Last Rites (3 page)

“Hungry, yeh?”

“What the fuck’s it to you?”

“Here,” said the youth to the other side, reaching inside his silver zip-up jacket. “Eat this.”

And he pushed the barrel end of an automatic pistol hard against Ellis’s cheek and squeezed the trigger.

Five

Lorraine stood on the paved area between the rose garden and the entrance to the crematorium chapel, while around her, small clusters of men and women, somberly dressed, engaged in desultory conversation. She didn’t even know who they all were.

She took a tissue from her bag and blew her nose softly, pulled at an imaginary thread by the seam of Sandra’s sweatshirt, and shook her head at Sean to stop him kicking at the pale gravel of the forecourt. Then there was Derek’s sister Maureen approaching, a broad smile more suited to a wedding than a funeral.

“How you doing, then? All right?” She left a smudge of coral lipstick on Lorraine’s cheek as she gave her a hug. “Nice outfit, understated, just right for the occasion. I like that. Though you could have come to me, of course. I’d’ve found something for you, special. And a good price, too.” She hugged her again. “Family.” Maureen herself was wearing a black dress with a scoop neck, mid-length, with a deep split in the skirt, front and back.

Derek and Maureen went off into a little huddle and several people came up to Lorraine to tell her what a grand lady her mother had been and shake her hand. A man with purple veins etched across his face and a runny eye bent to kiss her on the cheek and squeeze her arm. “She did well, Deirdre,” he said, his voice low, as if this was something between the pair of them, special and caring. “Hanging on the way she did. Coping. After what that bastard—s’cuse my language—did to your father. He was a wonderful man, your dad, God rest his soul. A gentleman—but I don’t need to tell you that.”

“Here’s the vicar,” Derek said, as a slight figure, prematurely balding, bounced brightly toward them, hand outstretched, smiling.

But Lorraine’s eyes were fixed solemnly now on the middle distance, the pair of iron gates, open, through which the vehicle bringing her brother would enter.

Evan was never sure how he’d come to take a wrong turning. But somewhere between Wesley’s map reading and his own instincts, they had ended up on the wrong side of the Trent and heading east. He could feel Michael Preston’s unexpressed anger burning into the back of his head as he swung the car into a U-turn. Stay calm, that’s what his father would have said, stay calm and do your best. “It’s okay,” he said over his shoulder, “ten minutes now, fifteen at most.”

In the mirror, Preston’s eyes were flat and staring. Sweat gathered at the base of Evan’s neck.

“We’ll get you there, don’t fret.”

“Come on, love …” Derek’s voice patient and understanding.

“No, wait …” Lorraine shrugged his hand from her shoulder, a quick shake of her head. “Tell them they’ll have to wait until he’s here.”

Derek’s glance went from the direction in which his wife was looking toward the open chapel doors, through which the clumsy sounds of the organ could already be heard. “It’s too late. They’re starting.”

“Then tell them … explain …”

He gripped her more tightly, one arm along her back, edging her forward. “He’s got held up somewhere, traffic, you know what it’s like. Roadworks, most probably. He’ll be here, you see. Now, d’you want to borrow my hankie? No? Okay, stiff upper lip then, here we go.”

Derek, serious-faced as he led her into the chapel and down toward the empty spaces reserved for them in the front row beside Sean and Sandra; the vicar standing at the center waiting, smiling now his careful smile of welcome, and everyone else leaning forward, not wanting to be seen staring but concerned, inquisitive, staring all the same. And with each step he took beside her, proud at her bravery, Derek thinking if there was any such thing as justice then Michael would not be serving life nor anything like it, Michael would have been taken from that place and hung by the neck until dead, dead as his father before him. “Okay, now?” he whispered as Lorraine stood beside him. “Okay, sweetheart?” And squeezed her hand.

The crematorium car park was full to the gills and they had to pull over against the grass verge, temporarily blocking the way. When Evan switched off the engine, the sound of singing could be heard, muffled, from behind the chapel doors.

“You take him,” Evan said, sitting round in his seat. “I’ll deal with the car. Go on. Before it’s too late.”

Preston leaned forward. “The cuffs,” he said. “I don’t want to go in there wearing no cuffs.”

Evan hesitated.

Alongside Preston, Wesley shook his head.

“Do it,” Evan said decisively. “Uncuff him.”

Disbelief in Wesley’s eyes.

“We’re wasting time.”

Out of the car, Evan moved in quickly on Preston, stopping close enough that their bodies were almost touching. “I’m trusting you,” he said. “Don’t let me down. When it’s over, you stay inside, wherever you are, let everyone else leave. That’s when the cuffs go back on. Agreed?”

Preston held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once, Evan hesitating, waiting perhaps for thanks that didn’t come. “Okay,” Evan said, stepping back.

Wesley walked with Preston toward the chapel doors, keeping approximately half a pace behind, Evan standing his ground until they had stepped inside and the doors had closed again behind them. Then, without looking either to left or right, he got back into the car and drove it slowly up toward the road.

If this goes wrong, he was thinking … And then, if this were my dad, here in my shoes, this situation, what would he have done?

It was Derek who noticed Michael first, glancing round at the sound of the heavy doors squeaking to a close. Michael standing quite still for a moment, blinking at the change of light before starting to walk slowly forward down the center aisle; the black man—his guard, Derek supposed—who had come in with him, remaining where he was. The congregation was singing a psalm about passing into the golden yonder.

Lorraine sensed Michael’s presence before she saw him, recognizing, perhaps, the weight of his footsteps, clear along the cold tiles. Like a slow wave, voices broke around her and she, almost alone, continued singing, unable to turn her head for fear she was wrong.

“Hi, Lo.” He repeated their old joke greeting close into her ear and something clutched and swept through her stomach, and then it was his hand steadying the small blue hymnal that shook between her fingers. “Budge up.”

To Lorraine’s left, Derek moved along to make room, edging the children closer to the wall; Lorraine standing there with Michael’s shoulder touching hers, his elbow hard against her upper arm. The warmth of him. Lorraine terrified she might cry out, faint.

The last sounds of the organ echoed to a halt and the vicar stepped forward, head raised, waiting for silence before beginning to speak.

“We are here to celebrate the life of a remarkable woman; one to whom life presented a more than usually difficult path. A path which many of us would have found too arduous or too long, yet one which Deirdre traveled with great fortitude and grace.” The voice was oddly high and clear, somehow both old and young. “She was a valued member of the community, a willing worker, and, as the presence of so many of you here today testifies, a loyal and much-loved friend. Perhaps above all, though, we will remember her as a devoted mother, the loving and strong center of her family, a rock of consolation and forgiveness which held firm in the face of adversity of a singular and most terrible kind.”

Lorraine sensed Michael tense beside her, heard his breathing change, a low clearing of his throat. Behind them, the chapel was silent, poised. For a moment, she thought that Michael might be about to move, step forward, speak. Then she realized that he was crying, making no effort to disguise it, tears that curled around the corners of his mouth, ran without let or hindrance down his face.

“If there is one thing,” the vicar continued, “we should remember most about the life of Deirdre Preston, it is that, no matter what the pain she suffered, no matter the magnitude of sorrow and sadness she was forced to face, she never once sank into despair, she never lost her faith.

“Now, in silence, let us each remember Deirdre in our own way, and let us pray for her soul, now and everlasting …”

Lorraine and Michael, standing there together: Michael staring upward, the ceiling blurred by tears; Lorraine bent forward, eyes closed, long fingers winding restlessly in and out, sobbing. Happy.

Six

“I’ve already fucking told you,” Billy Scalthorpe insisted, his voice a raw whine against the backdrop of overlapping conversations. “How many more fuckin’ times?”

Carl Vincent shifted his weight on to his other foot. “How about once more?”

“Okay. Mark’s walkin’ out, right? Me and Adam, we’re arguin’ the toss up at the counter, Adam wants Coke without ice, and what they’ve give him is Coke with ice. Anyway, I turn me head, gonna shout to Mark to hang on, right? And there’s these two blokes come at him from both sides and before you can fuckin’ do anythin’ they’ve shot him in the fuckin’ head. Legged it out of here like they was in the fuckin’ Olympics.”

“Into a car, yes? There was a car waiting?”

Scalthorpe shook his head. “I didn’t see no car.”

Three different witnesses had spoken of a black four-door saloon, a Ford, most probably an Escort.

“But you saw them, the pair who attacked him?”

“Course I fuckin’ saw ’em.”

“You recognize them?”

“What?”

“These two, you knew who they were?”

“’Course I never.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Never seen them before?”

“I dunno.”

“Then you might have?”

“Yeh, I might. S’pose I might.”

“But you claimed not to have recognized them.”

Scalthorpe shook his head in amazement. “They was fuckin’ runnin’ away. All I saw was the backs of their fuckin’ heads, wa’n it? Fuckin’ baseball caps, arse to front, like they all wear.”

“All?”

“You know what I mean.”

Scalthorpe held Vincent’s stare for a moment, then blinked. A rosary of tiny white spots circled his mouth, mingling here and there with wisps of fledgling mustache. Vincent smiled: the two attackers were black, most probably a similar shade of black to himself. Yes, he knew what Scalthorpe meant. And if a leading sports commentator could claim, without embarrassment, not to be able to distinguish between one black soccer player and another, what else could he expect?

“You did get a good look, though,” Vincent said, “at what they were wearing?”

“The one that shot him,” Adam Bent was saying, “he had on this silver jacket, short, you know? Padded, maybe. Yeh, I think it was padded. Blue jeans. Trainers. Nike, maybe, I’m not sure. Blue. Blue and white.”

“And a cap,” Naylor prompted him, glancing up from his notebook. “You said something before about a cap.”

“Oh, yeh. Dark blue with some sort of logo. Letterin’, you know?”

Naylor nodded. “And his mate?”

“Sports gear. Green and white. Cap, too. Pulled back. Washington Redskins. I know that ’cause I used to have one meself. Lost it down Forest, larkin’ around after the match. You don’t go to Forest, do you?”

Naylor shook his head.

“Used to be a lot of your lot down there, Sat’days. Hanging round, outside the ground. Still, have to be in uniform, I s’pose, do something like that?”

Naylor nodded again. “The one who did the shooting,” he said, “how much of a chance did you get to look at his face?”

Either side of Burger King, a section of Upper Parliament Street was cordoned off with yellow tape. Traffic had slowed to a single line, snail-like, in each direction. A small crowd, mostly women and small children, had gathered outside the Disney shop opposite and stood gawking.

Millington switched off his mobile and went outside to where Resnick was standing on the pavement, talking to Sharon Garnett.

“Just spoke to the hospital,” Millington said. “In surgery now, Ellis. Stable. That’s all they’ll say.”

Resnick nodded. “Sharon’s got a witness, woman who was passing, reckons she got a good look at one of them when they ran out to the car. Almost knocked her over. She’s going to take her round to Central, take a look at some pictures.”

Millington nodded. “Photofit, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

They were still standing there when a bulky man, dark-haired, wearing a leather jacket that might have fitted some years before, ducked under the tape and clasped Resnick by the shoulder.

“Charlie.”

“Norman.”

“It’s a bugger.”

“You could say.”

“Bastards shooting one another in broad daylight.”

“Yes.”

Norman Mann was the head of the city’s Drug Squad, a square-shouldered man with a reputation for calling a spade a fucking spade. He and Resnick were around the same age, had worked their way up through the Force more or less together, and treated each other with more than a little bonhomie and a careful respect.

“Let’s talk, Charlie.”

“Right.” Resnick looked round at his sergeant. “Graham?”