LAST RITES
NEIL WHITE
Last Rites
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
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Copyright © Neil White 2009
Neil White asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9781847560193
Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007322725
Version: 2018-05-31
Dedication
To Thomas, Sam and Joe, as always
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Chapter Eighty-three
Chapter Eighty-four
Chapter Eighty-five
Chapter Eighty-six
Chapter Eighty-seven
Chapter Eighty-eight
Chapter Eighty-nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-one
Chapter Ninety-two
Chapter Ninety-three
Chapter Ninety-four
Chapter Ninety-five
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Abigail Hobbs looked up and shivered as she opened the door to her stone cottage. The wind was blowing hard from the west, October ending with a snarl, the first bad mood of winter. It roared along the sides of Pendle Hill, a huge mound of millstone grit covered in grass and heather. The hill dominated the surroundings, dark and gloomy, and kept the sunlight from her windows. She pulled her coat to her chest and flipped the collar to her ears. She was too old for mornings like this.
‘Tibbs? Tibbs?’
She couldn't find her cat, a grey British Shorthair, all smile and floppy paws. He was always there when she woke, waiting on her windowsill, blinking at her. But not that morning.
‘Tibbs?’
She looked around. Still nothing. Her voice wasn't as strong as it had once been, and it died on the breeze, but she knew something wasn't right.
Abigail stepped onto the path, the stones sunken and uneven, and listened out. She could hear something, but at first she thought it was the wind. A knocking sound; a fast rattle. She edged along the path, her slippers making slapping noises on the stones. There was the noise again, like metal banging against wood. And there was something else. A crying sound, distressed.
‘Tibbs?’
Abigail got nearer to the end of the house, long grass trailing against her ankles. The noise seemed louder. She called out again. The sound was still there.
She reached an old outhouse, a brick add-on to the cottage that was used to store garden tools. The door was banging, the metal latch clattering, and as her footsteps got closer, the crying got louder.
‘Tibbs, wait there. What have you done?’
She pulled on the outhouse door but it didn't give at first. It felt stiff, like someone was holding the other side. She could feel the vibrations in the door, the cries from inside louder now. She yanked at the door, and then as it opened she saw Tibbs, her cat, suspended in mid-air, struggling, thrashing, something wrapped around him.
Abigail was confused. She reached out, went towards him, but then there was a flash, a loud bang. Something wet hit her in the face, sharp and small, making her stumble backwards, losing her balance. As she fell, she saw that Tibbs was no longer there.
Chapter Two
I didn't hear my phone at first.
I was walking up the steep hill to my house, legs working hard, chin tucked into my scarf to keep out the cold. The morning walk was my break from the mundane, where I could forget about the bickering at home or the long stretch of the day ahead. The air in the Lancashire hills woke me up, crisp and fresh, so different from when cotton ruled the valleys, when the giant chimneys filled the towns with smoke and every life centred on the huge redbrick mills clustered around the canal.
My walk wasn't just about the cold in my face though. The last year had seen too many chocolate runs or long nights in with takeaway and wine, and we'd both put on weight. We'd settled into each other. Maybe too much.
I turned as I walked and looked back on what had made me: Turners Fold – a tired old collection of steep terraced streets, cobbled scars in the lush green view, like a museum of lost industry. But for me it was more than just that. As I looked, I saw all the haunts of my childhood. The park where I'd braved my first kiss, the sweeping crescents of the estate where I'd grown up, the school that had educated me so I could leave the town, which I did for a while, but the lure of home brought me back.
I smiled at the view. The mills were all empty now, the chimneys cleaned up, the buildings redeveloped as offices and apartments, or just left to crumble as grass grew through the floor and the windows fell in. But the town glowed from October dew and stood in silhouette against the sun spreading from the east, making me forget the bitterness of the wind.
I turned back and saw my house ahead, halfway up the hill, dry-stone walls lining the road, the old slate tiles and stubby chimney set against the fields behind. I thought I saw Laura through the window, just a shadow as she moved about inside. I waved but she didn't wave back.
Then I heard my phone, the ringtone set to the horns of ‘Ring of Fire’, an old Johnny Cash tune. I flipped it open and recognised the number. Sam Nixon, a local defence lawyer. He didn't call me that often and so he must have something good for me.
‘Hi Sam,’ I said, as I went into the house.
Laura looked up as I answered, but I turned away. She was making Bobby his breakfast but I could tell that she was listening.
I listened to Sam, and then said, ‘Okay, I'll see you then,’ and closed my phone. I turned to Laura and tried to look innocent.
‘What did Sam Nixon want?’ she asked.
I sneaked my arm around her to pinch one of Bobby's soldiers. ‘He said he would tell me when I got there.’
‘Don't get mixed up in anything stupid,’ said Laura, and when I glanced back I saw her eyes flash me a warning.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean,’ she said wearily. ‘Defence lawyers can mean trouble. Most don't see the line that separates their client from themselves.’
‘Sam's not like that,’ I replied. ‘And you know how it works.’
And Laura did know. As a detective in the local police force, she saw too much of her hard work undone by crafty defence work, silence or lies peddled in the name of human rights. My side of crime was different. I sat at the side of the courtroom, writing up cases for the local paper, usually just sidebar stuff. I'd done some feature work, even used to do freelance in London, but it was too uncertain, sometimes dangerous, and it wasn't a good time for me to take risks.
Laura sighed heavily and gave Bobby a kiss on the top of his head. ‘Not now, Jack,’ she said. ‘We can't afford to mess this up, not so near the end.’
I turned away and walked into the kitchen, a small windowless room partitioned off from the living room. I didn't want an argument, not so early.
Laura came into the kitchen behind me. ‘Jack, talk to me.’
I turned around, the kettle in my hand. ‘It's all we talk about these days,’ I replied sullenly.
‘I just don't want you getting wrapped up in anything stupid, that's all,’ said Laura.
‘I know, I heard you,’ I replied. ‘Our lives are on hold, just so we don't upset your ex-fucking-husband.’ The words came out harsher than I intended.
‘Do you think I'm enjoying it?’ she snapped back at me. ‘Waiting for someone else to decide who my son can live with? Is that what I had in mind when I moved up here?’
I paused and took a deep breath. ‘I'm sorry,’ I said, putting the kettle down and holding my arms out to her, trying to pull her towards me. ‘I wasn't having a go. I know it's harder for you.’
Laura shrugged me off. ‘No, you don't know how it is for me,’ she said angrily. ‘I'm the one who has made the sacrifices. I moved north with you, with my son, made a new life for us. No, hang on, that's wrong. I moved north for you, and sometimes I just wonder whether I did the right thing or whether we should have stayed in London, where I wouldn't get the fucking martyr treatment every time the situation gets a bit inconvenient.’
I looked to the ceiling. We'd had the same row too many times now, but I knew it wasn't us. We were good together, in those quiet moments we shared, when the custody battle for Bobby was forgotten for a few hours and we got the chance to relax – but those moments were getting further apart.
‘Look, it's okay,’ I said. ‘Sam just said he had a story for me.’ When Laura didn't look convinced, I added, ‘It will be nothing. Some tip, an overnight case or something.’
‘So why didn't you just say that?’ she said, before she turned and walked away.
I sighed heavily, all the pleasure from the walk now evaporated. How had we got to this? And so quickly.
I went back into the living room and saw that Laura was getting Bobby's school bag ready. Bobby was silent, eating his breakfast slowly. He had been here before with his father – Laura's ex-husband – and he deserved more than that. He was the sweetest boy, just six years old, with Laura's brightness and Geoff's height, but how did you stop a child getting hurt?
It wasn't us, though, I knew that. It was the situation, Laura's ex-husband fighting to take him back south, to her native London. He claimed that it was for Bobby's benefit, that Laura's police work made his home life chaotic, but it had never been about Bobby. It was all about me, Laura's new man, stranger in the nest, the one who made her happy, who had made her give up her London career and settle instead in a small northern town, a detective job in nearby Blackley replacing the London Met. So now we had the fortnightly trip to some motorway services near Birmingham for Bobby's handover, Laura quiet all the way home, only really happy again when he was collected two days later.
Laura looked up at me, Bobby's bag in her hand. I tried a smile.
‘C'mon Bobby,’ she said, turning away from me. ‘Finish your breakfast. We need to go.’
Chapter Three
Inspector Rod Lucas dusted down his tatty brown corduroys, slammed the door on his battered old Land Rover, and looked at the scene.
The cottage was just as he expected it. Like most houses in the shadow of Pendle Hill, it was set back from the road, dark grey stone against the sweep of green fields stretching away behind it, the slate roof low and overhanging.
He looked up at the hill, the exposed, barren summit making him feel cold. He pulled on an old waxed jacket and turned away, thought about Abigail Hobbs instead, still in hospital, burns on her face and stitches in her head from when she'd hit the stone floor. He knew that it wasn't the physical injuries that would hurt her the most. It would be the emotional scars that would last.
The two constables by the door straightened as he approached, both young women, their hands thrust into the pockets of their luminous green coats, their hips made to look big by the large belts around their waists. He glanced down at his own clothes. He lived in a barn conversion, access gained by a mud track overhung by branches, and he had been pruning a tree when he'd got the call. His hands were still covered in dirt and he hadn't changed into his uniform. He would oversee the scene, and then go back to his garden.
‘How bad is it?’ he asked, his voice quiet, a slow Pennine drawl.
The two officers exchanged glances. ‘It's not nice, sir,’ said the older of the two.
‘Are Scenes of Crime on their way?’ he asked.
‘As soon as they can,’ came the reply.
Lucas knew what that meant: that this was a rural area, a few miles from the nearest town. Scenes of Crime would be busy with more urban crimes: burglaries, glassings. They'd come out here when the day warmed up and they fancied a drive in the country.
He looked around. Brambles overhung the path and the paint on the windows looked flaky and old. The windows didn't give away many secrets though.
‘Third time in two weeks,’ he said to himself.
‘Is that why you're here, sir?’ asked the other constable. ‘An inspector, I mean. Is it more serious now?’
‘Someone has been hurt,’ Rod replied. ‘It's gone beyond routine vandalism.’
‘So what do you think?’ she asked. ‘Kids?’
He looked around, noticed the small track that meandered down to the cottage from the main road, grass grown over the stones so that it was sinking back into the land as the years passed. ‘No,’ said Rod. ‘It's too far from everywhere else, so getting away would take too long. It would increase the chance of getting caught. This is something else, some kind of a message.’
‘But why her?’
Lucas's lips twitched. ‘I don't know. Why any of them?’ He straightened himself, and when he asked where it had happened he was pointed towards an old outhouse along the path. As he set off walking, he felt his trousers become damp from the trailing grasses. He swept back his thinning hair, his head golden with freckles, grey sideburns reaching down to his jaw-line.
He slowed down as he got near to the outhouse. The remains of the cat were still scattered over the path, the tiny severed head by the door, its mouth open, the sharp little teeth set in a final grimace.
He pushed at the door with a pen, careful not to leave any forensic traces, and saw the wire hanging from the latch. Just like the others, the wire led to a small metal pipe, filled with gunpowder. Once the door opened, it pulled at the wire, which set off a small blasting cap and exploded the pipe. In the other attacks, the pipe had been left on the floor. This time it had been strapped to Abigail's cat and suspended from the top of the door by a clothes line. This was more than just kids, he knew that.
He let the door close slowly as he turned away, the rusted hinges creaking, and walked back to the house, deep in thought. The constables by the door stepped aside as he went to go into the house, curious to find out more about Abigail, but he caught their exchange of glances, the raised eyebrows.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
They both looked at each other again, unsure what to say, and so Rod Lucas brushed past them and pushed at the door. It opened slowly, the interior dark, and as he peered in, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, he whistled.
‘What the hell?’ he muttered to himself, and then stepped inside.
Chapter Four
I was heading for Sam Nixon's office, walking quickly through Blackley along the paved precinct, chain stores on one side and the entrance to an indoor mall on the other. Victorian shop-fronts used to line the street, back when the town was the glamorous big brother to Turners Fold, but the area had tried to shake off its past a few decades earlier. The modern town plan that had come along in its place looked tired already. Not many people walked the streets, just earnest young college students and shop assistants clicking their way to work in high heels.
I could see Sam watching my approach. His office was above a print shop, accessed through a glass door at the bottom of some stairs, his name spelled out in gold leaf. His clients congregated there sometimes, somewhere quiet and warm to swap dealer names, but Sam's wife, Helena, acted as the bouncer. She used to be a lawyer herself, straw-blonde with stick-thin arms and a pinched nose, but years out bringing up children and being on the wrong end of a breath test turned her against it. Instead, she managed the paperwork, the money, and allowed Sam to do the law.
I exchanged quick greetings with Helena, just a peck on the cheek. Her face was cold, her complexion pale.
‘How's business?’ I asked.
Helena grimaced. ‘Crime's no game for a sole practitioner.’
‘Not busy?’
She laughed, but it sounded bitter. ‘People through the door are not the problem. Getting a decent rate of pay for it, that's the problem.’
I didn't respond. I reckoned our views on decent pay might be different. Instead, I let Helena show me through the reception area and into Sam's office, a large room with just a chipboard desk and worn-out chairs bought in a clearance sale. The desk was busy with files, the dark blue of Blackstone's, Sam's preferred legal reference, acting as a paperweight, but the room felt bare and cold. Sam Nixon & Co. hadn't brought in enough money to think about comfort.
Sam stood up as I entered, smiling, his hand out to shake. ‘Hello Jack, good to see you.’
I shook his hand and noticed the tiredness behind his smile. Sam looked like business was tough. He wasn't much older than me, both of us moving through our mid-thirties, but his face looked filled with worry, his hair was working its way backwards quickly, and whatever was left was sprinkled with grey. He had lost weight and lines had started to appear around his eyes.
Sam Nixon fed me stories, often just a nod as he came into court, a tip that a case was worth hanging around for. My write-ups shamed his clients, but it kept his name in the paper and a steady footfall through his door. For me, it was my job. For Sam, it was free publicity.
‘How's Laura?’ he asked.
‘She's on CRT.’
‘Good hours for the family,’ said Sam, nodding his approval.
I smiled, played the happy boyfriend for a moment, aware that there were other people in the room.
Laura was a detective on the Custody Reception Team at Blackley Police, who dealt with the overnighters, the burglars and the domestic bullies. The nightshift officers would be long gone to their beds, leaving behind a disgruntled prisoner and a bundle of paperwork, and Laura's team had to sort it out. It gave her regular hours, but it meant she spent most days interviewing hostile prisoners in the belly of the old police station, where the smell of the cells, sweat and vomit, seeped into her clothes.
I was suspicious of Sam. If a criminal lawyer asked me first about the welfare of my detective girlfriend, I assumed that he didn't want her around.
‘You know what Blackley is like,’ I said. ‘It's full of criminals. They keep her busy.’
‘Blame it on the lawyers for setting them free,’ Sam replied.
As he was talking, I turned towards the other people in the room, a middle-aged couple perched uncomfortably on chairs. I recognised them immediately. Their faces had filled the local news for the last week. I looked back at Sam, who seemed nervous now.
‘Jack, this is Ray and Lucy Goode,’ he said.
I smiled a polite greeting, but I knew who they were. Their daughter had made the headlines, a pretty young teacher, the photograph from the school prospectus showing her with straight auburn hair and freckles like splashes. Sarah had a boyfriend, Luke, a fitness instructor at her gym. It was normal girl-boy stuff, until Luke had been stabbed to death in her bed a week earlier and Sarah had disappeared.