John Harvey: Last Rites

Millington shook his head. “Nothing at the sister’s place last night. Quiet as the proverbial. There was one report come in late on, looked useful, bloke trying to charter a private plane, Tollerton Airport. When we checked it out, it was just some chap from Trent Water, executive, looking to fly to Guernsey for a bit of rest and relaxation. Worn out from carrying his wallet, I don’t doubt.”

Resnick grinned. “No follow-up to the sighting at Leicester station?”

“Nothing from the Met. Arranged for leaflets to be given out to passengers making the same journey today, the London train.” Millington arched his eyebrows. “I shouldn’t hold your breath.”

“We’re checking his old running mates?”

“I’ll set Kev and young Fowles on to it when they come in.”

Carl Vincent was on his feet, one hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. “One of the prison officers, sir. Evan. Wants to know can you spare him ten minutes before he shoots off back to London?”

Resnick glanced at his watch. “Tell him he stops by in half an hour, I’ll give him five.”

Lorraine had sent Sean back three times to change what he was wearing, Sandra sitting there in her school skirt and blouse, kicking her heels against the living-room carpet, waiting.

“Why can’t you take us?” Sean asked. “Why do we have to go now? Take us on your way to work like you always do.”

“Your mother’s not going to work,” Derek said, buttoning his jacket. “Not today, anyway.”

“Aren’t you, Mum?” Sean said. “Why not? Why not?”

“Are you okay, Mum?” Sandra asked. “You’re not ill or anything?”

“No.” Lorraine smiled, pushing the fringe back from her daughter’s eyes. “I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.”

“After yesterday?”

“Yes, I expect so. I might go in later, anyway.”

“You’ll meet us after school?” Sean asked.

“Yes, don’t worry, I’ll meet you after school.”

Derek was standing with his briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other, stranded between the children and the front door. Lorraine sensed him looking at her and raised her head, returning his gaze.

“You’ll be okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

“I only need to make a few quick calls when I get in, no meetings, I could take a couple of hours off, come back …”

The look in her eyes told him what he didn’t want to know.

“As long as you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” She kissed the children and bundled them out the door.

Evan looked more hangdog, if possible, than the day before. Guilty about what had happened and certain that he was returning to a reprimand at best, a suspension more than likely, he could scarcely bring himself to look Resnick in the eye. “I was wondering, you know, if there was any news? About Preston?”

Resnick shook his head. “Nothing definite.”

“I see. I just thought that if, you know, you’d caught him, like, had an idea where he was, well it might … make things easier, I suppose that’s what I meant.”

“I’m sorry,” Resnick said, Evan looking so pathetic he almost meant it.

“If you do … find him, I mean. I don’t suppose you could let me know?”

“It’d be passed on,” Resnick said. “The appropriate channels.”

Evan blinked. “I see.”

“Maybe, Evan,” Resnick said, “there’s something you can tell me. Preston, yesterday. At the funeral and after. You’ve been thinking about it, bound to have. Is there anyone special you remember him talking to? Off on their own, maybe?”

Of course Evan had been thinking about it; he’d been thinking of practically nothing else. Now he thought about it some more. “Only the sister, that’s all, really. Worked up about that, he was. Important. He asked us specially, me and Wes. If he could talk to her alone. Just the two of them, you know.”

“And you said …”

“I said okay. I didn’t see the harm. I mean, I was outside the door all the time.”

“Close enough to hear what they were talking about?”

Evan shook his head. “No. No, I’m afraid not.” He looked at Resnick anxiously. “Was it important, d’you think?”

Resnick stared back at him. “Probably.”

Thirty minutes later Resnick was on his way back out of the station, heading down into the center of the city.

Resnick nodded thanks as Aldo slid the small cup of espresso along the counter toward him. The early edition of the Post lay folded against the till and Resnick pulled it toward him. It was strangely quiet in the market that morning, only a couple of middle-aged women sitting at the far side of the coffee stall with tea and cigarettes, chatting about prices and last night’s TV.

The article on Preston’s escape filled the whole page, raking up details of his father’s murder and the subsequent trial. Underneath an old file photograph of Preston himself, grim-faced, being led into court, were the words of the judge: It is almost beyond comprehension in a civilized society that any man would turn against his own flesh and blood with such violence and without apparent provocation.

Provocation: an argument over money, Skelton had suggested, the siphoning off of Preston’s ill-gotten gains. Well, maybe.

Realizing that, almost without noticing, he had finished his first espresso, Resnick ordered another.

For the first half-hour, Lorraine wandered slowly from room to room, enjoying the silence, willing herself not to look at the clock, the telephone. Without exactly daring to admit it to herself, she knew that what she wanted was for Michael to call, though she was unsure what she might say if he did.

Unable to settle to the Mail, she went into the living room and hoovered and dusted, tidying their few records and CDs, making neat piles of magazines. Upstairs in Sean’s room, she collected up stray socks and fetid sportswear, filched a fold-out pin-up of Pamela Anderson from underneath the bed and Blu-tacked it neatly to the wall alongside Sean’s team picture of Manchester United and above the one of Ryan Giggs. Along the landing, Sandra’s room was pristine in comparison, everything folded, hanging, shelved; pony books stood alongside Mills and Boon romances and Pride and Prejudice; they’d watched that together on the television, agreeing, despite Sean’s sneers, how gorgeous Colin Firth was as Darcy. A Greenpeace wall chart showing endangered species shared space with the Spice Girls and Gary Barlow from his days with Take That.

Lorraine sat on her daughter’s bed and closed her eyes. “You don’t love him, do you? Even if you ever did, you don’t love him any more. I can tell.”

When the phone rang, she gasped and it was as if, for a moment, her heart stopped. The receiver was cold as she fumbled it to her face. “Hello?”

“It’s me. I was just wondering how you were.”

Eyes closed, she rested her head against the wall. “Derek, I’m fine.”

“You’re sure? ’Cause like I said, I can always …”

“No, I’m … Derek, it’s sweet of you, but really, I’m okay. I just need a little time, that’s all.”

Silence at the other end of the line.

“Derek?”

“Yes?”

“You do understand?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Only …”

“Only what?”

Another silence. Then, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Derek …”

“No, really. As long as you’re okay. I’ll see you this evening, yes? Take care.” And the connection was broken.

Slowly, Lorraine replaced the receiver and turned away.

Cutting through toward the Jacobs’ house, Resnick glanced at the well-tended shrubs and borders, and wondered what had been there before. Other houses, smaller, a spread of terraced back-to-backs perhaps, workers’ homes so-called? Or had it all been open ground, sprawling north from printing works and bakery, allotments possibly? Prize marrows, dahlias, runner beans.