Last Rites

Thirty-six

“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.

Preston was watching a scratchy kung-fu movie when Cassady arrived bearing gifts-a bottle of Black Bush and two Melton Mowbray pork pies. “Tonight,” he said, breaking the seal on the bottle.

“What about it?”

Cassady blew the dust out of two glasses and tipped in the whiskey. “We do it. What else, sure?”

“How about this other business?” Preston asked, a sip or two later.

“What business is that?”

“That bastard prison officer, sticking his nose in.”

“Oh, that,” Cassady said casually. “That’s sorted.”

The man standing in the doorway of Raymond Cooke’s shop needed to stoop several inches to avoid banging his head on the lintel. His shoulders were so wide, Raymond thought he might have to lean, first to one side, then the other, so as not to collide with the frame as he came through. His name was Leo: it was stitched in crimson lettering, high on the right side of his cobalt-blue Tommy Hilfiger jacket; he was wearing loose gray warm-up pants and Converse basketball boots. There were two gold studs in his left ear, one in his right; a heavy gold chain around his neck. His hair had been shaved till he was completely bald.

“Ray-o? You the one they call Ray-o?”

And with a grin, he stepped into the shop. Raymond didn’t think he was there to buy a reconditioned microwave oven.

“Ray, yeh, that’s me. Ray or Ray-o, doesn’t matter.”

“This your business, huh?”

“Yeh, yeh.” Raymond watched as Leo wandered between the piles of second-hand or stolen goods. He wiped the palms of his hands down his jeans; already he was patched with sweat.

“What can I …? I mean, was there anything special …? Maybe something you want to get shot of? Sell?”

Leo spun faster than Raymond could follow and a finger longer than any he’d ever seen poked hard against his chest. It was all Raymond could do not to stumble backward.

“That’s a joke, yeh. You’re jokin’, right? Get shot of. Got to be a joke, yeh? Clever bastard.” Each syllable of the last two words was accompanied by a jab of the same finger at his chest.

Raymond just looked back at him, open-mouthed; he hadn’t realized what he’d said.

“You the one,” Leo said, “been spreading the word, want to see Valentine? Got something special for him, that you?”

“Yes.” Raymond blinked and blinked again. The sweat was running into his eyes. “Yeh, that’s me.”

“Fine.” Leo’s face was suddenly all smiles. “You know Cassava? That eatin’ place?”

Raymond couldn’t picture where it was and then he could. “Yeh. Least, I think so. Never been in, mind. But, yeh.”

“Tonight. Two-thirty. Drew, he see you there. Bring what you got to sell. Okay?”

“Yes. Okay. Course. Half two.”

Still smiling, Leo pointed his index finger at him, crouching in the doorway. “What you want to get shot of.” And, aiming at Raymond’s heart, he fired the finger like a gun, lifting it toward his mouth so that he could blow away the smoke before stepping back out into the street.