LAST RITES. Neil White

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