1.

“One day, all this will be yours.” Alastair swept the air with his arm, taking in the whole of the town of Dedley below.

David Brough looked down at the trees, the office buildings, the shopping centre and the industrial wastelands. It was already his domain. In his capacity as Detective Inspector, that was.

“You’re funny,” he said, but his tone implied the opposite. “Coffee?”

“That stuff’ll kill you,” Alastair pulled a face.

“A bottle of water then.”

Brough made his way to the head of the spiral staircase, taking care not to brush the sleeve of his new jacket against the rough stone walls. The view from the top of the keep had been worth the climb but he wouldn’t go as far as to say it was worth the dry cleaning bills. He trod on each narrow step with care. Back in the day, people must have had much smaller feet. He didn’t quite entrust his safety to the handrail that coiled around the wall. Oh, it looked secure and sturdy enough. But Brough had a thing about germs and having left his hand sanitizer in his old jacket, he didn’t want to take any chances.

He was being silly and he knew it. It was a more recent development, this preoccupation with germs, this desire to protect against the unseen.

Alastair, nimbler or perhaps just more careless, soon caught up. He goosed Brough, pinching his waist above both hips. Brough startled and swore, uncomfortable with being touched by another man in public.

“I almost fell then,” he cast a cross look over his shoulder, coming eye-to-eye with Alastair’s crotch.

“While you’re down there,” Alastair smirked.

“Incorrigible,” said Brough and continued to descend.

“David...” Alastair followed, “Don’t be like that -”

They both had to back against the wall to allow a party of sightseers to climb past them. Brough’s brown eyes sent Alastair’s blue ones a warning look not to continue this conversation with members of the public so close.

Brough cringed and tried to breathe in as much as possible in a bid to avoid contact with the tourists as they passed. His shoulder blades brushed against cold, clammy stone.

He closed his eyes in disgust and waited for this ordeal to be over.

***

Detective Sergeant Melanie Miller was also enjoying a day off, although enjoying was perhaps not the word she would have chosen. She waited patiently for a gap in the oncoming traffic, clicking her tongue in time with the indicator, before making a right turn and driving through the tall iron gates that guarded the car park.

It was her fifth visit to the home since her mother’s incarceration - No, Mel; don’t call it that - Mother’s admission, rather. Miller supposed she had not quite built up enough loyalty points to merit her own parking space. Huh, she considered as she manoeuvred her car carefully between a pair of vans that weren’t precisely within the painted lines, how terrible that would be; if the home had to offer relatives loyalty points as incentive to get them to visit their so-called loved ones...

Damn it. She hadn’t even undone her seatbelt and she could already feel her mood plummeting. This place did it to her. Sapped all the joy.

Come on, Mel. She made eye contact with herself in the rear-view mirror. Happy face. Keep it upbeat. Keep it happy. For Mum.

She got out and locked up. A glance up at the foreboding exterior of the Dorothy Beaumont Rest Home drained her of even her fake enthusiasm.

The building had been converted from student halls a few years back. All those narrow bedrooms in which generation after generation of youngsters had got drunk, stoned, shagged and hung-over were now holding cells in which people at the end of their lives waited for death. No amount of pastel paint or hanging baskets could compensate for that sad truth.

She opened the boot and took out a holdall. Yet more things from the house to make Mum feel more at home.

Oh well, best get it over with.

Checking again that the car was secure, D S Miller made her way around to the main entrance. Get it over with and you can get some of that ice cream you like on the way home. There’s a good girl.

***

“I can’t believe you’ve never been here before,” Alastair repeated from across the table. He toyed with the plastic cap of his water bottle in a way that Brough found irritating. “You’ve been here - what? - a year and you’ve never -”

“Ten months and you know it,” Brough cut him short.

“And we’ve been going out for seven-”

“Will you keep your voice down?” Brough cast a panicked look around the cafe. They were still within the confines of Dedley’s castle. The cold and crass commercialism of the modern world had found its way into the Norman ruins, clinging to the stone like lichen. The plastic tables and chairs were at garish odds with the dark grey walls. Brough detested the place. He tried to drink his plastic coffee all the quicker but only succeeded in breaking out in a sweat.

“You’re sweating,” said Alastair, his eyes twinkling with amusement at his boyfriend’s discomfort. Brough was a funny bugger, in more than one sense, but Alastair had quickly learned not to take his quirks and foibles as personal slights or attacks.

“Am I?” Brough wiped his upper lip and seemed surprised to find his thumb came away wet. “I guess; when it’s on your doorstep...”

“What? Sweat?”

“No; idiot. All - all this,” he made a gesture that took in the cafe and beyond. “When it’s just up the road, I suppose you don’t make the effort.”

“Hmm,” Alastair rested his chin on his fist and watched Brough squirm beneath his scrutiny. “Just up the road but not up your street?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Not your cup of tea. Or whatever that sludge is you’re overheating yourself with.”

“I am sorry. Can we go now?” Brough was painfully aware of a couple of women with a group of children at a nearby table. Behind the counter, the girl may have been flicking through a gossip magazine, but she was no doubt taking in every word, noting every gesture of the two - the two - What would she call us? Poofs?

“In a minute,” Alastair sat back. He stretched out, knees wide, taking up more room. “I’m enjoying your discomfort too much.”

“Fuck you.”

“Wait until we get home!” Alastair wiggled his eyebrows in a lascivious manner. His naturally curly hair shook and Brough had a flash of memory - his own fingers tangled in that mop... Ahem.

He tried to make himself smaller so that there was no increase in the amount of cubic space being occupied by homosexuals.

“Speaking of home...“ Alastair reached inside his jacket and pulled out a thin packet. He placed it on the table between them.

“What’s that?” Brough nodded.

“You’re the detective.” Alastair gestured to Brough to open the packet.

“A toothbrush?”

“No flies on you, Inspector.”

Brough examined the object as if he had never seen the like. A piece of tinsel had been tied around the plastic packaging.

“It’s a present,” Alastair explained.

“I don’t -” Brough frowned. “It’s not my birthday and Christmas is months away and I -”

“It’s a housewarming gift.”

“Oh, no...” Brough dropped the toothbrush on the table as if it had bitten him. He pushed himself from the table and got to his feet. “We’ve talked about this.”

He was out of the cafe and across the castle’s central quad before Alastair caught up with him and grabbed his elbow.

“I don’t get it!” He searched Brough’s face as though the answer might be written somewhere on it. “You spend a lot of time at my place as it is. I just think we should make it a more permanent arrangement.”

Brough froze. He appeared to neither blink nor breathe until Alastair released his elbow. “I can’t,” he whispered.

“Is it me?”

“No, it’s not you. Now, come on; let’s go and see the lemurs.”

Brough moved off. Alastair sent a pained look to the sky and followed. How many times were they going to play out this scene?

***

“And you’re warm enough?” D S Miller asked for the - well, she’d lost count how many times. She was sitting next to her mother in an armchair in one of the home’s communal areas. It was a stupid bloody question. The place was like a sauna, regardless of the weather. Mel could feel sweat coursing between her breasts and down the small of her back. She was earning her ice cream today. “And they’re feeding you properly?”

“I can feed myself,” her mother suddenly snapped. “I’m not completely incapable just yet, you know.”

“That’s not what I meant -”

“If you’re on about the cuisine, I can tell you it’s a damn sight better than those crispy pancakes you used to cremate three times a bloody week.”

“You didn’t like my cooking?”

“I mean, minced beef in a pancake! Well, it’s neither one thing nor another, is it?!

“I work, Mum. I’m busy!”

“We don’t get that muck in here, oh no. It’s all wraps and whatsits here, poonanis.”

Mel laughed despite her best efforts not to. “I don’t think that’s what they’re called, Mum.”

“You’ll never be a Delilah Smith.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“It’s not all about work, you know. A man doesn’t want to come home to find Juliet Hurrah handing him a selection of takeaway menus.”

“That’s ‘Bravo’...”

“It’s no wonder you haven’t found yourself a nice bit of trouser, looking like that.”

“Mum!” Miller looked away. She didn’t want to give the old bat the satisfaction of seeing the tears that had sprung to her eyes. Just my luck to come on one of her more lucid days! It was much better when she was withdrawn into herself or they were trying some new combination of meds.

As soon as she’d had that thought, Miller felt sick with guilt. What a terrible thing to think! What a terrible daughter she was!

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sucking mint imperials and gazing blankly around the room.

What a place! Miller despaired of the modern furniture. It only served to make the residents look older and out of place as if even their last residence didn’t want them.

“And what about you, Mum?” She cleared the last of the mint from her throat. “Making loads of friends?”

Her mother made a sound like a whoopee cushion. With her lips.

“She’s the life and soul, aren’t you, Sheila?” A rosy-faced member of staff butted in. She was tidying stacks of magazines and puzzle books on a low table. The man-made fibres of her slate-coloured polo shirt, coupled with the overbearing heat of the central heating, were making the poor girl redder and sweatier than she might otherwise have been, but she did not let this diminish her cheeriness. The lanyard bobbing around her neck revealed her name was Kyrie.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t cop herself a fella in no time.” Kyrie laughed. “Isn’t that right, Sheila?” She proceeded to make significant gestures towards the doorway, where an elderly gentleman in pyjamas, dressing gown and flat cap was squeezing his way past a tiny woman curled over a walking frame. There was much giggling going on between the two. “That’s Harold,” Kyrie pointed out, as if that explained everything. “Bit of a goer, isn’t he, Sheila? Oh! Watch out! Act casual; he’s coming over.”

“Good afternoon, lovely ladies!” Harold doffed his cap. Miller was surprised to find him both well mannered and well spoken. It was a shame his dressing gown was flapping open, awarding them flashes of his underwear. He seized Kyrie’s hand and planted a wet kiss on her knuckles.

“Gerroff!” Kyrie pulled her hand away and wiped the slobber on her trousers. “Dirty old bugger.”

“Life in the old dog yet, eh? Eh?” Harold’s eyes twinkled. “Is that my darling Pamela over there? Play my cards right and she and I could make beautiful music together, what?”

He toddled away. Miller’s eyes followed as the old man wove his way around armchairs and coffee tables to a stern-faced woman with a clipboard, standing by the coffee urn. This ‘Pamela’ was dressed in more business-like attire of the same slate colour as Kyrie’s polo shirt. Her hair was clipped short, salt and pepper, Miller called it, although the look on her face was one of a vinegar drinker. She barely managed to disguise her contempt as the aged Lothario approached.

“Who’s that?” Miller asked her mother but it was Kyrie who answered.

“That’s Mrs Fogg,” Kyrie lowered her voice. “The big boss. Surprised you didn’t meet her when you - you know - came on board. I’d best skedaddle before she asks me to do something. Ta-ra, Sheila, ta-ra, love.”

In a flurry of old magazines, Kyrie disappeared, probably to hide in a store cupboard until the danger had passed. Miller and her mother shared a glance and then burst out laughing.

“Who the fuck is Sheila?” they both said, sharing a rare moment of amusement.

“And who’s that?” Miller nudged her mother. She indicated a figure in a wheelchair, little more than a pile of blankets and knitwear. A white head peeped out above an impassive, wrinkled face. It was like cotton wool balanced on a ball of elastic bands.

“That’s Mim,” her mother whispered. “Oldest one here. Sits there all day, doesn’t move. I hope I don’t get to that state.” She clutched her daughter’s arm, her bony fingers like the talons of a vulture. “Promise me you’ll shoot me before that happens.”

“Ow!” Miller squirmed in her mother’s grasp. “Don’t be silly; besides I’ve told you. I’m not armed.”

“Promise me!”

“Oh, Mum!” Miller rubbed her wrist. “Perhaps I can put something in your tea.”

“Really?”

“I’m joking, Mum. Come on; let’s get you to your room.”

***

“I totally think we should do this.” Alastair thrust a black and white leaflet under Brough’s nose. Brough snatched it away and peered at it. The quickest glance at the heading was enough to make him hand it back.

“I’m not going anywhere with you if you’re going to use words like ‘totally’.” He moved along to the next enclosure. Some kind of deer. Probably behind that bush.

“It’ll be fun!” Alastair persisted. He read from the leaflet. “Join us after dark as we tour the castle grounds and the darkest corners of the zoological gardens for the spookiest night of your life. Hear the history! See the sights! Shit your pants!”

Brough tore his attention from the absentee antelope. “It does not say that.” He reached for the leaflet but Alastair kept it just out of his grasp.

“Totally!” Alastair laughed, making Brough jump higher. The arrival of a young couple with a pushchair made the detective inspector compose himself and turn the colour of another endangered species, the public telephone box.

When they had the path to themselves again, Alastair read more extracts from the leaflet.

“Apparently this place is riddled with ghosts and strange goings-on. Should be a laugh. There’s a little drummer boy who was shot and if you hear his drum, that’s bad luck. There’s a girl who was strangled in a privy. And there’s the Grey Lady, of course. Of cafe fame.”

Brough responded with a terse hum.

“You’re not interested,” Alastair accused.

Brough felt guilty. “I am!” he insisted. “I’m just not a fan of - of - all that. But carry on. Please.”

“Well, this Grey Lady is seen all over the place, according to this. Miserable as sin. Looking for her dead baby, they reckon. And her husband, who failed to attend her funeral. She-“

Alastair stopped. He looked up from the leaflet and was startled by the expression on Brough’s face. The detective was gazing up at the keep, and looking a good deal paler than usual.

“David?”

The inspector turned his brown eyes to his pathologist boyfriend.

“A woman in grey?” he gasped. “I’ve just seen her.”

***

D S Miller saw that her mother was settled in the room’s only chair. She placed a chequered blanket over her mother’s lap and presented her with a selection of paperbacks. Her mother turned her nose up.

“I can read for you,” Miller offered. “I’ve got some time. Get you started.”

“Don’t put yourself out on my account.” The old woman pursed her lips and looked at the curtains.

“It’s no trouble -”

“You should be out there,” her mother interrupted with a jerk of her head towards the window. “Catching men. Although just the one would do!”

She laughed. Miller didn’t. She looked helplessly at the paperbacks before replacing them on the bedside table.

“Someone mention men?” It was Harold in the doorway. He rapped the door jamb with his knuckles. “Room for a little one?”

Miller intercepted him before he could get any further into the room. “My mother’s tired, Mr um...”

“I’m bloody not!”

The old man doffed his cap in what he thought was a gesture that would never lose its charm but before he could speak, they were interrupted by the sound of a scream from further along the corridor.

“I say!” Harold exclaimed. He tried to turn to face the source of the scream. Miller, finding her exit blocked by a slowly rotating elderly gentleman, forced her way through, grunting apologies.

She tore along the carpet tiles, beating most of the residents to the store cupboard door. It seemed all the inhabitants were converging at the scene. Miller tried to get there before anything could be disturbed.

***

“So shall we book us some tickets?” Alastair waved the leaflet in Brough’s direction. They had retraced their steps back to the yawning gateway at the foot of the tower. Of the woman in grey Brough claimed to have sighted there was no sign. Alastair had been surprised at the frantic nature of Brough’s search. Claims that the detective must have imagined it had met with icy stares. And now he seemed distracted and more than a little jumpy.

“Hmm?”

“For the ghost walk.”

“Ah...”

Brough’s phone began to blare out the theme tune from Hawaii Five-O. He fumbled it out of his pocket and, blushing, accepted the call.

“Miller!” he gasped. “Calm down and tell me where you are.”

A few moments later he was striding to the zoo’s car park, a disgruntled boyfriend at his heels.

“It’s your day off!” Alastair complained. “Can’t someone else deal with whatever it is?”

Brough sent him a regretful look. He jiggled the passenger door handle, waiting for Alastair to unlock it with the button on his key fob. Alastair hesitated before starting the engine.

“This is a bit much, David. Not only is our day out interrupted but you expect me to drive you wherever it may be.”

“I’m sorry.” Brough placed a hand, briefly, on Alastair’s left thigh. “But I don’t want those wankers in Serious to get this one.”

Alastair shook his head and turned the key in the ignition. The enmity between his boyfriend and the Serious Crimes Department - or ‘wankers’ for short - seemed to fire Brough up more than anything. More, even, than me, Alastair reflected sadly.

“The Dorothy Beaumont rest home,” Brough sounded like he was instructing a taxi driver. “Do you know it?”

Alastair sighed and steered the car through the goalpost-like structure that framed the exit. Brough, already in detective mode, picked up on the clues.

“I’m sorry, Al,” he gave the thigh a squeeze. “Go ahead; book the ghost walk. It’ll be fun.”

Alastair gave a tight-lipped smile.

“There’s been a murder!” Brough announced, excitedly in a mock-Scottish accent for some reason. “You’ll probably be called in too.”

“Yes,” said Alastair, making a left turn. “See you at work, then.”

A couple of squad cars and an ambulance were already in the street outside the rest home. True to her promise, Miller had alerted Brough first of all, before calling it in to the station. As yet there was no sign of Stevens or any of the other wankers.

Alastair dropped Brough off at the main entrance and watched the detective practically skip through the front doors. With a new case to solve, there’d be even less time for them to spend together - professional matters most definitely did not count!

Alastair took out his phone and disabled the silent mode. No doubt a call would summon him to the laboratory before the day was over.