‘As an IT infrastructure technician, you’ll be supporting clients, assisting with troubleshooting and providing solutions so as to problem-solve business-wide infrastructure concerns.’

  ‘I think I’m actually slipping into a coma,’ Miller said.

  ‘You’ll be responsible for workflow management, as well as applying structured IT techniques to both common and non-routine computing issues . . .’

  ‘I mean, look at the poor bloke,’ Xiu said. ‘He’s just . . . I don’t want to say boring—’

  ‘So don’t say “boring”,’ Miller said. ‘Try “unutterably tedious”. Or “Oh my God, this makes watching paint dry seem like white water rafting”.’

  ‘Yeah, OK . . . but why would anyone want to kill him?’

  ‘So there wouldn’t be any more of these.’ Miller thrust the phone back at her, then reached for his own when it pinged. ‘If he wasn’t already dead, I’d be tempted to do it myself.’

  Xiu’s look of disapproval was no more than fleeting, having already realised that censure of any sort was all but designed to encourage him. She watched him reading the email he’d just received. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Spam,’ Miller said.

  ‘You shouldn’t open them.’

  ‘Well, you don’t know they are spam until you open them. Besides which, there’s a Nigerian prince making me some seriously interesting business propositions. Not to mention what I’ve been promised in terms of . . . physical enhancements.’

  ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t mention it,’ Xiu said. ‘Ever again.’ She turned to stare up at the house they were here to visit. ‘Shall we go and see how the other widow’s getting on?’

  ‘You fancy going on your own?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  Miller climbed slowly out of the car and followed Xiu as she marched up the long drive to the house. He hung a little way behind, in no hurry to catch her up, and by the time he did Xiu had already rung the bell. Inside this house were the bereaved relatives of a murder victim, Miller knew that. He needed to be here. All the same, calling on this particular address without an arrest warrant made him distinctly uncomfortable and suddenly a viewing of Barry Shepherd’s seventh IT tutorial seemed like an attractive alternative.

  The door was opened by a man who looked like a slightly older version of Adrian Cutler, probably because he was.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Xiu said. ‘I’m—’

  Justin Cutler – Adrian’s older brother – raised a hand and squinted at the ID Xiu was brandishing. ‘This isn’t a good time, all right? There’s been a family bereavement.’

  Miller stepped towards him and raised his own ID. He held it close to Justin’s face, in case Justin thought it was a Tesco loyalty card. ‘Well, duh!’

  Justin showed Miller and Xiu through to a vast living room. Miller guessed it had been furnished at Kingdom Of Leather, with décor courtesy of Republic Of Crystal and accessories supplied by Dictatorship Of Leopardskin.

  He did not need any introduction to most of the occupants.

  Michelle Cutler was sitting on a sofa, squeezed between her mother-in-law Jacqui and one of Adrian’s sisters. Wayne Cutler sat clutching a tumbler of what looked like whisky in an armchair beneath the window. There were several other men dotted around the room, perched on chairs clutching bottles of beer or leaning against the wall. They were probably cousins, Miller thought, or just blokes brought in by Wayne Cutler – generous supporter of the gig economy that he was – and employed on zero-hours contracts whenever there were legs to be broken or testicles that needed wiring up to car batteries.

  Justin Cutler walked across to stand next to his father’s chair.

  ‘Please excuse the interruption,’ Xiu said. She introduced herself and looked at Michelle Cutler. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’ She turned to the dead man’s parents and siblings. ‘And for yours.’

  ‘Bless you, love,’ Jacqui Cutler said.

  ‘What about you, Detective Sergeant?’ Wayne Cutler was trying, without much success, to hide the fact that he was balding and the money he’d spent on having his teeth done had left him looking like there were too many of them to fit in his mouth. He was a big man, but there was rather more fat than muscle and he was not nearly as intimidating as he thought he was; not physically, anyway. He stood slowly up from his armchair and Miller was pleased to hear the clumsy power-move somewhat undercut by the soft farting noise from the leather.

  ‘What about me, what?’

  ‘You not sorry?’

  ‘Yes,’ Miller said. ‘I am.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice to hear.’

  ‘Yeah, nice,’ Justin said. ‘Presuming you mean it.’

  Cutler senior took a sip of whisky, his eyes never leaving Miller’s. ‘Though, to be honest, I am a little surprised to see you back on the job quite so soon.’

  Miller returned the man’s stare, watched him take another sip.

  You can stand there all day long, thinking you’re sending me some kind of message, but there is no way I will rise to this. You do not get that satisfaction. And no, I’m not sorry, not remotely, and don’t think for even one second that we have anything in common or that your grief is the same as mine, because it isn’t.

  It isn’t . . .

  ‘So, the whole . . . leopard print thing.’ Miller nodded towards the assorted throws and cushions. ‘Was there some kind of sale on, or—?’

  ‘We’d like a word with Mrs Cutler,’ Xiu said quickly. ‘If that’s OK. With Michelle, I mean.’

  Miller watched Michelle glance at her father-in-law, as though she was looking for permission.

  Cutler was still staring at Miller. ‘So, go on then. Have a word.’

  ‘It’s more of a private conversation,’ Xiu said.

  ‘It’s fine, Wayne.’ Michelle Cutler leaned across to kiss her mother-in-law, then got to her feet.

  ‘See, Wayne?’ Miller said. ‘It’s fine.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Michelle Cutler and Xiu sat on either side of a gleaming marble island while Miller, having set his phone to record and placed it on a worktop, wandered around, as usual. The kitchen could have contained his own five times over and was kitted out to a level he reckoned would have kept Gordon Ramsay happy. If Gordon Ramsay was ever happy. Miller was actually more of a Jamie Oliver man himself, because the chirpy Essex everyman didn’t swear quite as much as the spiky-haired Scot, or pronounce restaurant wrong, or punch underlings for over-crisping a rissole. He didn’t say pukka any more either, which was definitely a major point in his favour. Miller was no great shakes in the kitchen himself (spag bol, chilli, a fish pie if he was feeling fancy), but looking around at the spotless surfaces, he doubted that much cooking, cordon bleu or otherwise was done in Michelle Cutler’s culinary pleasure dome.

  ‘Yeah, I knew exactly why Adrian was at that hotel,’ Michelle said. ‘He always had a thing for tarts. For sleaze and tarts.’

  ‘Right,’ Xiu said.

  Miller glanced across at Xiu, both of them clearly wondering if Michelle knew precisely what manner of ‘sleaze’ her husband had been paying said ‘tarts’ for.

  ‘Made him feel like one of the lads or something.’ She caught her breath and sniffed. Much as she was doing her best to brazen it out, the spasm of grief was unmissable. She reached for a shiny green apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it. ‘Silly bastard.’

  ‘Blokes, eh?’ Miller said. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Divorce him, that’s what I was going to do. Doesn’t matter now though, I suppose.’ She looked up and saw Miller staring. ‘What’s the matter? Not had your lunch yet?’

  Miller shrugged. ‘I’m quite partial to a Granny Smith, that’s all.’

  Michelle picked up another apple and tossed it across.

  ‘Owzat!’ Miller held up the successfully caught apple, then proceeded to polish it against his thigh, before biting into it.

  ‘Did your husband ever say anything about threats?’ Xiu asked.

  ‘Only the ones from me.’

  Xiu waited.

  ‘If he didn’t stop treating me like I was daft.’

  ‘Apart from that, though?’

  ‘Nothing that I knew of.’

  ‘Did he seem . . . concerned about anything?’

  ‘The only thing Adrian was ever concerned about was Adrian. Oh, and his precious model trains, obviously. Don’t think any of the “lads” ever knew about that.’

  ‘I had a train set when I was a kid,’ Miller said, chewing.

  ‘Yeah, when you were a kid. Adrian never grew up, that was always his problem. Spent a fortune on those stupid trains. Well, unless his mummy was buying them for him, of course.’ She barked out a bitter laugh and nodded towards the basement. ‘I’m telling you, it’s like bloody Manchester Piccadilly down there.’

  ‘Did he wear a hat?’ Miller asked.

  Michelle looked at him. ‘Hat?’

  ‘A signalman’s hat or whatever.’ Miller was looking for somewhere to dispose of his apple core. ‘The real enthusiasts wear hats and blow whistles while they’re playing with their trains. No, it’s not my idea of a hobby either, but you’ve got to admire that level of commitment.’

  ‘So, there was nobody in particular that Adrian was worried about?’ Xiu had one eye on Miller, who had opened the pedal bin and was now staring down at its contents. ‘He didn’t mention any names?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t dream of telling you your job . . .’

  ‘At this stage, anything at all would be helpful.’

  ‘I presume you’ll be talking to Ralph Massey.’

  Miller walked across to the island, hands thrust into his pockets. ‘Any reason in particular that we should?’

  ‘I’m not in the mood to play games, Miller.’ Michelle looked upwards as the sound of noisy conversation drifted down from the sitting room. Wayne Cutler’s voice, raised. ‘I’m not . . . in the mood, OK?’

  Xiu slid down from her bar chair. ‘Please let us know if you think of anything else, Mrs Cutler.’

  Xiu and Miller walked towards the door, but Michelle didn’t move and it was obvious that she wasn’t really listening. She was still staring at the ceiling and looking nervous.

  ‘Anything at all,’ Miller said. ‘I’d be especially keen for clarification on the hat.’

  To the impartial observer, it might have looked as though Wayne Cutler was politely showing them out, but to Miller it felt rather more as if he and Xiu were being escorted from the premises.

  ‘You’ll do everything you can to find out who killed my son, right?’ He half closed his front door. ‘I don’t need to worry about that, do I?’

  Miller could not help but admire his partner’s reaction to what was clearly a threat wearing a see-through veil. Xiu was all business.

  ‘We’ll do our jobs, sir.’

  Cutler nodded. ‘Course you will, and DS Miller here’s the perfect man for the job, when you think about it. Because he knows what it’s like to lose someone. He knows how it feels.’ Now, he looked at Miller. ‘Don’t you?’

  Miller opened his mouth, not altogether sure what was going to come out of it and how much trouble it might get him into, but Cutler closed the door without waiting for a response.

  ‘I do,’ Miller said, quietly.

  They turned and trudged back down the long drive.

  ‘So, how come Michelle Cutler didn’t get a hug?’ Xiu asked.

  ‘I don’t think she needed one as much.’

  A few steps further on, Miller stopped, said, ‘Oh, yes,’ and fished out a handful of dark blue material from his pockets: the cut-up strips and stained scraps he had surreptitiously fished out of the pedal bin in Michelle’s kitchen. He held a few against his chest and struck a pose as though he was modelling the very latest in high-end menswear. ‘What do you reckon? I think I could rock some bespoke tailoring. Declan Miller is wearing a “deconstructed” two-piece by Armani . . .’

  Xiu stared. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’

  ‘One of Adrian Cutler’s fancy Italian suits. Well, it was, until Michelle Scissorhands got hold of it.’

  ‘So . . . what? You think—?’

  Miller shrugged. He shoved what was left of the suit back into his pocket and started walking towards the car. ‘Come on, I’m bloody starving.’

  NINETEEN

  They ate fish and chips out of paper on the promenade, waving away the ubiquitous attentions of seagulls, each of which looked just as capable of snatching up a small dog as a gobbet of haddock.

  ‘What is that?’ Miller said.

  Xiu popped a chip into her mouth. ‘What?’

  ‘That song you keep singing to yourself.’

  ‘Wait . . . do I?’

  ‘Sounds awful . . . something about zombies?’ Miller watched Xiu redden and look down, fascinated suddenly by what she’d been eating for the last few minutes. He very much wanted to know what she was so embarrassed about but decided not to push it. Not right then, anyway.

  ‘So . . .’ Xiu looked up, herself again. ‘You seriously think she had her old man killed because he couldn’t keep it in his pants?’

  ‘His boxer shorts, if you want to be accurate about it. With fetching penguin motif.’

  ‘I remember and my question still stands.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly a motive.’

  ‘A lot of men sleep around,’ Xiu said.

  ‘A lot of men who aren’t married to Michelle Cutler. She’s almost certainly got “hitman” in her phone book somewhere. Right between “hairdresser” and “homeopath”.’

  ‘I’m not convinced.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Miller said. ‘I doubt she has a homeopath.’

  They ate. On the beach below a woman shouted at her children, her voice more strident than the mechanised beats from the rides and arcades behind them, screechier than the wheeling gulls.

  ‘So, what the hell made you want to do this?’ Miller asked, suddenly.

  ‘It was your idea to have chips.’

  ‘This job.’

  Xiu looked a little thrown at the conversation taking a personal turn. She pointed to her mouth, just in case Miller couldn’t see that it was full of chips.

  ‘I can wait,’ Miller said.

  Xiu finally swallowed. ‘So . . . I used to be an estate agent.’

  ‘Oh, Christ, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘And I thought it was about time I did something a bit more useful.’

  ‘Which is just about anything—’

  ‘I’d thought about joining the police when I was at school and never did anything about it. Anyway . . . when I finally got fed up showing people round hideous flats, I just went online and googled how to become a detective.’

  ‘Well, that’s sound detective work in itself. You’re obviously a natural.’

  ‘I already had a degree, which meant I was eligible for the fast-track scheme, and that was it really. I did eighteen months with the Met before this, which was . . . pretty horrible.’

  Miller waited for her to elaborate.

  ‘Well . . . the obvious issues. Some people were harder than others to work with, because I had a funny-sounding name and, you know . . . a vagina.’

  ‘Really?’

  Xiu looked at him.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean “really, have you got a vagina?” I just presumed you had. No, not presumed, because you shouldn’t really presume anything in this day and age, should you? Just . . . my money would have been on a vagina. As it were.’ He nodded. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through all that business with the Met.’

  ‘What about you?’ Xiu asked. ‘How did you get into it?’

  ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘Give me the short version.’

  Miller dug out a fat chip and leaned back against the wall. ‘Well, my old man was a copper, same as his old man. A few uncles, too. So it was kind of the family business. I tried to resist the . . . pull of it at first, you know? Go my own way. Then, when he was dying, my dad . . . Sidney James Miller . . . said how much he wanted me to continue the tradition. Told me how proud it would make him if I was to . . . carry on coppering. So, what was I supposed to do?’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Xiu said.

  Miller felt a twinge of guilt. She doesn’t laugh at my jokes enough.

  ‘The truth is, I just quite liked the pointy helmets. Do you know, there’s still a law on the statute books saying that any pregnant woman in urgent need of emptying her bladder can legally urinate in a policeman’s helmet? Happened to me at the pleasure beach once and I smelled like a toilet for a month.’

  ‘I never know when you’re winding me up,’ Xiu said.

  ‘I get that.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Sadly not.’ Miller scrunched up his fish and chip paper and dropped it into a bin. He looked across the road at the building opposite, a name in lights which he still had nightmares about. ‘Let’s get this over with . . .’

  Xiu disposed of her own leavings, then the two of them waited for a gap in the traffic before walking across the road towards the Majestic Ballroom.

  As they walked along the corridor and up the steps to the main ballroom, Miller noticed that the purple carpet looked a little less plush in daylight, the stains and cigarette burns rather more obvious. The place smelled musty. There were lingering top notes of Lynx Africa and Carling Black Label, and they passed a pair of elderly cleaning ladies in branded pinafores fighting a losing battle with a ‘Henry’ vacuum and a can of Febreze.