‘Thinking outside the box?’ Xiu got quickly to her feet, waving her hands around like a referee trying to call a halt to a fight and stammering her protest. ‘No, no, no, if the box was here, that thinking would be in—’

  ‘Aberdeen?’ Finn suggested.

  ‘No, much further,’ Miller said. ‘More like somewhere in New Zealand.’

  ‘You can’t actually stop me though, can you?’ Natalie said. ‘That’s the thing. Say if I was to leave for work, and I just happened to be carrying a briefcase like the one he’s after and he just happened to see it . . . there’s not a lot you can do about that, is there?’

  Finn reached to take hold of Natalie’s hand.

  Miller thought about the briefcase under the bed at home that was an awful lot like the one Dudley Driscoll was after. He chose to ignore the look of horror on Xiu’s face, focusing instead on the determination on Natalie Bagnall’s, the urgent nod of encouragement from Finn.

  ‘Bugger all,’ he said.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  They met at a small country pub just off the A585 near Thistleton and took a table in the otherwise unoccupied conservatory at the back. There was a desultory children’s playground on the grass beyond the big windows. A small pond with a few depressed-looking geese.

  ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘It’s quiet . . . ’

  They ordered a bottle of Sancerre as soon as they sat down and told the waitress that they’d need a few minutes with the menu. They each poured themselves a large glass and touched it to their companion’s. They both laughed a little nervously.

  ‘I was a bit surprised when you rang,’ Maureen Bardsley said.

  ‘I surprised myself by ringing.’

  ‘More than a bit, tell you the truth. You’re the last person . . . you know.’

  Jacqui Cutler nodded. ‘I called quite a few times actually.’ She swallowed a seriously large mouthful of wine. ‘I hung up if it was your old man that answered.’

  With the waitress hovering, they consulted their menus and ordered. Pâté and lamb for Jacqui and a chicken Caesar salad for Maureen who quietly confessed, once the waitress had left, that she was trying to lose a few pounds.

  ‘It’s bloody daft, don’t you reckon?’ Jacqui said.

  ‘Yeah, I know, but Frank’s talking about a holiday and it would be great not to have to wear a one-piece swimsuit, so—’

  ‘No, I meant what’s going on between your Frank and my Wayne. It’s daft and it needs to stop.’

  ‘Oh . . . yeah, but that’s easier said than done, isn’t it? You got any bright ideas?’

  ‘One or two,’ Jacqui said.

  Maureen stared into her glass and shook her head. ‘I say he’s talking about a holiday, but that’s probably all it is. Talk. Frank’s just saying what he thinks I want to hear, whatever he thinks might make me happy.’

  ‘You not happy, then?’

  Maureen fiddled with her napkin.

  ‘I don’t mean to pry—’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Maureen downed what was left in her glass and reached immediately for the bottle. ‘I’ve been . . . happier.’

  Ten minutes later, as Maureen sat hungrily watching Jacqui Cutler eating the starter she’d denied herself, she leaned forward suddenly. ‘There was a man I was close to,’ she said.

  Jacqui raised an eyebrow, chewing. ‘Close to?’

  ‘You know. Anyway, he was killed not long ago and I’m really not trying to spoil our lunch, because this is nice and it’s lovely to get out of the house, but your old man was . . . involved.’

  ‘Oh, that’s awkward.’ Jacqui was spreading pâté onto a chunk of bread when the penny dropped. ‘Wait . . . Panaides?’

  Maureen nodded. ‘Like I say, I don’t want to put a dampener on lunch, and besides it was Frank’s fault at the end of the day. It was his fault that George and I ended up getting close, because Frank was paying more attention to his burgers than he was to me.’

  ‘Business always comes first, right?’

  ‘Always,’ Maureen said. ‘So even if it was your old man who had George killed, it’s ultimately Frank I blame for it, because he wouldn’t let George spread his wings and George was the one with real ambition. The whole Bardsley’s Bangers thing was his idea. He wanted to do chilli as well as curry sauce with the chips. George had . . . vision.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘In the end he had to start using the shops to shift a bit of whizz and a few tabs of Molly because he was so frustrated.’

  ‘That’s really bloody sad,’ Jacqui said.

  Maureen shrugged and took a healthy mouthful of Sancerre. ‘The life we’ve both chosen.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to be for ever though, does it?’

  Half an hour later, by the time the remains of their main courses were being cleared away, the two women had talked about all sorts of things. They had shared war stories and discussed a variety of ways in which their lives might be rather more fulfilling than they currently were. They had even hatched a plan or two, including a time and place for another lunch.

  ‘Would you ladies like to see the dessert menu?’

  Both women announced that they were stuffed, and even if Maureen Bardsley wasn’t quite as stuffed as she might have been she still had that swimsuit to think about.

  ‘We could order another bottle of wine though,’ Jacqui said.

  ‘Fine with me,’ Maureen said. ‘I got a taxi, but aren’t you driving?’

  Jacqui Cutler smiled. ‘It’s not a problem. I know most of the traffic officers round here, or rather they know me.’

  ‘Who you’re married to, you mean.’

  Jacqui mock-shuddered and waved a hand to summon the waitress back over. ‘There’s got to be some perks, right?’

  FORTY-NINE

  From the car he’d rented under the name Denzil Dawson, he watched the house where Natalie Bagnall’s mum and dad lived. The rental company had needed ID of course, but happily there’d still been a couple of fake driving licences in his wallet when he’d left the Sandy Shores. They’d been supplied by the same reasonably priced craftsman in West Bromwich who’d sorted him out with that fake police ID as well as the other bits of bogus documentation he’d needed over the years.

  Moody passports, counterfeit bank cards, birth certificates, all sorts.

  Driscoll was watching from a distance, using the binoculars he’d bought from GO Outdoors (which used to be Millets), and took care not to get too close and to keep changing location. There were more coppers knocking around than he’d seen at that guesthouse the night before, so he had to be a bit careful.

  No, taking risks like this was not ideal, but what else could he do? There was still a decent payday at stake (when Wayne Cutler coughed up) so until a better plan presented itself, watching the house where Natalie Bagnall was holed up seemed like the best worst option.

  That briefcase might well be in there somewhere.

  He was still properly browned off about Cutler trying to stiff him for half his fee. It had been a far dodgier offer than that, of course. He knew very well that if he had agreed to take the five grand Cutler was offering, there’d have been ‘arrangements’ to collect it which would doubtless have ended up with Driscoll dead in a ditch somewhere or chained to a cement block and feeding fish under the pier.

  Did Cutler think he was born yesterday?

  He raised the binoculars again, but there wasn’t a fat lot happening. A couple of uniforms nattering next to a car, drinking tea. He’d seen Miller and his partner come and go half an hour before. It wasn’t much of a surprise that they’d shown up because by now they’d seen his list, so they knew that Bagnall’s sister was who he’d got pegged for having the briefcase, but for the life of him Driscoll couldn’t work out why they’d brought that homeless girl with them.

  He was still trying to get his head round that.

  The car had been cheap to rent, but wasn’t bad, as it happened. No, a Volkswagen Polo did not feature on his list of ‘Cars I’d Like to Own’ (the invisible car from Die Another Day was number one, obviously) but it would do for the time being. It was inconspicuous, it was nippy enough if he needed to get gone in a hurry and it was comfortable. That was one of the most important things, because he might very well be sleeping in it until this briefcase business was done and dusted. Until he could get the hell out of sodding Blackpool.

  He had another look through the binoculars.

  The house where Natalie Bagnall’s parents lived was actually a lot nicer than he’d thought it would be. Based on the scuzzy flat their kids had been sharing, he hadn’t been expecting much, but then again he had no idea what the Bagnalls did for a living. Where their money had come from. Had they retired? They might still be in their fifties, so he couldn’t take it for granted, but it started Driscoll thinking about when he might call it a day and put his feet up. It wasn’t going to happen any time soon because, even with the 10K from the Panaides job, he wouldn’t have enough stashed away, but all the same it was fun to think about the things he’d have more time to do once he was out of the game.

  The places he’d visit (Rio de Janeiro, Venice, the pencil museum in Keswick) and the old TV shows he’d be able to binge.

  With nothing much to write home about happening at the Bagnall house, he reached into the glove compartment for something to scribble on (the back of the Polo’s handbook), took out a pen and began to formalise his wish-list of top motors.

  CARS I’D LIKE TO OWN

  James Bond’s invisible Aston Martin.

  A Ferrari (red or white).

  The three-wheeler from Only Fools and Horses.

  A silver Rolls-Royce.

  Midsomer Murders ?????

  He spent the next few minutes trying to decide between the Rover 75 that DCI Tom Barnaby (John Nettles) had originally driven, the Jaguar X-type he was driving from series nine onwards and the Magic Blue Volvo S80 he drove after that. It was difficult to pick one but, while he was thinking about it, he did at least make one firm decision.

  He hadn’t killed Keith Slack and he hadn’t killed that homeless girl when he’d had the chance. He still didn’t understand why, but he was starting to worry that his enthusiasm for the job might fade away completely before he even got the chance to retire.

  Well, he wasn’t about to let that happen.

  Dudley Driscoll needed to get back to doing what he did best, the one thing he did better than anyone else. Same as with any other job really. You had a knack for something, you had to keep your hand in.

  Briefcase or no bloody briefcase, Natalie Bagnall was going to die.

  FIFTY

  ‘Denzil Dawson?’ Nathan was shaking his head. ‘What kind of an idiot is this bloke, anyway?’

  ‘He’s obviously not that much of an idiot,’ Howard said.

  Mary was nodding. ‘Or Declan would have caught him already.’

  They were sitting in the Bull as usual, after a session during which Miller had once again spent all his time at the piano, providing the ideal accompaniment for a nifty quickstep and a half-decent American Smooth, while taking great care to avoid any songs that Mary might object to on the grounds of their drug associations.

  It had taken his mind off the forthcoming operation, the thought of which was still making him very nervous.

  ‘Well at least you know he’s watching,’ Veronica said.

  Miller sipped his beer.

  ‘It sounds like that’s what you want.’

  It was, but Miller knew that if he was unlucky and fate decided to do its business in his kettle, getting what he wanted could also see him back pounding the beat, talking to schoolkids about knife-crime or chucking drunks into a meat wagon outside Brannigans.

  He wondered if that bouncer Imran had mentioned was still around.

  Miller and the team now knew that Driscoll had been watching the Bagnall house that morning because all vehicles in the surrounding streets had been run through the Automatic Number Plate Recognition system. A white VW Polo which had come back as being registered to a local car-hire company had been rented the night before. The renter’s details had been checked out immediately and, once the only other Denzil Dawsons in the country had turned out to be a school caretaker in Aberystwyth, a retired plasterer from Leicester who’d recently died, and a butcher in Torquay, it seemed like a fair bet that the car in question was currently being driven by the man they were all after.

  ‘I think it’s a sound enough plan,’ Howard said. ‘Risky, obviously.’

  ‘Everything’s risky,’ Mary said. ‘I get a bit concerned just watching you put your socks on in the morning.’

  Howard pulled a face, then joined in when everyone else laughed.

  ‘Natalie is obviously a very brave young woman,’ Ransford said.

  ‘Yeah, she is,’ Miller said, though he knew there were other words he could have used.

  ‘Gloria and I would be very happy to send her a beautiful arrangement of flowers when all this is over.’

  ‘We’ll make something special,’ Gloria said.

  ‘That’s nice of you.’ Miller smiled at the couple, despite the flutter in his stomach when he thought about the chunk of their floristry business that involved the making of wreaths.

  Ransford and Gloria had provided all the flowers for Alex’s funeral.

  Howard was right, of course. The plan was risky, but following lengthy discussions about just what those risks might be and how they could best be mitigated, Susan Akers had eventually given it the green light. The fact that it was Natalie Bagnall’s idea had played well with the DCI, though Miller had chosen to leave out the encouragement she’d received from Finn.

  Neither Miller nor Xiu had even mentioned Finn being there.

  ‘It’s like Ocean’s Eleven or something,’ Nathan said.

  ‘Is it?’ Miller stared at him, tearing open a new pack of pork scratchings.

  ‘Well, yeah, like . . . it’s a sting, right?’

  Ruth grinned. ‘That makes you George Clooney, Dec.’

  ‘I’ll be sitting in the back of a van and quite possibly urinating in an empty pop bottle,’ Miller said. ‘If everything goes to plan I won’t even be getting out. Not what I’d call a blockbuster.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Mary was halfway through her third gin. ‘You can get up to all sorts in the back of a van.’ She nudged Howard. ‘Remember that Christmas we broke down on the A59?’

  ‘Not really,’ Howard said.

  ‘Course you do. On the way to that jive competition in Southport.’

  ‘All right, love,’ Howard muttered, and stared into his glass.

  ‘Well, we had to do something to keep warm . . . ’

  Ruth began to giggle. ‘Sounds like it was a straightforward survival issue.’

  Miller wasn’t really listening. He was thinking about things going to plan and hoping that Dudley Driscoll had still been watching the Bagnall house that afternoon. Hoping that he’d witnessed the humble piece of street theatre they’d laid on for his entertainment.

  The decoy briefcase that Miller had purchased a week or so before had been smuggled into the Bagnall house inside a holdall. A few minutes later, Natalie Bagnall had stepped out of the house carrying it, looked around nervously, then locked it in the boot of her car. Ten minutes after that, she’d retrieved it and taken it back inside, having decided (or so they hoped it would appear to Driscoll) that the briefcase was far safer inside the house.

  All that mattered was that Driscoll had seen it and was now convinced that the final person on his list was the one he’d been after all along.

  That was phase one, and although Natalie Bagnall had showed some hitherto unheralded acting chops, Miller seriously doubted it was the most scintillating of openings to a sting movie. He was pretty sure that George Clooney would have demanded a rewrite.

  ‘Well, I still think it’s exciting,’ Nathan said. ‘If I was a copper it’s the kind of op I’d love to get stuck into.’ He saw Ruth smiling. ‘It’s short for operation.’

  Miller decided now was not the time to mention Nathan’s iffy bladder and its propensity to let him down at stressful moments. He thought about giving him a hard look instead, to remind him of their conversation about the harsh realities of policing, but decided even that might be tempting fate. So instead he asked if anyone else wanted a drink.

  Mary cut in quickly before anyone could place their orders. ‘In other news, Alan, the pianist from Thistleton, has let me know that he’s available from next week.’

  ‘Now, that’s some proper excitement,’ Miller said. ‘Who needs George Clooney when you’ve got Alan from Thistleton?’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Mary said. ‘So provided your knee’s not still playing you up, we can finally get you back on the floor, Declan.’

  Miller shrugged like he wasn’t bothered either way, though secretly he was quite pleased. He was keen to start dancing again. ‘Right then, drinks . . . ’

  It was the same again, all round, though Nathan decided to switch from WKD to lager top. Perhaps he wanted to demonstrate that he was edgy and unpredictable; a good candidate for a detective post maybe or just someone that Ruth should be a little more interested in than she actually was. Either way, he was clearly still worked up about the operation Miller had been telling them all about.

  ‘So, when’s it happening then?’ he asked before Miller could head to the bar. ‘The sting.’

  Miller felt that flutter again. He blinked away images of wreaths and thoughts of tedious days on beat patrol. He said, ‘Natalie’s going back to work tomorrow night.’