Fifty-Eight
They drove out of Staining, heading north-west through farmland, and within ten minutes they were passing through the chocolate-boxy village of Singleton.
Nobody had spoken since pulling away from the Cutler house.
‘The “model village of the Fylde”,’ Miller said.
‘That’s what they call this place.’ He waited.
‘Singleton, which is not to be confused with Singleton Thorpe, which may or may not be a sunken village nearby that disappeared beneath the waves five hundred odd years ago. I say “may or may not be”, because nobody’s altogether certain, so it could just be a load of old cock, but it’s a good story. ’
Miller waited again, but Cheshire did not take his eyes off the road and McDougall continued to stare out of the window.
‘No? Nobody remotely interested?’ He puffed out his cheeks, disappointed.
‘I’m just passing on a few snippets of local tourist information in a clearly wasted effort to keep the mood upbeat.
Look, I know we’re driving along in a van full of Class-A drugs and there’s this whole ex-army nutbag/kidnap thing to deal with when we get to wherever we’re going, but that doesn’t mean we have to sit here in complete silence, does it?
Or that things have to be all … tense. It doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun on the journey. ’
McDougall turned and stared just long and hard enough to remind Miller that the Scotsman’s idea of fun was probably something that involved screaming and power tools.
‘OK, so how about a game? That always helps to pass the time. We could do “Cows On My Side” where you get a point for each cow you spot on your side of the van … or what about “Name That TV Theme Tune”? I’ll start.’ Miller began to hum. ‘Oh, come on, this one’s easy.’
The voice of Amar Chopra, tinny yet authoritative, rang out from the speaker mounted on the dashboard.
‘DS Miller, I can hear you.’
‘Right, so can you name that TV show?’
‘DS Miller—’
‘It’s Bargain Hunt. It’s so obviously Bargain Hunt.’
‘Unless you have something to say that’s pertinent to this operation I’d prefer if it you kept the channels clear and did not clog up the comms with this nonsense.’
Miller looked from McDougall to Cheshire and back and, though neither looked at him, he mimed zipping his mouth shut anyway.
He’d known that Chopra was listening in, of course, which was why he’d said nothing out loud about the weapon McDougall had smuggled into the van.
There was no way of knowing what McDougall might do if Miller were to spill the beans; or worse, how he might react to the unit of armed officers Chopra would be compelled to send after them.
Miller had no idea how he was going to deal with the fact that McDougall was bringing a gun to a rendezvous with a man who he guessed would be armed to the teeth himself.
He did know that he was not going to try to deal with it now.
‘The feed from the drone is showing us that there are no traffic problems anywhere ahead, so you should make the reservoir in plenty of time.’
‘Good to know,’ Miller said.
‘I’ll keep you updated, obviously.’
‘Any cows up ahead?’ Miller asked. ‘Just in case, you know …’
‘Signing off now,’ Chopra said. ‘Comms are to stay clear, understood?’
‘Roger that,’ Miller said. ‘Over and out.’ Five minutes later, with the farms and fields of Little Ecclestone sliding by to their right, another TV theme popped into Miller’s head and he began to hum it without thinking.
McDougall did not bother turning from the window. ‘Taggart.’
‘One point to Google McDougall,’ Miller said. ‘Now, we’re cooking.’