LAST RITES

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.

It had played out in the local paper for a few days, had even brushed the nationals, but the television got the best angle – the news conferences, Mr and Mrs Goode tearful and scared, begging for Sarah to come home – but then it went quiet when there was nothing new to report. I'd guessed the subtext: it was officially a missing persons investigation, but, for the police, Sarah Goode was a murderer on the run.

‘This is Jack Garrett,’ Sam said. ‘Our local hotshot reporter.’ When I didn't respond, he added, ‘They want to speak to you. Is that okay?’

I nodded at them politely, but then I asked Sam, ‘Why me?’

Sam looked embarrassed. ‘It's probably for the best if they tell you about it.’ He went towards the door. ‘I'll be in the next room if you need me.’

I watched him go, surprised, and wondered why he didn't want to be a part of it. When the door clicked shut, Sam left behind an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the ticking clock on the wall and the creaks of the chairs as Mr and Mrs Goode shuffled nervously.

I tried to weigh them up. They were in their fifties. She was in a blue suit, knee-length skirt and blazer, navy blue with gold buttons, her hair in tight grey curls. He looked uncomfortable in a dated brown suit, as if he hadn't worn one for a long time, and I could see the shirt collar digging into his neck. His sandy hair had receded to just wisps of a comb-over.

‘This is about Sarah, I presume?’ I said.

They glanced at each other, and I saw a nod, a look of comfort. It was Mrs Goode who took the lead.

‘Yes, it's about our daughter,’ she said. Her voice was firm, but the way their knees touched told me that they needed each other for support. She licked her lips and repositioned her bag on her lap. Then she said, ‘We want you to help us find her.’

It was said simply, as if she assumed I would be interested.

I wasn't. I didn't write features any more. I'd sacrificed that for family harmony, for our bright future.

I tried to sound sympathetic. ‘I'm sorry, but that's not the sort of journalism I do, the campaign stuff. I write up court hearings, that's all.’

‘But you used to do more than that,’ said Mrs Goode. ‘Mr Nixon told me about some of the stories you wrote.’

‘That was then. And I'm a reporter, not a private detective.’

‘But we thought it would be a good story if you found her,’ she pressed.

I 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?’