Fifteen
A fulsome congregation of the finest haricot beans, bathed in a rich tomato sauce and mounted atop a slice of toasted sourdough infused with the merest breath of a yeast-based and uniquely aromatic spread. The ensemble generously dusted with a scattering of extra-mature, cave-aged Cheddar.
It was a recipe of Miller’s own invention, one he considered to be his signature dish.
He would never expect it to win him any accolades on Come Dine With Me, but there was nothing better when the munchies kicked in after a hard day’s work, a hard night’s ballroom dancing, and a couple of pints of IPA.
Now, settled in his front room with a plate of what he thought of, less formally, as cheese-on-beans-on-Marmite-on-toast sitting in front of him, not even the gentle mockery of his dead wife was going to spoil Miller’s enjoyment.
‘You’ve got to admit, it wasn’t your finest hour,’ Alex said.
Miller said nothing, happy to let her have her fun.
‘The case of the drowned drug-dealer, I mean. How long did it take Mary and Howard to crack it? About ten seconds, was it?’
Chewing enthusiastically, Miller looked up and across at her.
She was lying back on the sofa, with her fingers interlaced behind her head and her feet up, looking significantly more content than anyone quite so dead had a right to.
A good deal more gorgeous as well, but that was always the way.
Whenever Miller imagined his murdered wife, whatever she was up to and whatever he imagined her wearing, she was always …
stunning. He had long since ceased being surprised, though, because for the life of him he couldn’t think of a single reason why he would ever imagine Alex any other way.
‘And let’s be honest, I’m talking to someone who’s had more than their fair share of hours that were … less than fine.’ She raised her head just enough to show the smile. ‘An awful lot less, in some cases.’
Miller carried on chewing. He was not going to rise to the bait. Not until he’d finished this mouthful, anyway.
‘Let’s not dwell on that poor lad you were supposed to talk down from the top of the Tower.’
Miller swallowed quickly. ‘No, let’s not.’
‘I suppose strictly speaking you did talk him down, only he went down a little bit quicker than he was supposed to.’
‘Very funny,’ Miller said. ‘But also very mean. I know you’re only winding me up, but why I am imagining you being mean?’
‘You’re the only one who can answer that.’
‘I know, but you were never mean.’
Alex cocked her head, like she was thinking about it. ‘Maybe so you’ll start to miss me a bit less?’
‘Now you’re just being a smartarse.’ Miller picked up his dirty plate and cutlery, carried them through to the kitchen, and put the kettle on.
Alex shouted after him. ‘Actually, it was a lot more than an hour when you think about it. The time you wasted running around trying to work out who’d murdered Ezra Simmons … you know, when you still thought it was murder.’
Miller stuck his head round the kitchen door. ‘Come on, it was a fair assumption at the time.’
‘Was it?’
‘It looked like he’d had his noodle bashed in.’
‘Looked like? Oh well, barely worth a second thought, then.’
‘I wasn’t the only one thinking it.’ Miller was aware that he was starting to sound a bit …
whiny. Defensive. He remembered sounding much the same way many years before, standing nervously in front of the headmaster’s desk, having been nabbed behind the school changing rooms with a John Player Superking in his hand.
‘They’re not even my fags, sir …’
Remembering how proud of himself he’d felt – still felt – that he hadn’t said whose fags they were, Miller ambled back into the room carrying a mug of tea and sat on the edge of the sofa.
‘I just think you could have worked it out a bit sooner,’ Alex said.
‘Oh, you do?’
‘I expect rather more from the detective I married, what can I say?’
‘I was a bit distracted.’ Miller nodded towards the envelope that was still sitting on the mantelpiece. ‘That letter.’
‘You didn’t get that until after you’d caught the Simmons case.’
‘No, but it was still before Barry Cheshire turned up. I’m just saying, I had stuff on my mind—’ Miller stopped when his mobile began to ring and reached over to pick it up from the table.
When he saw who was calling, he instinctively glanced across at the letter again, then turned back to find that Alex was no longer there.
He was a little disappointed, if not altogether surprised.
His wife usually made herself scarce whenever her daughter turned up.
‘Hey, Finn.’
‘Hey, Miller.’
There was a time when Miller’s first thought would have been that Finn was calling because she needed getting out of trouble or simply to ask for money.
More often than not that had been exactly why she was calling and it was par for the course, what with her being a homeless drug addict, but that hadn’t been the way of things for a while.
Miller used to tell himself not to spend too long thinking about where the money she needed had come from, but he quickly learned about the benefits Finn was able to claim and the small amount of cash she made begging for a few hours every day.
It wasn’t as though he never gave her money, but with the girl acting as his eyes and ears on some of the town’s meaner streets, he could kid himself that the occasional twenty-pound note was no more than payment for information received.
The two of them could both kid themselves.
These days Finn could be calling him for any number of reasons.
Some daft story she’d heard or something funny she’d seen.
It hadn’t been that long ago that she’d called on behalf of a friend who was in trouble, which in turn had led to the lad turning up on Miller’s doorstep with a briefcase containing a pair of severed hands.
He hoped that tonight’s call would not result in anything quite so dramatic.
‘What are you up to?’
‘Same as usual,’ Finn said. There was traffic noise in the background. It sounded as if she was on the move.
‘Right …’
‘I saw a Beatles album in a charity shop and I thought you might like it, that’s all.’
‘Oh, which one?’
‘The one near the aquarium, opposite the Greggs.’
‘No, which album?’
‘The one where they’re on the zebra crossing.’
Miller laughed. ‘Don’t try and be all cool and Gen Z and pretend you don’t know what it’s called.’
‘Do you want it or not?’
‘How much was it?’
‘Twenty-five quid.’
‘In a charity shop?’
‘I think it might be original.’
‘Listen, it’s really nice of you to call and tell me, but I’ve already got multiple copies. On vinyl, on CD, on cassette … on a wax cylinder, probably. So I really don’t think I need another one.’
‘OK, whatever. I asked the bloke in the shop to put it aside for you, that’s all, but it’s not a problem.’
Despite making out that she didn’t care either way, Miller thought that she sounded a little deflated. He could imagine the face she was pulling; an expression she’d inherited from her mother. ‘Fine. I’ll go in and pick it up next time I’m passing,’ he said. ‘Fair enough?’
‘Up to you,’ Finn said.
‘So, how are you, anyway?’
‘How am I?’
It was, of course, a ridiculous question.
How were most homeless drug addicts? What the hell was he expecting her to say?
Even if he still slipped up now and again, Miller had learned to at least try to keep the stupider questions to himself.
He’d also stopped trying to work out if Finn was high or not, once he’d realised that she usually was, even though it wasn’t always obvious. ‘Sorry. I just—’
‘What are you asking me that for?’
Miller winced at the familiar spikiness which had been, if anything, a little less in evidence than usual recently. ‘No reason,’ he said. ‘It’s just … lately you’ve started ringing me up like … I don’t know, you just want a natter or something. Don’t get me wrong, that’s fantastic, but—’
‘Well, I won’t sodding bother next time.’
‘Don’t be daft … I’m just saying it’s quite a new thing, that’s all.
Like all of a sudden you’re the one wanting to talk, so I was just checking to make sure there was nothing bothering you.
You know, apart from the shocking price of narcotics these days and the whole sleeping on the streets thing. ’
She said nothing for a few seconds, until Miller was just about to ask if she was still there. ‘I’m good, Miller.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Well, that’s a stupid thing to say, but I’ll give it a go.
As long as you’re … good.’ He’d learned that there was little point addressing the smacked-out elephant in the room by talking to Finn about getting clean; that it would only ever happen if and when she decided it was the right time to try.
Things were better between them than they’d been at any time since Alex had been killed, and Miller wasn’t going to jeopardise the relationship he’d built so carefully by pushing too hard.
He was trying to be a little less needy, to not show when his feelings had been hurt and to stay in the background of Finn’s life until she asked him to step forward. To not make a fuss and to quietly carry on trying to be the dad she no longer had.
That, in truth, she’d never had.
Finn yawned. ‘I need to go and get something to eat.’
‘Chippy?’
‘The one opposite the North Pier. Bloke in there usually lets me have a few leftovers at the end of the night.’
‘People are nice,’ Miller said.
‘Mostly,’ Finn said.
A few minutes later, as Miller was carrying his lukewarm tea upstairs, he suddenly remembered exactly who he’d been protecting on that wet Wednesday afternoon in the headmaster’s office.
The owner of those John Player Superkings.
He would remind Imran the next time he saw him, make it very clear there was still a debt to settle and that he’d more than earned his chance to drive the big mower.
When Miller’s phone rang again, it felt as though he’d only been asleep a matter of minutes, largely because he had only been asleep a matter of minutes; four, to be precise. He snatched at his mobile, saw who was calling and stabbed at the screen.
‘So this is where, traditionally, I would say something like “This better be good, Posh”, but the fact is that, presuming this isn’t a butt-dial or a seriously drunken booty call, the reason for it needs to be way better than good. It had better be supernaturally good.’
‘We’ve got a body,’ Xiu said.
‘OK, now I’m going to assume that was a slip of the tongue and you meant to say they’ve got a body.
The “they” in question being the altogether splendid men and women of the Homicide Unit’s night shift, who should be on call for this kind of thing – you know, bodies and suchlike – right about … now. During the night.’
‘Yes, it would normally have been the night shift, obviously, and they did catch the call, but then it flagged up as being connected to a case we’re already working … that’s been worked, in fact. That’s why they thought we’d want it.’
‘Again with the we,’ Miller said. ‘You might want it, but I’m tucked up in bed, so—’
‘Miller! You really need to shut up.’
He did what he was told. He listened while Xiu gave him the details, then sat up, kicked off the duvet and swung his legs on to the floor.
He began swearing.
‘I told you,’ Xiu said.
Miller had recognised Barry Cheshire’s address.