‘Oh, I know exactly why I’m here, miss,’ Pope said. ‘Yeah, I’m happy to tell you what I think about the hotel thing, but I know there’s at least one more case we’ll probably end up talking about. Isn’t that right, Mr Miller?’

  Miller stared at his feet until he hoped Xiu wasn’t glaring at him any more, then looked up at her. ‘Could you give us half an hour? Is that all right?’

  Xiu said nothing, making it all too clear that it very much wasn’t.

  ‘I just need to have a word about . . . something else.’

  Xiu stood up and snatched at her bag. ‘Twenty minutes.’ She pointed back across the road at a coffee shop next to the station. ‘I’ll wait for you in there.’

  ‘Get yourself a really fancy coffee,’ Miller said. ‘And a big cake. They’re on me.’ He could see that Xiu was hovering still, staring down at Pope, or more specifically at the top of his head. Miller slid across the bench and gave Pope a nudge. ‘Go on, Gary, just give her a quick flash.’

  ‘Bloody hell, I should start charging for this.’

  ‘I’ve given it such a big build-up.’

  Xiu said, ‘I’m honestly not that interested,’ but she didn’t go anywhere.

  Pope sighed, then looked up at Xiu and politely raised his trilby, just for a second or two, as though he was simply wishing her ‘good afternoon’.

  Xiu nodded, then turned and walked away.

  Miller watched her go, shaking her head as she marched across the road. He could not be sure if it was in exasperation at him or amazement at what she’d seen underneath Gary Pope’s hat.

  FORTY-ONE

  ‘So, are you just broadening your horizons down in that there London?’ Miller asked. ‘Or were you chased out of town?’

  ‘Just wanted to get out of the game,’ Pope said.

  ‘How’s that working out for you?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘I’m being sarcastic, obviously, considering you’ve just been arrested.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect anything else, Mr Miller, but I’m talking about the gangland stuff. I’m trying to leave all that nonsense behind. I say leave, but something like this happens – Adrian Cutler getting topped – and I’m well aware that people are going to come looking for me. Cutler’s old man’s trying to find me, naturally, and I know my erstwhile employer’s been putting feelers out.’ Pope saw Miller’s reaction. ‘Are you surprised?’

  To be fair, Miller was as taken aback at Pope’s casual use of the word ‘erstwhile’ as anything, but he was surprised to hear that Ralph Massey was on his trail. Either Massey believed that Chesshead himself was responsible for the murders at the hotel – which was a stretch – or thought that he might know who had been.

  All of which suggested that Massey himself had not been involved.

  Unless, of course, that was precisely the impression that a slippery sod like Ralph Massey was trying to create.

  ‘Why the major lifestyle change then, Gary?’

  ‘Something happened the last time I was inside.’

  ‘You got religion?’

  ‘Not religion, Mr Miller. Chess.’

  ‘Say what now?’

  ‘Look, I know what everyone calls me, so I thought it was high time I found out how you actually play the game. And bugger me if I didn’t love it, right from the off. It concentrates the mind, because you have to think three or four moves ahead and that calms me down. I started . . . re-evaluating things, you know? I apologised to as many people as I could about the bad things I’d done to them. I even said “sorry” to my dad . . . you know, for the ear-biting business. He didn’t deserve that.’

  ‘Well, it was your birthday and he did eat Colin the Caterpillar’s face.’

  ‘Right, but I’ve got to let all that stuff go, Mr Miller. I’m a different person now and I swear, these days, it’s all about the chess. All day long it’s chess, chess, chess . . . and maybe the occasional something that’s fallen off the back of a lorry.’ Pope leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘Talking of which, I don’t suppose you’re in the market for some seriously cheap plumbing supplies?’ He saw Miller start to shake his head. ‘Luxury men’s fragrances?’

  ‘I’m all good for ballcocks and aftershave,’ Miller said. ‘Thanks for thinking of me, though.’

  ‘Well, you were always fair with me, Mr Miller, which is why I’m keen to help. I know I didn’t have much choice about coming in the end, but it’s worked out well, I reckon. Now I’ve got the chance to do a bit of good.’

  ‘We’re not talking about the hotel case any more, are we?’

  Pope shuffled along the bench. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to your wife. I know you’ll have heard plenty of people saying that, but I haven’t seen you, have I?’

  For reasons Miller couldn’t quite fathom, the sincere condolences from this career criminal meant rather more than the empty words of shock and sympathy he’d heard trotted out by plenty of people he worked with. He swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Cheers, Gary.’

  ‘It’s a disgrace that they still haven’t nicked anyone for it.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Miller said.

  ‘Maybe I can do better than that.’ Pope nodded. ‘Something, anyway.’

  ‘What?’

  Pope turned to watch two young men in baseball caps and Puffa jackets who were approaching on e-scooters. He waited until they had passed the bench.

  ‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said.

  Xiu had asked for whipped cream on her coffee and ordered two cakes, but it hadn’t stopped her being irritated with Miller. Feeling like she was being used. It was obvious that this Chesshead bloke hadn’t been brought up from London because Miller honestly believed he could help with the Cutler and Shepherd case. So Pope knew all the main players and he’d shared a few opinions about suspects, but none of it got them anywhere, did it?

  It had always been about Miller’s wife.

  She bit into the second of her cakes and the irritation eased a little. It was odd how a brownie could do that. If Chesshead knew anything that might move the investigation into Alex Miller’s murder forward, could she really blame Miller for overstating his importance as a witness on the case they were supposed to be working? Yes, she was meant to be his partner and yes, he’d conned her, but then again . . . chocolate.

  It was only twenty minutes.

  The truth was, she had been to the King’s Arms again the previous evening and she was never at her most tolerant the following day. She always woke up with her ears still ringing, feeling irrationally angry with whoever she woke up next to. Angry with most people, if the truth were told, even though it was herself that she needed a serious word with.

  Her phone buzzed on the table and, glancing down, she saw that it was Sullivan calling. There wasn’t a brownie big enough to make that any better. She reached for a serviette in case there was chocolate around her mouth and even though she knew it was ridiculous, because Sullivan wouldn’t be able to see her, she used it anyway.

  Xiu was only grateful that Miller wasn’t there to take the piss.

  ‘Any time you like, Gary.’ Miller was keeping it light, trying to disguise his impatience. If Chesshead really had something that might help identify Alex’s killer, he was just about ready to turn the man upside down and shake it out of him. ‘I like a bit of suspense as much as anyone, but we’re not voting someone off The X-Factor.’

  Pope shook his head. ‘I haven’t got them with me.’

  ‘Them? Could you at least tell me what they are?’

  ‘I’ve made arrangements, OK, Mr Miller? You’ll get them soon enough and that’s the best I can do.’

  ‘Is it, though? I really hope you’re not messing me about, Gary.’

  ‘I swear, Mr Miller. I’m honestly trying to help.’

  Miller stood up. He didn’t want to keep Xiu hanging about any longer than he had to. ‘OK, well, I’m still none the wiser as to what we’re actually talking about, but I suppose I’ll have to trust you.’ When it came to finding out who was responsible for Alex’s death, Miller was starting to realise that there weren’t too many people he could trust. A reformed gangland enforcer seemed as good a bet as any. ‘Where are you going to be later on?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Pope stood up too, and looked around. ‘Like I said, there’s a few people I’d rather not run into, which is why it’s only a flying visit.’

  ‘Fine,’ Miller said. ‘But I’ll need a contact number, in case I need to call you.’

  Pope gave Miller a number which he immediately rang. A tinny melody which Miller didn’t recognise rang out from Pope’s pocket. Miller stared at him.

  ‘It’s a song called “Chess”,’ Pope said. ‘From the musical Chess.’

  ‘Blimey, you really love chess, don’t you?’

  ‘Do you play, Mr Miller?’

  ‘I know how to.’

  ‘Maybe we should have a game,’ Pope said.

  Miller nodded, considering it. ‘Want to make it . . . interesting?’

  Pope looked happy enough with the idea. ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘By not playing chess,’ Miller said.

  ‘Eight pounds and sixty pence.’ Xiu handed Miller the receipt as soon as he’d sat down. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘How much?’ Miller studied the receipt and shook his head. ‘Was the brownie coated with gold leaf?’

  ‘If you’re going to get coffee for yourself, I’ll have another one.’

  Miller raised an eyebrow. ‘Was someone overdoing it last night?’

  ‘Just a small one, but with extra whipped cream . . .’

  As soon as Miller was back with the coffees, and a pastry for himself, Xiu said, ‘So, was that useful, then?’

  ‘Well, I think we can probably discount Ralph Massey and I tend to agree with what Pope said about Michelle Cutler, so . . .’ Miller saw Xiu shaking her head and stopped. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m talking about your wife’s case,’ Xiu said. ‘We both know that as far as this case goes – you know . . . the one we’re supposed to be working – your friend was never going to contribute anything particularly useful.’

  ‘Oh, you figured that out, then?’

  ‘You need to be straight with me.’

  Miller scooped the froth from his coffee with a spoon.

  ‘You should tell her the whole story, by the way . . .’

  So – because it was usually the right thing to do – Miller did what his dead wife had suggested and told Xiu exactly what had happened on the night Alex had been killed. He decided to skip some of the more esoteric details (the key differences between a tango and a samba) but all the important elements were there. The empty spotlight, the deserted dressing room, the abandoned phone and Ralph Massey looking down from the balcony.

  All of it, from the band striking up to the death knock.

  ‘That must have been terrible,’ Xiu said, when Miller had finished.

  ‘It really was,’ Miller said. ‘What with one thing and another, I didn’t get round to taking my tuxedo back to the hire shop for a week and those buggers charge by the day.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ Xiu said.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Make a joke of it, like you usually do. You’re allowed to be . . . normal.’

  Miller smiled and dabbed at the crumbs on his plate. He turned to stare out at the comings and goings for a minute or so. People moving a little faster than they otherwise might past the window, then umbrellas going up as it began to rain.

  ‘So, you think it was Massey or Cutler?’

  ‘Got to be,’ Miller said. ‘Alex was hurting both their businesses. She was really good at what she did. Too bloody good, as it turned out.’

  ‘Was Chesshead any help?’

  ‘He says he’s going to be.’ Miller was still thinking about those ‘arrangements’ that Gary Pope had mentioned. ‘Something he’s sending me, but your guess is as good as mine.’ He grinned. ‘Sorry, it’s hard to take you seriously when there’s whipped cream around your gob.’

  Xiu snatched at a serviette. ‘That reminds me, Sullivan called.’

  ‘Oh, zippidee-doo-dah.’

  ‘They’ve finally got somewhere with Adrian Cutler’s mobile. Lots of calls to and from burner phones, like you’d expect, but now they know when and where some of them were bought.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Miller said. ‘Sullivan has very generously tasked you and me with the plum job of visiting assorted mobile phone shops and wading through their CCTV footage.’

  ‘Just one phone shop.’ Xiu gathered her things together, ready to move on. ‘There was a lot of traffic between Cutler and one number in particular in the weeks leading up to the murder. So shouldn’t be too much wading.’

  Miller looked at his watch as they stepped away from the table. ‘Well it’ll be shut soon anyway, so why don’t we put off this particular treat until first thing in the morning?’

  He stopped at the door and held it open for Xiu.

  ‘What you said about being normal? I’ve done that and it’s definitely overrated.’

  FORTY-TWO

  After almost a minute of deliberation, having decided on speed and trajectory, Imran Mirza rose slowly from his haunches and stood over his putt. His breathing was nice and shallow. The late afternoon sun bounced off his high-vis jacket as he settled his shoulders and wiggled his backside. He took a slow and steady practice stroke. He took another, then, after one final glance towards the hole, he eased his putter back . . .

  Miller coughed.

  Imran straightened up and turned. ‘You cheating git!’

  ‘What?’ Miller stared, outraged; his own putter dangling from his outstretched hand. ‘I had something stuck in my throat.’

  ‘You’ll have my fist stuck down there if you do that again.’

  ‘Oh, just get on with it,’ Miller muttered as he watched his opponent turn back to refocus and begin his irritating routine once again. The bum-wiggling and the practice strokes. ‘It’s not St Andrews . . .’

  Imran sank the putt, punched the air and turned round, beaming in triumph. ‘Right, that’s one up with one hole to go. I hope you’ve got cash.’

  A few minutes later, once Imran had won the final hole and pocketed the scrunched-up fiver Miller had reluctantly handed over, they settled down on their usual bench. The one with YOUR NAN IS A SLAG carved into it. It was freshly painted and birdshit-free, because Imran Mirza was one of the council’s more diligent groundskeepers.

  ‘You are so jammy,’ Miller said.

  ‘Pure skill, mate.’

  ‘Skill? You know all the breaks.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What d’you mean, not really? You mow the bloody thing.’

  ‘Always the same excuses.’ Imran sighed and took out his cigarettes. ‘It’s sad, really.’ He lit up and sat back to survey his kingdom. The paths down which he steered his motorised sweeper, the playground from which he regularly chased weed-smokers, the nine-hole putting green which was his pride and joy.

  ‘I’m not making excuses,’ Miller said. ‘I just wish you didn’t gloat so much when you win.’

  Imran turned, shaking his head. ‘Remember the time you won? I say time, because it has only happened once. You danced around like you’d won the sodding Masters. You ran over and hugged that woman who was walking her dog, remember?’

  ‘I only scared her a bit.’

  ‘She was about ready to call the police, until you told her you were the police. I think that actually scared her more.’

  ‘I’m just saying . . . you’ve got advantages. Maybe we should play in a park you’re not actually in charge of. That would be a more equal contest.’

  ‘Yeah, but then we’d have to pay for the putters and the balls.’

  ‘Good point,’ Miller said.

  Miller and Imran had known each other since they were eleven, when they’d found themselves seated next to one another in class. There’d been plenty of Asian kids at the school, but for reasons Miller had never understood, Imran had been singled out and picked on by some of the bigger, stupider kids; called all the predictable names by the likes of Graham Trotter and Danny Finch. To this day, Miller wished he’d done something. Said something. He hadn’t joined in, which he told himself was the main thing, and by the time he and Imran were in the sixth form and Graham Trotter was flipping burgers, Miller and Imran were inseparable. The glorious day – many years later – when Miller nicked Danny Finch for driving drunk in an untaxed and decidedly unroadworthy Ford Fiesta remained one of his proudest on the job.

  ‘So, how’s it going then?’ Imran asked. ‘Being back at work.’

  ‘You know, up and down.’ Miller considered telling his friend about the case he’d come back to, but not for very long. They talked about work if Miller had a funny story to tell, but rarely otherwise, and that went both ways. Imran was about as interested in casefile preparation and prosecution thresholds as Miller was in fence maintenance and the bulk-buying of fungicide. That said, Imran had some fantastic stories about the things people got up to in his park at night, and on one occasion – when human remains had been discovered behind the public toilets – his knowledge of what was and wasn’t biodegradable mulch had proved invaluable.

  Hanging around with Imran meant that Miller did not have to think about the likes of Wayne Cutler and Ralph Massey. It was time generally spent laughing and talking nonsense; as precious in its way as the dancing, even if it usually ended up costing him rather more.

  Miller reckoned that losing a fiver every couple of weeks was a price well worth paying.

  ‘Long as you haven’t gone back too soon.’ Imran ground out his cigarette beneath his boot. He bent down for the butt and tucked it carefully into the pocket of his overalls. ‘I’m probably not the first person to say that.’