John Harvey - Last Rites

Valentine checked the clock on the wall against his Rolex: not like Paul Finney to be late for an appointment.

Neither of them had bothered with the blinds, and when Resnick woke again a low level of light illuminated the room. The green digits on Hannah’s clock radio read 5:47. Above the even sound of her breathing, he could hear birds, busy between the trees bordering the recreation ground. He would have to go back to his own house before reporting for work. The level of Hannah’s breathing changed and he realized that she was stirring awake, peering at him through partly opened eyes. His hand moved across to rest on her thigh and with a small smile Hannah lowered her face down on to his chest.

“Charlie …”

“Mmm?”

“It’s good that you’re here.”

He thought they might make love again, but the moment passed, as these moments do. Before the hour, Hannah was slipping out of bed to use the bathroom and Resnick, in boxer shorts and barefoot, was padding down to the kitchen to make coffee.

They sat in Hannah’s small back room eating toast and some of Hannah’s mother’s homemade marmalade, runny and sweet.

“How was she?” Resnick asked. “When you told her about your dad. Marrying again.”

Hannah shook her head. “At first, I didn’t think she’d heard. Or understood. But then, when I mentioned it again later, she almost bit off my head: I know, you’ve already told me once-do you think I’m totally stupid or merely deaf? I found her later in the garden, pretending to deadhead some flowers. She was crying. She said it made her feel old, dried-up. I hated to leave her there, drive back.”

“I had half a thought you might have called round.”

“I did.”

Resnick looked at her.

“There was another car, parked outside. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Resnick smiled. “It was only Lynn.”

“Only?”

“Her father, there’s been some kind of relapse. She’d just heard.”

Hannah cut the last piece of toast in two. “I thought the treatment had been successful. I thought he was all right.”

“Yes, so did she.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes.” He didn’t know where he’d left his watch. Jacket pocket? Upstairs beside the bed? “Look, it’s probably time I was going.”

There was no more than a hint of resignation in Hannah’s smile. “I know. The cats.”

“And other things.”

At the door she said, “Maybe next time you’ll call me?”

“Yes. Okay. I will.” He kissed her on the cheek, close alongside her mouth.

“Charlie …”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Take care. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

She didn’t watch him walk to the end of the narrow strip of path, turning where it broadened out and met the road. Back inside the house, she busied herself with clearing away.

Resnick all the way home thinking about two men, two fathers, Lynn’s and Hannah’s, close in age; the one seriously ill, possibly dying; the other rejuvenated, living a new life in a new country, about to remarry. By the time Resnick arrived back at his own house, the cats were clamoring to be fed and the telephone was ringing insistently. Some things didn’t change.

“Catch!”

Maureen spun round in time to see her keys come arching through the room; at the second attempt, she held them fast.

From the doorway, Michael Preston grinned. “It’s time.”

“What for?”

He winked. “Me to move on.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. Her mouth was dry and, as Preston began to come toward her, something caught hold of her stomach and twisted it hard.

Close to, he could read the pain, the fear in her eyes. With the knuckles of his right hand, he brushed her cheek. “If I thought …”

“Yes?

“If I thought for one moment you were going to open this gorgeous mouth …” His index finger pressed against her mouth. “You know what I’d do?”

“Yes.”

“What I’d come back and do?”

“Yes.”

“Even after I’ve gone. Really gone.” The finger slid between her lips. “I’ve got friends. They’ll know. If you talk, tell anyone. Anything. They’ll know.”

Maureen’s eyes were wide; the sweat she could smell was her own.

“And you know what they’ll do?”

She nodded; made what sound she could.

Smiling, Preston hooked his finger inside her mouth, then pulled it free with a pop. “Good girl,” he said. “Good, good girl.”

Even after the front door had opened and closed, she stood there for a long time, not bothering to stem the tears that ran down her face.

Lynn’s voice on the telephone had been scraped bare: her father’s condition had worsened, she was driving over straightaway. Resnick had wished her the best, without knowing what that was.

Entering the CID room, he glanced at the clock. A little after ten; given clear roads, she would be there now, there or thereabouts.

Sharon Garnett intercepted him on his way to his office. “Jack Dainty, you wanted me to ask around. That allegation, tampering with evidence, the other officer involved, it was Finney right enough.”

Resnick smiled.

“There’s more. Just before Dainty resigned, there was another allegation; a case they were working on together, him and Finney. According to the rumors, Dainty went to question a prisoner in Lincoln, promised him a supply of dope if he gave them the answers they wanted. Grade A cannabis resin. Worth a small fortune inside.”

“And Finney was involved? Directly?”

Sharon shrugged. “There’s no proof. Dainty was on his way out anyway, let the blame fall on himself.”

“Okay, Sharon, thanks.”

Inside his office, he dialed Helen Siddons’s number.

“You bloody psychic, Charlie, or what? I was just about to phone you. Anil was tailing Finney last night. Two o’clock, something after, must have been feeling peckish. Stopped off at a restaurant near Hyson Green. Cassava. Know it?”

Resnick didn’t.

“According to Anil, looked like the place was closed. Finney knocked on the door and they let him in. Anil hung around and forty minutes later Finney comes out and who’s he with?”

“I don’t know,” Resnick said, thinking she was going to say Dainty.

“Anthony Drew Valentine.”

Resnick whistled. “Anil’s certain?”

“Positive. Saw them talk together a few minutes on the pavement, then they shake hands, the pair of them, laughing away. Valentine pats Finney on the back and off they go.”

“Together?”

“Separately.”

“Anil followed him?”

“What do you think?”

“Where to?”

“Home. Semi-detached in Sherwood. Wife and three kids.”

Resnick was trying to arrange his thoughts. “Are you going to have him in, question him?”

“Not yet.”

He heard the sound of Siddons drawing on her cigarette.

“D’you want me to have a word with Norman Mann?” Resnick asked. “See if he can shed some light?”

“And risk Finney being warned off? No, thanks, Charlie. Not on your life. We’ll watch Finney a while longer, see where he leads us. Lucky enough, just might be able to nab him and Valentine together, heads down at the same trough.”

The address Cassady had given him was a nondescript house in Cinderhill, within easy reach of the motorway. Get there and wait. Preston waited.

The place was sparsely furnished, no pictures or photographs, nothing personal, only a two-year-old calendar tacked to one of the downstairs walls; it smelled of damp and when he first ran the water it came out a sludgy brown. In one of the rooms, there were a small television and a VCR, along with a pile of duff videos. In the kitchen, there were a radio cassette player and a few tapes, Queen, Van Morrison, the Chieftains. Preston had thought there might be Guinness, too, but there were only cans of cheap supermarket lager. There was bread in a paper bag, a carton of tea bags, frozen pizza, milk in the fridge.