Thirty-Eight
The walking tour, as arranged by Finn, showed Miller a side to the town he saw mercifully rarely.
The shadowy side, which the majority of tourists flocking to the piers and the pleasure beach did not even know existed.
As Blackpool woke up and pulled itself together, they moved between alleyways and underpasses, from damp doorways to patched-up tents and hostels, and for reasons he could not explain Miller began to picture the town as a middle-aged man.
A frail and sickly soul, carefully easing his spindly legs over the side of a creaky bed and sitting there for a while before he felt ready and able to stand up.
He pictured stubble and a dirty string vest, bad feet and a fair few missing teeth.
He imagined groans and muttered curses, then several minutes of noisy hawking before something unpleasant was coughed into a chipped mug.
When the man eventually began to dress himself, he stepped unsteadily into a grubby pair of trousers that were too big for him and wingtip tap shoes that would be smart if only they’d been polished.
There was a tall hat, too, and maybe some soft cotton gloves.
Finally, in the silent film running on a loop in Miller’s head, the man who personified the town reached into a cupboard for a coat that had once been brightly coloured – a little gaudy even – but was now faded and motheaten.
‘This is actually quite fun,’ Finn said.
Miller looked back at the old woman they’d just finished talking to, who was already hammered and necking a can of Strongbow while she waited for her partner to come back with their morning supply of skunk. ‘I’m not sure I’d go that far.’
‘Well, I’m enjoying myself.’ She turned round and gave the woman a thumbs-up.
‘I get to catch up with a few of my mates, get the gossip or whatever, and I’m being paid to do it.
Happy days.’ She reached over to squeeze Miller’s arm.
‘Sorry you haven’t got anything useful yet, but I’m sure you will. I reckon we’re a pretty good team.’
Miller thought she was right. They’d certainly got the tactics and the patter sorted out between them. Finn would make the initial approach to a user or dealer she knew, and then, having said that she was more than happy to vouch for him, she’d bring Miller in.
He had his spiel ready.
He let them know that he was not working for one of the Neighbourhood Drug Teams and was not remotely interested in arresting anyone for possession or even for possession with intent to supply.
He explained that the life of a young lad was in danger and he simply needed to know if any drugs of which the user or dealer was in possession had come from an unfamiliar source; if there were any new suppliers in the area.
‘It’s as simple as that,’ Miller told them. ‘No comebacks and no further action taken.’
Predictably, some of those they’d spoken to had been less than keen to cooperate.
A few were abusive and a couple just ran, while one teenager, who Finn knew to be an habitual user of LSD, just smiled knowingly and attempted to fly down to the beach.
Of those who did provide them with the information asked for – the vast majority were using or dealing drugs that could be traced back to the Cutlers, while a few used gear supplied by people working directly or indirectly for Ralph Massey.
One or two had bought their drugs from rather more opportu-nistic types who had simply mugged others for their stashes, then sold them on cut-price.
‘They’re kind of like pop-up dealers,’ Finn said.
‘Sounds handy.’
‘Right, and you can get some proper bargains.’
‘I suppose they’re just entrepreneurs, really,’ Miller said.
‘Yeah, exactly.’
‘I don’t think anyone would be getting very excited on Dragons’ Den, mind you.’
Cutler, Cutler, Massey, Cutler, Massey …
there were no names Miller could get very excited about.
It had looked briefly as though they might be on to something mid-morning, when one stoner had confessed to buying his weed from a dealer he’d never come across before who had seemed oddly aggressive.
It was only when Miller began to press the lad that he remembered he’d actually bought the weed in Birmingham the week before, when he’d hitched down to visit his brother.
Miller thanked him anyway. He thanked them all.
Despite the lack of anything resembling a half-decent lead, he tried to stay positive.
Aside from anything else, he knew that if he didn’t get lucky working this part of town, he could have a bash later in Foxhall Square or on the Layton estate, and there were always the crack houses up by the biscuit factory.
He guessed that Finn wouldn’t say no to another few days’ work.
Presuming the people who held Justin Cutler gave them that long.
It was impossible not to notice that Finn’s upbeat mood had begun to change a few hours in.
As Miller watched her withdraw into herself and become increasingly morose, he thought it might simply be down to the fact that she’d not been able to use.
That was before he’d heard the girl’s name mentioned for the third time.
Finn ‘catching up’ with friends from the street. Hugs and tears and the same name catching in throats or whispered between sobs.
‘Who’s Evie?’ They were walking south towards the tram depot and Miller was trying to sound nice and casual. He waited, but Finn did not seem keen to respond. ‘It’s fine, you don’t have to—’
‘I told you about her the other night. She died, OK?’
Miller remembered their conversation about going to a meeting; the mention of a friend who’d died before Finn had run out on him.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ The look on Finn’s face made it clear that she very much did not, but she didn’t really have to.
Another ‘death of despair’.
Shortly after a hastily taken lunch – a tuna sandwich from Pret for Miller, a Greggs steak-bake and a slushy for Finn – they headed for an arcade just behind the Travelodge. Finn had told him that the bloke on the door sold pills now and again.
‘A security guard at an arcade?’
‘I saw a woman spunk forty quid away on a claw machine once,’ Finn said. ‘Then pull out a knife and start threatening to kill everyone when the big furry Minion she wanted fell out of the claw.’
‘Oh, fair enough then,’ Miller said.
Approaching the arcade, he was surprised that the security guard in question, who’d begun to look rather nervous as soon as he’d clocked him, was someone he recognised.
‘It’s Jeff, right?’ The security guard nodded, looking around. Miller turned to Finn, who was clearly a little confused that Miller and the man on the door of the arcade knew one another. ‘Jeff’s also a bouncer at the King’s Head.’
‘I don’t like being called a “bouncer”,’ Jeff said. ‘I told you the other night, I really don’t like that word.’
Miller cared even less now than he had then.
He watched the man roll his head around on his neck as he chewed; gum, sweets, whatever.
‘I don’t like words like “plod” and “filth”, but there’s not much point moaning about it, because it goes with the territory.
I don’t suppose Piers Morgan’s awfully fond of being called a dickhead, but there’s not a fat lot he can do about that.
Well, I suppose he could stop being a dickhead, but I can’t really see that happening. ’
‘Me neither,’ Finn said.
‘What is it you want?’ Jeff asked.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Miller stepped closer. ‘So … this day and age, there’s plenty of people working two jobs.’
‘Got to be done,’ Jeff said. ‘I’ve never been afraid of hard work.’
‘Good for you, but actually it’s three jobs when you think about it. The door job here, the one at the King’s Head, and the drugs.’
‘Hang on, mate. I’ve got no idea what you’re talking—’
Miller raised a hand. ‘Calm your tits, Jeff. That’s not why I’m here, so no need to try and deny it.
Don’t get me wrong – if I was to come back another day and find you’d got pockets full of MDMA or fentanyl or what have you it’d be a very different matter.
If you had so much as a bag of Minstrels on you, I’d arrest you straight away, because …
well, I’m a copper and that kind of thing’s expected.
But today you’re in luck, because I just need information. ’
‘Oh, right,’ Jeff said. ‘What d’you need?’
‘Just a name, really.’
Miller explained what he was after and, without giving too much away, how important it was.
The bouncer nodded. ‘Yeah, OK, but can I write it down or summat?’
‘Just tell me,’ Miller said.
‘I don’t want nobody to hear, that’s all.’ There were people going in and coming out of the arcade all the time, hanging around nearby or brushing past them. Jeff glanced around nervously, then leaned in very close to Miller and whispered.
The name was hardly a game-changer: a low-level dealer who was several rungs higher up the ladder than Jeff was, but a good many below the immaculately dressed man perched atop it. Ralph Massey, in his glittery shacket, scattering his ‘happy’ pills to all and sundry.
Miller was already reaching for his phone as he turned away and began walking back towards the sea.
Finn hurried to catch him up. ‘You all right?’
‘I just need to make a quick call.’ As he stared down at it, Miller’s phone rang in his hand. He recognised the number. ‘Jacqui?’
‘They’ve sent another video,’ Jacqui Cutler said. ‘The people who’ve got Justin. I know what they want.’