A man who, as of that moment, was their prime suspect.

  Miller stared down at the picture. The features of the man walking across the lobby were not exactly pin-sharp, but Miller thought he looked a bit like celebrity gardener, TV presenter and national treasure, Alan Titchmarsh. It was unlikely, obviously, but still, he couldn’t help but imagine the headlines.

  Green-fingered Alan Caught Red-handed.

  Something about evidence being planted . . .

  Sullivan nodded. ‘I don’t need to tell you that finding this individual is our number one priority.’ He nodded to the man who might have been called Brian. ‘We’ll get copies of this photo circulated to the media ASAP.’

  The man who might have been called Brian nodded back.

  ‘What if our killer never left the hotel?’ Miller asked, having temporarily stopped thinking about Alan Titchmarsh. ‘What if he’s hiding in plain sight?’

  ‘Hiding where?’ Sullivan stared at him and so did everyone else.

  ‘Well, if I knew that, we’d all be home in time for Countdown, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘This thinking outside the box, is it?’

  ‘Just mooting the possibility,’ Miller said.

  ‘Oh, right. Mooting.’ Sullivan shook his head. ‘So, where are we on Cutler’s phone?’

  Carys Morgan took a step forward. A ferociously bright and proud Welshwoman, she had also proved herself adept at decision making. Once, when a beat officer had made a sheep noise in her hearing, she had been forced to decide quickly between reporting the officer to HR or dealing with the matter herself in a fashion that would not require any paperwork. She had plumped for the latter, distinctly more forthright option and the officer in question had pounded his beat somewhat gingerly for a fortnight afterwards.

  Miller was a big fan.

  ‘We’re going through it right now,’ she said. ‘Also trying to trace his movements prior to checking in. There was no sign of Mr Shepherd’s phone at the scene, presuming he had one, but hopefully there’s a computer at home.’

  ‘Get someone to pick it up,’ Sullivan said.

  ‘Talking of checking in.’ All heads turned to Xiu. ‘The book at reception shows that Shepherd checked in to the hotel only five minutes after Cutler. Unfortunately the receptionist who spoke to them both has gone off duty. I’ve left a message and asked him to call me back.’

  ‘Right. Thanks, Sara—’

  ‘And while I don’t think DS Miller’s suggestion was completely off beam . . .’ she smiled at Miller ‘. . . the whole “wrong room” scenario, I can also see what you were saying, sir. You know, weighing it up. I mean we’re definitely talking about someone professional, right? Nobody heard anything, so the killer must have used a silencer.’

  ‘That’s certainly the obvious explanation,’ Miller said. ‘But it might be worth checking there wasn’t a convention of deaf people staying there last night. Cross the ts and dot the is, right?’

  Xiu stared. Sullivan sighed and moved towards the door.

  ‘Right. The wives should be on their way to identify the bodies. Miller and Xiu, can you get down there?’

  ‘To the morgue?’

  ‘Well, it’s not going to happen at the newsagent’s, is it?’ Sullivan’s face didn’t change, but it was clear he was pretty pleased with himself.

  It felt to Miller like he was deliberately being handed the shitty end of the stick and that Xiu, who hadn’t said anything Sullivan could take exception to, had been given no choice but to get her hands dirty too.

  It was not a part of the job that any copper relished.

  Certainly not one who had himself stood all too recently where the victims’ wives would soon be standing.

  Miller did not respond, did not even move for just long enough to make Sullivan think he might flat out refuse. Or become emotional and storm out. Or perhaps march purposefully across the room and do to Sullivan’s nether regions what Carys Morgan had done to that bleating flatfoot’s.

  ‘Always a pleasure,’ Miller said, eventually. ‘Never a chore.’

  NINE

  Miller and Xiu gently led Barry Shepherd’s widow into the room where her husband’s body was lying. As soon as she had nodded to let them know she was ready, Miller signalled to one of Acharya’s assistants, who drew back the sheet that was covering the body. A smaller, linen cloth had been placed carefully across the top of the dead man’s head to mask the bullet wound.

  Pippa Shepherd’s hand moved quickly to cover her mouth, to stifle a gasp or a scream or the sudden rush of vomit.

  Miller had seen all of them at one time or another.

  Six weeks before, staring down at his wife’s body on the same slab, that same discreet square of linen, he had done none of those things. He had felt every bit as dead as she was. Every bit as absent. Now, all too aware that Xiu was looking at his reaction as much as she was at Pippa Shepherd’s, he tried desperately to keep those memories from his face. He tried, but he knew he’d been unable to manage it. He might even have groaned quietly or closed his eyes for a few seconds. It could not be helped and it was a small mercy that, despite having called her ‘Job-pissed’ once already, he didn’t have Sara Xiu down as one of those who’d go rushing into Susan Akers’s office first chance she got.

  You were right, ma’am, DS Miller’s definitely not ready . . .

  Miller could not always control his instincts, but he trusted them.

  Once the formal ID had been made, they escorted Pippa Shepherd back out into the corridor, where Michelle Cutler was waiting her turn. Miller stepped across to greet her, to say how sorry he was for her loss, but their paths had crossed before in very different circumstances, so he got only a perfunctory nod in return.

  Xiu, meanwhile, was showing Pippa Shepherd out and could not help but notice the look she had given Michelle Cutler as they’d moved past her. Adrian Cutler’s widow had paid her counterpart no attention whatsoever, but the lack of interest had certainly not seemed mutual.

  It was only fleeting, and of course Xiu might have imagined it, but Pippa Shepherd had looked seriously thrown.

  Startled, even.

  Ten minutes later, Xiu was driving them back into town. Miller hadn’t done much more than issue the occasional grunt since leaving the mortuary and was now staring blankly out at the landscape as it rushed by, his head against the car window.

  The Tower loomed ahead of them and it was starting to rain.

  ‘Did you catch that look back in there?’ Xiu asked. ‘I’m pretty sure there was a look. The look Pippa Shepherd gave Adrian Cutler’s wife?’

  Miller said nothing, miles away.

  ‘So, what was all that about, then?’

  Finally, Miller turned to her. ‘Probably no more than a justifiable reaction to velour.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean, who wears a velour tracksuit to identify a body? I know there’s not really any formal dress code as such, but even so.’

  ‘It looked to me like Pippa knew her—’

  ‘Pull over!’

  Miller was pointing, so Xiu did as she was told, hitting the brakes hard, veering across the road and bumping the Honda up on to the pavement.

  ‘What’s the—?’

  Miller was out of the car before Xiu had even turned the engine off. She followed him as he strode across to a shop doorway where he bent to talk to what looked like a homeless girl, crouched inside and sheltering from the rain.

  ‘Hey, Finn.’

  ‘Hey, Miller,’ the girl said. ‘How’s tricks? Apart from the . . . ?’ She waved her hands around vaguely to fill in the gap and it was clear that she knew Miller well enough to appreciate what he’d been through.

  ‘Apart from the . . .’ Miller mimicked the girl’s gesture ‘. . . it’s all good. You?’

  ‘Oh, you know. I’ve only collected thirty-seven pence all morning and a dog pissed on my sleeping bag last night, but aside from that . . .’

  The girl looked up at Xiu, wary suddenly. She was in her mid-twenties, Xiu reckoned. Pale and with hair that looked like she’d hacked at it with nail scissors. She seemed ill and it was fairly obvious what kind of medicine she needed.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, this is Sara,’ Miller said. ‘She’s down with the kids.’ He clenched his fist in the air. ‘A friend to the homeless massive. Sara, this is Finn.’

  Xiu exchanged nods with the girl, then watched Miller squat down next to her.

  ‘Just wondering if you might have heard any whispers about the county lines lads. Any moves that might have been made.’

  ‘Moves?’

  ‘We’ve had a bit of an incident.’

  The girl nodded. ‘The shootings at the hotel, yeah?’

  ‘Wow,’ Xiu said. ‘You’ve certainly got your ear to the ground.’

  ‘Quite literally, most nights.’ The girl looked back to Miller. ‘I’ve not heard anything, but I’ll see what I can find out.’

  Miller nodded and took the photograph of the as yet unknown sex worker from his pocket. He unfolded it and handed it across. ‘Recognise her? We can’t ID her, so she’s probably new.’

  The girl took no more than a cursory glance. ‘Yeah, I think I can remember her name.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure.’

  Miller nodded again and took out his wallet. He opened it, then turned to Xiu. ‘You couldn’t bung me a tenner, could you? I appear to be financially embarrassed.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I’m good for it.’ Miller nudged the girl. ‘Tell her I’m good for it.’

  ‘Oh yeah, he’s properly minted.’

  The girl was a picture of innocence as Xiu rummaged in her purse and dug out a ten pound note. ‘I won’t forget,’ she said.

  Miller grinned. ‘Oh, I know you won’t.’

  Xiu handed it across just as her phone rang and, seeing the caller ID, she stepped away to answer, missing what Miller and the girl said to each other for a few vital seconds after that. The information she was paying for. She inched back towards them, only one ear on her call.

  ‘Oh, and I could really do with finding out where Chesshead is,’ Miller said.

  ‘I heard he went to London.’

  ‘What, to see the King?’

  ‘Just telling you what I heard.’

  ‘Well, try and find out if he’s still there, if you can. I need to speak to him.’

  The girl looked hard at the banknote in Miller’s hand. ‘That’s quite a lot of work for a tenner.’

  ‘Well, maybe my parsimonious partner can be persuaded to part with a little bit more if you come up with anything.’ He nodded towards Xiu. ‘Did you see the moths fly out when she opened that purse? Moths, I swear.’

  The girl laughed and Miller handed over the cash.

  ‘Now, make sure every single penny of that goes on drink or drugs, OK?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Don’t go wasting it on, I don’t know . . . food.’

  The girl tucked the money away. ‘What do you take me for?’

  ‘And call me if you hear anything.’

  The girl gave Miller a small salute as he heaved himself upright and walked back towards the car. Xiu quickly ended her call and followed him.

  ‘So what’s her story, then?’ Xiu started the car.

  Miller already had his phone out and was online searching for a number.

  Xiu nodded back towards the doorway. ‘The girl?’

  ‘Aha.’ Miller began dialling.

  ‘And who the hell is Chesshead?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ Miller said. ‘Not that you’ll believe me.’

  ‘Why don’t you—?’ Xiu stopped when Miller shushed her, his call having connected, and from that point on she could do little but listen.

  ‘Hello there,’ Miller said. ‘Is that Bootylicious Babes?’ He gave Xiu a thumbs-up. ‘Splendid. Yes, I’d like to book one of your “top-class escorts” if I may . . . specifically, a Miss Ribbons. Yes, Scarlett Ribbons . . . like the song?’ He waited then shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He waited again, staring at Xiu. ‘How much? Look, I should stress that it probably won’t be the full hour, it will be strictly vanilla and that is rather more than I was expecting to pay.’ He listened again, nodding. ‘OK, well, let me give you the address . . . it’s Gerry Richardson Way, off Clifton Road. You can’t miss it, it’s the big white building. The one with all the police cars outside.’ He grinned at Xiu, then nodded again, evidently happy with the response. ‘Yes, first thing tomorrow morning will be perfect. Many thanks . . .’

  Miller ended the call and put his phone away. He leaned to beat out a frantic rhythm on the dashboard, delighted with all he’d accomplished in the previous ten minutes.

  He said, ‘It’s nice when people are helpful, don’t you think?’

  TEN

  Miller lurked next to his moped, eating crisps and watching a steady stream of officers and civilian staff leave the building at the end of their working day, while others arrived to start late shifts. It was not surprising that one group moved a little faster and seemed a mite more cheery than the other. Miller, on the other hand, had almost always come to work with a spring in his step. With the notable exception of today – which was never going to be easy – he enjoyed rocking up to play his small but significant part in making the ceremonial county of Lancashire, and this bit of it in particular, a slightly less horrible place to be.

  Even if he often felt like a square peg in a round hole.

  Or a peg with no discernible shape at all.

  With one or two obvious exceptions, he largely enjoyed the company of other coppers. When it was actually funny, he relished the black humour and edgy repartee that was born of shared experience, that forged a bond between men and women who often struggled with the demands of a difficult job. Miller was more than happy to do his bit, readily contributing to everyday exchanges such as those he now instigated with a group of male officers on their way into the building.

  ‘Hey, Faruk, did that nasty fungus on your doo-dads ever clear up?’

  ‘What is wrong with you, mate?’

  ‘Nice to see the diet’s working out, Trevor.’

  ‘Bugger off, Miller.’

  Some people struggled more than others.

  With time to kill, Miller decided to deal with some of the dozens of unanswered texts and voice messages that had been left on his phone in the previous few weeks. Messages that, however well-meaning or heartfelt, he had felt unable or unwilling to address. As far as most of those he looked at now went, ‘deal with’ meant ‘ignore’ and in a few cases ‘delete’, but there were still plenty of people who deserved a response.

  A few days after Alex had been killed, he had recorded a voicemail greeting that simply said ‘Dead wife. Busy. Leave message’, but had decided it was perhaps a touch brusque and tasteless, even for him, and reverted to the automated one.

  It was probably time to record something new . . .

  Keeping an eye on the station doors, he texted Alex’s sister to let her know that he was back at work and busy as all hell, and promised that he would try and find a good time for her to come round. He sent variations on the same message (with ‘come round’ replaced by ‘get a coffee’ or ‘meet up in the pub’) to several of Alex’s friends and one or two of his own, before calling his mate Imran.

  He wasn’t too disappointed to get his friend’s own voicemail message.

  ‘Hey, it’s Dec. Sorry I’ve been so rubbish . . . more rubbish than normal, I mean. I’m back at work now, which is probably a massive mistake, and things are pretty full-on . . . but if I can sneak off a bit early one of the days, shall we meet up for our customary competition? What do you reckon . . . usual place, usual stakes? I hope you’ve been practising, mate.’ Miller glanced up and saw the officer he’d been waiting for emerge. ‘I’ll try you again later . . .’ He hung up, emptied the last of the cheese and onion into his mouth and followed.

  His target moved quickly, clearly in a hurry to get somewhere, or just to get anywhere else, so Miller jogged across the car park and finally caught the man up as he was approaching his very shiny Volvo.

  ‘Dominic . . .’

  The man turned and, after a second or two, raised a hand. ‘Oh, hey Dec.’

  ‘Nice car.’

  ‘I heard you were back.’

  ‘Is it new?’

  The man stared down at the car keys in his hand. ‘Yeah . . . newish. Listen, are you OK? I mean, are you sure you’re doing the right thing? Coming back this quickly.’

  Miller smiled and took a step closer. ‘You’re looking very serious, Dominic.’

  ‘I’m concerned, that’s all. A lot of people are.’

  ‘Mind you, I suppose you have to be, right? Serious. Serious and organised.’

  Dominic Baxter said nothing, but finally returned Miller’s smile, though his was thinner than a politician’s excuse. He was rangy and athletic-looking, with a goatee beard and hair which Miller was convinced should have started to grey by now. More important, he was someone who had worked closely with Miller’s wife for several years.

  Baxter took half a step towards his car.

  ‘Oh, right . . . well, I’ll try not to keep you,’ Miller said. ‘It’s just a quickie really . . . only I was wondering what you’d told Forgeham about the night Alex was murdered. You know, about where she was, or where she was supposed to be.’

  DCI Lindsey Forgeham was part of a separate homicide unit, heading up the investigation into Alex Miller’s murder. An investigation which, for obvious reasons, Miller himself could not be part of. Miller was yet to be reassured that much investigating had actually been done, certainly any that had yielded a single thing worth writing home about.

  ‘Come on, Dec,’ Baxter said.