‘Because I’m only imagining you.’

  ‘Well, I’m not a bloody ghost, am I?’ She was shaking her head and smiling as she walked back towards the kitchen. ‘Come on, Miller, have you lost it . . . ?’

  ‘No, obviously not.’ He laid the phone back down on the table and pushed the piece of cardboard away. He fell back and closed his eyes, hoping that he might at least manage a couple of hours’ sleep before the sun struggled up and he was forced to do the same. ‘I think I might have temporarily . . . mislaid it. That’s all.’

  FIFTEEN

  The early morning briefing had lived up to its name, lasting no more than fifteen minutes (including coffee and pencil sharpening). Within the first five, it had become obvious to Miller that their esteemed leader was starting to panic a little at the lack of immediate progress. That’s the kind of copper Tim Sullivan was, though; the kind that would start flapping if there wasn’t a super-quick result. Making all the right noises, obviously, demanding more effort and commitment from everyone on his team, then nipping back to his office to play with paper clips or finish a sudoku. Of course, he was also the kind that would happily step up and accept the plaudits if and when there was a result.

  A glory hunter, that’s what some people would have called him.

  In the three or four years he had been unlucky enough to work with the man who was now his boss, Miller had amassed an impressive collection of altogether different words and phrases.

  Today, he favoured pointless spunktrumpet.

  Now, settling down in the interview room, Miller wondered what kind of copper his colleagues would say that he was. Maybe he should stop wondering and just ask them. He could put up a form on the noticeboard or, better yet, distribute questionnaires. Is your fellow officer DS Declan Miller, (A) Quirky but exceptional. (B) Unorthodox but brilliant. (C) Other.

  He decided against it.

  While Sara Xiu gathered her papers together next to him, Miller studied the young woman on the other side of the table. He smiled at her and she rolled her eyes. She’d already been offered tea and a biscuit, been thanked in advance for her cooperation, and still her pinched expression and surly body language made it perfectly clear that being there at all was only marginally more tolerable than root canal work or listening to Piers Morgan.

  She didn’t look like a ‘Scarlett Ribbons’, Miller thought, certainly not the glamourpuss in that CCTV image. Then again, he reminded himself, she wasn’t dressed for work. Not unless her clients had a thing for grubby hoodies and beanie hats.

  ‘Thanks for coming in so early,’ Xiu said.

  ‘Like I had any choice.’

  ‘All the same.’

  ‘Do you mind if I call you Scarlett?’ Miller leaned forward. ‘Miss Ribbons seems a bit . . . formal.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Plus, it makes you sound like a character in a surprisingly racy “Little Miss” book.’ He turned to Xiu. ‘Little Miss Ribbons took the punter’s money and stepped slowly out of her fishnet tights . . . see what I mean?’

  Xiu clearly didn’t.

  ‘Look, as long as we get this over with as quickly as possible you can call me whatever you want.’

  Miller gave her a thumbs-up.

  ‘Or we could just call you Pauline,’ Xiu said. ‘Because that’s, you know . . . your name? Pauline Baker.’

  Pauline/Scarlett finally smiled but managed to make it look like she was giving them two fingers.

  Xiu got down to business. ‘Two nights ago, you were booked to provide . . . personal services to a guest at the Sands Hotel.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Oh yes, you definitely were,’ Miller said. ‘Say what you like about Bootylicious Babes, you can’t fault their record-keeping.’

  ‘Oh, and there’s this.’ Xiu slid the CCTV photograph of Scarlett in the hotel lobby across the table.

  Scarlett didn’t even bother looking at it. ‘OK, so I was at the Sands.’

  It was Miller’s moment to act on the hunch he’d discussed with Xiu before Scarlett had arrived.

  ‘Look,’ he’d said. ‘All we’ve got so far is the photo of her in the lobby, right? We don’t know yet if the hair found in Adrian Cutler’s bed is hers. So, what if he wasn’t the one she was there to see?’

  ‘Worth a bash,’ Xiu had said.

  ‘I mean, of the two of them, Shepherd’s the one you’d think might have to pay for . . . personal services.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

  ‘I’m not wrong though, am I?’

  Now, Miller slid a photograph of Barry Shepherd across the table. ‘Was this the man you visited at the hotel two nights ago?’

  Scarlett shook her head. ‘He looks as though he could do with it, though.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Even if his hunch about the identity of Scarlett’s client had been wide of the mark, Miller was pleased he’d been right about something.

  ‘So . . . you went to see Adrian Cutler,’ Xiu said.

  ‘Yeah, course.’ Scarlett was starting to sound bored. ‘Why didn’t you just ask me? His family’s got some kind of stake in the agency and Adrian liked to sample his own goods. Check out what was on offer.’

  ‘Talking of checking out . . .’ Miller said.

  Xiu picked up the cue. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that Mr Cutler won’t be requiring your services again.’

  Scarlett didn’t look shocked. She looked like someone had just told her it was Wednesday or she needed to empty her vacuum cleaner.

  ‘Yeah, everyone’s talking about what happened to Adrian. It’s a real bloody shame.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Xiu said. ‘Not to mention the fact that you’ve lost what I’m guessing was quite a lucrative little arrangement.’

  Scarlett looked at her.

  ‘I think that’s what she meant,’ Miller said.

  Xiu nodded, like she was well aware of that. ‘When you were with Mr Cutler, did he ever say anything to you about someone wanting to hurt him?’

  ‘Only me,’ Scarlett said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nothing too . . . rough or anything.’ The young woman leaned forward and eyeballed Miller, starting to enjoy herself suddenly. ‘Some blokes like that.’

  Miller sat back and folded his arms. ‘See . . . I’ve never really got it with S&M. Far too easy to confuse it with M&S if you ask me. Mind you, if you were dripping candle wax on to somebody’s nipples while wearing a sensible and reasonably priced cardigan, you’d actually be combining the two.’ He shrugged. ‘So . . .’

  ‘How was Mr Cutler when you left him?’ Xiu asked.

  Scarlett smiled. ‘Happy.’

  ‘Well and happy?’

  ‘Are you for real?’

  ‘Could you please answer the question?’

  If Xiu thought her tone was in any way intimidating, she was clearly mistaken. Scarlett appeared to be perfectly confident, amused even. ‘Listen, Adrian liked a little bit of pain, all right? Because it got him off. So yeah, I whacked him across the arse with a belt now and again, but I think shooting him in the face would have been a bit over the top. Don’t you?’

  Xiu began gathering up her papers. She was about done.

  Miller wasn’t, though.

  ‘Takes all sorts, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Personally, I’d need a safe word if we were playing conkers.’

  Watching Scarlett Ribbons walk away, Xiu said, ‘So you think we should eliminate her?’

  ‘That’s probably a bit over the top,’ Miller said.

  Xiu sighed and waited.

  ‘Oh, from the inquiry, you mean?’

  ‘Even if Adrian Cutler was alive and well when she’d finished, you know . . .’

  ‘Spanking him with a wooden spoon?’

  ‘. . . doing whatever, that isn’t proof she wasn’t involved. I know they’d had an arrangement for a while, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t set up by someone else.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Miller said.

  ‘Someone who wanted Adrian dead and had been planning it for quite a while. Or maybe Scarlett was still in the room with Adrian when the shooter arrived. Because of the spyholes, we’ve been presuming the victim knew who was at the door, but what if it was Scarlett who opened the door and let the killer in?’

  Miller doubted it, but all the same he remembered his ‘conversation’ with Alex the night before. She’d suggested something similar. If Xiu was someone who thought along the same lines and had the same instincts as Alex, then Miller knew he’d got very lucky with his new partner.

  Well, I like her.

  Of course, Xiu was only thinking along the same lines as he had, and those same instincts had been his.

  But that wasn’t the point.

  Xiu began walking back towards the incident room.

  ‘So, what’s next?’ she asked.

  Miller followed her. Well, promotion would be nice, he thought. So I wouldn’t have to answer to a pointless spunktrumpet, and the subsequent pay increase would mean I could buy a new moped or a plastic buffet ball for Fred and Ginger. ‘The widows,’ he said.

  SIXTEEN

  Xiu ended the call she had taken as they were walking up to the front door. ‘That was the receptionist who was on duty the night Cutler and Shepherd checked in,’ she said. ‘Apparently, Shepherd specifically requested a room near his “friend”.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Miller said.

  ‘So, maybe they weren’t quite the strangers we thought they were.’

  ‘Just “friends we haven’t met yet”.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Strangers are just friends we haven’t met yet. I heard someone say it on the radio this morning.’

  ‘Oh, I like that.’

  ‘Why?’ Miller stared at her. ‘It’s ridiculous. Strangers are strangers. Precisely because we haven’t . . . met. Them. Yet. People get on my nerves sometimes.’

  The door was opened. ‘Lovely to see you, Dec.’

  ‘Lovely to see you too, Fiona,’ Miller said. ‘Shame it’s not under more pleasant circumstances.’

  It was a well-established greeting that he and Fiona Mackie had never tired of. A daft joke that still made her smile, because Mackie was a Family Liaison Officer and she and Miller only ever met under unpleasant circumstances. She had tried to change the routine up once, suggesting that perhaps they could see each other for a pleasant evening at the theatre or one afternoon at a picnic. Miller had winced and quickly pointed out that a picnic was one of the least pleasant things he could think of, what with bad weather and food you could just as easily have at home and wasps or whatever, so Mackie had stuck to the previously agreed exchange from then on.

  Miller introduced Xiu, then Mackie stepped back to let them into the house. She nodded towards the living room. ‘Mrs Shepherd’s in there. You want something to drink? Tea? Coffee?’

  Xiu was hanging up her coat. ‘A coffee would be lovely, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll have a Cosmopolitan,’ Miller said. ‘But don’t bother if it’s too much of a faff.’

  Xiu and Mackie exchanged a look. What are you going to do?

  Pippa Shepherd was hunched up on the sofa. The TV was on – some programme about doing up old houses – but the sound had been turned down. Miller wandered straight across to the window.

  ‘Mrs Shepherd?’ Xiu waited, but the woman did not look up. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Xiu and this is Detective Sergeant Miller. We met yesterday when you came to identify your husband’s body.’ She sat down in the armchair opposite. ‘We’re very sorry for your loss.’

  Pippa finally glanced up and managed a small nod. It was obvious that she hadn’t slept.

  ‘We just have a couple of questions, if that’s OK?’

  Pippa nodded again.

  ‘What colour would you say these are?’ Miller pointed to the curtains, which were still closed. ‘Is that pea-green or would you call it avocado?’

  Pippa turned and stared. ‘I don’t . . . I’ve got no idea.’ She turned back and looked at Xiu like she needed help.

  Miller walked across and perched on the arm of Xiu’s chair. ‘It’s fine, don’t worry . . . but I’m leaning towards avocado.’

  ‘We won’t be long, I promise.’ Xiu gave Miller a long, hard look. ‘We were hoping you might be able to tell us why Barry was at the Sands Hotel the night before last.’

  Pippa shook her head.

  ‘Is that where you thought he was?’

  It took a few moments and, when she finally spoke again, the woman’s voice was barely above a whisper. Miller and Xiu both had to lean across to hear her.

  ‘He told me he was at an IT conference in Liverpool.’ A half smile. ‘He said it would be really dull, but that he couldn’t get out of it.’

  ‘Did you speak to him that night?’ Miller asked.

  ‘I tried to call, but he wasn’t answering.’

  ‘But you had no reason to worry?’

  ‘No. Just . . . it was odd that I couldn’t get hold of him, that’s all.’

  ‘Was there anything about his behaviour recently that was different?’ Xiu leaned a little closer. ‘Out of the ordinary?’

  ‘There was never anything different about him. He was always just . . . Barry. He was reliable, you know? Nice and reliable, so how can something like this happen?’ She was starting to get upset, tears brimming as she clutched at the sofa cushions. ‘Was it some kind of mistaken identity thing?’

  ‘We’re still making enquiries, so—’

  ‘I mean, it must have been, right?’

  Xiu looked at Miller. ‘Maybe we should come back tomorrow—’

  ‘And why have they taken his computer? They came first thing and took away all sorts of his bits and pieces and it doesn’t make sense, because that’s what they do when they suspect someone of something, isn’t it? I’ve seen it on the TV shows.’

  ‘It’s just routine, Mrs Shepherd,’ Xiu said. ‘I promise you.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Miller lowered his voice, as though he had a secret to reveal. ‘Plus, you don’t want to believe anything they do on those daft TV shows.’ He smiled when she looked at him. ‘Trust me, I’ve never met a single copper who likes opera or drives a quirky yet distinctive car.’

  ‘How could you suspect Barry of anything, though? I mean, he’s the one that’s . . . dead.’

  ‘Well, he’s one of them,’ Miller said.

  The woman stared at them, stunned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s definitely an odd one, but the fact is that another man was killed at the same time as Barry. In the room right next door as a matter of fact. A man named Adrian Cutler. Does that name mean anything to you?’

  The woman was still staring. She shook her head. ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘So, obviously, we’re working on the theory that the two murders are connected.’

  Pippa began to cry again. ‘No . . . that doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Well, it would be one hell of a coincidence if they weren’t, Mrs Shepherd.’ Miller reached for the box of tissues on a side table and handed them across. ‘Don’t you think?’

  Fifteen minutes later, Fiona Mackie was seeing Miller and Xiu out.

  ‘To be honest, that’s the most she’s said since I’ve been here. I spend most of my time just trying to get her to eat something—’ She stopped, seeing that Xiu and Miller were staring at something behind her. She turned and saw Pippa Shepherd drifting towards them along the hallway, so stood aside so that the woman could come to her doorstep.

  ‘It doesn’t feel real,’ she said. ‘It’s like I’m in some stupid film. Like you are, too.’ She looked at Miller. ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’

  Miller walked slowly towards her and Xiu and Mackie could do little but move out of the way and watch.

  ‘You carry on,’ Miller said. ‘That’s what you do. You make . . . the arrangements. You say goodbye and then you come home and you do the things that seem inconceivable right now. Horrible things. You bag up clothes for Oxfam and you carry boxes into the loft. You move things around. You eat and you sleep and you wake up again, even though it seems pointless, because it’s not just your husband that’s gone, but your entire future. That’s what’s been taken away. The trips you won’t ever take together, the holidays and the long weekends. The children and the grandchildren the pair of you can’t ever fuss over. That’s how it feels right now, I know that . . . but I promise you that’s not how it’s always going to feel.’

  He took another step towards her and opened his arms.

  ‘Come on . . .’

  Pippa Shepherd stepped out on to the path, closed her eyes and gratefully let Miller pull her into an embrace.

  Xiu and Mackie looked at each other again. What are you going to do?

  ‘Something like this happens, the very worst thing, and we don’t think there’s any way there can ever be light again. But there is. There will be. Until then, we put one foot in front of the other and we carry on. We just . . . carry on. Because we have to.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Forty minutes later they sat, parked up in an altogether swankier postcode a few miles out of town. Xiu had insisted on turning off the radio at which Miller had been ranting all the way there. Now, she stared out at houses that looked like they might have gift shops attached, or mazes in the back garden, while Miller watched a video on her phone.

  It only gave him another reason to rant.

  ‘Social media platforms are supposed to have standards of some sort. They should block content that’s this offensive.’

  ‘There’s dozens of these on YouTube,’ Xiu said.

  Miller shook his head. ‘This is bloody torture.’

  The face of Barry Shepherd filled the small screen. Sandy hair, wire-rimmed glasses, shaving rash. The words that had materialised when the video started – INFORMATION TECHNOLOGY: TUTORIAL 6 – had been enough on their own to fill Miller with an apocalyptic dread, but the content, delivered in an unfortunate monotone that sounded like a Dalek on Mogadon, was an altogether different level of horrific.