Forty-Five
The house – anonymous, ugly and tucked away behind a row of disused warehouses – was certainly safe from the attentions of Location, Location, Location, but that didn’t much matter. As long as its new occupant was safe from any Cutler-related attention, Miller was happy enough.
Once Barry Cheshire had settled Ruby down on her bed in the corner, he sat on his own bed and bounced a few times.
It looked a little … squishy, but he didn’t seem bothered.
He stared around. The inside of the house was every bit as unprepossessing as the outside; like a room in a Travelodge, but without the glamour. ‘I’ve stayed in worse places.’
‘Yeah, that cellar was pretty minging.’
‘I didn’t mean the cellar,’ Cheshire said.
‘Oh, right.’ Miller was a little embarrassed as he remembered Cheshire’s five tours in the army.
Months on end when he was anything but safe, with sleeping arrangements that would have made his current accommodation feel positively luxurious.
Long months of danger and discomfort, which might also explain why the man had always seemed rather less troubled than perhaps he ought to have been about someone trying to kill him.
Miller had not seen him show an iota of fear.
More concerned for his dog than he was for himself.
He ran Cheshire through the arrangements, reminding him that there were officers posted in several locations close to the house and on all the roads leading to it.
That there was a profusion of hidden security cameras.
He told him which number to call if he was concerned about anything and talked him through the protocols that would govern the delivery of food.
‘What about Ruby?’
‘I’m sure we can run to a few cans of Pedigree Chum.’
‘I meant what about walking her.’ Cheshire nodded across at the dog, who had looked up at the mention of her name. ‘She needs a lot of exercise. You know, more than you’d think.’
‘That might be a problem,’ Miller said. ‘Anyone looking for you is almost bound to know about your dog. I mean, we could send in an officer to go on walkies duty, but if the dog gets spotted …’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘You need one of those plastic balls like the one Fred and Ginger roll around in.’ He saw Cheshire staring. ‘My rats. Obviously you’d need a dog-sized one, but—’
Cheshire shook his head. ‘She’d hate it,’ he said. ‘You can’t chase foxes inside a plastic ball.’
‘I reckon we’re stuffed, then,’ Miller said.
‘Hopefully this won’t be for long, though, so I don’t think she’ll get too porky.
’ He took his phone from his pocket when it rang, looked and saw that it was Susan Akers calling.
He sent an automated message to let her know he’d call back as soon as he could.
He knew that ostensibly the DCI would be ringing to see how their protected witness had settled in, but in reality would simply want to check that the decidedly chancy operation she’d fought to get autho-rised hadn’t gone tits-up yet.
Miller could hardly blame her.
Blindly optimistic and confident as he was, when it came to going out on a limb he did have a record that was decidedly … patchy.
‘I’ve been thinking about Battersby,’ Cheshire said.
‘Oh yeah?’ Miller sat down next to him at the end of the bed. He’d been thinking about little else.
‘I’m pretty sure he knows I’m talking to your lot.’
‘How would he know that?’
‘It just sounded like he did, when he rang.’ Cheshire turned to look at Miller. ‘He definitely doesn’t trust me any more, and a lot of what he was saying sounded very much like a threat.’
Miller couldn’t argue. Neil Battersby did not sound like the type to trust anyone, but he did sound a lot like the type who was comfortable issuing death threats. He’d already kidnapped someone and talked about cutting their ear off, so it wasn’t a huge leap.
‘I’ve also been thinking about where he might be hiding out.’
‘OK.’ Armed officers had been dispatched first thing to Battersby’s last registered address, a small flat in Woodplumpton.
Nobody had been awfully surprised to find the place empty save for some neatly folded clothes, a single mug, plate, knife and fork washed up on the draining board, and a few empty pizza boxes, carefully stacked outside the front door.
Though its former tenant had clearly favoured the ordered, if spartan, surroundings of a soldier, there was no sign of the assorted weapons Cheshire claimed Battersby had amassed. ‘Any bright ideas?’
‘Afraid not,’ Cheshire said. ‘But he did tell me about this woman he was seeing, and I was thinking that he might have said something to her. Some place he likes to visit or whatever. Maybe somewhere he took her?’
‘It’s a thought,’ Miller said. ‘So, what did he say about this woman?’
‘Just that she’s a dancer at the Winter Gardens. Nikki something.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Not really. He just kept telling me how often they … had it off. Which was very often, according to him.’
‘Define “very often”.’
‘Like … all the time.’
‘Can you remember any details?’
‘You think they might be important?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Miller said. ‘But hearing about all the nookie other people are having is as close as I get to it these days.’
Cheshire smiled.
‘We’ll talk to her.’ Miller stood up and moved towards the door. ‘In the meantime, call me if there’s anything you’re worried about.’
‘We’ll be fine.’ Cheshire got up too, crossed the room and leaned down to stroke his dog’s ears. ‘Won’t we, Rubes?’
‘I’ll check in with you a bit later,’ Miller said. ‘Oh, and obviously let me know straight away if you hear anything from Battersby.’
‘Will do,’ Cheshire said.
‘Especially if it’s nookie-related.’