Miller was well aware that, at home alone, he still spent more time than was good for him on Alex’s phone or staring at the number 37 scrawled on a tatty bit of cardboard. When he wasn’t doing that, and if Fred and Ginger didn’t need attending to, he studied the photos Chesshead had sent. By now, Forgeham and her team knew for certain that the weapon used to kill Alex had also been used on Chesshead, but even though they were now hunting the individual responsible for two murders, they didn’t seem to be in any more of a hurry than before. Miller reckoned he’d made a good decision in keeping the photographs to himself.

  He still asked Alex questions about them, of course, even if he knew she was no more likely to answer him than the idiots he continued to shout at on the radio. The two of them discussed everything. Cases old and new, rodent welfare, Miller’s habit of dragging his right foot a little too much during the legato sections of his tango.

  Picky. She was always so bloody picky.

  Finally, sixteen days after having been brained by a blunt if somewhat unorthodox instrument (courtesy of Armitage Shanks), Sofia Hadzic was pronounced fit for interview. However dizzy she might later try and claim to be, Miller was raring to go. There were still several questions he knew he could get answers to.

  SIXTY-TWO

  ‘Now this is a formal interview,’ Xiu said.

  Miller guessed Sofia Hadzic had worked that much out already. That the reading to her of her rights, the presence of recording equipment, the duty solicitor next to her and the fact that they were sitting in an interview room had provided all the clues she needed. He could only presume that Xiu had said it simply because she felt like needling their suspect a little, which pleased him enormously.

  He was all for a spot of needling.

  Xiu withdrew two sheets of paper from her file and passed them across the table; one for Sofia and one for the solicitor. ‘Could you look at this please?’ she said. ‘It’s a DNA profile based on samples taken from your flat. It matches an existing profile on the DNA database of the European Crime Agency. How do you explain that?’

  Sofia looked at her solicitor, who nodded. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Specifically, DNA associated with a murder last year in Poland and two murders the year before in Germany and Croatia.’

  ‘No comment.’

  Xiu looked down at her notes. ‘Oh . . . and another couple the year before that, in Spain. Sorry . . . don’t know how I forgot those. That was actually two in the same week, which is very impressive.’

  ‘Do you do discounts?’ Miller asked. ‘Sort of a two-for-one thing?’

  There was another glance at the solicitor.

  ‘No comm—’

  ‘It’s money for jam basically, isn’t it?’ Now, Miller was staring at the solicitor, a ruddy old soak named Escott. ‘You roll up, cast a weary eye over the evidence, tell your client to say nothing, then just sit there looking smug while you’re thinking about when the pubs open. Job done. What are you on . . . two hundred quid an hour?’

  Escott sat up straight and opened his mouth, but Miller turned back to Sofia. ‘Did you get a chance to do any sightseeing while you were there?’

  Sofia said nothing.

  ‘Spain, I mean. I’ve always fancied going to Barcelona.’

  ‘Me too,’ Xiu said. ‘All that amazing Gaudi stuff.’

  Miller looked at her. ‘You mean the cheese?’

  ‘That’s Gouda, which is Dutch. Gaudi’s Spanish.’

  ‘Is it like Manchego?’

  Escott looked ready to interrupt, most probably to enquire as to the relevance of cheese to the crime for which his client had been arrested, but Miller and Xiu were not about to let him.

  ‘He was an architect,’ Xiu said.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘There’s loads of his buildings in Barcelona.’

  ‘You live and learn.’ Miller and Xiu were now talking to each other as though Sofia wasn’t even there. ‘Now, here’s the thing I don’t get. Even though she’s . . . how can I put this? . . . at the cheaper end of the market, she’s obviously good at what she does.’

  ‘Better than good, I’d say.’

  Miller pointed to Xiu’s notes. ‘I mean, just look at that CV. She’s highly efficient, she can do all sorts of fancy technical surveillance, she’s clearly been super-inventive with her various “jobs” and disguises and she’s always nice and neat—’

  ‘Oh, no question,’ Xiu said.

  ‘Until now.’ Miller shook his head. ‘Until that unholy cock-up at the Sands Hotel.’

  ‘Yeah, that was messy.’

  ‘Messy. That’s exactly what it was.’

  Sofia was getting fidgety, breathing a little more heavily.

  ‘You think she just got careless?’ Miller asked. ‘Took her eye off the ball or whatever?’

  ‘It happens,’ Xiu said.

  ‘Happens to the best of us.’

  Sofia grunted and grabbed the edge of the table. Suddenly, she was looking every bit as irritated as Miller and Xiu wanted her to be.

  ‘Or maybe she’s just lost her mojo, you know?’ Xiu nodded. ‘That can happen, too.’

  ‘Well, of course it can,’ Miller said. ‘One day you’re all fired up, swanning round Europe with your guidebook in your backpack and a gun in your bum-bag, then suddenly, for no good reason, you’re not . . . feeling it any more. You turn up, ready to do the business, and the old magic just isn’t there. You go through the motions because you’re a professional, but now you’re sloppy and you end up making a mess of things, because—’

  Sofia sat forward. ‘He was the one that made a mess of it. Shepherd.’

  Miller and Xiu turned to look at her. Escott sighed and shook his head.

  ‘I do the job I was paid to do and then he ruins everything. Makes things very difficult for me.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Miller said.

  ‘He told me to call when the job was done, to let him know when Cutler was dead. He told me he’d be close by.’

  Now Miller had a clearer picture of it. Barry Shepherd had been there because, for whatever reason, he’d wanted to be close to the action; on the spot when the man who was sleeping with his wife got what was coming to him. Miller imagined Sofia Hadzic coming out of Cutler’s room that night after she’d shot him, calling the client to let him know that the job was done, then being horrified to hear his phone ringing in the very next room. Perhaps she’d simply knocked on the door and forced her way in or maybe Shepherd had opened it and stepped out into the corridor. Either way . . .

  ‘I’m betting you didn’t think he’d be that close,’ Miller said.

  ‘No, that was a . . . surprise.’

  ‘So, you killed him because he could identify you?’

  ‘It was his fault. He should not have been there.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on to his widow,’ Miller said. ‘I’m sure it will be a great comfort.’

  Xiu was gathering her notes together and Escott was doing the same. His client’s confession meant that the solicitor was going to be in the pub a little sooner than he expected. But Miller wasn’t going anywhere just yet.

  ‘Obviously there are days when I wish I’d stayed in bed,’ he said. ‘Spent the day messing about on my guitar instead, or playing with the rats.’ He glanced at Xiu and Escott. ‘I play the guitar and I have pet rats . . . but most of the time I enjoy my job, so I’m always interested in whether other people feel the same about theirs.’ He leaned across the table. ‘What about you, Sofia . . . ?’

  She shrugged and sneered. ‘It’s about the money. It’s always about the money. I don’t think you get that.’

  ‘Ah, right.’ Miller sat back. ‘Thank God you’ve cleared that up. I wouldn’t have slept otherwise.’

  ‘I don’t kill anyone because I enjoy it.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s stupid. Why does anyone work if not for the money? Money they can save.’

  ‘It’s a fair point,’ Miller said. ‘And I do admire the long-term financial planning, even if your nest egg won’t be a fat lot of use where you’re going.’

  ‘You still don’t understand.’ Sofia lowered her head and shook it slowly. ‘I need every single penny. Why do you think I empty their wallets? Every penny! I save because I have to, so I can send money back to my family in Serbia. What is left of my family . . .’

  Miller waited. The young woman swallowed hard and grimaced with a pain that did not seem physical.

  ‘These things I’ve done, these killings, they are like horrors for you . . . but it’s different when you have seen your mother and father shot dead in front of you. When you were made to clean up the blood and then dig their graves.’ Her face was a grim mask, as the terrible memories resurfaced. ‘When you were made to do . . . all sorts of things.’

  Miller was transfixed.

  ‘I grew up with death, like you grow up with toys and teddy bears and jigsaw puzzles.’ There were tears now, but she made no attempt to wipe them away. ‘Death all around me and the fear of death every moment of every day, until you learn to do whatever it takes to stay alive. Whatever it takes, do you understand? I was one of the lucky ones . . .’

  Xiu stared at Miller. She could see that he was hanging on every word.

  ‘Seriously? You’re buying that?’

  Miller watched Sofia wink, then start to smile. ‘No.’ He cleared his throat and looked at Xiu as though she was mad. ‘Obviously not . . .’

  For the recording, Xiu announced that the interview was terminated, before she and Miller got to their feet. The solicitor was muttering something about cheese as he reached for his coat.

  Miller stopped at the door. ‘Well, thanks,’ he announced. ‘It’s been a hoot.’ He looked across at Sofia Hadzic. ‘Oh . . . and on behalf of myself and the team, and most especially the widows of Adrian Cutler and Barry Shepherd, I’d just like to say . . . may the cat eat you and the devil eat the cat.’

  As they walked back into the incident room, they clocked Tim Sullivan talking to Akers. They had both been watching the interview via camera, and while Akers and the rest of the team beamed and applauded, Sullivan threw them a small nod as though to congratulate them on a job well done.

  A job done, at any rate.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you.’ Xiu looked a little nervous. ‘For a while actually . . .’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Back when we were first teamed up. Sullivan was using me as a kind of . . . informant. Wanting me to report back to him, you know?’

  ‘Really?’ Miller sighed, sadly. ‘That is peak wankspangle.’

  ‘He specifically asked me to keep an eye on you.’

  Miller chose not to let Xiu know he’d been well aware of Sullivan’s sneaky surveillance job since day one. That it would be a way for Miller to find out one way or another what his new partner was made of. ‘So, how’s that been working out?’

  ‘What can I tell you?’ Xiu said. ‘My eyesight’s not very good.’

  THE FINAL STEP

  FALLAWAY

  SIXTY-THREE

  While Fred and Ginger skittered and squeaked and tossed hay around like furry little maniacs, Miller sat noodling on his guitar, picking out some tune he couldn’t remember the name of. It was laid-back and lilting and it suited his mood.

  It had been a good day.

  He thought about the look of pride and pleasure on Xiu’s face when she had formally charged Sofia Hadzic. The go-ahead from the Crown Prosecution Service had come almost immediately and Miller had invited Xiu to do the honours.

  ‘Why me?’ They were approaching the desk sergeant.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t you want to . . . ?’

  ‘No, you should do it.’ Miller hung back. ‘You’ve had a lot to put up with these last few weeks.’

  Xiu stared at him, then got it. ‘Oh, you mean you.’ She stepped forward and raised the charge sheet. ‘Right . . . yeah, I’m not going to argue.’

  He remembered how thrilled Howard had sounded when Miller had called to tell him it was done and dusted. Yes, the pride in his voice, too; the sort of pride a father might feel, if they weren’t mooching around looking for someone to take advantage of or banged up somewhere. Howard said he couldn’t wait to tell Mary and the rest of the gang and promised a big celebration in the Bull after the next practice session.

  ‘I might even swing for an extra bag of pork scratchings,’ he said.

  Miller played on and thought about Alex. She hadn’t shown up for a day or two, but something about the music he was playing – was it a tune she’d used to hum? – prompted a deluge of memories and images. Happy moments and daft ones . . .

  Alex with a glass of wine in her hand and a rat perched on her head.

  Alex working wonders with a monkey-wrench, her face streaked with motor oil as she tried to fix Miller’s moped.

  Alex trying on that dress her sister had made, twirling in front of the mirror.

  Miller looked up and his gaze settled on the envelope that contained the photographs he’d been sent. He stopped playing. Suddenly, there were very different pictures in his head.

  Less pleasant memories.

  Ralph Massey whistling that tune and Wayne Cutler telling him he was the perfect man for the job and the colour of Alex’s face when that sheet was peeled back . . .

  . . . and before Miller knew what he was doing, he was asking Alexa to play ‘My Generation’ by the Who and he was on his feet and throwing himself around the living room like Pete Townshend. He pulled off his guitar and began smashing it viciously against the floor, the wall, the furniture. By the time the song had finished, he was wide-eyed and panting like a knackered dog, holding half the neck of his guitar with what little there was left of its body attached by two strings.

  He looked up to see Alex in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘You twat,’ she said.

  Miller stared down at the rather extensive damage and could see little point in arguing. There were pieces of his shattered guitar all over the place, dozens of them. The pick-guard was over by the curtains, half the saddle was just visible under the sofa and he counted five bridge pins dotted around the carpet.

  Alex was wearing a look of disapproval he knew all too well.

  Miller plucked the remaining bridge pin from his hair and tried to summon all the dignity he could muster.

  ‘I can fix it,’ he said.

  The following morning, Miller emerged from the music shop with a brand new guitar in a bag slung over his shoulder and spotted Finn begging on the other side of the road. She was sitting outside a branch of Greggs, though Miller reckoned there were so many branches in town it was almost impossible not to be.

  He crossed over.

  ‘Hey, Finn . . .’

  ‘Hey, Miller . . .’

  It didn’t look like she was having much success and there were barely enough coins in her scruffy hat to buy a steak bake. Or even any proper food. Miller squatted down next to her.

  ‘I was wondering how you were doing. After . . . you know.’

  Finn lowered her head and shook it slowly. ‘Not great, if I’m honest. I’ve been having a few nightmares.’ A passer-by stopped to chuck a coin into Finn’s hat. She mumbled a thank-you without looking up.

  ‘I’m really sorry you had to go through that,’ Miller said. ‘I can find someone to talk to if you like.’

  Finn raised her head and looked at him. ‘You do know I’m talking about you in those boxer shorts?’

  ‘Oh, right. Fair enough.’

  Finn fiddled with her backpack. ‘By the way, I reckon you probably still owe me a couple of quid. Bearing in mind that I, you know . . . saved your life.’

  Miller pretended to think about it, then reached for his wallet. ‘Yeah, I suppose that’s got to be worth a tenner.’

  ‘Come on, Miller, you’re worth a bit more than that.’

  ‘I’m deeply touched, but let’s not forget what it’s going to cost me to replace the lid of that cistern. You actually managed to crack it.’

  Finn shrugged. ‘Call it twenty, then.’

  Miller pulled out a banknote and was about to hand it over when he remembered what was strapped across his back. ‘Wouldn’t it be more fun if we earned it . . . ?’

  Finn looked at him . . .

  It was a thoughtfully curated selection of songs, which managed to draw a small crowd. Well, a handful; the majority clutching freshly purchased sausage rolls. Miller more than did justice to ‘Watching the Detectives’ and ‘I Fought the Law’ and chucked in a passable rendering of ‘The Laughing Policeman’ because he was in such a good mood. The set was rounded off in fine style with a jaunty version of ‘Police and Thieves’ which saw Finn joining in on backing vocals and even prompted a couple of drunks to dance, if the definition of that word was expanded to include jigging about a bit before falling into a bush.

  ‘Elvis has left the building!’ Miller shouted, when they were done.

  To a smattering of applause, Miller shoved his guitar back into its bag, waving away the demands for an encore from one of the men in the bush. Finn happily counted up the donations and announced that they could consider themselves square.

  Until the next time Miller wanted information.

  Miller pointed out that he didn’t only call her when he wanted something and asked her to think again about his offer of temporary accommodation.

  ‘You know, if it really starts to get nippy outdoors—’

  He reached into a pocket when his phone began to ring and instantly forgot whatever else he was about to say when he saw the caller ID. Finn was saying something as she gathered up her things, but Miller wasn’t listening. He couldn’t hear anyway, over the rushing noise in his ears and the screaming in his head.