Last Rites Read Online Free PDF Page A

expected grey hair and pale skin, but Abigail was different to that. Her frizzy hair was long and dyed black, her silver roots showing through, and it was back-combed, spread in a tangled mess over the pillow. Her fingers were covered in rings, and her nails were long and painted purple. Despite the plaster over her eye, Rod could tell that both eyes were ringed by bruises. Abigail's legs were out of the bedcovers, bandages over her wounds.
    He looked closer at her hands. There were grazes on them, but something else drew his attention. It was one of her rings, the one on her right hand, third finger. A screaming face, silver on black, set into a silver band. He had seen it before, he was sure of it, but he couldn't remember where.
    ‘Abigail,’ he whispered, just to check whether she was awake. There was no response. ‘Abigail,’ he said once more. Still nothing.
    He settled back in the chair. Sometimes the art of being a good copper was patience.
    I knocked on the door of Sarah's house. The women at the top of the road looked at me again and then chattered to each other. I waited, but there was no response from inside.
    I knocked again, more insistent this time. Then I heard a noise, and when the door opened I flashed a smile. It had no effect.
    I was facing a dark-haired woman in her early twenties, in jeans and a loose T-shirt. Her hair was short, elfin-style, tucked just behind her ears so that it showed off her face, pretty and porcelain pale, with high cheekbones and bright hazel eyes.
    ‘Yes?’ she said curtly.
    My mind raced through what I knew about Sarah's story. Luke's body had been discovered by her lodger, a young student. There was a pause as I grasped for her name, but it came to me just as she was about to slam the door.
    ‘Katie Gray?’ I asked.
    She didn't answer at first, but then asked, ‘Who wants to know?’ Her voice was cautious.
    I smiled again, tried to disarm her. ‘My name is Jack Garrett and I'm a reporter.’
    ‘I guessed that.’
    ‘I'm interested in Sarah Goode,’ I continued.
    ‘I guessed that too,’ she snapped, but I put my hand in the way as she went to close the door.
    ‘Sarah's parents contacted me. They want me to write about her.’
    She paused at that.
    ‘I understand she used to live here,’ I continued, trying to engage her.
    ‘She still does,’ she replied, but her tone was less hostile than before.
    ‘Her parents just want to find her,’ I said. ‘They want to help her, make sure she's all right.’ My voice was soft and low, my hand still on the door.
    ‘Have you got any ID?’ she asked.
    I reached into my pocket and found a business card. I passed it over and waited, but how could she refuse once I had produced identification?
    She looked at the card, then at me, and then at the card again.
    ‘Okay, Mr Garrett, you'd better come in,’ she said, and then turned and went into the house.
    I followed her into the hallway, narrow and dark, the light coming from a small window above the front door. Katie led me into the room at the back of the house, a chill-out room, with saggy old sofas and family photographs on the wall, but I glanced into the room at the front as I went past the doorway. It was more formal, with better furniture and an old black fireplace, the light dim behind the wicker blinds.
    Katie turned around. ‘Do you want a drink? Coffee? Tea?’
    I chose coffee, it would keep me in the house for at least fifteen minutes, and Katie disappeared into the kitchen, a long and thin extension with views into a concrete yard.
    ‘How long have you been living here?’ I asked her, asone of the pictures on the wall caught my eye. It looked like a family tree, framed, the branches spreading out, but it was the symbol at the top that drew my attention. It was unusual, like a screaming face, with hollow eyes and open mouth.
    ‘I thought you were here to talk about Sarah,’ Katie shouted from the kitchen.
    ‘I am, but you're part of the story.’
    Katie