Twenty-Eight
Miller stepped out of the charity shop, turned towards his illegally parked moped and was immediately greeted by a machine-gun burst of high-pitched barking.
He looked down at the tiny, wobbly dog, then up to see Barry Cheshire smiling and shrugging, as if to say ‘small world’.
Cheshire nodded down at Ruby, who was now straining at her leash.
‘She’s saying hello,’ he said. ‘She remembers you … remembers your smell, probably.’
‘Ah, the unique aroma of Boots’ coconut and vanilla shower gel, overcooked lasagne and rats.’
‘Rats?’
‘Just a hint, I’m guessing,’ Miller said. ‘A ratty … top-note. I don’t stink of them.’
‘Why …’
‘Oh, because I’ve got a couple at home.’ Miller leaned down and began to rub the dog’s ears. ‘Pets, I mean. I don’t have an infestation or anything.’
‘Fair enough.’ Cheshire pointed to the British Heart Foundation plastic bag Miller was carrying. ‘Something interesting?’
‘Well, that might be overstating it.’ Miller opened the bag and peered into it.
‘A Beatles album I’ve already got … a denim jacket which smells like someone died in it, and a Metallica T-shirt that’s a bit on the tight side.
’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’m going undercover.
’ He saw the confusion wash across Cheshire’s face. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Righto.’ Cheshire nodded at the dog again.
She had finally stopped barking and was happily sniffing at Miller’s ankles.
‘Listen, I’m just taking Ruby down to the beach for a quick run …
well, as close as she can get to a run these days.
Fancy joining us? I know dogs aren’t really allowed on the beach this time of year—’
‘No, and under normal circumstances I’d nick scum like you in a heartbeat. But I can’t be arsed with the paperwork, so you’re in luck.’
‘I usually just tell people she’s an emotional support animal.’
Miller had seen enough of Barry Cheshire and his dog to know that in this case (unlike a fair few he’d come across) the description was an accurate one. He checked his watch. ‘How long are we talking?’
‘Twenty minutes?’
‘Just give me a sec.’ Miller walked back into the charity shop, asked what time they closed and if they’d mind hanging on to his bag and crash helmet, then rejoined Cheshire outside. ‘Doughnuts on the way?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Cheshire said.
Having picked up a dozen mini doughnuts from a stall next to Madame Tussauds, they crossed the promenade, took the first set of steps down to the beach and began walking towards the North Pier.
It was the end of a day that nobody in their right mind could describe as ‘sunny’, but the beach was still busy.
Hordes of goose-pimply kids splashed through the surf or dug in the sand, and every few yards there was someone keen to make a fuss of Ruby or comment on how adorable the dog was.
‘Ah, look at his cute little bum,’ one young woman said to her friend as Miller and Cheshire passed.
‘Still got it.’ Miller winked at Cheshire, then watched a man with alarmingly hairy shoulders throw off the towel he’d been huddled beneath for warmth, jump up and sprint towards the water.
Miller shuddered and muttered something that some people might have considered offensive, but which unequivocally called the hairy-shouldered man’s sanity into serious question.
Cheshire helped himself to one of the last two doughnuts from the box Miller was carrying. ‘I take it you don’t fancy a dip yourself.’ He watched Miller grimace. ‘Not a swimmer, then?’
‘Oh, I don’t mind a nice warm pool.’ Miller smiled, remembering the story he’d told Xiu earlier; the French pool he’d made just that little bit warmer.
‘The sea’s always freezing, though.’ He popped the remaining doughnut into his mouth and licked his fingers.
‘It’s also a bit scary, if I’m being honest, and there’s …
things in it.’ He turned to stare out at the water, past the hairy man and his fellow deranged swimmers to the ferry that was moving towards the Isle of Man and the cluster of offshore wind turbines beyond. ‘I quite like looking at it, mind you.’
‘It’s relaxing, right?’
Miller nodded. ‘I can see it from my window, which is one of the reasons we bought the place.’
‘Where … ?’
Miller turned and pointed back towards the North Shore hills.
He told Cheshire the name of the road; a nice, quiet one which wound upwards from the eastern edge of the golf club.
The small cottage had iffy wiring and an iffier roof, but the less-than-pristine condition of the place was a price worth paying.
It was – for Miller, at least – the ideal distance from its nearest neighbour.
It was close enough for him to potter across and borrow milk if he wanted cocoa after Tesco had shut, or fetch help in an emergency that wasn’t hot-drink-related, but it was also far enough away to plug in his Telecaster and thrash his way through ‘Helter Skelter’ if the fancy took him.
There was a decent-sized shed round the back, a lean-to for his moped and, most importantly there were uninterrupted views down to the sea.
‘Alex – my wife – used to love the sea,’ Miller said. ‘Looking at it, being in it, going out in boats on it. Only thing we disagreed about … well, apart from what colour sauce to put on a sausage sandwich.’
Cheshire looked at him. ‘Red?’
‘Brown.’ Miller shook his head. ‘Brown on sausage, red on bacon. That’s the law.’
‘You’d know better than me, but I’m not sure it’s actually the law.’
‘Well, it should be.’
If anything, the beach seemed to get even more crowded as they got closer to the pier, and Miller enjoyed the people--watching.
Being fundamentally opposed to sand between his toes (or in any other crevices) he was no big fan of beaches as a rule, but provided he wasn’t expected to lie around for hours on end, the sights and sounds rarely failed to raise his spirits.
Donkeys and deckchairs. Ice cream and rock pools and kids burying their dads in the sand.
‘Did you catch the man who killed your wife?’ Cheshire asked suddenly.
Miller stopped and looked at him. He’d told Cheshire that Alex was dead that first day, but he certainly hadn’t mentioned the fact that she’d been murdered. His curiosity was obvious.
‘When you came round,’ Cheshire said. ‘The night they found Darren’s body. I heard a couple of the other officers talking about it.’
Miller nodded, simultaneously pleased that Alex’s murder had not been forgotten and irritated that it had become the subject of gossip. A talking point for bored coppers. ‘Yeah, I caught him. I also caught the man he was … unofficially working for at the time. A man called Wayne Cutler.’
Now it was Cheshire’s turn to look curious.
‘Yeah. Husband of our friend Jacqui.’
‘Oh.’ Cheshire watched Ruby pawing at the sand before tentatively squatting. He reached into his pocket for a plastic bag and waited. ‘Any news on that?’
‘Nothing to write home about,’ Miller said. ‘We’re ninety--nine per cent sure who killed your wife’s boyfriend, but as of now we’ve got no way to prove it.’
‘Right, and I’m guessing that dragging your suspect into a darkened room and beating a confession out of him is largely frowned upon these days.’
Miller shook his head. ‘What can I tell you, Barry? It’s the “woke brigade”.’
They both stared down at the dog, who stared back somewhat dolefully as she went about her business.
‘So, was it a “hoot”?’ Cheshire asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s what you said. You told me you were going round there to let them know you were on to them, and that they’d managed to kill the wrong man. You said you thought it would be a hoot.’
‘In retrospect I was being a touch optimistic,’ Miller said. ‘There was some unpleasantness involving a pair of ceramic leopards which kind of put a dampener on the whole occasion. That, and a Victoria sponge which should have been shared, but wasn’t.’
Seeing that Ruby had finished, Cheshire bent to bag the mess. ‘They do know I’m still around, though?’ He stood and expertly knotted the plastic bag. ‘Jacqui Cutler and her associates.’
‘Yeah, but like I said, there’s really no need to lose any sleep.’
‘That’s good to hear … unless you’re being optimistic again.’
‘The offer of a safe house is still on the table.’
Cheshire shook his head. ‘It’s fine. I trust your instincts. Even if you do seem to spend most of your time thinking about cake and biscuits.’
‘I promise you, Cutler and Co are far too busy destroying any evidence that connects them to the murder they did commit to worry overly much about the one they didn’t, so—’
‘It’s disgusting!’
Miller and Cheshire turned in unison to be confronted by the wagging finger and pinched expression of an irate beach-goer.
The man was middle-aged and balding; red-faced and stick-thin, with a sunburned chest and neck and sporting the kind of swimming trunks much beloved of French swimming-pool attendants.
‘Is there a problem?’ Miller asked.
‘Faeces.’ The shouty man began to nod enthusiastically. ‘Faeces is the problem, specifically canine faeces.’ He pointed accusingly at the poop-bag dangling from Cheshire’s fingers. ‘That is why dogs are not allowed on this particular section of the beach until the first of October.’
‘Oh, I don’t think she could have held it in that long.’ Miller reached for his warrant card and held it up. ‘Besides which, this dog can go anywhere she likes, because she’s a police dog.’
‘Rubbish.’ The shouty man was starting to sound a little less sure of himself. ‘Police dogs are … Alsatians.’
‘Only sometimes,’ Miller said. ‘Yes, it’s Alsatians if you need to put the wind up someone and it’s beagles or bloodhounds if you need top-notch sniffing abilities … but if you’re after something that’s been buried, quite possibly in a very small hole, that’s a job for a very small dachshund.’
‘Is it?’ The man looked down at the dog, who was now snuffling around his pink, hairless shins.
‘Oh yes, it’s very much horses for courses when it comes to dogs.
See, dachshunds were originally bred to hunt badgers, which makes them especially proficient diggers.
That’s seriously handy if you’re searching for a cache of Class-A drugs hidden somewhere on a beach, which happens to be exactly what Canine Olfactory Enforcement Officer 3477-159 – known to her friends and colleagues as Ruby – was doing when you marched up and started shouting at her like a scrawny, frazzled … tit.’
The man clapped a hand to his chest, like an outraged Jane Austen heroine. ‘I don’t care if you are a police officer. You have no right to talk to me like that.’
‘It’s not a right,’ Miller said. ‘It’s a privilege. Now, do us a favour and get rid of this for me, will you?’ He plucked the poop-bag from Cheshire’s hand and lobbed it towards his new friend.
The man caught the bag instinctively, then looked down and yelped in horror at what he found himself clutching. Standing on tiptoe and gesturing wildly, he shouted after Miller and Cheshire, who had already begun walking away, Ruby wobbling gamely after them.
‘I’m going to make an official complaint … at the very highest level.’
‘Fill your boots,’ Miller said.
‘What’s your name?’
Miller did not bother turning round, but raised his voice to be sure he could be heard. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Tim Sullivan. With two ls …’