The Last Rites

by M.J. Arlidge, Alex Khan

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

The brand-new twisty thriller from MJ Arlidge and Alex Khan

Release date: August 14, 2025

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 304

Sample

‘We shouldn’t be here.’

There was a pulse of fear in Kevin’s voice.

‘Don’t be a pussy, Kev, there’s no one around,’ Al replied dismissively.

‘Yeah, only some crazy farmer who’s gonna to blow our heads off,’ Lee protested.

‘Jesus, you lads are such kids,’ Al continued. ‘Get over it. We are doing this.’

The sun hadn’t risen yet and shadows stretched around them, the morning chill invading their bones. Despite their hesitation, the other boys followed Al to where the crumbling countryside bridge had been barricaded. Some traffic cones, rope mesh and boulders blocked the crossing and it took the three teenagers a full five minutes to clear a path. Tentatively, they traversed the bridge, Kevin gripping the edges, eyes wide in terror.

‘It’s not going to collapse under your five kgs benching weight,’ Al mocked, laughing.

In the rapidly growing dark, they stood in silence staring down at the River Calder, which meandered slowly beneath them. It looked deeper here, shaded by a dense thicket of overgrown trees, menacing black water rippling around them. The bridge had started to collapse a year ago, funding cuts ensuring it wasn’t on anyone’s priority list. Al had seen an article online about the dilapidated structure and decided it would be the perfect location for the stunt he had planned.

Kevin and Lee were fourteen, two years younger than Al. Already, they seemed childlike to him. He’d be starting college when the summer break was over, sporting a goatee and gelled-back hair as his new mature look.

‘Right, who’s going first?’

He laughed in their faces, as both boys recoiled.

‘I’m gonna have to show you then. Prove which one of us is actually the alpha. TikTok is gonna go crazy for this shit – I bet I can hold my breath underwater for six minutes. You girls stand back and start filming me.’

Deriding weakness as being girly was the familiar taunt of his favourite YouTuber. Some lame women called him toxic, but what did they know?

Al took off his shoes and socks, quickly stripping down to his boxers.

‘Nobody else would be crazy enough to do this, but I’m gonna jump from up here. This bridge is ready to fall down any moment and it’s so dark outside I can barely see a few feet in front of me. Proper risky shit. Get ready to be amazed.’

Making sure his friends were filming him using night cam, Al leapt over the side of the bridge.

The water was hard and cold, punching his chest and stomach as he dived in. He went deeper and deeper, trying to penetrate the blackness of the river. There was a momentary panic as he realised how far below the surface he was, his body flailing, feeling the desperate urge to open his mouth and breathe, but he bolstered his resolve; he would not fail at this. He swam downwards with as much strength as he could muster, his fingers scraping the river floor, coarse and hard against his touch. He fixed his hands against the riverbed, flapping his feet wildly to stay in place.

Seven seconds. Eight seconds. This was harder than it looked on TikTok. His lungs were already beginning to burn, the desire to breathe strong. Still he held on, pushing his body to the limit, forcing himself to stay the course.

His body spent, Al pivoted to swim towards the surface, triumphant. As his fingers left the riverbed, however, he felt his heart burst, as something lunged towards him, grabbing him by the arm. Terrified, the teenager tried to free himself, panic rising, his body convulsing as he realised what had latched on to him. A ghostly white face. A woman with long flowing hair.

Al screamed, his mouth open in absolute dread. But no sound came, only a stream of bubbles.

Jane felt the knife go deep, slicing her palm open, blood pouring from the wound.

‘Shit!’

It still felt wrong to swear in this space, as though she remained a child, bound by the rules her parents had set for her. Flustered, she snatched up a handful of kitchen roll, trying to staunch the blood, which was already running down her wrists, staining her white work shirt. As she did so, the smoke alarm erupted into a piercing cry, Jane cursing as she grabbed a broom to knock it into silence. Pulling toast from the aged machine, she felt the slices scald the tips of her fingers, dropping the charred pieces to the floor.

‘Jane, where’s my breakfast?’

Her mother’s voice carried from the lounge, demanding and impatient.

‘I’m trying my bloody best,’ Jane muttered angrily. The carers had to be late today of all days, she thought. Rummaging around in drawers full of memories and trash, Jane unearthed some bandages. The cold water stung as she ran her hand under the tap, drying it with more kitchen roll, before bandaging it as tightly as she could.

On the chopping board, the apple she’d been cutting into pieces was smeared with blood, so she binned it. Changing tack, she spread thick slices of white bread with butter, dropping burnt bacon on top. Protein and carbs, a balanced meal. She needed to buy some cereal or something else quick and easy, in case the carers had a mishap again.

Jane placed the bacon sandwich, a glass of orange juice and a mug of tepid tea on a bed tray. Using her stockinged feet to kick open the kitchen door, she avoided her mother’s judging gaze as she entered the front room. It had been converted into a living space, with a hospital bed that could be levered electronically, surrounded by piles of clothes and medical supplies.

Jane felt a pang of sadness every time she saw the packets of absorbent pads. The tough, practical woman she had grown up with was now reduced to a shell, her control over her body gone. Her mother was only sixty-two, it felt too soon for her to be in this state.

The TV was playing in the background, her mother, Maeve, clinging tightly to the remote. She scanned the breakfast tray, disappointed at the basic offering. Taking a bite, her expression soured.

‘I know it’s burnt, but remember what you used to tell us as kids?’ Jane said cheerfully. ‘Charcoal is good for you.’

Maeve’s mouth set in a grimace.

‘Is there anything else? I can’t eat this. Where are Lorraine and the Pakistani girl?’

‘They’re late, I told you. And the Pakistani girl is an Indian girl called Madhu. I need to get to work and this is the best I could do this morning. Sorry.’

‘Is there no fruit you can cut for me? Or some toast? Although from the smell I think you burnt that as well …’

‘The carers will be here at lunch. You can make do with this for now, can’t you?’

Maeve ate in silence, hesitantly chewing on the burnt meat and thick bread. Jane discreetly checked the clock on the mantlepiece, the same one that had been there since before she had left home. What was that, twenty years ago now? Remembering always made her pause, as though she was trapped between her troubled past and an elusive future. Life seemed like some sort of wasted opportunity, running from Burnley decades ago, only to then be forced to come back.

Catching sight of the blotches of red on her shirt, Jane hurried back upstairs to change. It was nearly 8.30 when she returned to say goodbye to Maeve on her way out. She was normally in the office by 8.00.

‘The carers are coming at lunch.’

‘You already told me. I have cancer, not dementia. Although sometimes I wish I did.’

‘They’ll also come back for the evening shift.’

‘What a waste of money. They’re hardly Florence Nightingales.’

‘Let me worry about the money.’

‘I have my pension, use that.’

‘They’ll give you dinner and get you ready for bed.’

‘Lucky me. I hope they don’t give me curry again; it gives me the runs. I have such pains in my stomach all the time. Tell them to just make something light. Preferably not burnt …’

‘No burnt curry. I’ll let them know.’

Maeve tutted at the screen. ‘Have you seen this?’

Jane’s eyes flicked to the TV. A female reporter standing at a crime scene on the banks of the River Calder, confirming that a woman’s body had been pulled from the water. It was thought to be Alice Rogers, a young mother who had been missing for two weeks.

The breath sucked from her, Jane felt the past grab at her insides.

A remembered image. Another body being pulled from the water, as Jane watched on horrified, shivering in the paramedic’s blanket. His pale limbs, his hair darkened by the lake water, his face flopping in her direction. Ed. Her brother. Her world. Jane had been six, Ed fourteen. She felt the pain pricking at her eyes, tears forming.

‘Selfish girl,’ spat Maeve, as the TV report ended. ‘No care for her poor parents. Why did she go into the water?’

Watching her mother chewing on her sandwich, Jane felt her grief for Ed twist into the resentment she’d carried around for years. The guilt and shame, the accusation that her mother had taunted her with since the day Ed died. That he had drowned while trying to save Jane’s life.

The selfish girl jibe was aimed squarely at Jane, to hurt her as deeply as Maeve could. To her own disappointment, Jane could feel the jab land in places she thought time had managed to heal.

Angry, upset, Jane checked to see if her team had messaged her. Realising they hadn’t, she searched online, finding a breaking news piece on the Burnley Reporter website. Journalist Sol Brazani was reporting that Alice Rogers had been found drowned in the River Calder near Padiham that morning. Police had ruled out looking for anyone else in connection with the mother-of-two’s death.

‘If you need me, call my mobile,’ she barked at her mother.

‘I don’t know how to use the phone you got me.’

Ignoring her, Jane left the front room, seething as she put on her boots, before adjusting her baton holster around the side of her waist, concealed under the suit jacket she wore unbuttoned. Grabbing her briefcase, Jane tried to get a hold of her emotions. Apart from her mother’s attempts to goad her, she was furious that no one had informed her about the body in the river. She was the detective inspector for crying out loud, she would make the decisions on what they should – or should not – pursue.

It was already 8.40 when Jane left the house. Great way to start her second week, she thought. She rushed to her car, a black Toyota Corolla, turning the key in the ignition, suddenly feeling the car lurch, before it sputtered and died.

Banging the steering wheel in frustration, Jane let out a howl of protest, before slamming the car door shut and ordering an Uber.

Waiting for her cab, Jane’s mind raged. A shitty start to another shitty week. Why did she ever come back?

With three minutes to spare, Jane burst through the doors of Burnley Police Station. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been late for work in the Met, even when she’d crawled home at 2 a.m. after a late-night bender. Yet here, two weeks into her secondment, she was already tardy. Perhaps if she ran up the two flights of stairs to her office, she could still make it in time for the morning briefing.

‘Ma’am.’

Jane turned to the desk sergeant. He nodded at a couple she didn’t recognise, seated on chairs in the waiting area. Grief was etched into their faces, the woman crying, the man comforting her.

‘Trish and Owen Rogers,’ he continued. ‘The parents of the woman they pulled out of the river this morning.’

As he spoke, Jane’s eyes drifted to the chairs next to Trish and Owen. A boy, maybe about eight or nine, was sitting with his head bowed, his hands stuffed in the pockets of a coat that was too small for him. A much younger girl sat by his side. She was maybe four or five, swinging her legs, humming something. Clutching at a ratty old stuffed rabbit, her eyes darted from her crying grandparents to her brother, then to Jane, who held her questioning gaze.

Jane felt her heart break. She understood only too well the confusion and the forced growing up this tiny little girl would have to do.

‘Let Detective Sergeant Johnson know that I’m in the building and that I’ll brief the team when I’ve finished with Alice Rogers’ parents.’

As she walked over to them, Jane saw how broken they looked. Gently, she put a hand on Trish’s shoulder. For a moment, Trish looked confused, then she crumbled at this act of kindness. Owen held his wife’s hands, urging her to be strong.

Having introduced herself, Jane led them to an interview room, while the custody sergeant took the kids to a separate playroom.

‘Mr and Mrs Rogers, I know this is probably one of the hardest days of your life, but I need to ask you a few questions about your daughter.’

They stared at her blankly, desolate.

‘When was the last time you saw Alice?’

Trish flinched at the sound of her daughter’s name, her voice trembling as she replied.

‘Two weeks ago. The children were placed with us three months back, so she came to see them regularly, usually twice a week.’

‘They were placed with you under guidance from social services?’

‘She was a good mother,’ Trish responded fiercely.

‘I didn’t mean to imply anything else.’

‘People always do. They don’t understand that sometimes you can do everything for your child, everything you think is right, and still it isn’t enough. They’ll take paths in life you would never wish for them. As a mother, you just pick up the pieces.’

‘Is that what you were doing for her?’

‘Social services were threatening to take away the children,’ Owen intervened. Unlike his wife, whose accent was distinctly local, Owen had an accent from across the Pennines.

‘Why?’ Jane asked.

‘I’m sure you’ve seen the file,’ Owen said dolefully. ‘Our daughter had problems with drugs. Left the kids with us off and on when she needed to clear her head. Then recently there were an altercation. Police got called to an incident involving Alice.’

‘It wasn’t her fault,’ Trish added quickly.

‘She was the victim,’ Owen continued. ‘She sometimes does things I’ll never understand. Makes the worst choices. Like Liam.’

‘The boyfriend?’ Jane asked.

‘That scumbag had slammed her face into the living-room wall, in front of the children,’ Owen said, barely containing his anger. ‘Her neighbours rang your lot, who found out about the history of violence, then Alice was told she couldn’t provide a safe environment for her kids. Made no sense to me, she were the one being attacked. You know how people are, though. Twisted it all up. Made out to the police as though her and Liam enjoyed beating the hell out of each other. As though they got off on it.’

Owen cast a quick glance towards his wife.

‘Alice had no choice,’ he added. ‘It were either leave the children temporarily with us or lose them to the system.’

‘Alice would never let that happen; she was a good mother,’ Trish insisted. ‘Better than I was in some ways.’

Jane nodded, looking at this middle-class couple from Cliviger, wondering how their only child had ended up at the bottom of a river.

‘We thought it was normal teenage rebellion at first,’ Trish explained, as though reading her thoughts. ‘Staying out late with friends we never met, parties we had no clue about. I was so naïve, checking her bedroom for cigarettes and booze. And all that time she was already taking much worse.’

Trish stared to cry again, her head in her hands.

‘I blame myself,’ she said through her sobs. ‘I was so strict on her, growing up.’

‘Come on now, love, it’s no one’s fault,’ Owen tried to reassure his wife.

‘She made me so mad,’ Trish said. ‘She was so beautiful, so clever, throwing it all away on the worst boys. I knew she did it just to spite me. She would bring them home when she was older, each one more brazen than the last, trying to get a rise from me. When it didn’t work, she lowered her standards even more. I clashed with her all the time, out of desperation. Then one day she just left. And you know the worst part? I felt relieved. What sort of mother does that make me?’

‘That were a long time ago,’ Owen said quietly. ‘Alice is different now. She’s getting her life together, keeps telling me about some woman at Citizens Advice helping her. She swore on the kids she’d given up the drugs. If you make her swear on Emily and Peter, she won’t do it unless she’s being one hundred per cent honest.’

Jane could hear the pride in his voice. She also felt deep empathy for this man who couldn’t accept his daughter was dead, couldn’t speak about her in the past tense.

‘She loves her children,’ Owen said affectionately. ‘She threw Liam out after we took the kids, was determined to turn her life around.’

‘How did he take that?’

‘Not well,’ Owen replied, his voice becoming angry. ‘Alice didn’t say much about him, but I remember her getting endless calls from him when she were with us. He were withholding his ID, so he could bypass her blocking him.’

‘Did he threaten her?’ Jane asked.

‘I don’t know, she didn’t say.’

Jane knew men like Liam Harrison wouldn’t take no for an answer, couldn’t cope with someone they had controlled suddenly standing up for themselves.

Owen was silent, then looked Jane hard in the eyes.

‘Alice would never leave her kids like this,’ he said defiantly.

Jane didn’t look away, didn’t want him to see any doubt in her eyes.

‘She didn’t leave them,’ Trish said. She wiped her tears away roughly, suddenly alert. ‘That man had something to do with this, I know it. He had such a hold on her, it was sickening to watch. I only met him once, but he made my skin crawl. He did this to her.’

Trish pulled out her phone, showed Jane the last text message she’d received from her daughter. It was dated 18 August at 1.12 p.m.

Can’t come today. Tell the kids I love them always. And that I’m sorry.

Had her colleagues interpreted this as a suicide note? Not investigated Alice Rogers’ disappearance properly as a result? Suicides were a common occurrence in places like Burnley and Blackpool, Northern towns hit hard by the cost-of-living crisis, benefit cuts and decades of no one taking an interest. ‘Deaths of despair’, they labelled them in the papers.

‘Can I ask why you didn’t report your daughter missing for over a week?’

‘That message were sent on one of her visiting days,’ Owen explained. ‘We just thought she needed some headspace. Then she missed the next two visits. Now to us that didn’t make sense. Unless she were in trouble, she wouldn’t do that. The old Alice might, but not now. I’m telling you she is … were changing things.’

Jane wondered if they were desperate parents trying to absolve themselves of guilt for their daughter’s death. Had they failed her to the point she thought taking her life was the only way out? Or were they right about this Liam?

‘Your lot were kind enough when they came,’ Owen said. ‘But I could tell they weren’t that bothered. I get it, given her history. You get tarred for life, don’t you?’

Jane understood what that felt like. Carrying the weight of being falsely accused of something, nobody even stopping to ask you what the truth was, because your voice didn’t matter. Fighting back against that sense of injustice had driven Jane throughout her career. Had it been too overwhelming for Alice? Despite her attempts to change, had she never been allowed to?

Jane could imagine the sort of reaction she would get from her team trying to push this case. They’d probably already started typing up the death by drowning, self-induced, report in their heads, glad to get rid of Alice Rogers so they could focus on other things. The real crimes they would get commended on for solving.

Instinctively, Jane knew she couldn’t let this happen. Whatever the cause, that little girl, clutching the old rabbit and looking at Jane with her big questioning eyes, would not grow up without answers.

Breathless from running up the stairs, Jane took a moment to gather herself. She stared through the glass doors leading to the incident room, where her deputy, Detective Sergeant Johnson was briefing her team, despite her clear instructions to wait.

In his late forties, Dave Johnson was a career police officer. He was smartly dressed as usual, tie missionary precise, as though his suits were a uniform. Jane could imagine him getting ready for work like he was heading into battle. As he was the only Black officer in the team, perhaps it was.

‘You lot better call home, tell them you’re not coming back for a while,’ he was saying. ‘Our schedule just got a whole lot busier.’

He was projecting images onto a wall-mounted screen. The pictures showed steamy plants growing amid a collection of red lamps.

‘DC Berry?’

DC Berry was in his early thirties. University educated, he’d joined the police force after recovering from a combat injury. From his file, Jane also knew he had three young kids at home, scrabbling for his time along with his job.

‘Sir. There was a machete fight over a terraced house being used as a cannabis farm. Two men in their late twenties were badly injured, both in hospital, one fighting for his life.’

‘And are they connected to gangs we have under surveillance?’

‘No, sir. The individuals arrested have all had prior run-ins with the police though, mainly low-level theft and violence.’

‘Good work. Circulate the relevant particulars to the rest of the team, please.’

Jane felt her irritation growing. Having been acting up into her role for months, DS Johnson had been standoffish and unhelpful since she’d arrived. Resentful he didn’t get the job no doubt, Jane saw him now theatrically playing the role of DI. Pissing on her territory.

DS Johnson clicked his remote to change the images on the screen to the haunted, emaciated faces of a half dozen men, their eyes staring at the camera.

‘A tip-off led us to this place,’ he explained. ‘Seven illegal Albanian nationals being used as forced labour on a building site. I’m taking the lead on this.’

Grasping for opportunities to shine, Jane thought angrily. Losing her patience, she opened the doors noisily and pushed inside. The team pivoted to face her, watching her approach in silence. It wasn’t hostility exactly, but it wasn’t trust either. DC Berry looked towards DS Johnson, then dropped his gaze.

‘Morning, everyone, apologies for the delay,’ Jane began purposefully. ‘I made it up the stairs in one piece though, despite what this stitch in my side says.’

No one laughed as she walked to the unused whiteboard, Jane sensing all eyes on her.

‘DC Berry, I want you to take the lead on the trafficking victims,’ Jane announced, countermanding DS Johnson’s instructions. ‘I just interviewed Trish and Rogers, the parents of our missing persons case that made breakfast news this morning. This is going to be our priority today.’

Jane scanned the room, the team looking palpably uncomfortable. DS Johnson was about to protest, but she stared him down. She was in charge and it was time he learnt to accept that.

‘Why wasn’t I informed that Alice Rogers’ body had been found?’

No one responded, few making eye contact, although DC Berry looked more confused than anything. Had DS Johnson lied to them and said he had told Jane?

‘When was she reported missing to us?’ Jane continued.

DS Johnson looked around the team, willing them to be unhelpful no doubt, before taking a seat, squaring his chair so he could face Jane head-on. The silence lasted a beat too long for Jane, so she forced the issue, deciding to approach the shy young detective constable who was sitting close by.

‘DC Chan?’

Detective Constable Elaine Chan was in her late twenties. She was fiercely intelligent, but still unsure of herself as a police officer. She blushed as she tapped at her tablet, her voice carrying a tremor when she spoke.

‘Tuesday the twenty-sixth of August, ma’am.’

Jane wrote the date down in big, neat letters on the whiteboard.

‘Preliminary inquiries?’ she asked, looking directly at DC Chan, blocking out the rest of the room.

‘Parents reported her missing after she failed to attend three supervised visits with her children,’ DC Chan continued, her voice still belying her nerves. ‘She was due to visit on Monday the eighteenth, Thursday the twenty-first and again on Monday the twenty-fifth.’

‘Did we triangulate her mobile phone to track her movements?’

‘Her phone was switched off from 1.14 p.m. on Monday the eighteenth of August, ma’am. Last time it pinged was from her home address in St Agnes, when she . . .