It wasn’t hard to figure out what was happening.

  He wasn’t daft.

  With no way of knowing when the boys and girls in blue would show up, he’d had little choice but to get out of there straight away. There hadn’t even been time to chuck a few bits and pieces into a bag. It was annoying, having to leave all his stuff behind, but he’d done the same thing plenty of times before. In his game, you had to be ready to move on sharpish if things looked dodgy.

  Not that he’d be moving on, as such. Not quite yet.

  To start with, he’d hung around at the bus stop for a while and watched the unmarked vehicles parking up nearby. They’d be waiting until it was dark, he reckoned, one or two armed officers taking up their positions at the back of the house while their plain-clothes colleagues had eyes on the front, blah-di-blah. None of them were very hard to spot, however inconspicuous they tried to be, because Driscoll could smell a copper a mile away, and not just because so many of them stank of cheap aftershave and kebabs. One of them had actually walked right past him. They’d exchanged nods! He was far better at being inconspicuous than any chuffing copper, especially when he’d be the last person they were expecting to see so close to all the action and the cold weather had given him every reason to be wearing a long coat and a woolly hat.

  After a while, he’d wandered along to a bench on the corner and sat there watching from behind a paper. Obviously he hadn’t been reading it very closely, but it was still nice to see that his mug wasn’t plastered across the front page any more. Even the murder of that lad Bagnall had been relegated to page five, but that wasn’t really a surprise.

  It was how things went, wasn’t it?

  People were around until they weren’t and, even if Driscoll had helped a fair few of them on their way, life moved on.

  With one eye on a report of Blackpool getting twonked three-nil at home to Huddersfield, he watched as the lads with the guns moved in. Creeping along the pavement, getting set. He guessed that one or two of the more gung-ho among them would already have their fingers poised on triggers, hoping that they might get a chance to do the job they’d been trained for. Watching them swarm through the front door into the guesthouse and knowing that they’d be getting no more shots away than Blackpool’s centre forward, he almost felt sorry for them.

  For obvious reasons, it had all been a bit of an anticlimax after that.

  A few minutes later, he’d spotted that copper he’d last seen in the alleyway behind Slack’s back garden. The strange one, Miller, getting out of a car and ambling across the road with his hands in his pockets, like he couldn’t really be arsed, having already been told that he wouldn’t be arresting anyone today. Ten minutes after that, he’d come tearing out of the house looking a damned sight keener than he had when he’d gone in and it wasn’t hard to figure out why.

  Yeah, it cheesed him right off that he’d had to leave his notebook behind, but it wasn’t the end of the world. He could always write other lists. A more pressing concern was that now the Feds would have a pretty good read on where he’d be going next and, more specifically, who he’d be going after. They’d make it difficult for him, he knew that, but a challenge was good, because it kept him on his toes. He’d need to up his game, but that was no bad thing because it never did to be complacent.

  If he hadn’t been complacent in those bloody toilets a week and a bit before, none of this would be happening. He’d be long gone. He’d have genitals that were one hundred per cent functional and he’d be cheerfully spending Wayne Cutler’s ten grand by now.

  Not for the first time, Driscoll asked himself why he was even bothering, why he was still here and risking so much for ten poxy grand. The answer was vaguely depressing, but straightforward enough. Demand for his services had dropped off significantly during the pandemic, when people hadn’t seemed so keen on having their enemies or business rivals bumped off. Maybe they thought Covid might do the job for them, but whatever the reason, his income had taken a serious hit. He hadn’t got any sort of nest egg and it wasn’t like people in his line of work had been at the head of the queue to be furloughed, so the sad fact was that ten grand was no longer an amount he could afford to sniff at.

  On top of which, there was a principle at stake.

  You did a job, you got paid for it, simple as that.

  What the hell had happened to fairness?

  Most important of all, there was his reputation to think about.

  If word got around that he was the sort of bloke who would let himself get stiffed on payment, where would it end? He’d be a laughing stock. He’d be yesterday’s hitman and he wasn’t about to allow that to happen.

  So, whatever the risks might be, he wasn’t just going to scarper.

  Walking away towards the seafront, Driscoll was already making plans. If he wanted to get his hands on that briefcase and the payoff that would come once he finally did, he’d need to be cautious and he’d definitely need to be clever. He’d have to think outside the box a bit, but he wasn’t worried overly much.

  Not when he thought about what and who he was up against.

  Miller was clearly a cut above the rest of them, but he was no Tom Barnaby.

  FORTY-FOUR

  It seemed profoundly unfair to Miller that a day which had been positively bursting with promise could have left him feeling like he’d lost a pound and found a penny. He’d hoped that, by now, Driscoll or Draper or whatever his sodding name was would be sweating in an interview room, or better yet have been charged already and be curled into a foetal position, whimpering in a remand cell somewhere. But no, the fates had conspired to urinate fulsomely all over Miller’s chips and ensure that neither of those things had happened. As it was, less-than-cuddly Dudley was still at liberty to enjoy the many and varied delights the town had to offer while breezily working out the best way to stalk and quite possibly kill the next seasider on his list.

  Brilliant . . .

  The drive home had been painfully slow because the moped was far from reliable on icy roads, but puttering through the freezing dark Miller had been able to console himself with the thought that things couldn’t get any worse. Surely not. He knew better than most that fate could be a vicious bastard, but piling agony on top of misery would be cruel and unusual punishment; like the re-election of Boris Johnson or an encore at a Queen concert.

  Miller had arrived home looking forward to tinned sardines on toast, an hour or two in front of the telly and then, best of all, a cosy chinwag with a dead wife who would make everything better and reassure him that things weren’t really as bad as all that.

  It would be a decent end to the day, at least.

  Before he’d had a chance to take his coat off or cuddle a rat, the phone had rung and Miller had known immediately there was unpleasantness coming his way. If he’d had even a smidgen of good fortune left to draw on it would have been a Nigerian prince promising a windfall or a breathy pervert demanding to know what Miller was wearing. He’d have settled for something work related: a mass shooting in KFC, say, or a routine pile-up on the M55.

  No such luck.

  ‘Hey, bro, it’s me.’

  His younger brother, Ross.

  Miller couldn’t decide which part of the cheery greeting was the most annoying. The ‘bro’, like his brother had joined a street gang, or the cheesy ‘it’s me’ which suggested an easy familiarity and affection that Miller doubted he’d ever feel for his brother again. He felt closer to Tony Clough than he did to his brother. He was a lot fonder of his local newsagent, come to that, a friendly spud who he thought would be far more likely to donate a kidney, should Miller ever need one, than his brother.

  ‘You there, Dec . . . ?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. Just walked through the door.’

  ‘Another hard day keeping the streets safe for the rest of us?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Miller said.

  ‘So, I just called to let you know that I went to see Mum today.’

  Right, Miller thought. You just called to let me know that, did you? To kindly let me know that you’d been to visit our mother while – and this was the important bit – I hadn’t. ‘How was she?’

  ‘Oh, the same, you know. They’re taking good care of her in there, though. Worth every penny, that place.’

  ‘Good to know.’

  ‘She was asking after you.’

  Miller knew his brother was almost certainly lying. When Miller had last been to see his mum, she’d thought he was his father. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘When was the last time you went to visit?’

  And there it was, the real reason his jumped-up flashy little tit of a brother had called. To score a few more precious points. To nudge himself even further ahead in a competition Miller knew he could never win.

  Because it was Ross who paid for the care home in Manchester.

  Ross, who therefore loved their mother more than Miller did.

  Ross, with his very successful property-management company, his nice house in the Ribble Valley, two lovely kids and a wife who was still alive.

  ‘Not for a while, actually,’ Miller said.

  ‘That’s all right.’

  I know it’s all right, you sanctimonious arse-biscuit. Miller tried to work it out and realised that he hadn’t been to visit the care home for nearly two months. He’d only been once in fact since Alex’s funeral, which had also been the last time he’d seen Ross. ‘Work’s been pretty full on,’ he said.

  ‘Course it has.’

  It was no excuse, but it was all he had. He certainly wasn’t going to tell his brother how terrible the visits made him feel. How sometimes he was grateful when work commitments got in the way and how that, in turn, made him feel ashamed.

  ‘Any news on the old man?’ Ross asked, moving on like he was working through an agenda.

  Now, here was where Miller did have an advantage. He hadn’t seen his father since he’d arrested him five years before, but he was able to track his movements via the Police National Computer. Charlie Miller had most recently surfaced a few months back in Wigan, where he’d been arrested after trying to scam an old woman out of her life savings for some dodgy roofing work.

  ‘Not heard a peep,’ Miller said.

  ‘Probably best.’

  ‘Listen, I need to crack on.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve got two rats looking up at me who need cleaning out.’

  ‘Right, so picking up a few rat turds is more important than talking to your brother?’

  ‘Oh, much more important,’ Miller said. ‘Catch you later, bro . . . ’

  Miller hung up, then turned to see Alex leaning back against the front door. It looked like she’d just got in from work and, however many times they’d spoken since her death, the sight of her still stopped Miller’s breath for a moment.

  ‘Your brother’s not stopped being a massive dick, then.’

  Miller was grinning as he took off his coat. ‘There I was thinking I couldn’t possibly love you any more than I do,’ he said.

  ‘You might want to reconsider that in a minute.’

  ‘Uh-oh . . . ’

  ‘Just . . . I was thinking that maybe it’s time to build some bridges.’

  ‘With my brother?’

  ‘Why not? It wouldn’t hurt to call him once in a while . . . and be honest for a change.’

  Miller grunted as he trudged across to the cage, then grunted again when he knelt down to open the door.

  ‘Tell him how you really feel whenever you visit your mum and how pissed off you are when he insists on letting you know how much it’s costing him. Reach out, Miller. Be the bigger man.’

  ‘Can you believe I was actually looking forward to this conversation?’

  ‘Well, I can’t help that, can I?’

  ‘This was supposed to make me feel better.’ Miller gently placed Fred and Ginger into their plastic roll-about balls and began clearing out their soiled bedding. ‘I’m starting to think I should just gatecrash a funeral, cheer myself up a bit.’

  Alex sighed and wandered over to the sofa. ‘Fine. If it helps, the fact that Driscoll is still out there isn’t your fault, so don’t beat yourself up about it. Well maybe just a slap or two because you didn’t tell him you know what about the you know what. What matters is you’ve still got more chance of catching him than anyone else and, most importantly, because you moved quickly Natalie Bagnall is safe and well for now.’

  Miller looked up. ‘For now?’

  ‘OK, I could have phrased that better, but you see my point. Basically, get over yourself, you miserable bugger.’

  Miller got slowly to his feet. ‘Did you never think of volunteering for the Samaritans?’

  Fifteen minutes later, once Miller and the rats had eaten, he and Alex lay sprawled on the sofa, eating crisps and watching The Repair Shop. Alex wiped her eyes after an old man’s worm-ridden harmonium had been restored to its former glory. Miller quickly wiped his own, then sat up and turned the TV off.

  ‘Ralph Massey came to see me last night,’ he said.

  Alex waited.

  ‘Turned up after dance practice.’

  ‘I’m guessing he wasn’t there to check out your foxtrot.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t.’

  ‘Because he’d have been sadly disappointed—’

  ‘He came to remind me that he and I could still do . . . business. That he had information to trade in return for Wayne Cutler getting put away.’

  ‘You putting him away.’

  ‘Well, I’m certainly the best chance Massey’s got.’

  ‘Which is why catching Driscoll matters to you so much.’

  ‘It’s one of the reasons,’ Miller said.

  ‘You think he’s being straight with you?’

  ‘There’s a first time for everything.’

  ‘Xiu doesn’t think so.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she’s not always the best judge of things.’ Miller reached across to softly brush crisp crumbs from her blouse. ‘She ordered rissoles in the Deadly Duck.’

  ‘I hope she’s wrong,’ Alex said. ‘I hope Massey’s as good as his word and you get the information you need.’

  ‘Really?’

  She took a few seconds then gave the smallest of nods.

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear, but I have to say I’m surprised. You’re normally a bit tight-lipped when it comes to certain touchy issues. You know, like your murder.’

  This time the pause before she spoke was even longer. ‘I want it to be over,’ she said. ‘Whatever it is you find out.’

  ‘What happens then?’ Miller asked.

  Alex shrugged and turned away. Miller saw her raise a hand to wipe her eyes again, but told himself it was because she was still thinking about that old boy’s harmonium.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Wayne Cutler stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened.

  Clutching his phone, he was all set to make a call he could seriously do without making, but he didn’t think it would hurt to put it off a few minutes longer, on top of which he couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that his wife was playing away. He didn’t have what you might call hard evidence, but Jacqui had been funny with him for a while and it was a bit late for social calls. All the same, here she was up in her bedroom with the door shut, talking dead quietly like she didn’t want to be overheard.

  There was laughing, too . . . giggling, even. Dead quiet

  giggling.

  He listened for a few more seconds, then turned away towards his office, shaking his head. He was being ridiculous. What was it some actor had said when he was asked if he’d ever been unfaithful? Something about going out for burgers when there was steak at home. Or maybe it was going out for McDonald’s when you had burgers at home . . . it didn’t really matter. In the end he reassured himself with the one unassailable fact that meant he’d never have to think about it again.

  She wouldn’t bloody dare.

  He closed the office door behind him and stalked across to his chair, deciding that he didn’t want to think about burgers any more than he had to. If it wasn’t for sodding burgers he wouldn’t be making this sodding call for a kick-off. There was a growl in his throat as he stabbed angrily at the number on his phone; the one he’d got stored under ‘HANDS’.

  ‘Mr Cutler . . . !’

  There was surprise in his voice, definitely, but Dennis Draper didn’t sound unhappy to be hearing from him. ‘I wasn’t sure this number would still be working,’ Cutler said.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘Heard you had to change locations in a hurry, that’s all.’

  ‘Got my phone, got my wallet. I’m sound.’

  ‘You were lucky today, mate.’

  ‘You’re very well informed, Mr Cutler.’

  ‘That’s because I pay people to keep me informed.’

  ‘Coppers, you mean?’

  ‘Among other people. Now, listen—’

  ‘Strikes me you were the one who got lucky,’ Draper said.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Well, I seriously doubt you want me arrested. I’m taking a wild stab in the dark here, but a bloke such as yourself doesn’t need the likes of me making statements, do you?’

  Cutler remembered his conversation with that jumped-up burger flipper Bardsley. ‘Funny, but people keep telling me how lucky I am.’ There was a lot of background noise – traffic and wind – because Draper was clearly outside, but Cutler thought he heard a chuckle. Was the shit-stain actually laughing at him? ‘Listen, why don’t we stop messing about and get this thing sorted out?’