Xiu glanced across at him. ‘Form for not handing over evidence.’

  ‘Oh, right . . . but that’s only because I’d be handing it over to the “elite” unit that’s supposed to be investigating Alex’s murder and they’re not awfully competent. Or they’re wilfully incompetent, depending on what kind of mood I’m in.’

  When it came to DCI Lindsey Forgeham and her team of defectives, Miller vacillated between a pent-up fury barely held in check and the overwhelming desire to deposit something unspeakable in Forgeham’s desk drawer.

  ‘More than five months now,’ he said. ‘And they’ve still got bugger all.’

  ‘All the more reason to hand over potentially helpful evidence, I would have thought.’

  ‘Oh, would you?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Nobody likes a smartarse,’ Miller said.

  Miller had told Xiu about the photographs he’d been sent by a man named Gary Pope and was still holding on to. Pope – known to everyone except his mum as Chesshead – had himself been murdered shortly afterwards; shot with the same gun that had been used to kill Miller’s wife. Miller hadn’t told Xiu about the video he’d received a few days later.

  Hadn’t told her yet, because he would.

  Alex herself had been banging on at him to do so for a while. Annoyingly, Alex herself wouldn’t/couldn’t answer the really important questions, like who the man in the video was, or what it was that he appeared to be handing over to her, but she had plenty to say when it came to withholding evidence pertinent to a murder inquiry.

  If anything, being dead had made her more talkative.

  ‘You trust her, don’t you?’ Alex had been standing at the living room window, staring out at the sea which she’d always loved (the smell, the sound, the enchantment) and into which Miller would not so much as dip a toe (the creatures, the whole ‘drowning’ thing, the floating turds). ‘Xiu?’

  ‘Of course I trust her.’

  ‘And you trust me, right . . . ?’

  Now, Xiu turned on to the prom and Miller stared as they drove past a posse of young women tottering along in heels and pink onesies. One sported a veil while several of her accomplices, who were weaving back and forth across the tramlines, were carrying inflatable sheep. It was, he supposed, a hen party, or else a group of women who had lost their minds. It was quite possibly both.

  Why sheep? Was the bride-to-be marrying a farmer? Or a shepherd?

  Before his train of thought could career off the tracks altogether, he was distracted by the arrival of a text message.

  ‘You are going to hand the briefcase in now, though, right?’ Keen for exactly that to happen as soon as possible, Xiu leaned on the horn and, behind them, one of the women helpfully waved a sheep.

  Miller read his message.

  ‘Because whatever you were thinking last night, it’s now connected to a murder inquiry. It’s actually the reason for the murder, so—’

  ‘We need to stop off somewhere first,’ Miller said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ve been summoned by Ralph Massey.’

  ‘Well, he can certainly wait.’

  ‘Actually, I think it might be useful.’

  ‘How the hell—?’ Xiu braked hard as the lights in front of them turned to red.

  It was Miller’s turn to swear (a highly creative mash-up of three different curse-words) as he braced himself against the dashboard. Then, as he idly contemplated a whiplash claim, he passed the phone across so that Xiu could read Ralph Massey’s message.

  I would be ever so grateful if you could pop by for a natter. Haven’t seen you for ages and I’m sure you’ll find it to your advantage. I know you must be busy, but don’t worry, I’ll keep it BRIEF if that’s the CASE.

  Ralph x

  NINE

  Performing as Miss Coco Popz (‘she’ll have you for breakfast’), Ralph Massey had achieved a modest degree of success in his former career as a cabaret artiste. He was a popular draw in the local pubs and clubs and had twice won the North Lancashire and District Drag Queen of the Year award (commonly known as the ‘Golden Girdle’) back when drag was rather more niche and RuPaul was still wearing a training bra. It was later on, however, as a businessman and entrepreneur that Ralph had really shone, even if one or two of his business practices might have seriously upset some viewers of The Apprentice.

  The ones who thought Lord Sugar could be a tad harsh.

  The ones who didn’t have very strong stomachs.

  Despite a conviction (personal as opposed to legal) that he was born to entertain, he was a man who remained perfectly content with his decision to diversify. His accountant was thrilled and Massey liked making people happy. At the end of the day it was all good, because notoriety was a kind of fame, and he could always get the frocks and feathers down from the loft when he felt the urge or if friends demanded it.

  He could be awfully insistent that they demand it.

  As the owner of the Majestic Ballroom (and several associated premises), Ralph Massey managed a medium-sized empire that artfully combined popular entertainment and money-laundering. It was generally accepted by both the police and the town’s criminal fraternity that he and Wayne Cutler had Blackpool carved up between them and would have no compunction about carving up anyone who threatened to rock that boat.

  Miller would happily have taken an axe to the boat, set fire to the pieces, then danced on the ashes in his underpants singing ‘Oh What a Beautiful Morning’. It wasn’t just because, underpants aside, that was basically his job. It wasn’t only because he was a copper and Massey was a serious criminal.

  Massey and Miller had history.

  He was waiting for them in the main ballroom (there was a smaller one available for hire, plus a ‘chill-out’ space for rave nights) when Miller and Xiu arrived; artfully reclined in the front row of the faux-velvet purple stalls. He smiled and patted a cushion, sending up a cloud of dust. Miller plonked himself down next to Massey, while Xiu took a place a few seats away.

  ‘Kind of you to drop by.’ Massey was wearing shiny black trousers and a bright yellow shirt, his long silver hair arranged into a man-bun which, as far as Miller was concerned, was in itself an arrestable offence. Massey had not taken his eyes from the floor of the ballroom, where his two favourite henchmen – a pair of handsome, identical twin skinheads he called Pixie and Dixie – were busy refocusing lights. They took turns scampering up and down a stepladder, while Massey waved them this way and that.

  ‘Keeping your “nephews” busy?’ Miller asked.

  ‘Always.’ Massey was smiling again when he turned to look at him. ‘Now . . . ’ He sat up straight and adjusted his man-bun. ‘Much as I love an inconsequential chinwag, we’ve all got plenty to get on with, so I should probably explain my little message.’

  ‘If you would.’ Miller was aware that Xiu was already getting impatient.

  Massey nodded towards Pixie and Dixie. ‘Ironically, I thought I might be able to shed a little light on a current . . . situation your colleagues are having.’

  ‘A situation?’

  ‘Vis-à-vis some serious, if less than organised, toilet shenanigans.’

  ‘We are currently investigating a murder closely associated with the incident to which you’re alluding,’ Xiu said.

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘So, if you have any useful information, Mr Massey, we’d appreciate it if you could shit or get off the pot.’

  Miller turned to her and nodded, impressed.

  ‘That’s very funny.’ Massey looked at Miller. ‘Oh, wait, your partner doesn’t do jokes, does she?’

  ‘Not as such,’ Miller said, ‘so best crack on.’

  ‘Very well, then, crack on I shall.’ He paused to pick at some lint on his shiny trousers. ‘So, I know there’s a briefcase, whereabouts currently unknown, and I know what’s in it—’ There was a crash as one of the skinheads dropped a light from halfway up the ladder. Massey glared across at Pixie or perhaps Dixie and shouted, ‘That’s coming out of your bloody wages!’

  ‘How do you know what’s in the case?’

  ‘Well, perhaps I should clarify. I don’t know specifically what its contents are, but I know what they represent.’

  Miller waited. Right now, that briefcase (whose whereabouts he knew exactly) was the reason a lad had been brutally murdered and no more than that. Perhaps he was about to find out precisely why.

  ‘Proof.’ There was a note of triumph in Massey’s voice. ‘That case represents proof of a job well done.’

  ‘A job done for who?’

  ‘Well, I think we all know that, don’t we? A man whose initials are rather appropriate, considering from whence the briefcase was stolen.’

  Miller glanced at Xiu.

  ‘OK, so who was this job done . . . to?’ Xiu was struggling to word the question correctly. ‘Done on. To whom was it—?’

  ‘You know what she means,’ Miller said.

  ‘A man called Panaides,’ Massey said.

  Miller remembered the name, and the case. A fortnight or so before, it had been initially handled by another homicide team before being snaffled up by Bob Perks at S&O. It made sense, considering that the murder (a bullet to the head behind a nightclub in Fleetwood) could not have looked more gangland if Guy Ritchie had choreographed it and Ray Winstone had been hanging around mumbling about ‘shooters’. Miller had read the reports in the paper and there hadn’t been any mention of the victim’s hands being removed, but maybe Perks had decided not to release that particularly heartwarming detail to the press.

  ‘Panaides worked for a man called Frank Bardsley,’ Massey said. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Never had the pleasure,’ Miller said. ‘But I know enough.’

  ‘Why did Cutler want this Panaides killed?’ Xiu asked.

  ‘It’s an excellent question.’ Massey sat back and sighed. ‘If it was just a question of sending a message to Bardsley it seems a little over the top, even by Cutler’s standards. Yes, Bardsley’s a player in Preston, and Blackburn maybe, but aside from one shop and a couple of backstreet pubs, he’s nothing here. Certainly nothing our friend Wayne couldn’t handle rather more quietly.’

  Miller thought about it. What Massey was saying made sense. Then again, working out what was going on in Wayne Cutler’s head (even before it was on the receiving end of a flying briefcase) was a near impossibility; like capturing a moonbeam in your hand or punching Jacob Rees-Mogg just the once.

  ‘Well, that’s about all I’ve got.’ Massey bowed his head. ‘You are entirely welcome.’

  ‘One more question,’ Miller said. ‘The big one, really. Why the hell would you be providing us with helpful information?’ He craned his head and peered around. ‘This isn’t some kind of hidden camera show, is it?’

  ‘Because it’s potentially damaging to Wayne Cutler, obviously. Anything that makes that man’s life more difficult is naturally going to brighten up mine. To be honest, a painful death would be the dream, but until that glorious day dawns . . . even a cold sore on that swine’s fat mouth puts a spring in my step.’

  ‘Of course,’ Miller said. ‘Stupid of me.’

  ‘Right then.’ Massey stood up and Miller and Xiu did the same. ‘Oh, just to say, I’m sure you’re every bit as keen as I am to see Wayne Cutler put away, but in case you need an extra incentive . . . ’

  ‘I don’t, but carry on.’

  Massey glanced at Xiu, then turned back and stage-whispered to Miller. ‘This might actually be a conversation you and I should have in private.’

  Xiu shook her head and began to walk away, but Miller held up a hand. ‘Anything you’ve got to say to me, you can say in front of her.’

  Massey thought about it for a second then shrugged. ‘Very well. I just wanted to add that if this does result in Mr Cutler’s removal from all our lives . . . ’ he crossed himself, ‘and I very much hope that’s the case, I may be able to help in identifying the man who murdered your wife.’

  Miller stared, the breath punched out of him. To hear that from him, here of all places. He closed his eyes and he could still hear the murmurs of confusion; the laughter from the crowd when Alex had failed to appear for the last dance.

  The knock on his front door a few hours later . . .

  Xiu marched back across to Massey and jabbed a finger at him. ‘If you have any information that could further the investigation into Alex Miller’s death, then you need to tell us. Do you understand? I’ll take you in myself right now if I have to.’

  Massey stepped back and raised his hands. ‘If is very much the operative word here, detective. I may be able to help you, I said. I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself.’

  There was a brief and somewhat half-hearted staring match, before Xiu grimaced then turned to leave, grabbing Miller as she went. ‘Come on . . . ’

  Miller followed her for a few steps then veered sharply away on to the dance floor. He ambled across to where Pixie and Dixie were still hard at work; one fiddling with a spotlight, while his doppelganger steadied the ladder. Miller nodded hello, gave the ladder a good, hard kick and watched as the twin holding on to it fought to stop it toppling over.

  ‘Oi!’ shouted the one at the foot of the ladder.

  ‘What’s your game?’ demanded the one who’d nearly fallen off it.

  ‘Sorry,’ Miller said.

  TEN

  Dennis Draper (the latest in a long line of alliterative aliases which had most recently included Desmond Darke, Damien Dangerfield and David Deckham) groaned as he sat back on the lumpy bed in his B&B (he had registered, with uncharacteristic flair and a cod Spanish accent, as Diego Diaz) and considered his next move.

  His last one had been straightforward enough.

  It had just been a question of making a list and Draper loved lists.

  FAVOURITE DRINKS

  Lager and lime.

  Lager top.

  Fizzy wine.

  ‘Sex on the Beach’.

  Panda Pops (esp. blue raspberry).

  THINGS TO DO BEFORE I DIE

  Have a threesome.

  Visit Alton Towers.

  Be on Pointless.

  THINGS PEOPLE HAVE SAID BEFORE THEY DIED

  I swear I’ll get the money (yawn).

  You’ve got the wrong bloke (yeah, right).

  Mum/mummy (not clever or funny but always a popular choice).

  This one had simply been a bog-standard list of garages in Blackpool, put together after five minutes of googling when he’d come out of the hospital, and it had been pretty much the same routine at the first two places he’d visited.

  ‘I’m looking to get an MOT done sharpish.’

  ‘Sorry, mate, I can’t fit you in for at least a couple of days.’

  ‘That’s a shame. Actually, it was a lad who works here who told me you’d be able to do it. Big soft sod with a blond ponytail and a loud shirt . . . ?’

  He’d got a couple of blank looks, said he’d try somewhere else, then struck lucky at the third time of asking.

  ‘Oh, that’ll be Andy, the silly sod. I’ll be giving him a talking to an’ all, because he really shouldn’t have told you that.’

  ‘I’ll give him one myself if you let me have his address.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that, mate . . . ’

  Draper had immediately become a bit less friendly and happily the bloke in the overalls had changed his tune, once he’d been kicked into the inspection pit and Draper had started sloshing petrol around. He’d had another bit of luck after that, catching the lad at home just before he legged it, but Draper still hadn’t got the result he’d been hoping for.

  The result he needed if Cutler was ever going to pay up.

  Yeah, so he’d made sure the pillock with the ponytail had paid for taking what didn’t belong to him. There’d been no last words worth writing home about, though to be fair the plastic bag had made it tricky to understand what the lad was on about at the end. It was all just shouting and snot. Fun as that had been though, because he always relished the work, Draper knew he’d only done half the job.

  There’d been no sign of that sodding briefcase.

  Inching carefully across the bed (because things were still a bit tender in the todger department), he reached for the TV remote; attached to the headboard by a curly wire, which was rarely the sign of a top-notch establishment. He turned on the minuscule set, fixed skew-whiff on the wall opposite, and flicked through the channels until he found a repeat of Midsomer Murders, which he always enjoyed. Laying the remote down again on the bedside table, he glanced at the mobile he’d taken from the thief’s flat. He felt sure it would provide information as to who currently had the briefcase, but he’d need to find someone who could unlock the bloody phone first. Guessing that its owner had not been the sharpest knife in the drawer, he’d tried 1-2-3-4, after which he’d given up, because neither was he. It was no big deal, because it wouldn’t take him too long to get into it, and until then, he had the note.

  While DCI Barnaby sought justice for a woman murdered with a giant round of cheese (one of Draper’s favourites from the post-Nettles era) he reached for the takeaway menu on which the boy had scribbled his last words. There was nothing worthy of making the list in there either, but it did give Draper somewhere to start. A couple of names to start with, anyway.

  Judging from the separate bedrooms and a few of the photographs he’d studied before smashing them, Draper guessed that the ‘Natalie’ for whom the note had been written was a sister as opposed to a girlfriend. A sister the lad ‘didn’t want to worry’. Maybe he’d given the case to her and, even if he hadn’t, she might have an idea who’d got it or where it had been stashed.