LAST RITES. Neil White

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СКАЧАТЬ shook my head slowly. ‘I don't see a story, not the type I write.’

      They looked down, disappointed. Mrs Goode clenched her jaw and a tear dripped onto her eyelashes.

      It was Mr Goode who spoke next. ‘Not even if you found her first?’ His voice was quiet, hesitant.

      I gave him a smile filled with fake regret. ‘The police will have to speak to her before me, and if Sarah is charged I won't be able to write anything that might affect the case. It's called sub judice. It would just sit on an editor's desk for six months, maybe longer.’

      ‘There might not be a court case,’ Mrs Goode said, her eyes imploring. ‘If you could find her and bring her in, once we know what she is going to say, she might have a defence.’

      My eyes narrowed at that. ‘What about Sam Nixon?’ I asked. ‘Will he speak to Sarah before she goes to the police?’

      Mrs Goode looked down and didn't answer. That told me all I needed to know. It wasn't about a story, it was about Sarah's parents getting her story straight first, before she handed herself in.

      ‘I'm sorry, I really am,’ I said as I headed for the door, ‘but I don't see a story, not yet anyway.’

      They both turned to each other and exchanged desperate looks. Mrs Goode put her hand over Mr Goode's hand and squeezed it. He looked like he was about to break down. It stalled me.

      Mrs Goode turned back to me. ‘Thank you for coming down, Mr Garrett,’ she said softly. ‘At least you listened.’

      ‘How much have you told the police?’ I asked.

      ‘Whatever they wanted to know.’

      I sighed. ‘If they can't find Sarah, I don't see how I can,’ I said, and this time the regret was genuine.

      As I left the room I saw that Sam was waiting in one of the reception chairs. ‘How was it?’ he asked.

      ‘You know damn well how it was,’ I said.

      ‘What do you mean?’ Sam replied, as he picked at his fingers and tried to look innocent.

      ‘They came to you because they know the police want to arrest her for murder,’ I said. ‘Is that right?’

      Sam started to say something, but then he stopped himself. He nodded and tried to shrug an apology instead, but then he realised that it was pointless.

      ‘They're decent people,’ he said. ‘They're worried about their daughter.’

      ‘And someone is dead,’ I replied harshly. ‘His family will be decent people too.’ Sam looked down, so I continued, ‘They need someone to help them find her, but they can't afford a private investigator and they thought I would come cheap. About right?’

      ‘But it would be a good story if you could find her.’

      ‘I wish it was like that, Sam, because I need the money – Laura's lawyers are taking most of what we have – but you don't understand journalism. I deal in court titbits, pub talk.’ Sam looked confused, so I said, ‘My point made. Papers want the pub tales: Man Bites Dog, that type ofthing. This is feature stuff, an in-depth analysis, and I can't afford to take the gamble of someone being interested. And anyway, if I find her, I'm the story, and that's not how I want it right now.’

      Sam nodded in apology. ‘I'm sorry, Jack. They came to me for help. They're desperate people, and they're good people. You were the only avenue I could think of.’

      I sighed. ‘So what's your interest?’

      Sam looked sheepish at that. ‘We're struggling, Jack,’ he said. ‘We've got the work coming in, but it's all small stuff. Shoplifts, car breaks, Saturday night bust-ups. It's turnover work, but the bills come in faster than the clients.’

      ‘You need a murder to put you in the big league,’ I said, acknowledging his admission, and then nodded back towards the room I had just been in. ‘And so you need their daughter in a cell.’

      Sam looked ashamed, but he added, ‘This is my living. I didn't kill that man, and someone has to represent her. Why not me?’

      I thought about Mr and Mrs Goode and the look they both had – confused, helpless, wanting help. ‘I think they want a bit more,’ I said, and headed for the exit. ‘Thanks for the tip, Sam, but I can't see a story in it.’

      Sam didn't answer, and so I was back on the street, heading towards the Magistrates Court, ready for another day of routine crime stories.

       Chapter Five

      As Rod Lucas pushed open the door to Abigail's cottage, the smell hit him first. It was strong, sort of smoky. Incense-burners, he guessed. His eldest daughter had gone through a phase of burning them in her room. It helped her sleep, or so she claimed at the time. It was to cover up the smell of cigarettes, he learned later. She was away at university now, and her twenty-a-day habit was one of a list of concerns.

      But he remembered the cloying smell, the way it made him cough and wrinkle his nose. He could understand an experimental teenager burning them, but why a pensioner living in a remote cottage?

      He looked around. Rod had expected chintz: patterned sofas, high-backed chairs, china ornaments everywhere and pictures of grandchildren, but the cottage wasn't like that. The walls were painted black, with thick red cloth covering the windows and tall mirrors on the walls, ornate and Gothic. There were candles everywhere – on the mantelpiece, the sideboards, the windowsills – everything from deeply scented ones in small jars to large black altar candles.

      He saw a rug pushed up against the wall, revealing the stone floor, large slabs worn smooth over the years. His eyes widened when he saw why it had been moved, and what was in its place, the thing that dominated the space.

      White lines criss-crossed the room, jagged and uneven, made up of something sprinkled onto the floor, like small white grains. There was a table and chair set in the middle of it all, as if the old lady sat in it when she was alone. Lucas stooped down to dab his finger into the lines. He tasted it. Salt.

      The lines made a shape. It wasn't perfect, as if it had been done in a rush, but he could make it out: a five-pointed star, with things placed at each point. A small posy of flowers; a large red candle; a sea-shell.

      Rod thought back to the explosive device. Why would anyone target this woman? Was her lifestyle the reason? This was the third explosion like this, but no one had reported anything strange in the other houses. Or maybe they just hadn't looked hard enough.

      He would go to the hospital next. Maybe Abigail could provide the answers.

      I shuffled on the bench at the side of the Magistrates Court in Blackley as I tried to get comfortable. It was still before ten and the court hadn't started yet, although I could hear the corridor getting busier. I looked up to the ceiling, at the flaking paint, and wondered how I had got to this point. I used to write crime features for the nationals when I was a freelancer in London, had always had the dream of writing a book, maybe ghostwriting a gangster memoir. Now, I churned out the small stories: incidents СКАЧАТЬ