John Harvey - Last Rites

“But finding out, it can’t be that simple, right?”

Cassady was smiling fit to bust.

“What?” Preston said. “What’s with that stupid grin? You can do that, is that what you’re saying? Set it up, what?”

Cassady tipped a little more scotch into his tea. “My boys, Michael, working the clubs, they get to know a lot. Well, that’s where a lot of this stuff is sold, moved on. Where a lot of these deals are made. Sometimes they’re paid to turn a blind eye, that’s fine. Some of them, the smarter ones, they’ve got these little deals going for themselves. Likely think I don’t know, but of course, I do. No skin off my nose. But I watch what’s going on, well, you know me, always have done. Ask me who the big movers are, the ones making the serious money, I know. Liam Cassady knows. One of them especially …” He held up his hand, one finger hooked over another. “Like that.”

“And you reckon you can set something up? Fast? Couple of days?”

“Well, now, Michael, I don’t know, I was thinking more like a week. You know, to be certain, get everything into place …”

But Preston had hold of his hand again, squeezing tight. “Two days, Liam. Three at most. That’s what it’s got to be.”

“Plans, then, have you, Michael?” Cassady trying not to grimace, acknowledge the pain. “Spot of traveling, I expect that’s on your mind. Now that the heat’s died down a little, what? Get away. God! I wouldn’t mind getting away myself.”

Preston looked round at where the sky was beginning to lighten. “One last thing, I’ll be needing a fresh place to stay. Just till this is through.”

Cassady nodded. “No problem. Is there anything else?”

Preston punched Cassady’s arm twice, not hard. “You won’t let me down, Liam, I know that.”

“Sure, sure. That’s right, that’s right.”

Sean was playing some kind of private game with his cereal, carefully pushing as many pieces toward the sides of the bowl as he could, then placing his spoon in the center and twirling it fast to send the cereal spinning. Milk, not surprisingly, covered his end of the table in a fine spray. Sandra, doing her best to ignore him, was tucking into toast and peanut butter while concentrating on the problem page in Smash Hits. Derek, standing, white shirt, tie as yet unfastened, second-best suit trousers, cup of tea in hand, was listening to the traffic reports on local radio; one of the new reps was making his first call on a major customer in West Bromwich and Derek was going along to smooth the way.

“That was weird,” Lorraine said, coming in from the hall.

“What’s that?”

“Your sister, Maureen. That was her on the phone.”

“This hour of the morning?”

“I was just about to shout you, but she said she wanted to speak to me.”

Derek gave the tea a swirl round inside the pot and freshened his cup. “What about?”

“Some stuff she’s got, clothes, you know, for the shop. A dress and … oh, I don’t know, things she’s taken on part-exchange, she reckons they’d be great for me, just my size …”

“Sean,” Derek said sharply, “just stop doing that.”

“Anyway, she wants me to go round there, this evening. Try them on. Says she could let me have them really cheap.”

“So go. What’s the problem? I’ll be back round six-thirty, seven. I can look after the … Sean, I thought I just told you …”

“Yes, I will. I said I would. Just strikes me as a bit funny, that’s all.”

“How come?”

“Well, in all the time she’s had that shop …”

Sean overdid his exploration of centrifugal force. The bowl skidded away from under his spoon, careening across the table and splashing milk and soggy cereal over Sandra’s magazine and down the front of her school blouse. Sandra jumped back and yelled, and her last piece of toast landed face down on the floor. Derek clipped Sean round the back of the head and then, once again, harder, for good measure.

“Derek, don’t …”

“I warned him.”

Sean was cowering behind his chair, wondering whether or not to cry. When she thought no one was looking, Sandra gave him a quick kick in the back of his calf and went up to her room to change.

“Mum, she …”

“Shut it!” Derek said, thrusting a warning finger toward his face. “Just shut it, once and for all.”

Sean stood there, rubbing his leg and staring at the floor.

“Derek, you’d better be going,” Lorraine said, glancing at the clock. “You know what the traffic’s like on the ring road.”

Derek fumbled with his tie. “If it looks like I’m going to be late, I’ll give you a call.”

Lorraine nodded, collecting up the breakfast things and carrying them toward the sink.

Derek’s jacket and briefcase were out in the hall. “I’m off, then.”

“Hope it goes well.”

“Thanks.” She half turned her face toward him and he kissed her on the cheek.

Lorraine refilled the kettle and switched it on. Just time for ten minutes by herself with the paper before taking the kids.

Standing there at the window, waiting for the water to boil, she watched the milkman bustling from his float to houses right and left, the man on the opposite corner wave to his wife before driving off, a pale trail of smoke rising from his exhaust. Two teenage boys clambered over the fence into the field, rucksacks slung over their shoulders, taking a short cut to school. Had she really seen what she’d thought she’d seen, or had it been her imagination playing tricks?

She spooned instant coffee into her mug and tried not to notice the racket Sandra and Sean were making in the other room.

Anil Khan had walked the short distance from Major Crimes to Canning Circus and now sat in the detective inspector’s office, watching Resnick demolish the last of a Leicester ham and Jarlsberg sandwich on rye.

Khan was in his late twenties and had been in the Force for close to seven years; after a somewhat hesitant start on the beat, he had developed into a good community policeman, applying for a transfer to CID when he judged, correctly, the time was right. Eighteen months working as a detective in Central Division had proved his mettle; he had served diligently, studied hard, kept his head down when discretion was what he thought was needed. Remember, lad, you don’t have to fight every battle, every time.

He had first worked with Resnick closely on the investigation into Nicky Snape’s apparent suicide while in Local Authority care and they had complemented one another well: Resnick’s instincts, hewn from experience, Khan’s meticulous preparation, his logical eye. It had been no surprise when Helen Siddons had snapped him up for her Major Crime Squad, nor that Khan had been pleased to go.

“Right,” Resnick said, screwing up the paper the sandwich had been wrapped in and tossing it in the bin. “Paul Finney-what’s new?”

Though Khan was sitting upright already, he made a move as if to straighten his back before speaking. He was wearing a four-button suit, nicely cut, a pale-blue shirt and muted tie. His hair was perfectly in place. “What I’ve been checking into, sir, concentrating on, is the greyhound racing. At one point, Finney owned three. Co-owned with a man named Newlands. Perry Newlands. He’s in catering-hot dogs, pies, that kind of thing. He’s got a number of vans, they seem to go from place to place. Race meetings, in the main. Colwick, of course. Lincoln. Farther afield. Fakenham. York.”

Resnick nodded. “The dogs. Not his any more?”

“No, sir. Sold his interest to a Jack Dainty …”

“Ex-Vice?”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant in the Vice Squad for six years. Resigned eighteen months ago on grounds of ill health.”