Dennis Draper and they were no nearer doing that than they were when he and Massey had first talked about things. Draper remained a ghost. One with bad hair and a propensity for chopping people’s hands off, but a ghost nonetheless.

  Right now, Miller’s best – only – hope was that some dopey guesthouse owner might get round to looking at Draper’s picture and recognise him as one of their guests. Or that Craig Pickering might reconsider his fierce commitment to saying ‘nowt’.

  It wasn’t much to cling on to.

  ‘I loved that song you were playing,’ Veronica said, suddenly.

  ‘Yeah, that was a banger,’ Nathan said.

  ‘It’s actually about . . . weed, isn’t it? Or have I got that wrong?’

  Miller turned to her. ‘You a Beatles fan?’

  ‘Who isn’t? Veronica said.

  ‘Well, you can stay.’

  Mary was looking horrified. ‘That can’t be right, can it, Declan? The song was about drugs?’

  Miller nodded. ‘So Paul McCartney says.’

  She sighed sadly, shaking her head at the parlous state of the world, and when she looked at Howard he did exactly the same. ‘You’ll be telling me next that “Yesterday” is about heroin.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Mary,’ Miller said. ‘But I can’t make any promises about “Day Tripper” . . . ’

  THIRTY-NINE

  The next day finally delivered the brass-monkey weather that Miller had known was coming. It sent Finn hurrying to Barnardo’s to buy a fleece and, with frost glittering on the park’s footpaths, Imran was forced to pull his towable gritter from the equipment shed, but the sudden drop in temperature also heralded a change in Miller’s luck.

  Up to a point.

  He arrived at work within a few seconds of Sara Xiu. She pulled up next to him on the motorbike that always made Miller’s moped seem a little ridiculous, though he’d long given up rising to her comments about glorified mobility scooters or hairdryers on wheels. She’d once amazed him with a very out of character joke about his moped being like Kurt Cobain or Amy Winehouse because it couldn’t quite make it to thirty, but he’d chosen not to dignify it with a response.

  Though he had left an extremely realistic rubber rat on her desk later on.

  They walked into the station together.

  ‘Good night?’ Miller asked.

  ‘Yeah, all right . . . ’

  Her failure to look at him when she’d answered told Miller that, in all likelihood, his partner had spent another evening in the room above the King’s Arms, and the night with whichever metalhead had taken her fancy. He was trying not to judge Xiu for what some might describe as a reckless approach to dating, but he was starting to get seriously worried about the damage she was doing to her eardrums.

  ‘You?’

  ‘Dance group,’ Miller said.

  ‘Nice.’

  They pushed through the doors to the incident room together; nodded to those of their colleagues who were already at their desks. ‘Though it was slightly spoiled when Ralph Massey put in an appearance.’

  ‘Massey’s joined your dance group?’

  ‘Remind me, are you actually a detective?’

  ‘Sorry, I just thought—’

  ‘He came to ask how we were getting on with our mission to finally nail Wayne Cutler. Like we’re his private police force or something.’ Miller dropped his rucksack next to his chair and set his crash helmet down. ‘I quite wanted to slap him with a dance pump.’

  Xiu dropped off her own belongings at her desk then walked straight back to Miller’s. ‘Is he still making promises about your wife’s case?’

  Miller nodded.

  ‘Promises he won’t keep. You do know that, right?’

  ‘You might be right, but if I’ve got to choose between what Massey might know and the things Forgeham and her team definitely don’t, I think that, as of now, my money’s on the former Miss Coco Popz.’

  Xiu shrugged, like she couldn’t be bothered arguing about it. ‘Well, we’d better catch Draper then, hadn’t we?’

  ‘Right, so Draper can spill his guts about Cutler.’

  ‘And Massey can screw you over.’

  Miller raised a hand. He was already wondering where he could get hold of another rubber rat. ‘You’ve made your point, Posh, all right? Just promise me you won’t say “I told you so”.’

  Xiu thought about it. ‘Only once.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Miller said.

  Xiu wandered away when Miller’s phone began to ring, but as soon as he’d recognised the voice at the other end he waved her back over so that she could hear the conversation.

  ‘Did you mean it?’ Craig Pickering asked. ‘About looking for Gordon’s body?’

  ‘We’ll have shovels at the ready, Craig.’ Miller checked himself in case he was sounding insensitive. ‘I say that, but we might not actually need shovels. Depending on how we get on and where he actually is, we might end up using a heat-seeking helicopter or you know . . . underwater search teams, but whatever it takes to find him, we’ll have the appropriate equipment standing by.’

  Xiu was listening in and looking excited. Miller had told her about his conversation with Craig Pickering when he’d got back from Preston the previous afternoon. The deal he’d offered him.

  ‘It would mean a lot to our mum,’ Pickering said. ‘If we could get Gordon back.’

  ‘Course it would,’ Miller said. ‘And I reckon we can give you his hands back an’ all, eventually. We might need to hang on to them for a bit . . . if there’s a court case or what have you, but after that for sure.’

  ‘Yeah, that’d be good.’

  ‘So, tell me about Dennis Draper . . . ’

  Ten minutes later, Miller was standing alongside Xiu and other key members of the team in front of Tim Sullivan’s desk.

  ‘OK, you ready for this, because it’s really quite shocking? Dennis Draper’s real name is actually, da-da-da-da-da-da-daaaa . . . Dudley Driscoll.’

  Sullivan stared. ‘Dudley?’

  ‘It’s where he’s from, apparently, and the lack of imagination shown by his parents is clearly hereditary, because Mr Driscoll only ever uses aliases with the same initials. DD.’

  ‘Double D.’ Clough smirked and held his hands in front of his chest as though he was in possession of basketball-sized breasts. ‘A bit ironic, considering that he . . . you know . . . doesn’t like women.’

  Xiu and Fuller both threw him their filthiest looks.

  ‘Always the same two letters?’ Sullivan asked.

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ Xiu said. ‘Even if he’s sometimes pretending not to be English. According to Craig Pickering, he’s been Duncan Dunbar from Glasgow and he once pretended to be a Welshman called Dafydd Dafis.’

  Sullivan reached for a pen. ‘How are we spelling that?’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s relevant,’ Miller said. ‘But the bloke’s clearly an evil genius.’

  ‘Donald Duck,’ Fuller said, apropos of nothing whatsoever.

  ‘Danny Dyer,’ Xiu said, joining in.

  ‘Derek Dick!’ Clough said.

  Sullivan glared. ‘Now you’re just being stupid, DC Clough.’

  ‘It’s the real name of the singer from Marillion, sir.’ Clough sounded a little hurt. ‘Fish or whatever he’s called.’

  ‘I never had you down as a prog-rock fan,’ Miller said.

  Clough shrugged, reddening slightly though clearly pleased to have said something that had impressed Miller. ‘It was in a pub quiz.’

  ‘Right.’ Sullivan stood up, ready to take charge. ‘Now we’re cooking, so let’s get back on those phones, pronto. This should narrow things down a bit . . . ’

  FORTY

  Miller and Xiu were snatching a quick lunch in the Deadly Duck and this time Xiu had very wisely decided to steer well clear of the rissoles. While Miller devoured a plate of chips and a pork pie that had thankfully not been prepared on the premises, she tucked happily into a cheese roll that even a chef with the limited ability of Janet’s husband would have struggled to make a mess of.

  ‘Good choice,’ Miller said. ‘Best to keep it simple.’

  Xiu nodded, chewing. ‘It’s really nice, actually.’

  Miller glanced across to see Janet eyeing them from behind the bar. She was smiling at the rare spectacle of a customer enjoying her lunch, but it quickly became a scowl when she saw that Miller was looking at her.

  Miller grinned, his mood as good as it had been in several days, and Janet gave him two fingers.

  All was as it should be.

  ‘I know I might be straying into somewhat delicate territory here,’ Miller said, ‘but I’m not quite as convinced that some of your . . . other choices are equally sensible.’

  Xiu put down her roll and waited. The look on her face made it clear that she knew what was coming and that Miller had massively misjudged his level of privilege within their relationship. It was instantly apparent that she might start twitching like a maniac if he went any further.

  He couldn’t help himself.

  ‘I’m just saying . . . look, far be it from me to pass judgement on anyone’s private life, least of all yours—’

  ‘So don’t then,’ Xiu said. ‘Stop now.’

  ‘Right, got it.’ Miller sat back and reached for a chip. He was on the verge of popping it into his mouth when he sat forward again. ‘I just think there are better ways to . . . find someone, you know? That’s all.’ Once more he moved to eat the chip then decided against it and waved it around for emphasis instead. ‘Come on, who the hell chooses a sexual partner based on their ability to play air guitar?’

  Xiu managed a fast, thin smile, clearly trying not to get any more annoyed. She brushed crumbs from her shirt and calmly said, ‘It’s really none of your business, Miller.’

  ‘You’re right, Posh, it’s not. I know it’s not.’ Now he ate the chip and sat back, shaking his head. ‘Look, it’s probably just because I don’t have a love life of my own any more, so I’m taking what’s obviously an unwelcome interest in yours. I’m sorry, but I can’t help being worried. Never mind headbangers, some of those people look like proper headcases.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  Miller shrugged and looked down at his plate of chips. ‘I might have put my head round the door, one night a couple of weeks back. Just to see, you know?’ He sighed in disbelief at the state of things, in much the same way Mary had done the night before in the pub. ‘I still can’t find the right word to describe it . . . it was like hell, only instead of sulphur it stank of testosterone and Carling and all the demons had Iron Maiden tattoos.’

  ‘It’s just heavy metal, Miller. Well, death metal if you want to be specific—’

  ‘It was bloody terrifying.’

  Xiu’s expression softened a little. ‘Look, you don’t need to worry, all right? I can look after myself, besides which I don’t mind the smell of spilt lager and I am one of those headcases.’

  ‘Fine,’ Miller said. ‘I’ll shut up.’

  They ate in silence for half a minute, then Xiu leaned tentatively towards him. ‘Look, when it comes to relationships, some of us aren’t quite as lucky as you.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘What you had with Alex, I mean. Before. It’s what most of us want if we’re being honest, but it’s rare, you know?’

  Miller nodded. He didn’t quite know what to say, though he imagined that Alex herself might have a few things to contribute the next time they talked.

  ‘Rare? You want to talk about “rare”? Let’s talk about how many times you put the sodding bins out . . . ’

  ‘Also, it’s not going to be for ever, is it?’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘You not having a love life.’ Xiu checked herself. ‘Is it?’

  Miller opened his mouth but managed no more than a helpless squeak.

  ‘I don’t mean like now,’ she said. ‘Or next week or whatever . . . but maybe one day you’ll meet someone else. You know, when you least expect it. I’m not saying you won’t always be madly in love with your wife or that you’ll ever forget her or anything, of course I’m not, but life goes on, doesn’t it?’ Xiu was reddening a little and starting to gabble; looking like she wished she hadn’t gone down this iffy conversational road every bit as much as Miller had a few minutes earlier. ‘Obviously I’ve never been in your position. I’ve never lost anyone close to me, which means I don’t really know what I’m talking about . . . so maybe now it’s my turn to shut up.’ She sat back, breathing heavily. ‘I’ll shut up.’

  This time, Miller really had nothing to say.

  It wasn’t as though the situation Xiu was talking about had never crossed his mind. A few times in the months since Alex had been killed he’d seen someone in the street, and once in this very pub, who – to use one of Alex’s favourite expressions – he ‘wouldn’t have kicked out of bed for eating crisps’ – but the notion had always been fleeting. It had felt horribly wrong and had quickly evaporated as soon as Miller had begun to imagine what Alex herself would have to say about it.

  At the same time, though, he also knew that Xiu only had his best interests at heart and he was grateful for it. He guessed that what she was saying was right, generally speaking, and that the day might well come when such thoughts did not feel dirty or disloyal, but it still felt like a long way in the future.

  ‘Listen, Sara . . . ’ He stopped when he saw that Xiu was pointing and mouthing something. He hadn’t even been aware that his phone was ringing.

  Andrea Fuller sounded excited, which made Miller sit up straight immediately. When Xiu shuffled her chair forward, he set his phone on the table between them and put it on speaker.

  ‘I think we’ve got him,’ Fuller said. ‘The Sandy Shores guesthouse on Freckleton Street. The initials are right and having seen the picture, the landlady reckons it’s him.’

  ‘Reckons?’

  ‘Well, he’s currently rocking a ponytail apparently, but she sounds pretty sure about it.’

  ‘Good enough.’

  ‘Oh yeah . . . and he’s Spanish.’

  Miller stuffed the last of his pork pie into his mouth and reached for his jacket. ‘Well, of course he is.’ He waved a twenty-pound note so that Janet could see it, then tucked it beneath a glass.

  ‘We’ll be there in five minutes,’ Xiu said.

  ‘Cinco minutos,’ Miller said, getting to his feet.

  The two of them brainstormed Dudley Driscoll’s likely aliases as they walked quickly towards the door.

  ‘My money’s on Domingo,’ Miller said. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s Spanish.’

  ‘What about Donatello?’ Xiu said. ‘Oh, wait, that’s a Ninja Mutant Turtle . . . ’

  Janet stepped from behind the bar as soon as they’d left. Having heard the conversation as Xiu and Miller were on their way out, she muttered to herself as she leaned down to clear away the dirty plates.

  ‘He were a bloody sculptor.’

  FORTY-ONE

  Everything had been set up in the briefing room by the time Miller and Xiu got back.

  Tim Sullivan stood at the head of the table wearing a headset that made him look like Madonna in a bad suit, his phone already connected via Bluetooth to a large speaker mounted on the wall. He looked to make sure the team were seated and ready, reminded them all to pay very close attention, then made the call. He cleared his throat when it was answered and leaned forward to speak. His authoritative tone somewhat belied what little authority he actually commanded.

  ‘Mrs Duddridge? This is Detective Inspector Sullivan. I’m here with my team to take you through a few key points in advance of our operation later this afternoon.’

  ‘You know, he’s actually got quite a good voice for radio,’ Miller whispered to Xiu. ‘Not to mention a great face for it.’

  Xiu shushed him.

  ‘Right you are,’ Isla Duddridge said. She sounded a little tinny through the speaker, but it was clear enough for everyone to hear.

  ‘First of all, madam, thank you for your co-operation. It’s very much appreciated.’

  ‘Welcome, I’m sure, though I must tell you that I’m still in a bit of a state about the whole thing—’

  ‘That’s perfectly understandable—’

  ‘Course, you never really know who you’ve got under your roof, so the best you can do is take people at their word, isn’t it? I’ve been in this game a good few years and up to now I’ve always been able to spot the bad eggs . . . you know, get a read off them, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.’

  ‘Mrs Duddridge—’