Still scowling, the man with the mullet delivered his whisky and, by the time he’d wandered away, there was already a fresh challenger standing by and keen to take Pope on. The young bloke looked more like a football hooligan than a chess player, so Pope reckoned he’d earn himself another drink before he’d had a chance to finish this one.

  He took a sip of whisky then pointed to the empty chair.

  ‘Help yourself. You’re black and you get to make the first move . . .’

  The bloke casually slid a pawn forward without bothering to sit. Pope sat up a little straighter. It might have been random, but it might also have been the first move of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

  ‘Queenside bishop’s pawn to C5,’ Pope said. ‘Sicilian defence, right?’

  The young man shrugged.

  While Pope considered his response, he glanced across and saw another young bloke dressed almost identically to his new challenger and watching them carefully from the bar. Pope caught his opponent’s eye and nodded towards the man at the bar.

  ‘Oh, there’s two of you . . .’

  FORTY-FIVE

  Miller woke to a somewhat terse text message from Tim Sullivan, demanding his urgent attendance in Susan Akers’s office. Reading the phrase upon your arrival at the station, Miller had nearly choked on his corn flakes, but while the message served perfectly to confirm that Sullivan was a pompous arse-nugget, it also suggested, rather more worryingly, that Miller was not being invited in for teacakes and Scrabble.

  ‘So, why am I getting called by the Metropolitan Police in the early hours?’ Sullivan asked, upon Miller’s arrival.

  Miller guessed from Sullivan’s ‘I know something you don’t’ expression that it was a rhetorical question, but thought he’d have a bash at answering anyway. ‘Ooh . . . I don’t know, are you getting transferred? When? I mean . . . is it soon? It goes without saying that we’ll all miss you horribly, but huge congratulations.’

  Sullivan and Akers just stared, as though waiting to be sure that Miller had finished.

  ‘I am of course familiar with Gary Pope,’ Sullivan said.

  ‘I think we all are,’ Akers said.

  ‘And I’m well aware of his criminal connections.’

  ‘Ah, right.’ Now Miller understood why he was in trouble, but he didn’t think that talking himself out of it would present much of a challenge.

  ‘What I wasn’t aware of, however, was that you’d arranged to have him brought up from London.’

  ‘Yes, because I thought he’d be a useful source of intelligence on the Sands Hotel murders.’ It wasn’t strictly true, of course, but as lies went it was every bit as little and white as ‘my phone died’ or ‘no really, that was delicious’ or ‘honestly, I’m a Canadian’. ‘I could have sworn I’d told you,’ Miller said. That was another favourite.

  ‘No,’ Sullivan said. ‘You didn’t.’

  Akers was looking serious. ‘The explanation had better be good, DS Miller.’

  ‘Understood.’ Miller wandered over to see how Akers’s potted plant was getting on. He was pleased to see that the grey mould was clearing up. ‘I was using my initiative.’ The bark of derisory laughter from Sullivan and the stare from Akers was a fairly solid indication that it hadn’t been quite good enough.

  ‘Why didn’t you keep DI Sullivan in the loop?’

  ‘Well, I did . . . sort of.’ Miller turned to Sullivan. ‘I mean, I gave the Met your details, what with you being the senior investigating officer and everything. Which is probably why they called you.’ The effort not to smirk was positively Herculean. ‘Was it very early?’

  Sullivan shook his head, dismissive, making it clear that having his much-needed beauty sleep disturbed was not the reason they were here. ‘I’m sorry to say that Mr Pope failed to catch his train back to London.’

  Miller sighed. ‘You just can’t trust these criminals, can you?’

  ‘It wasn’t entirely his fault.’

  Miller was not greatly surprised, but doubted that the ramifications would be hugely serious. ‘Look, the Met did us a favour, I get that, but they only nicked him for receiving stolen goods and that was only to make sure he got here, so it’s not like “Britain’s Most Wanted” has done a runner, is it? To be honest, they’re probably chuffed to have got Chesshead off their hands for a bit, and anyway, there’s no need to panic, because I’ll find him.’ Miller shrugged. ‘I’ll find him and put him on the train back to London myself.’

  ‘Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult,’ Sullivan said. ‘Because we know exactly where he is.’ He looked across, giving Akers her cue.

  ‘Gary Pope was found dead just after two o’clock this morning,’ Akers said. ‘A gunshot wound to the head.’

  Sullivan looked as content as he had since Miller had walked into the office. Perfectly happy to watch Miller absorbing the information and reacting to it. Relishing the fact that, for once, Miller had nothing to say, and the emotions that he guessed Miller was now wrestling with as he struggled to respond.

  Shock, alarm, guilt. Oh yes, definitely guilt.

  ‘Well, it must be connected to what happened at the Sands,’ Miller said, eventually. He looked somewhat desperately at Akers. ‘I mean, it’s got to be, right?’

  ‘Let’s find out,’ Akers said. ‘Clough and Fuller are at the PM, so why don’t you and Xiu get down to the crime scene, dig around a bit.’

  Miller nodded, but he was finding it hard to focus. ‘Right . . . but we’re supposed to be reviewing the CCTV at the phone shop. That number on Cutler’s phone.’

  ‘I think this takes priority,’ Akers said.

  Miller knew that she was right, of course. He moved towards the door, still working it through, thinking out loud. ‘Maybe we’re looking for the same killer,’ he said. ‘Maybe whoever killed Cutler and Shepherd was worried that Chesshead did know something. That makes sense, right? I bring Chesshead up from London to talk to him about the murders and he’s killed almost immediately.’

  ‘That’s certainly one way of looking at it.’ Sullivan sat down in front of Akers’s desk, the two of them clearly set to carry on talking about Miller after he had left.

  Miller waited, because it was obvious that Sullivan wanted to tell him what the other way was.

  ‘You bring Chesshead up from London and you get him killed.’

  Miller and Xiu stood together halfway along a stinky alleyway behind the football ground. The forensic team had already packed up and left and now the only clues to what had happened there ten or so hours earlier were the bored-looking uniformed officer standing guard, the fluttering scraps of crime scene tape and the bloodstain.

  They both stared down at it.

  ‘Checkmate,’ Miller said.

  Xiu nodded sadly, then wandered slowly off along the alleyway. Miller watched her, uncertain as to what she was looking for. What either of them was looking for. The forensic team would have taken away anything that might be physical evidence, there were no CCTV cameras and, although the house-to-house had already begun, the crime scene was not overlooked by any windows. Whoever had killed Gary Pope had chosen the spot very carefully.

  Xiu turned at the end of the alleyway and wandered back.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, cheers.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be dead if I hadn’t brought him back.’

  ‘You didn’t kill him, though.’

  ‘Once again, peerless detective work,’ Miller said.

  ‘So, who did?’

  They turned together and began walking back towards the road. There were still several police vehicles parked there and more uniformed officers hanging around. A couple of lads with BMX bikes were loitering as Miller and Xiu emerged, and one of them pointed back into the alleyway.

  ‘What’s gone on down there, then?’

  ‘Fatal dogging incident,’ Miller said.

  ‘For real?’

  ‘Some of them get carried away.’

  Miller and Xiu left the wide-eyed teenagers behind and kept on walking.

  ‘It can’t be unconnected to what happened at the Sands. Don’t you think?’ Miller thought he sounded less convinced and less convincing than he had when he was talking to Akers and Sullivan, but he was clinging to the possibility. ‘Shot in the head same as Cutler and Shepherd, on top of which nobody’s reported hearing a gunshot, so probably a silencer.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Xiu said. ‘From what Pope was saying, there were quite a few people he didn’t want to run into. I think we know a couple of them.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘Why kill him, though? I can understand them wanting to find out what he knew, same as we did, but they must have known he wasn’t in town when it happened. Nobody could seriously think he was responsible.’

  Miller stopped. ‘There is another possibility.’

  Xiu stopped a pace or two later, came back and waited.

  ‘I think he might have been killed because he was talking to me. Because of what we were talking about yesterday, after you left.’

  ‘While I was having cake.’

  ‘While you were having two cakes,’ Miller said. ‘He sent me something.’

  ‘What—?’ She jumped slightly when her mobile rang, checked the caller ID then stepped away, same as she always did when Tim Sullivan was calling.

  Miller watched her listening, then muttering considered responses. He presumed, because Xiu wasn’t brain-dead or a psychopath, that she was actually no fonder of their boss than he was, but he understood that she was not quite as free to express her dislike as him.

  Free in the sense of not giving a tuppenny toss.

  It made him feel quite sorry for her.

  You’ve told her most of it already, so it can’t hurt to tell her about the photographs . . .

  He guessed that’s what Alex would say. Only a guess, because, for whatever reason, he hadn’t talked to her in a couple of days. When Xiu ended her call and walked back, Miller was all set to tell her exactly what had been delivered to him at home the night before, but he wasn’t given the chance.

  ‘Sullivan,’ she said, all business. ‘Apparently there’s a witness who claims to have seen Gary Pope in the Black Pug at around eight o’clock yesterday.’

  ‘Yeah, I phoned him and he sounded like he was in a pub.’

  If Xiu was curious as to why Miller had called their murder victim a few hours before he was killed, she made a good job of hiding it. ‘The witness claims that he saw Pope leave with a pair of skinheads.’

  Miller nodded. ‘Well, one skinhead can look a lot like another.’

  ‘Identical skinheads,’ Xiu said.

  FORTY-SIX

  There was a small photoshoot taking place in front of the Majestic Ballroom when they arrived. Something for the local papers, Miller reckoned, or perhaps a website. He presumed there was a website . . . www.dodgydancehall.com

  While the photographer set up a couple of standing lights and umbrellas, Ralph Massey – decked out in an electric blue suit with his hair tied back in a ponytail – was busy arranging a group of four dancers, fussing at two women wearing dresses so short that Miller could have worn them as glittery T-shirts and purring instructions at their male counterparts, whose suits were tight enough to give traditionalists like Howard and Mary heart attacks. Once he was happy, Massey took up his own position in the middle and stood with arms outstretched and thumbs aloft.

  ‘OK, lads and lasses . . . tits and teeth.’

  Suddenly the cheesy grin Massey had plastered on vanished and he glared at the photographer. ‘It might help if you took the bloody lens cap off.’ The grin was replastered, but disappeared again just as quickly when he spotted Miller and Xiu waving from the other side of the road.

  Waiting for Massey to join them, Miller stared up at the sign that had been draped across the ballroom’s entrance.

  The Majestic: Eat, Drink, Dance!

  ‘Presumably they didn’t have room for “do iffy drugs, catch an STD and put money in a gangster’s pocket”.’

  Xiu grunted, still watching the dancers, who were now standing around looking bored; lighting fags and grumbling as Massey ambled across the road. ‘Those poor girls must be bloody freezing,’ she said.

  With his photoshoot held up, Massey had every right to be impatient, but despite the money he’d shelled out for a photographer who was now being kept waiting he appeared more than happy to answer Miller and Xiu’s questions.

  ‘I invited Mr Pope over for a chat,’ he said. ‘He accepted the invitation.’

  ‘Sounds like he didn’t have much choice,’ Xiu said.

  Massey brushed lint from his shiny lapel. ‘I sent my nephews along to collect him and make sure he got here safely, that was all. This can be a very dangerous town.’ He looked at Miller. ‘Well, you know.’

  Miller said nothing.

  I know because I’m a police officer?

  Or I know because my wife was murdered?

  ‘Would you mind telling us what your chat with Mr Pope was about?’ Xiu asked.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Massey said. ‘I wanted to be sure he’d had nothing whatsoever to do with Adrian Cutler’s murder, because that would have been putting me in a very difficult position. He assured me that he hadn’t and that was good enough for me. We talked for a little while longer after that because I was interested to know why he’d left in the first place. Why he didn’t want to work for me any more.’

  ‘Chess,’ Miller said. ‘Obviously he was sick to death of being part of an organisation that launders dirty money and uses violence or threats of violence to gain an advantage over business rivals. But also, chess.’

  ‘Yes, he explained about the chess.’ Massey shrugged. ‘I shook his hand and wished him well.’

  ‘What time was this?’ Xiu asked.

  ‘He left the Majestic just after nine o’clock, I think.’ Massey nodded back towards the ballroom. ‘There’s cameras everywhere, so it’s easy enough to confirm that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Xiu said. ‘We’ll check the footage.’

  ‘I’m surprised to hear that Gary willingly stayed that long,’ Miller said. ‘I’m sure you’re a very generous host, Ralph, but he was due to catch a train back to London at nine and I know how keen he was to be on it.’

  ‘Yes, he was a bit upset that he’d missed it.’

  ‘Upset?’

  ‘Miffed. He was . . . miffed. These things happen though, don’t they? He said he’d stay over and get the train first thing this morning instead. I actually offered to give him the money for a ticket.’

  ‘You’re all heart,’ Miller said.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t have missed it if it wasn’t for me.’ There was the hint of a smile when he looked at Miller. ‘If he hadn’t been talking to me, I mean.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘All academic now though, isn’t it?’ Massey sighed and shook his head. ‘No more chess for poor old Chesshead. Like I said though, it’s a dangerous town.’ He turned to look back at the ballroom and waved at the waiting photographer. ‘Can I . . . ?’

  ‘Fill your boots,’ Miller said. ‘And don’t worry, they can do amazing things with Photoshop these days.’

  They watched Massey jog back across the road and strike a pose.

  ‘When he shook his head to show us how desperately sad he was, did you see his ponytail swinging?’ Miller looked at Xiu. ‘Stupid bloody thing just . . . swinging from side to side. I was tempted to grab hold of it.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’ Miller heard the ping of a message arriving and reached into his pocket for his phone.

  if you’ve got 5 minutes could you pop over for a chat? something I need to tell you

  On seeing that the sender had used his initials to sign off, Miller could not help but smile. ‘We’ve been summoned,’ he said, putting his phone away.

  ‘Sullivan?’

  ‘Oh God no, not that bad,’ Miller said. ‘Just another gangster.’

  As they walked back towards the car, he said, ‘If you’re unfortunate enough to have embarrassing initials like WC, why the hell would you draw attention to them? I bet you Vin Diesel never does that.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The metal gates at the end of Wayne Cutler’s drive slid open as Miller and Xiu approached and half a minute later they parked in front of an open garage that was big enough to contain Miller’s house. Cutler, wearing a pair of oil-stained overalls, was already stepping out to greet them. He wiped his hands and watched as Xiu took in the assortment of vehicles in the garage behind him: a Range Rover, a Hummer, a couple of quad bikes and something old and sporty raised up on a ramp.

  ‘Nice, right?’ Cutler turned and nodded towards the sports car. ‘It’s a Mark One MG Midget.’

  Xiu took a step closer, still looking. ‘Sixty-three?’

  ‘Sixty-two, actually.’ Cutler looked impressed. ‘I’m restoring it.’

  ‘Is that the original shell?’

  ‘Yeah, as good as, but the engine needed a total rebuild.’

  Miller raised his hands. ‘Don’t get me wrong, this is absolutely fascinating, and much as I could happily stand here all day listening to you two wanging on about greasy crankshafts and big ends that need replacing I don’t think that’s why you asked us to drop in, is it, Wayne?’