The Crime Vault Exclusive Extract of The Last Dance by Mark Billingham

ONE
Miller stared at the rat and the rat stared right back.
‘So, what’s it to be, this morning?’
The rat raised itself up, bead-black eyes bright and whiskers
quivering.
‘A nice bit of kedgeree, maybe?’ Miller waited, smacking his
lips. ‘Eggs Benedict or a cheeky full English?’ He sighed and
let his head drop so the furry little buggers would know just
how disappointed he was, then shuffled forward on his knees
and shook the plastic container. ‘OK, if you want to be boring.’
He opened the cage and took out the two food bowls, filled
each one with the same old mix of cereal and oat flakes, then,
before setting down their breakfast, he reached into the cage to
take Ginger out. He held her on his lap and ran a finger gently
across her head. ‘You know you’ve always been my favourite,
right?’ He lifted her up and nodded towards her partner in
the cage, whispering as she scrabbled for a few seconds then
snuggled against his neck. ‘For God’s sake don’t tell Fred,

though. Nobody likes a sulky rodent.’ He leaned back to look
Ginger in the eye. ‘Don’t rat me out.’
He sat on the sofa after that and watched them eat. He’d
brought a mug of coffee across, but fifteen minutes later, by
the time he’d stopped worrying about the day ahead – the
walking into the office and the strange looks he was very likely
to get – and thinking about what he should say to people and
what he definitely shouldn’t and picking at the loose threads
on his tatty old dressing gown and remembered that there was
coffee, it was lukewarm, so Miller carried it back to the kitchen
and poured it away.
He couldn’t be arsed to make himself another.
He’d have one when he got to work.
He was pretty sure he’d need one.
Dressing slowly, like it was something he’d all but forgotten
how to do, he listened to some irritating rent-a-gob sounding off
about the state of the NHS on Capital Lancashire, so he argued
with him, same as he always did. Muttering, or occasionally
shouting, at the radio. It was a daft habit that had become a kind
of ritual, whatever the host or caller or so-called expert happened to be pontificating about, and Miller always enjoyed it.
He put on pants and socks, then picked out a shirt.
‘. . . and you can’t get an appointment to begin with, not
unless you’ve got one leg hanging off, or you’re an immigrant or
something . . .’
‘You’re an idiot, mate. On second thoughts, I take that back,
because it’s insulting to idiots.’
He stepped into itchy grey trousers and the shoes he’d polished the night before.
‘I mean, wasn’t that why we voted for Brexit in the first place?
That, and the fish . . .’

‘This is drivel, mate. You’re talking drivel.’
He put on his least offensive tie – which wasn’t saying a
lot because he had quite the collection of horrific neckwear –
then immediately undid the top button of his shirt, because
it felt like he couldn’t breathe. ‘I swear to God, I could eat a
tin of Alphabetti Spaghetti and shit more sense than you’re
talking . . .’
As conversations went, Miller was fully aware that these
chinwags were somewhat one-sided, but that wasn’t the
point. Along with the ratty chit-chat, it got his brain moving
in the morning, or at least moving in the right direction, and
it reminded him what his voice sounded like. He needed the
kick of that and the distraction.
He needed the noise.
Truth be told, he also argued with the radio in the afternoons, and in the evening. Middle of the night, quite often.
But that wasn’t the point.
A few minutes later, wearing a jacket that more or less
matched the trousers, he stood in front of the large mirror next
to the front door. He tried out a few expressions until what
passed for a smile didn’t seem too scary. He had a bash at a
couple of casual nods and shrugs that he was hoping would
do the trick. After the habitual brief skirmish with his hair,
he settled for a draw and turned back towards the multi-level
cage-cum-playpen that had cost him a small fortune and now
took up most of the living room floor.
He gave the rats a twirl.
‘So, what d’you reckon? I think it’s going to have to do.’
Predictably, Fred and Ginger were otherwise occupied
chasing each other from one end of the cage to the other.
Miller tried not to take their lack of interest as a bad sign and

turned to pick up Alex’s mobile phone which was lying there
where it always was; plugged in on a table by the door. That
sparkly red case which looked nice enough, but – like he’d told
her a hundred times – would have been totally useless if she
ever dropped her phone. Not that she ever did drop the bloody
thing, certainly not as often as Miller dropped his, because
she was always careful.
But that wasn’t the point.
He reached across and touched the screen, a picture of Alex
and him. Some competition from a few years back. The pair
of them looking pretty tasty, even if he did say so himself.
He grabbed his rucksack from the chair by the door and
threw it over his shoulder. He bent down for the crash helmet
that was underneath it, then stood and raised his eyes to the
ceiling. Shouted up.
‘Alex . . . I’ve fed Fred and Ginger, OK . . . ?’
He stood and listened. He stepped back across to the mirror
and watched himself listen. The silence seemed to thicken and
settle for those few long seconds before it was broken by the
painful squeak of the rats’ wheel; before Miller sucked in a
fast breath and finally reached to open the door, like a brave
soldier. Or a very stupid one.
Sofia Hadzic tied on her apron then stepped out, yawning, into
the basement corridor, pushing the trolley she had spent the
previous twenty minutes loading with fresh supplies. Bobbly
towels with a faded letter S and sheets that might once have
been white. The postage-stamp sized slivers of soap wrapped
in plastic, the tiny bottles of shampoo that looked fancy enough
but were filled up every few days from a huge plastic flagon of
cheap stuff. The toilet roll that your fingers went through.

The Sands was not a hotel she would choose to stay in herself.
She exchanged a nod with one of the other girls as she
shunted the trolley into the lift. She didn’t know the girl’s name
and seriously doubted that the girl knew hers, but it didn’t much
matter. She was only there to work and she wasn’t looking to
make new friends.
She put on her headphones then stabbed at the button for
the top floor.
Sofia yawned again, nodding her head in time to an old Little
Mix song she loved as the lift doors clattered shut.
The motorbike – a red and black Yamaha Tracer 9 with sixspeed transmission and an 890cc liquid-cooled beast of an
engine – roared along the seafront. It cut through the morning
traffic like the cars and lorries were going backwards, the North
Pier and the glowering Tower there and gone. It raced past the
sea-life centre, the mini-golf course where Miller had once
copped off with a girl called Sandra Bullimore, and innumerable arcades that were just blinking into life. It burned up the
tarmac and swerved skilfully round the potholes, while away to
its right the Irish Sea frothed and spat against the damp sand;
the same colour as the coffee Miller had poured away and a
damn sight colder.
Half a minute after the bike had turned towards town and
stopped at traffic lights by the Morrisons, Miller pulled up next
to it. The leather-clad biker glanced across and, even though
his expression was hidden behind a dark visor, it was a fair bet
that he was less than impressed by Miller’s pale blue moped
and high-vis tabard; those seventy pitiful ccs that he probably
thought had sounded like a hairdryer behind him. Or maybe a
wasp, trapped in his helmet.

Miller stared back, watching as the biker revved his engine,
keen to get moving. ‘Race you,’ he said.
The lights turned to amber and the biker just shook his head
like Miller was an idiot. Miller winced when the light turned
green and the Yamaha shot away; within seconds it was just a
dot in the distance, though Miller could still hear the noise of
that engine as he shouted after it. ‘Yeah, off you go. Pussy . . .’
A few seconds later, some twonk behind him started leaning
on his horn, indicating less than politely that it was time for
Miller to move. Miller was in no hurry, though. He wasn’t
kidding himself that the day ahead was going to be easy, but
right then he was in a pretty good mood.
He gave the twonk the finger anyway, because why not?
The carpet in the long straight corridor was ugly, with brown
and yellow swirls. Sofia thought it looked like someone had
been sick on it. Given the state of this place, of some of the
guests she’d encountered, she guessed that plenty of people
had been sick on it.
She pushed her trolley towards the far end, though it wasn’t
easy as one of the wheels was bent and she kept veering
towards the wall. It was annoying, but what could she do? The
whole of the top floor was hers, so starting with the room at
the end and working back seemed like the best plan.
The first bedroom was nice and straightforward. Sheets
changed, sink and shower scrubbed, tea and coffee making
facilities replenished. In and out in ten minutes. The second
room was closer to what she was expecting and took twice
as long. Wet towels and dirty clothes all over the place, bins
full of empty beer cans and it smelled like someone had been
smoking in there.

Some people were pigs.
She knew she should probably say something to the
manager, but it wasn’t her job to spy on anyone, so she just
snapped on her rubber gloves turned up her Little Mix and
got on with it.
She paused for a few seconds outside the door of her third
bedroom, took out her phone and skipped a couple of tracks
she wasn’t fond of. Once she’d found the song she wanted, she
leaned forward to slide her key card into the slot below the
door handle. When the light flashed green she spun round and
nudged the door open with her backside.
She heaved the trolley in from the corridor and turned as
the door slammed shut behind her.
Initially, it struck her that the room wasn’t in too terrible a
state, certainly nothing like as bad as the last one. There wasn’t
a great deal of . . . mess, to speak of. Aside from the blood on
the bed and the body it had come from, obviously.
Sofia’s scream was loud enough to wake a dead man.
Not this one, though.