Last Rites (9 page)

“Maybe we’ll talk again,” Resnick said.

“Maybe.”

Before he had reached the gate, Lorraine had closed the front door and turned the key in the lock.

Thirteen

Michael Preston’s known criminal associates were four: Frost, O’Connell, Forbes, and Cassady. Frost, Crazy Frank, was safely locked away in Broadmoor, living up to his name. Gerry O’Connell had followed a family connection to Manchester and got himself shot for his pains, twice through the back of the head. Two down, two to go.

Naylor and Fowles went looking for Millington and found him in the canteen with the remains of double egg, beans, and chips. Late lunch or early supper.

“This Arthur Forbes, sarge,” Naylor said. “According to the file, you did him for burglary, five years back.”

Millington grinned through his mustache. “Arthur Quentin Forbes, reformed character these days. Wandered into the Church of Divine Revelations Pentecostal mission down in Sneinton, more than half out of his head on a cocktail of crack cocaine, ecstasy, and Spanish brandy. Seems the Holy Ghost stepped in to claim what was left. You can find him most days, preaching the gospel in the Old Market Square or parading up and down Angel Row strapped into sandwich boards proclaiming the Word.” Millington lit a cigarette. “I doubt if he and Preston’ve set up in business again, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Which leaves Cassady,” Naylor said.

Millington nodded. “Cassady, Liam H. Blagged his way on to some Government start-up scheme, set himself up in the security line.”

“Gold Standard,” Fowles said. “The outfit Jimmy Peters uses. Coincidence, d’you reckon? Nothing more?”

“Doubt it,” Millington said. “Cassady’s outfit must provide security for a good third of the clubs in the city.”

“Worth talking to, though,” Naylor said, “where Preston’s concerned?”

Millington glanced up at the canteen clock. “Get your skates on, you’ll catch him now with time to spare. Always assuming it’s regular office hours he’s working.”

“Right, sarge.”

Millington leaned back to enjoy his cigarette and ponder the possibility of rhubarb crumble and custard.

Liam Cassady had been born on the north side of Dublin, his father and his uncles working across the water for months at a time, sometimes remembering to send money home, sometimes not. When he was fourteen, Liam stowed away on the Dun Laoghaire-Holyhead ferry and found his old dad behind a pint of Guinness in a Cricklewood pub, one tattooed arm round the shoulders of a dark-haired woman who definitely wasn’t his mum. His father swore him to secrecy, boxed his ears, and sent him back home. When Liam tried the same dodge three years later, his dad stood him a pint and a large Bushmills to boot, introduced him to all his mates and, within a matter of days, had set him up with a slow-witted girl from County Mayo, working as a chambermaid in a hotel near King’s Cross.

Cassady soon fell in with a bunch of tearaways who did their drinking in the Archway Tavern. After chucking-out time, they’d amuse themselves by picking fights in the Irish dance hall on the Holloway Road, or doing a bit of breaking and entering in the quieter streets between Hornsey and Palmers Green. Quite a bit.

Soon Liam had money and didn’t mind spending it. His girlfriend now was a would-be photographic model with a Scottish mother and a Trinidadian father. When Liam decided his patch of north London was getting too hot for comfort, the law having carried off three of his mates to the local nick in as many weeks, she followed him north to Liverpool. And Warrington. And Leeds. Jacky, that was her name, though Liam liked to call her Jack.

He still saw her from time to time, even after two abortions, a miscarriage, two marriages—one each—one divorce—hers—and two children—his and Jean’s.

Jean, Cassady had met after he’d arrived in the East Midlands and was doing the occasional spot of casual laboring by day, hanging out with the lads at night. Michael Preston and the rest. Great days. Five jobs they’d pulled off, five in eighteen months and though the law had their suspicions, when it came to hard evidence they didn’t have jack shit.

And Jean, Cassady thought, was different. They got married and moved into a house in the Meadows, intent on settling down. Jean: he liked to call her Jeanie. It was all a long time ago.

They were still married, though; two boys, Jimmy and Dan. After the second, Jean had turned away from him and now Liam met Jacky every month or so, always a hotel, always out of town. Jacky was living in Sheffield and they tried to find somewhere in between. Jean knew, of course, though it was nothing they ever discussed; she knew and in a way she was happy; if he was getting what he wanted from Jacky, it took the pressure off her. Live and let live, it was the best way.

Fowles had given himself a final check-over in the mirror of the gents before leaving the station: chinos, button-down Ben Sherman shirt, blue zip-up jacket with leather facing on the collar, brown leather shoes with a heavy lugged sole. Alongside Naylor, who was sporting one of his suits from Man at C&A, he looked a regular fashion item.

“Just remember,” Naylor warned, “no going in heavy.”

“As if.”

“Ben, I’m serious.”

“I know, I know.”

Gold Standard Security had its office on the first floor of a postwar building close to the Ice Stadium. Pale brick and iron bars across the windows on the ground floor. Fowles winked and pressed his finger to the bell.

They were buzzed up into a single room that stretched from front to back, with a tall walk-in cupboard to the left of the door. There were two desks: one near the rear window and unoccupied now, was used by the woman who came in three afternoons a week and issued invoices, made payments, did what she could to keep things in order; Cassady himself looked up from behind the other and smiled a lopsided smile. “Gentlemen …”

Shelves behind Cassady’s desk were mostly taken up by box files, cartons, telephone directories, and a few paperback thrillers—Grisham, Dick Francis, Tom Clancy. A television set stood on a low table within Cassady’s easy range of vision. The security monitor was at one side of his desk, a computer on the other.

“This will be about the other night,” Cassady offered. “That business at the Hot Spot.”

“Will it?” Fowles said.

“What else? I gave our man a right bollocking, you can imagine. One more cock-up like that and he’s out. Not the way to handle things at all.” He looked serious for a moment, then grinned. “Pull over a couple of them chairs, why don’t you? Take the weight off your feet.”

Neither man moved.

“Michael Preston,” Naylor said.

Cassady’s brow furrowed. “Preston?”

Fowles shook his head. “Your mate, Michael Preston. That’s who we’re looking for.”

“Who?”

Fowles laughed out loud. “What’s that meant to be? A joke? Good crack? See that, Kev? Straight-faced. Clever. Natural comedians, the Irish. You are Irish? Flair for language, it’s well known. James Joyce. The Pogues. You’ve not got
Ulysses
on your shelves, I see. No, well, better kept at home. Bedtime reading. He was a filthy old sod, Joyce, but then what can you expect from a man who never left the house without his collection of women’s dirty knickers. We’d have had him locked up for it, no two ways. Where is he, then, Michael Preston? And don’t tell us you don’t know.”

“I don’t know.”

“But you know who I mean?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You’ve seen him,” Fowles said.

“I have not.”

“Heard from him?”

“Not a word. Not for years.”

“How often did you visit him in prison?” Fowles asked, toward the window.

“I didn’t.”

“We can check.”

“Half a dozen times, no more than that.”

“How come? I mean, I thought you were close, went back quite a way?”

“He didn’t want it, didn’t want any visitors.”

“You know why?”

Cassady hunched his shoulders forward. “He found it easier. You know, to do his time.”

Fowles took three strides toward the cupboard and rapped smartly on the door. “It’s okay, Michael, we know you’re in there. You can come on out now.”

“Is he always like this?” Cassady asked.

Naylor shook his head.

“You don’t mind if I take a look?” Fowles said, giving the handle a deft tug.

“Help yourself.”

“No, it’s all right.” Stepping away, Fowles peered down at the papers piled on the accountant’s desk.

“You’re saying you’ve no idea …” Naylor began.

Fowles interrupted him with a shrill whistle. “Is this all they get?” He was holding up a sheet of headed notepaper, high in front of his face. “Your blokes. Fiver an hour? Maintaining peace and tranquility among the night-clubbing classes. Turning their backs on the sale of a few Es. Don’t seem much.”

“Are you looking for work yourself, then?” Cassady asked. “Is that it?”

“He will be,” Naylor muttered.

“Moonlighting,” Cassady said, “that’s the thing. I’ve more than a few of your fellers on my books already.”

“Your opinion,” Naylor said, “Preston. You know him. Used to. Where would you say he is now?”

“After twelve years?” Cassady shook his head. “Out of the country. Far as he can. Somewhere you can’t get your hands on him and good luck. He’s served his time.”

“Not exactly.”

“Will there be many more questions?” Cassady asked, leaning back a little in his chair. “Only I’ve a couple of inquiries to reply to and then a site I need to go off and inspect. Theft from building works, heavy equipment—kind of thing we’re being called on to deal with more and more.”

Reaching toward the computer, Fowles pressed a button and Cassady’s screen saver disappeared instantly from sight. “When he sends you a postcard,” he said, “Rio, wherever. You might just let us see it, check the postmark, put our minds at rest.”

“Well,” Fowles said, as they stepped back out on to the street, “don’t know about you, Kev, but I thought that went pretty well myself.”

Kevin Naylor didn’t say a thing. Just watched as Fowles slid out into the light one of the sheets of paper he’d purloined from the top of Cassady’s assistant’s desk.

“List of all the blokes he’s had working for his outfit in the past six months,” Fowles explained. “Run it through records, compare and contrast. What’s the betting it throws up one or two interesting names?”

Sharon Garnett and Carl Vincent were getting nowhere sifting through the witnesses to the Ellis shooting. So when Resnick asked Sharon if she could find the time to run a check on Lorraine’s—and Michael’s—family, she was glad of the diversion.

Resnick was ready to pack it in for the day and considering a quick half over the road before heading home when Sharon knocked on his door.

“Preston, sir. Now that his mother’s dead, there’s only the one sister, Lorraine, close family anyway. She works for this small printer’s, part-time, ordering supplies, accounts, that sort of thing. Derek, her husband, he’s a divisional sales manager for a paper suppliers.” Sharon grinned. “More than likely how they met. But anyway, nothing out of line, not as much as an unpaid parking fine between them. Surprising, maybe, the kind of example Michael and his father had set. In fact, the only one who seems to have blotted her copy-book’s the husband’s sister, Maureen. Runs a clothes shop off Bridlesmith Gate. By Design. Second-hand, but pricey. Out of my league, anyway. She’s had a couple of warnings from the Inland Revenue, discrepancies in her VAT returns. And once what looks like a fairly serious inquiry about handling stolen goods.”

Resnick perked up and looked interested.

“Seems this customer went in and found several pieces that had been nicked from her place in the Park just the week before. Jean Muir skirt, one or two things like that. Hanging there on the rail marked ‘New Arrivals.’”

“She wasn’t charged?”

“No. Gave the clothes back, profuse apologies, offers of fifty per cent off. You can imagine. Claimed she’d bought the stuff in all innocence from someone who walked in off the street.” Sharon shrugged. “Well, who’s to say? It’s the kind of business she’s in.”

Resnick shuffled papers on his desk. “I don’t really see how it fits in. With Preston, I mean.”

“Maybe not. I just thought, if you reckoned it worthwhile, I could call round, have a word.”

Resnick shook his head. “I don’t think so. Get back on the shooting. But thanks, anyway.

“Right, sir.” Sharon was thinking she might drop in there some time anyway. By Design. She might come across a bargain, you never knew till you looked.

Resnick and Millington were in the old public bar of the Partridge, the pair of them savoring Speckled Hen on draught.

“You’d best watch out,” Millington said, something of a gleam in his eye.

“How’s that?”

Millington nodded at the pint glass in Resnick’s hand. “I’ll have you enjoying a decent ale yet.”

Resnick laughed. “Instead of that Eastern European muck, you mean?”

“You said it, not me.”

“Young Fowles,” Resnick said a few moment later. “How d’you reckon he’s settling in?”

“Ben? Bit of a motormouth, given half the chance. Fancies himself maybe a mite too much. But plane away a few raw edges, he’ll do fine.”

Resnick sank another inch of his pint. “Someone likely said that about Mark Divine a few years back.”

“Aye, you and me both.”

“And we’d have been wrong.”

“Some things you can’t allow for; some people.”

“Seen anything of him lately? Mark?”

Millington shook his head. “Rang him a few weeks back—well, tell the truth, must be a month or more—you know he’s got that new place, top of St. Ann’s, not that far from you—anyway, hear him tell it, life couldn’t be better.”

“Working?”

“Driving job; one of these overnight delivery places. Got him rushing all over. Doubt the pay’s great, but at least it’s something. Keeps his mind off things.”

Resnick was thoughtful; there were times since Divine had left the Force when he’d wondered if there weren’t more he could have done; but the odd meal, the occasional drink aside, Divine had made it clear handouts were not what he was looking for. Intervention, however well-meaning, was not to be encouraged.