Last Rites (27 page)

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.

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.

Thirty-seven

Valentine was high. Why wouldn’t he be? The Dutchman had shown up as arranged half an hour before and was, right then and there, at the back of the room talking weights and training regimes with Leo. And the two cases he and his brother had brought with them, slightly battered and leather-bound, were right there under the table, close against Valentine’s feet. Two kilos of cocaine, all handily separated out into clear bags with a resale price of five hundred each; which would be broken down farther by Valentine’s crew; fifty-pound bags that the small-time scufflers like Jason Johnson would peddle on street corners, in pubs and clubs, on high-rise walkways and through the iron railings of schools.

Twenty thousand Valentine had paid over, throwing in another five as a sweetener, keep the Dutchman coming to him and not Planer. Twenty-five in all and nothing compared with the sixty the contents of those cases were worth to Valentine out on the street. Thirty-five thousand profit and all he’d done so far was cut open one of the bags and lift a taste of the powder to his tongue, rub a little across his gums.

Sure he was high. Wouldn’t you be?

He was calling back toward the kitchen in search of chicken and dumplings, when the knock came at the door. The Dutchman’s hand moved inside his jacket, fingers touching the grip of his Glock 9mm, the 17L, the kind that doesn’t set off metal detectors at airports.

Leo shook his head and grinned. “Stay cool. It’ll be the kid.”

“Which kid?”

There were two others sitting with the Dutchman’s brother, and one of them got up and checked through the blinds before unlocking the door.

Dressed up for the occasion in his best leather jacket, new Pepe jeans, Raymond gingerly walked in. Valentine had hoped the Dutchman would have been long gone by this time, but what did it matter? This youth already close to pissing himself, acne pits all over his sorry face.

“You Ray-o?”

Raymond nodded.

“Come on in. Get over here. Someone get our visitor something to drink.”

One of the men threw Raymond a can of Red Stripe, which he fumbled and caught; another relocked the front door.

“Sit.” Valentine said, pointing at the vacant chair opposite.

Raymond sat.

“You want something to eat?”

Raymond shook his head.

“Curried goat, all kinds.” Valentine laughed. “Dog, if you lucky. You should give it a try.”

Raymond thought he was being sent up, but wasn’t sure. A woman, small and with her hair in a net, came out from the kitchen with a plate of food and set it down in front of Valentine. It smelled good. Valentine took the top from a bottle of red pepper sauce and sprinkled it liberally over his supper. Raymond was beginning to wish he hadn’t said no.

He popped the can and drank some beer instead. One of the men passed a large spliff to Valentine, who drew on it deeply, holding the smoke in his mouth, before passing the joint across to Raymond. It was strong enough to make him cough and Valentine laughed again, but pleasantly. This was okay, Raymond thought, this was going to be all right.

“So, little brother,” Valentine said, “you got something to trade.”

“Yes.”

“With you. You got it with you?”

“Yeh.”

“Some kind of weapon, I understand.”

“A Beretta. Chrome-handled. A .38.”

Valentine raised an eyebrow high. “Nice.” He held out a hand. “Best let me see.”

Raymond hesitated, Valentine watching him closely to see what he would do.

“I want eight hundred for it, cash,” Raymond said.

Laughter and whistles all round.

“Boy,” Valentine said, leaning forward. “I say one thing for you, you may be one ugly little fucker, but you got some balls.”

Raymond could hear the breath, squeezing out of his lungs. “Eight hundred,” he said again.

“Six fifty, that’s your price. Seven tops. You tell me why I should pay over the odds.”

The words came tumbling out in a rush, not the way Raymond had practiced it at all. “It’s the gun from the Forest, the one you used on Jason. It’s worth eight hundred to you, make sure it don’t fall into the wrong hands. Got to be. Gotta.”

Valentine sat back and shook his head. “Ray-o, boy, your balls ain’t just brass, they big as a house.” And glancing over his shoulder toward Leo, he said, “Count me out eight hundred, why don’t you?” Leo winked at Raymond as he set the notes, fifties, on the table between them, Raymond thinking he’d tell Sheena the price had been two fifty.

“Now,” Valentine said, “time for you to show me yours.”

Raymond’s mouth was too dry for him to speak. Slowly, he reached round to the back of his jacket and pulled out the Beretta.

“Set it down.”

Raymond placed it next to the money.

“That loaded?” Valentine asked.

Raymond shook his head.

“Leo.” Without looking back, Valentine reached a hand over his shoulder and Leo slapped a full clip into it; before Raymond knew what was happening, Valentine had pushed the clip into the pistol and snicked the safety off with his thumb.

“Oh, Jesus,” Raymond said and felt his insides start to melt.

The tip of the gun barrel was only inches from his face. “Thing about Jason Johnson,” Valentine said. “I never did get quite close enough to that skinny bastard. Which must have been why I missed.”

Raymond closed his eyes and started to jabber meaningless sounds. When the barrel end touched, cold, against his forehead, immediately above the bridge of his nose, he shouted “No!” and in the middle of his shout he heard, or thought he heard, a double click.