John Harvey - Last Rites

She covered her face with her hands.

“Lo?”

“Oh, Michael, you don’t understand anything.”

“I can’t hear you, what you’re saying.”

“You don’t understand anything. At all.”

Silence, the room, the whole house wrapped in cotton wool.

Michael standing there, waiting for her to look at him again. “Derek,” he said. “You don’t love him. I doubt you ever did. You told me. And you do love me. You know you do. You always have.”

“Michael, that’s not …”

“Not what?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Of course it’s the fucking point!”

She stumbled back, frightened by the anger, the intensity of his voice.

“What else d’you think it’s all about. What else has it always been about? What I did, then. What I’m doing now. It’s for you. Us. That’s all that matters. All that counts.”

Tears running down her face, she leaned toward him and he held her in his arms, allowing himself to cry now, laugh a little, yes, that too, but crying most of all. The two of them like great kids, grinning through their tears.

“Come over here,” he said. “Come on over here and sit down while I tell you. I’ve got it all worked out, all planned. Passport, everything, it’s all fixed. Turkey, that’s where we’re going first. Travel separate, of course. No way round that. After, we can go anywhere. Anywhere we want. Just about. Send for the kids. You see, they’ll love it. Sandra, specially. She’s lovely, isn’t she? A sweetheart.”

“Michael …”

“Just a couple of things I’ve got to take care of first, couple more days and then we’re away. Out of here.” His face so serious, naive. “All you have to do, be ready, you know, ready to move. I’ll let you know, as much notice as I can. Okay? Okay, Lo, okay?”

She let him kiss her then, her face, neck, tips of her fingers, palms of her hands. Lorraine unable to look at him, afraid she’d be blinded by the joy on his face, the light in his eyes.

As soon as she felt she could, she pulled away. “Michael, listen. I’ve got to go, get back. The kids. And Derek. I said I’d not be long. They’ll worry. Come round. You don’t know Derek. He’ll have Sandra and Sean in the back of the car and be round here, double quick.”

Pushing herself to her feet, she brushed her hands down the front of her clothes, straightening herself out as best she could. Her hair would need a comb through it and then some. Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire.

“Lo, you’re okay, right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’m fine.” She smiled and he smiled back, doing that thing with his eyes.

Lorraine turned toward the door.

“A couple of days, Lo. Three at most.”

“Yes, yes, all right.”

He followed her out into the hall, but when he went to kiss her again she moved her head aside. “You’d best stay away from the front door,” she said. “No point in risking being seen.”

“Round here?” Michael grinned. “That’s a laugh.”

But he stood well back, and when Lorraine turned the catch he said, “I do love you, you know.”

“I know.”

Her hands were shaking so much it was all she could do to fit the car key into the lock, switch on the ignition.

Carefully, methodically, Millington and Naylor had been questioning Gary Prince, Ben Fowles sitting in, listening and learning. And as they went through incident after incident, one set of stolen goods after another, Prince had talked himself into corners from which it was more and more difficult to escape. The one thing he hadn’t admitted, nor even come close to, was selling a weapon to Valentine.

“Look on the bright side, Graham,” Resnick said. “There’s a dozen burglaries, more, some of them going back years-all those files marked closed. Do wonders for the crime figures.”

“Aye, happen you’re right.”

They were stealing twenty minutes’ sunshine, sitting on a bench in the tiny rectangle of public gardens at the end of Newcastle Drive.

“Besides, most likely thing,” Resnick said, “’less the gun’s at the bottom of the Trent, it’s been sold on a couple of times by now.”

Millington shook his head. “We’ve had feelers out and plenty, no word.”

“Not to worry, Graham. Be thankful for what we’ve got.”

Millington considered a cigarette, then thought better of it. “Raymond Cooke,” he said. “Took over that place Bobbers Mill way when his Uncle Terry killed himself.”

Resnick nodded. “What about him?”

“Name’s come up a couple of times. Jobs we thought Prince might’ve had a hand in. One in particular-break-in out at the Science Park. Computer stuff up the wazoo.”

“And he’s suggesting Ray-o was involved?”

Millington shook his head. “Not directly. Fenced the stuff, that’s all. Think there might be something to it?”

“Possible, Graham. Depends how closely he’s following in Terry Cooke’s footsteps.”

Millington snapped the spent match in half. “Often thought about that, you know. That whole business. Cookie topping himself the way he did. That girlfriend of his …”

“Eileen.”

“Yeah, right next to him in the bed.” He decided to light up after all. “Stripper, wasn’t she? What? Twenty-three, twenty-four? No dog, either.” Millington held in the smoke, then exhaled slowly. “You’d have thought, something nice like that alongside you, last thing you’d want to do, put your brains all over the pillow.”

Resnick stood and stretched. “I might take a walk down there, Graham. Haven’t had a word with young Ray-o in a while.”

Millington grinned. “One of your waifs and strays, isn’t he? Along of the Snapes.”

“Time to be getting back, Graham,” Resnick said.

“That social worker you went out with a while,” Millington said, smiling broadly. “Five or so years back. Rachel, was it? Left her mark on you and no mistake.”

But Resnick, striding away, was no longer listening.

At lunchtime, Lorraine left work and was crossing toward her car when she saw Evan, smoking a cigarette, over by the dividing wall. For just a moment, she stopped in her tracks and Evan dropped the cigarette and ground it out with the underside of his shoe. Lorraine put her keys back in her bag and headed straight for him. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?”

“I told you yesterday …”

“And I told you. If you don’t keep away from me, stop following me …”

“Tell me what I need to know.”

“You need to know nothing.”

Evan shook his head. “I thought I’d explained all that.”

“Listen,” Lorraine said, not wanting to make a scene, conscious that someone else from her work could come out at any moment. “Listen, there’s this law. Stalking.” She jabbed a finger against Evan’s chest. “You keep this up and I’m going to the police.”

Evan looked hurt. “But that’s not what …”

“Not what?”

“What I’m doing.”

“What else would you call it?” She rounded on her heel and strode toward her car. Before getting there, she turned again and headed back to Evan. “Which is yours?”

“Huh?”

“Which is yours?” Her head was half turned toward the line of other vehicles.

Evan didn’t answer, but she could see where he was looking: a Vauxhall Carlton, dark blue, a hire car with last year’s registration.

She took a pen and a slip of paper from her bag and made a show of writing down the number. “Okay, Evan, I’m telling you this. If I see either you or that car, anywhere near me, here or at home, I am going to call the law.” And she stared at him till he lowered his head and scuffed his feet on the floor.