‘It’s probably because he’s foreign.’

  ‘Can I ask where you are at this precise moment?’

  ‘Well, I’m certainly not in the house, am I?’

  ‘That’s excellent.’ Sullivan nodded, delighted that the first of his pre-operational boxes had been ticked.

  ‘I’m just across the road, outside the dry cleaners.’

  ‘Could I please ask that you not return to your property until we tell you that it’s safe to do so?’

  ‘Fair enough . . . but it’s seriously parky out here and I only thought to bring a thin jacket.’

  ‘Is there not somewhere nearby you could go for a few hours?’ Sullivan asked. ‘A café or something?’

  The woman thought about it for a few seconds while the sounds of screaming seagulls filled the room. Miller had seen one the size of a Labrador a few days earlier and, until she spoke again, he wondered if the woman had been plucked from the pavement and carried off. ‘I suppose I could pop in and see Linda at the Tropic Delight. She’s actually a competitor, but we’re friendly enough most of the time and she’s usually got a bottle of something on the go.’

  ‘Tropic what?’ Miller leaned across to Xiu. ‘She knows she’s in Blackpool, right?’

  ‘That sounds ideal,’ Sullivan said.

  ‘Hang on, I can see her coming now . . . ’

  ‘Please, Mrs Duddridge . . . ’

  Now, all Sullivan and the rest of them could do was sit back and listen to an impromptu conversation between the rival guesthouse owners.

  ‘I can’t really talk now, Linda. I’m on the phone to the police.’

  ‘The police? What’s that all about, then, Isla?’

  ‘Well, I can’t say too much. I’ll be across in a bit and we’ll have a proper natter then . . . ’ She came back to Sullivan. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Madam, I must insist that you keep the details of what’s happening to yourself. Otherwise you risk compromising our entire operation.’

  The woman sounded more than a little offended. ‘I’m not stupid, am I? Don’t worry, I’ll just tell her it was about my gnomes getting vandalised in the summer. I did report it, but bugger all was done, same as usual.’

  Sullivan took a deep breath. ‘Now, can I ask you to confirm that the individual you have registered as Diego Diaz is still inside the property?’

  ‘I can’t say as I’ve heard him go out,’ she said. ‘But I don’t always because I stay in my lounge most of the time and I’ve not really had a lot to do with this bloke. Keeps himself to himself, you know what I mean?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Sullivan said. ‘We’ll find out soon enough. And he’s in room number three, correct?’

  ‘That’s correct, yes. On the first floor.’

  ‘What about your other guests?’

  ‘Well, if I’m honest we’re not exactly heaving at the moment. It’s off-season, so I’ve only got two other rooms occupied. There’s a gentleman from Wolverhampton and a nice young couple who’ve come down from Scotland to see the illuminations. They might be in their rooms or they might not. They’re usually down at the Pleasure Beach this time of day, but what with it being so cold . . . ’

  ‘That’s not a problem, Mrs Duddridge. Obviously it would be better if they were out, but my officers are highly trained so even if they are in residence, they won’t be in any danger.’

  ‘Danger?’

  ‘I know you’ve already been informed that our suspect is highly dangerous, so you must understand that this will be an armed operation.’

  ‘Oh, blimey,’ Isla said.

  ‘That’s about everything we need,’ Sullivan said. ‘I just have to ask again if there is any possibility that you could send us a floorplan of your property.’

  She sighed. ‘I already explained to the woman I spoke to before. My husband dealt with all that. I’m sure there was a floorplan or what have you, but since Brian did his moonlight flit I’ve no idea where all that stuff is.’

  ‘There is a back door though, is that right?’

  ‘Out to the patio area, yes. A couple of chairs and one of those outdoor heater things. For the smokers.’

  ‘Understood. I’ll have officers stationed at the rear of the property should our suspect try to leave that way.’

  ‘What if he jumps out the window?’

  ‘Don’t worry, my officers will be on hand to pick him up and take him to hospital.’ Sullivan looked quite pleased with his quip and looked up as though expecting a polite round of applause. ‘Right, madam, thank you again for being so helpful. I think I can let you go—’

  ‘Mrs Duddridge?’

  Sullivan looked up, not best pleased that Miller had broken into the conversation.

  ‘Have you got a spare key?’

  ‘I’ve got loads of spare keys, love. I run a guesthouse.’

  ‘Great stuff,’ Miller said. ‘We can pick one up from you before everything kicks off. Saves us having to smash your front door in.’

  ‘Yes, I was just going to suggest that.’ Sullivan leaned down to the phone again as though re-taking possession of it. ‘It’s always best to go in quietly when possible.’

  ‘What’s he supposed to have done, anyway?’

  Sullivan hesitated.

  ‘I know you said Señor Diaz is dangerous, but what’s that mean? I think I’ve got a right to know exactly what one of my guests has been up to.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t go into details at this stage. Suffice it to say—’

  ‘I’m guessing it’s some kind of human smuggling thing, because I read that a lot of them traffickers go through Spain. Presumably you’re working with Interpol or whatever they’re called, because—’

  ‘Mrs Duddridge.’ Miller again. ‘You do know he’s not actually Spanish, right?’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘He’s from Dudley.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ The woman sounded annoyed. ‘I needn’t have wasted money buying that bloody tapas.’

  As soon as he’d hung up, Sullivan leaned forward, his arms braced against the table to address his troops. ‘OK, there’s an armed unit waiting for me to brief them, so I’ll leave you to familiarise yourselves with the details. I’ve got a couple of officers already watching the property, front and back, in case he leaves before we get there, but presuming that doesn’t happen, we’ll wait until it’s starting to get dark.’

  He sniffed and looked at each of them in turn, eyes narrowed. ‘Right, so let’s get this done.’

  There were nods and a few assertive ‘sir’s. Clough slapped his hand on the table then stood up with his fists clenched and his teeth firmly gritted, like a porky Henry V in some low-budget student film.

  Xiu looked at Miller.

  ‘I’m a coiled spring,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t seem overly excited,’ Xiu said as they were walking out.

  Miller said nothing. In truth he was apprehensive, because he needed this to work out for all sorts of reasons and the fact that it was being organised by Tim Sullivan made him extremely nervous.

  Xiu made it clear she knew exactly what those reasons were.

  ‘I thought you would be a bit more fired up,’ she said. ‘That’s all. Catching Driscoll means we clear up two murders . . . at least two. That’s good for everyone and for you more than most, right? Your gamble in not telling him about the briefcase pays off, and maybe you get some ammunition to go after Cutler . . . and maybe Ralph Massey makes good on his promise about Alex.’

  She wasn’t helping.

  ‘Oh, I’m keen as mustard,’ Miller said. ‘The proper yellow stuff. It’s just that having to listen to “Alan Partridge with a SWAT team” back there and seeing how much he gets off on it tempers my excitement ever so slightly.’ He nodded to where Sullivan was deep in conversation with the commander of the firearms unit. ‘Did you see him do that funny crouching thing after he made his big speech at the end? I reckon he had a semi on.’

  ‘Miller!’ She looked disapprovingly at him, but couldn’t suppress a smile for very long. ‘I think you’re probably . . . half right.’

  FORTY-TWO

  It was freezing in the car and Miller was wishing he’d been to the toilet before they left the station. There was a healthy degree of tension, obviously, and Miller knew that the dozen or more officers on tenterhooks in nearby vehicles or with weapons already trained on the Sandy Shores guesthouse would be buzzing with nervous excitement. It didn’t make the waiting any less tedious, though.

  ‘I suppose a quick game of I Spy’s out of the question?’

  Xiu turned, all set to let him know that it most certainly was—

  ‘All units from TFC. State Amber. Repeat, state Amber. Stand by . . . ’

  The authoritative, yet nicely modulated voice of the Tactical Firearms Commander rang out from both their radios at the same time.

  Miller nodded, impressed. ‘Now, he’d be even better than Sullivan, I reckon.’

  ‘Better at what?’

  ‘On the radio.’ He dropped into a smooth DJ voice. ‘ “Hello and welcome to Firearms Hour here on Magic FM. I’ll be keeping you company for the next sixty minutes, with soothing conversation about weaponry and a selection of classic songs to shoot by.” ’ He looked to Xiu for a reaction.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  He’d been hoping for more.

  Miller turned away to stare at the dark Skoda parked a hundred yards ahead on the opposite side of the road. With only the light from a nearby lamppost available, he couldn’t make out the occupants clearly but knew that this was where the TFC was broadcasting from and that Tim Sullivan was sitting next to him. Behind them, Clough and Fuller waited in another vehicle, while the unmarked van from which six officers from the Firearms Operations Unit had just begun to emerge sat right around the corner.

  ‘Roger. State Amber received. Standing by on Red . . . ’

  In the Skoda, while Sullivan sat twiddling his thumbs, the firearms commander would be studying a laptop, monitoring the separate feeds from the helmet-mounted cameras of his officers, who were already moving into position.

  ‘How pissed off d’you think he is?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sullivan. At not being the one who gets to give the “go”. At having to sit there like a spare part while the bloke with the all the techy gear and the cool initials calls the shots. On a scale of one to ten, how much is that ticking him off, do you think?’

  Xiu sat staring down at her radio, waiting. ‘I’ve no idea . . . ’

  ‘I’m going for . . . a hundred and forty-seven—’

  ‘State Red.’ The TFC gave the order. ‘Repeat, state Red. Go when you’re ready . . . ’

  Miller and Xiu watched as the firearms team crept along the pavement to the guesthouse and took up their positions outside the front door. He saw the drivers of passing cars slow down to gawp and get quickly waved on, the decision having been made not to close off the road in case the absence of traffic made Driscoll suspicious. They watched the team leader produce the key they’d collected earlier from Isla Duddridge and use it to open the front door. They heard him announce that they had gained entry before leading his officers into the property.

  Then everything went quiet.

  Had this been a TV drama or the climactic scene in some unimaginative thriller, the radios in the various vehicles would have immediately begun transmitting a series of chaotic crashes and shouts: Armed police! Room clear! We’ve got guns, you bastard!

  That kind of thing . . .

  As it was, all that screaming and kicking in of doors would be little more than showing off when you already had a key. Having guns certainly gave you an edge, but Miller knew that stealth was a far more effective method of surprising and hopefully apprehending a dangerous suspect. Moving like a disciplined team of ninjas, the officers inside the property would by now be employing a series of well-rehearsed hand signals to communicate with one another as they made careful, silent progress through the house.

  The team leader would point to his own eyes then point again to indicate the direction of search. A thumb raised or pressed to the tip of an index finger. A flat palm held above the head to denote cover and a clenched fist telling an officer to stop immediately.

  ‘Do you think they ever get tempted to have a bit of fun with it?’ Miller began waving his hands about. ‘All this signalling business.’

  Xiu looked at him. ‘Fun?’

  ‘Maybe a nice game of charades or something.’

  Once again, whatever withering comment Xiu was on the verge of delivering was cut off by the radio.

  ‘FOU team leader. The property is secure and room number three is empty. Repeat, suspect’s room is empty . . . ’

  Miller groaned in frustration and slapped his hand against the dashboard.

  ‘We’d better get in there,’ Xiu said.

  ‘Can I just stay here and have a little cry first?’

  ‘It’s not the end of the world, Miller. There may well be something in there that will help us catch him, so—’

  ‘I know that,’ Miller said, wincing. ‘I hurt my hand . . . ’

  He climbed out of the car and followed Xiu across the road to the guesthouse. He saw Clough and Fuller – in rather more of a hurry than he was – enter the building before him, and by the time he finally arrived at the front door, several of the armed officers were already on their way out.

  Miller approached one who had just removed his helmet. As the officer began taking off his body armour, Miller placed his palms together then slowly opened them out. The officer stared at him.

  ‘Come on . . . it’s a book.’ Miller sighed. ‘A book, OK?’ He held up three fingers. ‘Three words. First word—’

  The officer shook his head and swore at Miller under his breath. Xiu turned back and saw the mock-horror on her partner’s face.

  ‘What did he call you?’

  ‘One word,’ Miller said. ‘One syllable.’

  In the lobby, Tony Clough and Andrea Fuller were taking statements from the Scottish couple who had obviously been in residence and who’d evidently found the experience of having armed police knocking on their door rather more thrilling than the illuminations.

  ‘Nothing this exciting ever happens in Cumbernauld,’ the woman said.

  At the foot of the stairs, the TFC was debriefing his team leader, while DI Tim Sullivan looked on with a face like a grief-stricken mullet. He’d been collared by Isla Duddridge who had hurried back in and was urgently demanding to know (a) when she could have her keys back, (b) if she was legally obliged to give the couple from Cumbernauld any kind of trauma-related refund and most importantly (c) to whom she should complain if any of those ‘big ugly’ guns had scraped her new wallpaper.

  Miller and Xiu moved through the crowded lobby and climbed the stairs to the first floor.

  The door to room number six was wide open.

  ‘Looks lovely,’ Miller said, peering in.

  Xiu snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves. ‘Twenty-four quid a night including breakfast, I think it could be a lot worse.’

  Miller shrugged and pulled his own gloves on. ‘Expensive hotels are more trouble than they’re worth, anyway. Sometimes the towels are so fluffy you can’t get your suitcase closed.’

  Xiu was still trying to work it out as Miller pushed past her into the room, so she gave up trying.

  They began to poke around, opening drawers and bending to look under the bed, which yielded nothing but a mouldy bible and a shocking amount of dust. Xiu picked up an old takeaway menu from the bedside table; a message scribbled on the back which had clearly been written by Andrew Bagnall just before he died. She showed it to Miller before sliding it into a plastic evidence bag.

  Miller now knew how Driscoll/Draper had found Finn.

  He was thinking about those stairs at the station again when he opened the small cupboard to discover several identical black shirts on wire hangers; socks, pants and T-shirts all neatly folded and a pair of training shoes that appeared brand new. He was frankly a little surprised that the man they were after was so particular about his wardrobe, but he lost interest when Xiu beckoned him over, having clearly discovered something a lot more interesting.

  ‘Look at this.’

  She was perched on the edge of the bed. Miller sat down next to her and watched her flicking slowly through a spiral-bound notebook. Judging by her expression as she handed it across for Miller to look at, Xiu clearly found a good deal of what she’d read hugely distasteful.

  ‘He likes making lists,’ she said.

  Miller started turning the pages himself. ‘Well, nobody likes a disorganised psychopath.’

  He stopped at one of Driscoll’s more recent entries.

  He said, ‘Oh, bloody hell . . . ’

  Fascinated as Miller was by their suspect’s favourite tipples or the most memorable dying words of those he’d dispatched, this was a list that demanded rather more urgent attention. He was already on his feet and moving towards the door as he shoved the notebook into a plastic bag.

  WHO’S GOT THE BRIEFCASE?

  Andy Bagnall.

  Keith Slack.

  Homeless girl.

  *Natalie Bagnall*

  FORTY-THREE

  Dudley Driscoll as was – still was somewhere deep down or if he was talking to his mother – who had spent the last few weeks as Dennis Draper, and more recently Diego Diaz, had been watching the comings and goings at the Sandy Shores guesthouse for the previous couple of hours.

  Quite the spectacle the coppers had laid on.

  He’d got out of there well before that of course, as soon as he’d clocked that something was amiss with the randy landlady. He’d seen her scuttle away into the lounge when he’d come down to pick up a paper and the alarm bells had started ringing, because why would a woman who’d been all over him like a rash (which is quite probably what he’d have ended up with if she’d had her way) suddenly be avoiding him?