Free Last Rites by John Harvey Page A

way she had greeted him had been pleasant enough, cordial, almost as though she had been expecting him. Well, Resnick thought, she had been expecting someone.
    There was a photograph album on the coffee table, a pattern of red and gray diamonds across its padded front and a decorative tassel hanging from its side. Bending forward, Resnick looked inside: babies in prams, babes in arms, toddlers at the seaside, the park, the swings. Birthdays and Christmases, Sunday treats. A pair of dark-haired kids in T-shirts and shorts, check shirts and jeans. Michael—or was it Lorraine?—holding up a fish, a bat, a silver cup. Five, six, seven, eight. Inseparable, or so it seemed.
    “That was Mum’s,” Lorraine said from the doorway. “Photo mad.” She was carrying a tray with cups, a jug of milk, sugar, coffee in a cafetiére. “Shunt it out of the way, will you? Then I can put this lot down.”
    She set down the tray on the table, gestured for Resnick to sit on the sofa, and took a seat opposite him in one of the armchairs.
    “Funny, isn’t it? All those snaps of me and Michael as kids—I suppose you don’t think about it at the time, too busy having fun—but they must have been forever sticking that camera in our faces. Mum and Dad. Smile. Say cheese. But then, Derek and I, I expect we’re the same with our two. Except for Derek, it’s his video camera.” She favored Resnick with a quick, uncertain smile. “You should see the number of tapes he’s got stashed away.”
    Resnick nodded; made no reply.
    “You’ve got kids of your own, I dare say.”
    He shook his head. “No.”
    She looked at him. “Not married, then?”
    “Not any more.”
    It hung there, like motes of dust, still in the afternoon light.
    “At the door,” Lorraine said, “you said there wasn’t any news about Michael.”
    “That’s right.”
    “You’ve still no idea …”
    “Not really, no.”
    It was quiet: the ticking of a clock from the dining room, the faint whirr of someone’s mower away up the street, the dull residue of traffic.
    “I expect this is ready by now,” Lorraine said, pointing at the cafetiére. Reaching forward, she eased the plunger slowly down toward the bottom of the jar.
    Used to being offered coffee which bore little resemblance to the real thing, pale watery cups of bland brown liquid made from instant coffee granules, worse still, powder, Resnick was pleasantly surprised that this looked dark and strong.
    “Milk?”
    “No, thanks. This is fine.”
    “When the other officer was here yesterday, I got the impression—he didn’t say anything, mind—but I got this sense that he—you—knew where Michael might be. Hiding, or whatever.”
    Resnick shook his head. “I only wish we did.”
    Lorraine sipped at her coffee, put in sugar, half a teaspoon, enough to take off the edge. “I expect you’re watching this place, aren’t you?” she said.
    The slightest of hesitations before Resnick said, “Yes.”
    “He’d be a fool to come here, then, wouldn’t he? I mean, he’d know. He’s not stupid.”
    “He might consider it worth taking the risk.”
    Lorraine staring at him now, trying to figure out how much he was guessing, how much, if anything, he really knew. “That’s not too strong for you?”
    “Just right. How I like it.”
    “Good. Good.”
    Out in the hallway, where Resnick had noted it attached by a bracket to the wall, a small table close by, pad and pen for noting down calls, the telephone began to ring. Eyes fixed on Resnick, Lorraine made no attempt to move. After six rings, it stopped.
    “The officer yesterday … Carl, I think you said … he asked me about Michael at Mum’s funeral … if, when we were talking, he’d said anything, you know, about escaping.”
    Resnick looked at her encouragingly.
    “I told him, no. Nothing. He didn’t even mention it. Nothing at all.”
    “And that was the truth?”
    “Of course. What do you think? I was as surprised as anyone.” She leaned