Then he took out his phone to give ‘Torchy’ Molineux a call.

  THIRTEEN

  Miller and Xiu sat with the victim’s sister in the corridor outside the viewing suite at the city mortuary. In the street beyond the front door, passers-by were bundled up against a cold snap that was just beginning to bite, and it wasn’t a great deal warmer in the hallway. Xiu had fetched tea from a machine, but Natalie Bagnall just sat hunched over on the plain wooden bench, staring into her cup as though it might contain answers and not just horrible tea.

  She was in her mid-twenties, Miller reckoned; tall and skinny with short black hair, the tips dyed red. A small stud glittered on the side of her nose and her eyes would almost certainly have been kind, were they not so swollen.

  She looked every bit as broken as Miller expected.

  He knew that, as a nurse, Natalie Bagnall was well used to seeing a range of the grim and gruesome things that most people were mercifully spared, but not being easily shocked at work would not have made identifying her brother’s body any less terrible. Thanks to the skill of the pathologist and her assistants, the body certainly looked a damn sight better now than when Natalie had discovered it first thing that morning, but still.

  Miller could sympathise, because although he had seen his fair share of horrors, it had not prepared him for identifying Alex’s body in that very same viewing suite five months earlier.

  That was when he’d realised he hadn’t seen horror at all.

  Natalie sniffed and Miller laid both his hands over hers. She looked down at his hands then up at his face and shook her head. ‘How is anyone ever supposed to get past this?’

  ‘They’re not,’ Miller said. ‘They can’t. You can . . . catch up with it, if you’re lucky.’

  Xiu leaned across. ‘We can put you in touch with a grief counsellor.’ She threw Miller a look when he scoffed. ‘That can be a big help.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Miller said. ‘If they start talking about “honouring the spirit” or the gift of “sacred silence” feel free to throw up. Oh, and if anyone mentions “moving on”, my advice would be to slap them.’

  ‘Miller!’ Xiu was shaking her head.

  ‘Actually, a bit of slapping probably works wonders.’ Miller nodded, wishing that he’d done a lot more of it himself. He watched Natalie glance back towards the viewing suite. Behind the doors, Andy’s body would by now have been eased silently into a chilled steel drawer. Miller had imagined Alex inside one of them so many times; hating it because he knew how much she felt the cold.

  ‘Why would anyone have wanted to hurt Andy?’

  ‘Obviously, investigations are ongoing,’ Xiu said.

  Miller knew exactly why, but knowing wouldn’t do Natalie Bagnall any good.

  ‘I mean, who . . . ?’ She shook her head again, took a sip of lukewarm tea.

  Miller thought he knew the answer to that one, too. Natalie Bagnall would find out soon enough, once Miller had arrested her brother’s killer, and sometime after that she would be able to enjoy staring at Dennis Draper in the dock, enjoying his last hours of freedom. Until then, ignorance was . . . well, bliss was clearly not the right word considering the circumstances, but it was better than the alternative.

  ‘We’re quite keen to trace one of Andy’s friends,’ Miller said. ‘So, we were wondering if you might be able to help with that.’

  ‘He didn’t have a lot of friends,’ Natalie said.

  ‘Maybe someone he’d been hanging about with recently?’

  She thought for a few seconds, considering another sip of tea before deciding against it. ‘I know there was a lad he was knocking about with. Someone he knew from school, I think. Andy would go round to his place or this lad would come over to ours at night when I was at work.’ There was a shrug and a half-smile. ‘I knew they were up to something.’ She looked at Miller. ‘Andy was harmless, he really was . . . but I know he could get himself into scrapes. He was easily led.’

  ‘Do you know what this lad was called?’ Xiu asked.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t.’

  ‘James, maybe?’ Miller waited. ‘Jimmy . . . ?’

  ‘Andy never said.’

  ‘Was he at school with anyone named James?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I think there’s a school photo somewhere, you know, with names on.’ She blinked slowly. ‘If I can find it. Talking of which, when do you think I might be able to get back into the flat?’

  ‘Sorry, but it’ll be another couple of days yet,’ Xiu said.

  ‘I want to go back and clear everything up, you know? Get things back to the way they were.’

  Miller nodded, though he knew that was never going to happen. ‘Is there somewhere you can stay?’

  ‘I think I’ll be staying with my mum and dad for a bit.’ Natalie stared at the wall opposite, glassy-eyed. ‘They’re going to need a bit of looking after and there’ll be stuff to organise, the funeral and all that.’ She turned back to Miller. ‘Thinking about it, they might well have that photograph. Up in the loft, you know . . . ?’

  Miller told her there was no rush then watched as Fiona Mackie, a family liaison officer he’d known for many years, came through the door. They exchanged nods. Natalie Bagnall’s mention of work had reminded him of something: a question it couldn’t hurt to ask. ‘When you were at work last night, I don’t suppose anyone mentioned a man coming in mid-morning with a head injury? Actually, he’d still have been in there for your shift.’

  ‘There were probably several,’ Natalie said. ‘Nobody I saw, though.’

  Miller wasn’t sure what he’d have said if she had remembered treating a man with a briefcase-shaped head wound. There was little point in revealing that her tender mercies had been squandered on the arsehole who’d kickstarted this whole tragic chain of events.

  ‘Everyone was still talking about the poor so-and-so who’d come in earlier with his wedding tackle caught in his zip. Actually, it was one of my best mates who got the short straw and had to stitch it up.’

  Miller and Xiu exchanged a look.

  ‘Ouch,’ Miller said, making a mental note that – although there would certainly be important footage from the station and they already had the pictures Perks had handed over – the hospital CCTV would definitely be worth a look. This latest nugget of information had shot straight to the top of a growing list of things the victim’s sister didn’t need to be told. The fact that not only had the man who’d killed her brother been in her hospital, but her friend had sewn up his pecker.

  A few minutes later, Miller and Xiu watched Natalie Bagnall climbing into the back of Fiona Mackie’s car. She gave them a small wave before her head dropped and they drove away.

  ‘We should check the cameras at the hospital,’ Xiu said.

  ‘I’m way ahead of you,’ Miller said. ‘That’s not a surprise, though, is it? Working with me, every day is a learning experience, right?’

  ‘Not in the way you mean,’ Xiu said. ‘With luck we’ll get a nice close-up of Draper.’

  ‘Hopefully just his face though. Not the . . . injury.’

  ‘If you think he’s the bloke we’re after.’

  ‘I think that as far as suspects go, he’s top of a list of one and we need to get him quickly.’ Miller buttoned up his jacket against the cold. ‘Not that he can run very fast at the moment.’

  They began walking towards the car.

  ‘I was wondering if you fancied popping round to my place later.’ Miller smiled when Xiu’s mouth actually fell open. ‘No need to look quite so keen.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to show you something. Nine o’clock-ish?’

  ‘That’s very late.’

  ‘It won’t take long.

  ‘I don’t know . . . ’

  ‘No funny stuff, I promise.’ Miller raised his hands. ‘I don’t even like heavy metal.’

  Xiu was still looking somewhat horror-struck, fearful even. Aside from the occasion a few months before when, in an effort to save his life, she’d burst in with a firearms unit in tow, she had never visited Miller at home. It was an arrangement with which she was perfectly content because, though there were very few things Sara Xiu was afraid of, she knew the kind of pets Miller kept. ‘It’s just . . . ’ She grimaced. ‘The rats.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they won’t mind,’ Miller said.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘I have to say, Declan, your rumba tonight was tip-top.’ Mary raised her gin and tonic and took a sip. ‘Very . . . intense, and as we all know that’s down to what your legs and feet are doing and not your hips.’

  Mary’s husband Howard nodded. ‘Bloody good job an’ all. State of my hips.’

  ‘Hip, singular,’ Mary said. ‘There shouldn’t be anything wrong with the metal one.’ She looked around the group. ‘To be fair, you were all on good form this evening, but credit where it’s due, Declan’s rumba was particularly impressive.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue.’ Miller raised his glass, happy to accept the praise. He knew that he’d nailed it. ‘Not so sure about my cha-cha-cha, though.’

  ‘Well no, it was a little clumpy. And that’s being . . . ’

  ‘Cha-cha-charitable?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t that bad.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Best not dwell on your foxtrot, though.’ She shook her head. ‘Where was the swing, where was the sway?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mary, you know how much I hate the bloody foxtrot. It’s basically walking, only not as interesting.’ Miller tore open his bag of pork scratchings and began crunching.

  ‘Don’t sulk,’ Mary said. ‘It’s constructive criticism.’

  ‘I’m not sulking,’ Miller said, spitting half a scratching into Howard’s lap.

  The group was seated at its usual table in the corner of the Bull’s Head; a decidedly mixed bunch, both in terms of dancing ability and vintage. Retired coppers, ballroom veterans and husband and wife team Mary and Howard were well into their seventies. Gloria and Ransford, who ran a florist’s shop in town, were not very far behind, though neither had, as far as Miller was aware, had any major body parts replaced. Ruth, who did secretarial work from home, was in her early forties, while Nathan (who was twenty-seven with two left feet and a major crush on Ruth) somehow made a living out of playing computer games.

  It had been Alex who’d persuaded Miller to join the group several years earlier, then later to start dancing rather more seriously when it turned out they were pretty good at it. Howard, Mary and the rest of them felt Alex’s absence almost as keenly as he did and – though Miller would certainly not be dancing competitively any more – he was happy to be part of it all again. He looked forward to the weekly practice sessions in their glorified scout hut and, when he wasn’t getting it in the neck about his sodding foxtrot failings, he very much enjoyed the hour or so in the pub afterwards.

  ‘Oh, before I forget . . . ’ Mary leaned forward. Howard, as was his wont, leaned forward in sync with her. ‘I’ve been talking to someone who’s keen to join us. Some new blood! If everyone’s in agreement, obviously.’

  ‘A man or a woman?’ Nathan asked.

  ‘Well, a woman, obviously.’

  ‘Fine with me,’ Nathan said. There were nods and noises of assent around the table.

  Mary looked at Miller.

  ‘We don’t need anyone new,’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s not strictly necessary,’ Mary said. ‘But we’re an odd number, so—’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’ Miller downed a mouthful of IPA. ‘If me or Nathan play the piano, there’s an even number.’

  ‘Yes, but I do think four couples would be better.’

  ‘Mary’s usually spot on about this stuff,’ Howard said.

  ‘Why would it be better?’

  Mary hesitated. ‘Not . . . better, no . . . but it can’t hurt to ring the changes, can it? I just think that if everyone had a rather more regular partner, the level of all our routines would improve. Even your foxtrot, Declan!’

  Howard snorted, but it didn’t raise a smile from Miller.

  ‘Obviously there’s me and Howard.’ Mary grabbed her husband’s hand and nodded across the table. ‘Gloria and Ransford always dance together . . . ’

  ‘Me and Ruth,’ Nathan said.

  Ruth patted Nathan on the arm. ‘Yes, sometimes.’

  Mary nodded. ‘Absolutely. So I was only thinking that if you had a more . . . regular partner . . . ’ Miller was already shaking his head. ‘I mean, she might not want to come every week, anyway.’ She looked at Howard who was signalling very unsubtly that she should change the subject. ‘She’s ever such a nice woman.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Miller said.

  ‘She used to be a traffic warden, so you’d have plenty in common.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m just saying—’

  ‘Can we talk about something else?’

  For ten or fifteen seconds there was only the garbled conversation of drinkers on nearby tables and the mechanised bleeps of the fruit machine next to the bar. Gloria and Ransford stared at the carpet, while Howard and Mary tried to send messages to one another with looks that neither recipient quite understood.

  ‘OK, what shall we talk about?’ Ruth asked.

  In turn, Nathan, Howard and even the usually reticent Gloria quickly chipped in with conversational openers.

  ‘The new defender Blackpool just signed looks quite tasty . . . ’

  ‘That one way system by the Aquarium’s a right bugger, isn’t it . . . ?’

  ‘Rap music is basically just shouting, don’t you think . . . ?’

  ‘How about two severed hands in a briefcase?’ Miller asked.

  That got everyone’s attention.

  He’d been planning to tell them about the investigation anyway, because this diverse bunch had proved to be a useful sounding board in the past, but now seemed like as good a time as any.

  He would have the rap discussion with Gloria another day.

  Once Miller had given them the basics, he volunteered to get another round in. By the time he was back with the drinks (a G&T, two IPAs, two large glasses of white wine and a bottle of WKD), there were plenty of questions. They weren’t all what Miller would consider searching.

  ‘How do you cut someone’s hands off?’ Nathan asked.

  ‘Hacksaw?’ Howard suggested. ‘Chainsaw if you’re pushed for time, like.’

  ‘An axe would be quickest,’ Ransford said. ‘Got to be sharp, though, to get through the bone.’

  ‘We don’t know how the hands were removed yet,’ Miller said. ‘And, if I’m honest, I was hoping for a bit more . . . insight from this group of enquiring minds. And Nathan.’

  Nathan was about to protest, but Mary didn’t give him the chance. ‘You think Draper will be going after the victim’s friend?’

  ‘He wants that briefcase,’ Miller said.

  ‘So, it’s the obvious move,’ Ruth said.

  ‘But you don’t know who this friend is?’

  ‘Not as yet, but hopefully we’ll get something from the CCTV at the station. We’ll get a picture at least.’

  ‘You think Draper knows who it is?’ Howard asked.

  ‘Let’s hope not.’

  ‘There’ll be something on the victim’s phone, right?’ Nathan was looking around the table, seeking some reaction to his own enquiring mind. ‘Texts between him and his mate or whatever, bound to be.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Gloria said. ‘Youngsters like that have everything on their phones.’

  Miller knew they were on to something, but he also knew that a mobile phone had not been anywhere on the list of evidence taken from Andy Bagnall’s flat. ‘Actually, we didn’t find the victim’s phone.’

  ‘Ah,’ Mary said.

  Ah was right. If Draper had Bagnall’s phone, he was already several steps ahead of them.

  ‘Sounds like you need to get a shift on,’ Ruth said.

  ‘You could try the lad’s mobile provider,’ Howard said. ‘Get them to send records or what have you, but we all know how long that’s likely to take.’

  Miller knew he could learn Chinese faster.

  ‘It strikes me that what you need is a two-pronged attack.’ Ransford spoke slowly in his Lancastrian-cum-Jamaican lilt. He leaned forward, using his fingers to illustrate what two prongs might look like. ‘You must find that young man who helped steal the briefcase, but at the same time you also need to go after the man who killed his friend—’

  ‘And chopped that bloke’s hands off.’ Nathan leaned quickly across and whispered to Ruth. ‘My money’s still on a chainsaw.’

  ‘Correct,’ Ransford said. ‘And if you’re lucky you can find him before he finds this young man you’re yet to identify.’

  Miller nodded and drank. He couldn’t argue with the florist’s summing up of the situation but still. It was strange how people trying to be helpful could make things seem so much more bloody difficult.

  ‘So, where do you start?’ Howard asked. ‘With the first prong, I mean.’

  ‘Which prong’s that, love?’ Mary asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Which prong? Just so I’m clear . . . ’

  ‘The . . . choppy-off hands bloke.’ Howard performed an appropriate mime, in case there was any confusion.

  ‘Cutler,’ Miller said. ‘The one who paid for the . . . choppy-off hands. I think I should pay him a visit and see how his poorly head is.’

  ‘You take care then, Declan,’ Mary said. She and Howard had retired from the police back when Wayne Cutler was still nicking cars and flogging single spliffs in a paper bag, but they knew well enough what he’d become.