Sixty-Five
‘This might just be the greatest day of my life,’ Miller said.
‘Obviously you’ve had a very sad life,’ Imran said.
He was -trying his best not to look nervous, even though Miller had twice taken the mower over the seven miles per hour speed limit, had skirted dangerously close to the edge of a pond, and was, even now, threatening to veer into a large blackthorn bush.
‘But you’re welcome.’ He sighed, heavily.
‘And you really don’t need to make the noise. ’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘Please try.’
They weren’t actually doing any mowing. With the grass in the medium-sized field already at the required length, Imran had raised the blades, so they were on what was little more than a joyride.
In line with his insistence on observing all necessary health and safety protocols, however, they were both wearing high-vis jackets and helmets.
Imran had deemed the ear--protectors he usually wore unnecessary, but was now regretting his decision as a result of Miller’s strange compulsion to imitate the sound of the 18-kilowatt engine, like a child pushing a toy car around a carpet.
‘So, now we’re square.’ Imran had to shout over Miller’s engine-esque whine. ‘I got to do a police interview and now you get your go at driving the big mower. We’re even, right?’
‘Actually, I think you still owe me,’ Miller said.
‘Owe you for what?’
‘For not telling Speccy Hedges they were your fags I was smoking, that day he caught me behind the changing rooms.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m generous enough to let you have a few of my John Player Superkings, so now I’m in your debt? That seems very fair.’
‘The point is I didn’t grass,’ Miller said. ‘Let’s be honest, I still could.’
‘You think I’m scared?’
‘You look a bit scared.’
‘That’s your driving,’ Imran said. ‘Anyway, I’m fairly sure that the statute of limitations on smoking in the fifth form has run out. Besides which, Speccy Hedges died a few years back.’
‘It’s the principle, though, isn’t it?’ The cabin juddered as the mower clattered over a series of ruts. ‘So, how did he die? Speccy …’
‘Oh, he fell over a cliff in Formby. Taking a selfie, by all accounts.’
‘That’s natural selection for you,’ Miller said.
He slowed as they reached the end of the field, turned in a wide enough circle to have manoeuvred a double-decker bus, then headed back the other way. He appeared, thankfully, to have knocked the mower impression on the head.
‘What happened to the soldier?’ Imran asked. ‘Not the dead one … the other one.’
‘He’s on remand in His Majesty’s Prison Kirkham right this minute,’ Miller said.
‘Hopefully not for very long, though.’ He didn’t know if it was that arse-goblin Amar Chopra or someone senior who had pushed for a Conspiracy to Kidnap charge, but either way the CPS had seen fit to go along with it.
When they eventually scheduled the trial (there was something of a backlog), Miller would be giving evidence for the defence, along with DCI Susan Akers.
Justin Cutler himself had also agreed to speak on Barry Cheshire’s behalf, happy to testify that Cheshire had done all he could to protect him from Neil Battersby while he was being held in that cellar.
The smart money was on an acquittal.
Yes, Miller sometimes found it hard to retain any faith in a system that prosecuted a man for feeding chips to a seagull, but he remained confident-ish that Barry would be reunited with his wobbly sausage dog sooner rather than later.
‘So, all wrapped up then?’ Imran reached across quickly and grabbed the wheel, steering the mower away from a row of saplings he’d only recently planted and Miller was currently threatening to flatten.
‘Yeah, I reckon so,’ Miller said. ‘Give or take a body or three.’
As yet, there were no suspects in the frame for the murder of Neil Battersby.
No obvious suspects, at any rate, but the killing bore all the hallmarks of a gangland hit and Miller had a shrewd idea as to who had organised the hitting.
He could not be sure how Wayne Cutler had found out that Battersby was the man who’d kidnapped his son, but Miller was certain that he had.
Not that it would do him any good.
Proving that the murder had been arranged by a man already serving a life sentence – a man behind bars who still had his finger in more pies than Tony Clough – would be almost as impossible as it would be pointless.
It was proving equally hard to establish that the surviving ‘twinhead’ was the biker responsible for killing Malky McDougall, shortly after McDougall had killed his brother during the roadside shootout.
The biker – whose real name was William Harriman – had made a good job of faking his shock and horror when officers informed him of his brother Benjamin’s death.
So, not Pixie and Dixie, but Bill and Ben, which Miller thought suited them just as well.
For obvious reasons, Bill could not admit to being at the scene with Ben, and though officers had taken DNA and were still checking phone cell-site signals, Miller did not hold out a great deal of hope.
His chances of getting sufficient evidence to make an arrest were not helped by the young skinhead’s alibi (he claimed to have been buffing the dance floor at the Majestic Ballroom late into the evening), which had predictably been backed up by his ‘Uncle’ Ralph.
Miller would press the issue with Massey, first chance he got.
As they drew close to the equipment shed, Imran said, ‘Can we call it a day? I don’t think my heart can take any more.’
‘Fine by me,’ Miller said. ‘Know that I’ll always carry the memory of this experience deep within me, but as it happens, I’ve got a lot on the rest of the day.’
‘Oh yes, your hot date with the pathologist. Priya whatsername.’
‘It’s not a hot date. It’s a drink, that’s all. A meal and a drink.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘I’m still not sure it’s a good idea, if I’m being honest,’ Miller said. ‘She’s the woman who carried out Alex’s post-mortem, for God’s sake. Just think about that for a minute. I really don’t know how I’m going to feel if it … goes anywhere.’
‘You worried she’ll have cold hands?’
‘Well, I was thinking more about the … associations, but now that you mention it …’ Miller looked at his watch.
‘Plus I’m meeting Sara Xiu for coffee in an hour.
These last few weeks all we’ve talked about is work stuff, so this’ll be our first chance to have a proper heart to heart.
You know since the hugely dangerous rescue mission she begged me not to go on. It’s important to her.’
‘When you say “heart to heart” …’
‘We talk about stuff for a bit, then I say something she doesn’t like and her eye starts twitching. That’s basically how we roll.’
‘Fine, but I don’t think she begged you.’
‘She cares deeply about me, what can I tell you?’
‘I think the word you’re after is tolerate. She tolerates you deeply.’
‘I’ll settle for that,’ Miller said. ‘Plus, I’ve got somewhere to be this afternoon that’s a bit more important than either of those things.’ He looked across at Imran as he slowed the mower down.
‘Oh, right,’ Imran said. ‘Is that today?’
‘It’s supposed to be. It still might not happen, of course.’
‘It’ll happen.’
‘I really hope so.’
‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed.’
Miller brought the mower to a halt and turned the engine off. ‘You’re a good mate.’
‘It’s more than you deserve.’ Imran jumped down from the cabin and tore off his high-vis jacket. ‘Three flipping Super-kings I gave you.’ He held up the requisite number of fingers. ‘Three!’