Last Rites (7 page)

“After what happened with the old man,” Skelton said, “it’s hard to see her welcoming him back with open arms.”

“Families,” Resnick said ruefully, “who’s to say?”

“Well,” Skelton rose to his feet, signaling the meeting was over, “forty-eight hours, Charlie. You know the drill. If he hasn’t come crawling home by then, it’s doubtful he ever will. No reason to think Preston’ll be any different to the rest.”

Kevin Naylor was sitting alone in the front of a nondescript Ford Sierra, some seventy meters back along the street facing the Jacobs’ house. Ben Fowles was covering the side and rear from the vantage point of the field, which he shared with a pair of ghostly horses and whatever unseen creatures startled him from time to time, scuffling through the grass close by his feet. The sky above was never quite dark, burning with the dull orange blur of cities, the moon a muted curl of white shadowed by slow cloud.

Naylor had a pair of binoculars resting in his lap and from time to time he would train them on the upstairs windows, where the curtains had been pulled across since well this side of midnight. Most of the other houses were the same. Since one o’clock, not a single car had passed either way. A good, law-abiding neighborhood, Naylor thought, everyone tucked up in bed early, thinking pure thoughts. It was difficult, sitting there in the darkness, fidgeting a little to avoid getting a cramp, for his own thoughts not to wander off to where Debbie was curled up inside their bed back home, one of her hands lightly grasping her opposite shoulder, the other resting, innocently enough, between her legs. With any luck she’d still be there in the early hours and he could sneak under the covers without waking her; without her waking until she felt him pressing up against her.

In the field, Fowles checked the position of the hands on his watch and checked again, sure they must have stopped. There was no more than a shake of coffee left in the bottom of the flask in the side pocket of his anorak and he was rationing himself through the final hours. He’d tried singing all the old Clash songs he could remember, shouting out the lyrics silently inside his head, and now he was starting on The Jam. Songs he’d learned from his older brothers. He broke off at a movement back along the line of the fence, near a small thicket of trees: just a fox, treading its almost dainty way from one dustbin to the next.

At a little after two, one of the lights suddenly went on upstairs and both men were instantly on the alert, but not so many minutes later it went out again; most probably one of the children, Naylor thought, woken by a dream and needing to take a sleepy pee.

By the time they were relieved, a false dawn was rising behind the shadows of the buildings and a low mist was curling, silvery gray, above the gardens and their neatly trimmed hedges. All too soon, the hum of traffic that had never quite faded to silence would accelerate them into a new day.

Eleven

When Lorraine slid back into the bed in the early hours, Derek had moaned a little and stirred, turning toward her, one arm pushed across her body. Only gradually had she pushed it back. After that she lay there, unable to sleep, listening to the almost unbroken monotony of Derek’s breathing. Since their row in front of the policeman, when she had let the alcohol and her tongue get the better of her, neither she nor Derek had spoken about what had happened. Both Sean and Sandra had walked round them on tenterhooks, unnaturally quiet, aware, as kids usually are, that something important was going on, without understanding exactly what it was.

Lorraine eased herself out from under the covers and into her slippers and dressing gown. Outside, it was breaking light. She set the kettle to boil and made tea. After yesterday’s drinking, her head wasn’t aching as much as it should. She tried to imagine Michael and where he was—hiding somewhere, hungry and cold, desperate—but no clear picture came to her mind. She remembered the look that had come to his eyes when he held her. Anger and something she didn’t want to recognize. “You don’t love him, do you? Derek. Even if you ever did, you don’t love him any more. I can tell.”

Then Derek himself had burst into the room, and Michael had been led away and she had not known when she might see him again. She still didn’t know. He could be a hundred meters from the house or less; he could be a hundred, a thousand miles away. She didn’t know.

She heard footsteps, Derek’s, at the top of the stairs. Since his old Saab had given up the ghost, Resnick had been loath to replace it with something new. In need of transport, he either borrowed a vehicle from the station car pool or used one of the city’s many taxis; mornings like this—crisp and clear, the sky a pale wash of blue—he opted for shank’s pony.

Walking through the Arboretum, rose gardens rising to his left, Resnick realized he was thinking about Preston. Though he couldn’t bring to mind the exact statistic, he knew close to nine hundred prisoners absconded every year. Knew, too, common wisdom said most of those not recaptured during the first few days remained at large. A surprisingly small number managed to leave the country, a handful more changed their identity and settled into a quiet, law-abiding life; most went underground and in the fullness of time resumed the same criminal activities as before. If they were caught, most often it was chance, simple coincidence, or because they were arrested for some new crime.

The prevailing police attitude, as Skelton had suggested, was we did our job once, nicked and tried and put away: if they get out again, not down to us; why waste the energy, bust our balls doing it all again?

Resnick waited for a gap in the morning traffic and crossed Waverley Street into the cemetery and the wavering path that would take him up through a succession of ornate Victorian tombstones and out on to Canning Circus and the Alfreton Road.

There were things about the escape he wanted to know. Had it been simply opportunist or planned? And, if the latter, who had helped and why?

He stopped off at the deli in the middle of the Circus for a coffee and an apple Danish, and carried them across and up the shallow steps into the station.

Millington was moments ahead of him, entering from the rear car park and waiting for Resnick at the foot of the stairs.

“Morning, Graham.”

“Aye. For some. Came by way of the hospital, thought I’d see how the casualty list was shaping.”

“And?”

“Ellis, lucky bastard, bullet passed right through without as much as touching a vein. Damage to the jawbone, nothing major. Some plastic surgeon working on him right now, patching up his face with the skin off his arse.” Millington laughed: “Be talking out his backside for real. But he’ll live. More’s the pity, maybe.”

Resnick shot him a look, but said nothing.

“As for the rest of ’em,” Millington continued, oblivious. “Feraday’s out of intensive care, making good progress, apparently.”

“And the chap from the prison service, Wesley?”

“Patched up pretty good, on his way out today.”

Millington pushed open the door to the CID room and stepped back to let Resnick through. Sharon Garnett and Carl Vincent were at their desks; Naylor and Fowles sleeping off their apparently wasted night on observation.

“Sharon,” Resnick said, “how d’you get on with that woman from outside Burger King, reckoned she got a good look at one of the suspects when they ran past her?”

Sharon made a face. “Went through all the likely faces down at Central. Didn’t recognize a single one.”

“Worth trying her again?”

“I don’t think so.”

Resnick sighed. “How about the other witnesses? Anything there?”

“I’ve been going back over the statements,” Vincent said. “There’s a few it might be worth talking to again. We ought to be able to get more on the car, at least.”

“Okay, keep working on it. It’s all we can do.” Two phones rang almost simultaneously, and Garnett and Vincent moved to answer them.

“How about Preston, Graham? Any news?”

Millington shook his head. “Nothing at the sister’s place last night. Quiet as the proverbial. There was one report come in late on, looked useful, bloke trying to charter a private plane, Tollerton Airport. When we checked it out, it was just some chap from Trent Water, executive, looking to fly to Guernsey for a bit of rest and relaxation. Worn out from carrying his wallet, I don’t doubt.”

Resnick grinned. “No follow-up to the sighting at Leicester station?”

“Nothing from the Met. Arranged for leaflets to be given out to passengers making the same journey today, the London train.” Millington arched his eyebrows. “I shouldn’t hold your breath.”

“We’re checking his old running mates?”

“I’ll set Kev and young Fowles on to it when they come in.”

Carl Vincent was on his feet, one hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. “One of the prison officers, sir. Evan. Wants to know can you spare him ten minutes before he shoots off back to London?”

Resnick glanced at his watch. “Tell him he stops by in half an hour, I’ll give him five.”

Lorraine had sent Sean back three times to change what he was wearing, Sandra sitting there in her school skirt and blouse, kicking her heels against the living-room carpet, waiting.

“Why can’t you take us?” Sean asked. “Why do we have to go now? Take us on your way to work like you always do.”

“Your mother’s not going to work,” Derek said, buttoning his jacket. “Not today, anyway.”

“Aren’t you, Mum?” Sean said. “Why not? Why not?”

“Are you okay, Mum?” Sandra asked. “You’re not ill or anything?”

“No.” Lorraine smiled, pushing the fringe back from her daughter’s eyes. “I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.”

“After yesterday?”

“Yes, I expect so. I might go in later, anyway.”

“You’ll meet us after school?” Sean asked.

“Yes, don’t worry, I’ll meet you after school.”

Derek was standing with his briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other, stranded between the children and the front door. Lorraine sensed him looking at her and raised her head, returning his gaze.

“You’ll be okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

“I only need to make a few quick calls when I get in, no meetings, I could take a couple of hours off, come back …”

The look in her eyes told him what he didn’t want to know.

“As long as you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” She kissed the children and bundled them out the door.

Evan looked more hangdog, if possible, than the day before. Guilty about what had happened and certain that he was returning to a reprimand at best, a suspension more than likely, he could scarcely bring himself to look Resnick in the eye. “I was wondering, you know, if there was any news? About Preston?”

Resnick shook his head. “Nothing definite.”

“I see. I just thought that if, you know, you’d caught him, like, had an idea where he was, well it might … make things easier, I suppose that’s what I meant.”

“I’m sorry,” Resnick said, Evan looking so pathetic he almost meant it.

“If you do … find him, I mean. I don’t suppose you could let me know?”

“It’d be passed on,” Resnick said. “The appropriate channels.”

Evan blinked. “I see.”

“Maybe, Evan,” Resnick said, “there’s something you can tell me. Preston, yesterday. At the funeral and after. You’ve been thinking about it, bound to have. Is there anyone special you remember him talking to? Off on their own, maybe?”

Of course Evan had been thinking about it; he’d been thinking of practically nothing else. Now he thought about it some more. “Only the sister, that’s all, really. Worked up about that, he was. Important. He asked us specially, me and Wes. If he could talk to her alone. Just the two of them, you know.”

“And you said …”

“I said okay. I didn’t see the harm. I mean, I was outside the door all the time.”

“Close enough to hear what they were talking about?”

Evan shook his head. “No. No, I’m afraid not.” He looked at Resnick anxiously. “Was it important, d’you think?”

Resnick stared back at him. “Probably.”

Thirty minutes later Resnick was on his way back out of the station, heading down into the center of the city.

Twelve

Resnick nodded thanks as Aldo slid the small cup of espresso along the counter toward him. The early edition of the
Post
lay folded against the till and Resnick pulled it toward him. It was strangely quiet in the market that morning, only a couple of middle-aged women sitting at the far side of the coffee stall with tea and cigarettes, chatting about prices and last night’s TV.

The article on Preston’s escape filled the whole page, raking up details of his father’s murder and the subsequent trial. Underneath an old file photograph of Preston himself, grim-faced, being led into court, were the words of the judge:
It is almost beyond comprehension in a civilized society that any man would turn against his own flesh and blood with such violence and without apparent provocation.

Provocation: an argument over money, Skelton had suggested, the siphoning off of Preston’s ill-gotten gains. Well, maybe.

Realizing that, almost without noticing, he had finished his first espresso, Resnick ordered another.