John Harvey: Last Rites

He walked to the front door and rang the bell.

The woman who answered was wearing a white cotton robe, decorated here and there with blue flowers; a pink towel was wrapped around what was clearly wet hair and her feet were bare. Thirty-seven, maybe, Vincent thought, thirty-eight; anything over forty and she’s looking especially good, taking care of herself well.

“Mrs. Jacobs?”

Lorraine glanced at the warrant card in Vincent’s hand.

“Detective Constable Vincent, CID.”

“How can I help you?” A few drops of water shook themselves free from a stray strand of hair and fell on to Lorraine’s sleeve.

After the last guest had gone and it had become clear that Derek was intent upon giving her the hurt and silent treatment, Lorraine had found a largely untouched bottle of unoaked Chardonnay and busied herself with clearing away the remains of the strange, strange afternoon. Now Derek and the children were off somewhere in his car, most probably carting empty bottles to the dump.

“Just a few questions.”

“About what?” With one hand she pulled at an end of the towel and as it came free, shook her head so that her hair, still damp, rose, then fell slowly back across her neck and shoulders.

“Your brother.”

“What about him?”

“He was at your mother’s funeral earlier today, I believe?”

“Yes, but …”

“And afterward?”

“We all came back here, family and friends. Michael stayed until he … until he had to go back.” She looked at Vincent defiantly. “Back to prison.”

“And that would be the last time you saw him?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Jacobs, you’re sure?”

Lorraine pulled her robe tighter. “Look, what’s all this about?” A flush had risen from the base of her throat. “Has something happened? If something’s happened to Michael, I want to know.”

“Your brother absconded, Mrs. Jacobs. He attacked the officers guarding him and escaped.”

Vincent couldn’t tell if it were joy or fear bringing the shine to Lorraine’s eyes.

When Derek arrived back with the children ten minutes later, instead of his wife, he found Carl Vincent in the living room. Vincent looking none too idly at the family photographs lining the shelf above the fireplace.

“Who are you?” Derek wanted to know.

As Vincent was introducing himself, Lorraine came into the room, dressed in blue jeans and a loose gray sweatshirt, hair pinned up. “Michael’s got away,” she said.

“What?”

“Run off, escaped, done a bunk. Ask him, he knows.”

“You two,” Derek said to the children, who had entered on their mother’s heels, “off you go upstairs for a bit and leave us to talk.”

“Dad,” complained Sandra. “You never let us in on anything.”

“Uncle Michael,” Sean said, addressing Vincent, “did he beat up the guards? Did he? Them two as was here? Did he kill someone?”

“Out! Both of you, out now. Sandra, get him out of here.”

Without bothering to ask anyone else if they wanted to join her, Lorraine was standing by the drinks cabinet, fixing herself a stiff gin.

“Did he hurt anyone?” Derek asked.

“Cut one of the officers pretty badly, I believe,” Vincent said. “He’s being treated now in Queen’s.”

“Cut?” Derek repeated. “He had a knife?”

“A razor blade, apparently.”

Derek flashed a glance toward Lorraine, which Carl Vincent couldn’t miss. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, either of you?” Vincent asked. “How he might have got hold of a blade?”

“No, why would we?” Lorraine said. She carried her drink over to the settee and sat down, the two men watching her all the way.

“I imagine he went to the bathroom, for instance,” Vincent said, “while he was here?”

“I imagine he did.”

“I doubt if there are any blades there,” Derek said. “I use an electric, have done for years.”

“So do I,” said Lorraine with what was close to a giggle. How much has she been putting away, Vincent wondered? A regular habit or simply the strain of the funeral? “What does it matter,” Lorraine asked, “where Michael got it from? Unless you think one of us slipped it into his hand.”

“And did you?” Vincent asked lightly.

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Lorraine drank some more of her gin and tonic. “In fact, Derek and I planned the whole thing.”

“You’ll know where he is now, then.” Vincent smiled, playing along. “Michael.”

Lorraine smiled back at him over the top of her glass. “Upstairs. Under the bed.”

“Lorraine, for God’s sake … My wife isn’t being serious,” Derek said. “It’s been a trying day. I hope you realize …”

“Oh, yes,” Vincent said. “Yes, of course. I do have to ask you, though, both of you, if there was anything Michael said today that might have given you the idea he was considering absconding?”

Derek’s head started to turn toward Lorraine, but he checked himself and looked at the floor instead; Lorraine continued to stare at Carl Vincent over her glass. “What sort of thing?” she asked.

“Anything to make you think he was planning to do something like this.”

“Nothing,” Lorraine said, perhaps a touch too quickly. “Certainly not to me. Derek, he didn’t say anything to you, did he?”

“I doubt if we exchanged more than a dozen words the whole time.”

“Yourself and Mr. Preston, then,” Vincent queried, looking at Derek, “you weren’t on what you’d call friendly terms?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Wouldn’t you, Derek?” Lorraine swiveled on the sofa, reaching out with her free hand to steady herself. “Really? Well, of course, that’s just because you’re too polite-Derek being polite, you see, gentlemanly. Quite big on the old-fashioned virtues, Derek, standing back and opening doors, always walking on the outside of the pavement so that … Why is that exactly, Derek, I forget? To protect me from anyone wanting to snatch my bag from a passing car or bike, or is it something to do with not getting splashed?”

Derek’s face drawn now, thin lips pursed tight; his hands, Vincent noticed, were closed into fists upon his thighs, their knuckles white. He was a small-boned man, wiry; if someone had said he had been an athlete when he was younger, middle distance most likely, Vincent would not have been surprised. Probably still played tennis in the summer, went swimming with the kids.

“He doesn’t like to give offense, you see,” Lorraine was saying, “Derek. Not to anybody. And not to me especially, this being such a delicate time. The funeral and then seeing Michael again after all that while …” Shifting position, Lorraine slid forward on the cushions of the settee, the tall glass wobbling in her hand till Vincent ducked forward quickly and took hold of it, easing it from her fingers and setting it on the floor.

Pushing a hand up through her hair, Lorraine gave Vincent a long look. “The truth of it-you want to hear the truth-is that Derek doesn’t like Michael one bit, he never did. Not ever.”

“That’s not true,” Derek exclaimed, looking at Lorraine for a moment, then away. “That’s just not true.”

“Of course it’s true. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you own up to a single bloody emotion, even if it means admitting you hate somebody’s guts?” Lorraine was leaning toward him, eager and alive; the brightness Vincent had noticed in her eyes before had returned.

“I don’t hate anyone.”

“Oh, Derek.” Lorraine reached down and recovered her glass. “You might keep it locked away inside, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there, festering away. All that ill will, gurgling around down there in your gut, growing …”