11.

Pam Fogg was not happy. The place was crawling with police. Police in high-visibility jackets, for fuck’s sake. She may as well write it in the sky: there is a problem with people dying at my rest home. She should get laughing policemen to pose for the brochure.

She showed her i.d. to the morons at the main entrance and then again to the idiots on the car park. Angrily, she stabbed the key into the car door. It slipped and scratched the paintwork. Shit. More inconvenience. More expense. She realised with bitter irony she needn’t have bothered; the car wasn’t locked. Slipping up, old girl, she admonished herself, but is it any wonder with everything going on?

She got in and started the engine. Oops. Better belt up. All these coppers around, they’d be bound to nick her.

The wrought iron gates swung open on their slow, automatic arc. A constable tipped her a salute by touching the rim of his helmet with a finger. He waved her through as though she didn’t know the way to go. Idiot. She smiled at him - well, bared her teeth - as she passed.

She would be glad to get home and away from all of this for the evening.

Unfortunately for Pamela Fogg, the figure hiding behind the driving seat had other ideas.

***

Brough’s flat out refusal to go along with Stevens’s idea earned him a telephone call from Chief Inspector Wheeler. She told him in no uncertain terms to stop pissing about and get with the programme, play the game and do the honourable thing.

“I’m not doing it,” Brough repeated. “It’s a stupid idea.”

“It’s a stroke of fucking genius is what it is,” Wheeler corrected him. “Now, come on,” she tried a different tack, “you’ve got experience in this sort of thing.”

“I have not!” Brough protested.

“Let me finish,” Wheeler snapped. She didn’t like being interrupted. “As I say, you’ve got experience in this sort of thing. The going undercover I mean. The dressing-up and staying in character. And you were bloody good at it by all accounts. If results am anything to go by.”

“Madam, it wasn’t play-acting or make-believe. It was a very dangerous situation.”

Wheeler shrugged - a gesture wasted over the phone. “You say potato.”

“Potato,” said Brough.

“Well, there’s nobody else, is there? I cor exactly send Stevens in, can I? The galumphing great brute. And his lackey’s no better. No; you’m the best man for the job. The only man for the job. Now, get your finger out and pull your trousers down. There’s a good boy.”

“Madam, I -”

“You’ve had an easy ride up to now, Davey. Because of your dad. And the men do have a grudging respect for what you done, even though nobody likes a grass. But things could turn a lot less pleasant for you if you don’t do as you’m told.”

“Madam, I’m merely pointing out the utter fallacy of the idea -”

“On the other hand, things could get a lot less unpleasant for you, an’ all. I could see my way to keeping Dedley nick open indefinitely. I know you like it up there, fuck knows why, like.”

“Madam -”

“We put this plan into action tomorrow, Davey. And you will be on board. Do I make myself clear?”

Brough sighed. Wheeler recognised it as the sound of capitulation. Before he could say another word, Wheeler jumped in. “Good boy, Davey. I knew I could count on you. And Davey? Don’t you ever fucking call me Madam again, right?”

The line went dead with a click. Brough swore at his phone and threw it across the room. He could imagine Steven’s wanker face laughing its wanker laugh. Of all the stupid, bloody...

His gaze fell on the crime scene photographs and pictures of the victims. Some of them still had to be stuck on his thinking wall. He closed his eyes. He would do it but not because Wheeler had told him to but because the dead deserved it. Paul the cook, Kyrie Billings, Maria Keenan and Loretta Phipps - they all deserved justice for their brutal and violent deaths.

Hawaii 5-0 blared out from across the room. The phone had survived its crash landing. It was Alastair. Brough let it ring through to voicemail, imagining the little crease that would appear between Alastair’s eyebrows when he heard Brough’s stilted outgoing message.

Alastair could wait.

Brough had preparations to make. He looked out at the window. If there was one thing Dedley wasn’t short of it was charity shops. He retrieved his phone. The little icon was flashing to tell him Alastair had left a message. He dialled Miller.

“Come on,” he sighed, resigned to his fate. “Let’s go shopping.”

***

Later that evening Miller’s kitchen was host to a planning session. A back-story was created, its details ironed out. Stevens actually made some pertinent points; he appeared to be taking the matter seriously. Miller, thrilled to have Woodcock under her roof, kept the coffee coming, apologising repeatedly for having packed the best mugs. Woodcock was politeness itself, all pleases and thank-yous. He even used a coaster without Miller having to point them out. Wonderful.

And Brough - Brough was up in the bathroom, cursing and sweating.

“Come on, Davey!” Stevens called up through the kitchen ceiling. “Let’s be having you!” He put his index fingers in the corner of his mouth and whistled shrilly. He tried to enlist Woodcock in a rousing chorus of Why Are We Waiting, with rhythmic accompaniment consisting of slapping the tabletop. Woodcock, looking nervously at Miller, didn’t join in.

That was also wonderful.

“Dav-ey! Dav-ey! Dav-ey!” Stevens began the chant. Miller joined in and so did wonderful Woodcock. They clapped their hands and kept the noise going until the kitchen door swung open and plunged them into open-mouthed and still-handed silence. Framed in the doorway stood an elderly woman in baggy clothing and a shapeless hat. She was stooped and trembling.

And scowling at them with Detective Inspector David Brough’s eyes.

***

“Stop staring at me!” Brough had had enough. He pulled off his wig and scratched his hair. He took a hefty swig of the red wine Miller had poured then put a hand up to his face as Stevens tried to take yet another photo with his phone. Their initial amazement at Brough’s transformation had inevitably descended into ribbing and innuendo. Over a Chinese takeaway, they had finalised their plan. With Brough so convincing as a doddery old dear, they felt confident the plan would work. Someone on the inside would see what things uniformed officers would not.

Brough tried one last time. “Why can’t we send in someone as a member of staff? They’re used to having strangers in from the agency.”

“Send in another lamb to the slaughter?” Stevens dismissed this idea.

“It’s not all staff; it’s just some staff,” Miller pointed out. Brough nodded, grateful for this contribution. He peeled off some patches of latex from his face and neck and found that gormless D S Woodcock was staring at him. Brough pulled a face.

“We don’t know that, not yet,” Stevens put a whole prawn cracker in his mouth and crunched it.

“There’s a pattern. Why go for Loretta Phipps? She left there years ago.” Miller again. Brough was impressed with her this evening. But it wasn’t him she was trying to impress, was it? Those looks she kept giving D S Woodentop! Oh, come off it, Miller; can’t you do better than that?

“If it’s the same bloke. Could be an internet dating thing gone wrong.”

Brough and Miller shook their heads in tandem.

“What we need is to find the man who paid Gavin Foster to make contact with Phipps.” Brough wiped kung po sauce off his fingers with a lemon-scented wet wipe.

“We can get a sketch artist in tomorrow,” offered Woodcock. It was the most he’d said all evening. Miller’s eyes twinkled and her smile widened with pride.

“That should have been done before,” Brough snapped at him. Woodcock recoiled, looking hurt. Miller came to his defence.

“Things have been pretty non-stop,” she pointed out. “Even you haven’t had time to think of that.”

Brough looked at his plate and fumed in silence.

“Good man, Woody,” Stevens slapped his D S on the shoulder. “We’ll get Henry to see to that in the morning. Get Foster in with the artist. Bit of luck we’ll soon have a face to look for.”

He got to his feet, picked up his beer bottle and drained it. “Well, this has been lovely,” he belched. “No, I mean, we’ve made progress. See you bright and early. Get Granny settled in her new digs.”

He jerked his head towards the door.

“Going to help tidy up, sir,” Woodcock said quietly. He stacked a couple of plates as proof.

Stevens gave a long, slow nod. He left before Miller could offer to see him out.

Brough took another sip of his wine. Woodcock stood and gathered things together in a complete absence of urgency. This amused Brough. As did Miller’s growing impatience over at the door, waiting to escort him to the front door.

He took another sip, relishing the cheap plonk more than it merited. Miller’s face was a picture of annoyance. Moving like the old woman he was dressed as, Brough stood up and tottered towards the door. Miller grunted in exasperation as he tackled the staircase, painfully slowly.

“Just getting into character, dearie,” he called out in a cracked voice. Then, as himself, “You don’t expect me to go home like this, do you?” He bounded up the rest of the stairs and into the bathroom to change.

Miller was wringing her hands. Woodcock was muttering something. “What?” she said a little too harshly and immediately regretted it. Woodcock repeated his query - did she want to save the plastic tubs or should he bin them?

“Um...” It seemed the most difficult conundrum. “Normally, I’d wash them and keep them. They’re great for freezing leftovers, you know. But, it’s just something else to pack away, isn’t it? So, at this stage...”

Woodcock nodded. He put the plastic trays in the flip top bin. They stood in awkward silence, smiling at each other.

Inspiration! Miller snatched up the wine bottle and showed him there was still some in it. “May as well finish this. Won’t keep.”

“May as well,” Woodcock held out his glass. Miller poured him the lion’s share then gestured for him to sit down again.

They sat opposite each other, cradling their glasses in their hands. Neither of them drank; it would precipitate the end of the evening.

Brough made a point of making a lot of noise as he came downstairs, stamping his feet, whistling, clearing his throat. It had the desired effect: the two detective sergeants looked suitably uncomfortable and embarrassed when he joined them in the kitchen. He was back in his suit and his face had a pink, scrubbed look. He examined the bottle.

“Drunk all and left no friendly drop?” he said with exaggerated sadness.

“Eh?” said Miller. She just wished he’d bugger off.

“Shakespeare,” Brough said haughtily.

“I thought it was Shiraz,” said Woodcock. Miller clapped her hands and laughed. Delightful!

Brough gave up. “See you in the morning, Miller,” he nodded to Woodcock and then moved towards the door. “No, don’t get up. Early night will do us all some good.”

He let himself out and only then wondered how he was going to get home.

***

“Oh, look! I’d forgotten about this!” Miller produced another bottle of wine from somewhere. She thrust it towards Woodcock. “Would you do the honours?”

“Um...” His eyes scanned the tabletop for the corkscrew.

“I mean, it’s one less thing for me to pack away, isn’t it? Can go straight to the recycling.”

“Hmm.” Woodcock plunged both arms of the corkscrew downwards. The tip cut through the bottle top. “This is a screw cap.”

Miller cackled uproariously. “Is it? Oh, oh dear! Oh well, we’ll have to drink the lot, won’t we? It won’t keep.”

“I suppose we will,” said Woodcock, filling her glass.

“There’s a sofa in the living room,” Miller jerked her head towards the wall. “If you don’t mind all the boxes.”

“I like sofas,” said Woodcock.

***

Brough’s route took him through the town centre - and the fountain in the marketplace with its grey statue of a lady. Oh, pull yourself together, man! He hitched the strap of his holdall higher on his shoulder. He wasn’t looking forward to putting on its contents again in the morning. He thought he’d left all this undercover stuff behind when he’d been transferred to Dedley.

It was dark but it wasn’t late. There were groups of drinkers ambling around, some more raucous than others. Somehow this increased Brough’s uneasiness. It made it difficult for him to spot who was real and who wasn’t.

What was he thinking about? Fuck this nonsense! There was no woman in grey prowling around. The expert at the castle had told him the famous ghost didn’t deviate from her reputed path. Not that there were such things as ghosts at all - even if you bought into the magnetic recording explanation.

Brough quickened his pace.

A year ago he wouldn’t be having these thoughts. A year ago he knew what was what and what was not. That last case had thrown everything up in the air. It had ended unsatisfactorily - from his personal point of view. A conviction had been made but it didn’t account for everything.

I didn’t solve that case, he reminded himself bitterly. It wasn’t closed as much as shoved under his psychological carpet.

That’s why I’m determined to get on top of this one, he thought. The killer or killers would be found. Everything would be explained.

Only then would he feel like he had a grip on the world, on the way things worked.

He headed away from the centre and down the hill towards the trendy flats bordering the industrial estate. Perhaps Alastair would have taken the initiative and made use of the key. Perhaps he would be there, waiting. Perhaps he would join Brough in a much-needed shower.

Brough quickened his pace again but not from fear of any grey ladies who were definitely not lurking in every shadow.