‘She’s fucking dead,’ Thomas said.
A bad word. Thomas almost never said bad words. Ciaran began to shake.
‘A heart attack or something. Because of the drugs. Fucking stupid bitch.’
Thomas took the photograph in both hands. Tore it down the middle. Placed one piece on top of the other and tore again. And again and again. So many pieces scattered on the floor.
‘So that’s that,’ Thomas said. ‘Do you want to go to the park? Mr Breen said we could.’
Yes, Mr and Mrs Breen, Ciaran remembered now. He had liked them, but Thomas had said he shouldn’t. He said they were all the same, people like them.
They went to the park. In a far corner, high up in a tangle of overgrown bushes, they found a nest. Two adult birds circled overhead, crying out in alarm. A clutch of chicks inside the nest, blind and chirping, their beaks open.
Ciaran watched Thomas kill them all.
Mr Wheatley is waiting at his office door when Ciaran gets back.
‘How’d it go?’ he asks.
‘Okay,’ Ciaran says.
‘Just okay? Did he give you a job?’
‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says.
‘Good,’ Mr Wheatley says. ‘Well done. Work hard and make the most of it.’
‘Yeah.’
Ciaran stands there in the hall, Mr Wheatley in his office doorway, each of them looking at the other. Ciaran doesn’t know what to do next. Perhaps he should say something, but he can’t think of a single word.
Mr Wheatley nods, says, ‘All right, then. See you later.’
Ciaran walks up the stairs towards his room. On the second landing he sees that boy, Robbie Agnew, coming out of the bathroom. His face bruised and cut. Swelling over one eye. Ciaran hears the sound of a cistern filling beyond the door.
Robbie stares at Ciaran for a moment, frozen there, his mouth open. Then he drops his gaze to the floor. He’s shaking. He opens the bathroom door and steps back inside.
Ciaran goes to his room, closes the door behind him, sits on his bed.
He thinks of Thomas and the baby birds crushed beneath his feet.
16
FLANAGAN SAT AT her desk, the telephone’s handset in one hand, the fingers of the other hovering over the keypad.
Don’t do it, her better mind said.
The anger that had sparked into flame while she spoke with Julie Walker had not abated through the afternoon. It smouldered in her like a hot coal. None of it made sense. The only logical answer she had could bear no logic whatsoever. But still it lingered in her mind.
Flanagan closed her eyes, gave a silent curse, and hit the key.
‘Ladas Drive, please,’ she said. When the call was answered, she asked if DCI Conn had returned from the scene. The duty officer put her through to his office.
Conn spoke with the distracted tone of someone interrupted in his work. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.
Flanagan swallowed and said, ‘I wondered how you were getting on with the Walker case.’
‘Okay, I suppose. It’s mostly paperwork. Once the coroner’s report is in, it’s just a matter of pushing forms at the PPS.’
‘Have you spoken with Julie Walker? Or the boyfriend?’
‘I’ve scheduled statements for tomorrow afternoon,’ Conn said.
Flanagan swallowed again. Pressed her fingertips against her forehead. ‘I mean, an interview.’
‘What, as a suspect?’
‘Well, maybe not as such, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘Some things don’t add up.’
‘Like?’
‘Well, for one thing, why would Penny and Ronnie arrange a weekend away if they planned to do this?’
‘I suppose we’ll never know,’ Conn said, the edge of his voice sharpening. ‘Is that it?’
‘I mentioned it to Julie, and she seemed . . . thrown by it.’
‘Thrown by it,’ he echoed.
‘It was just a feeling I had,’ she said, hating the words as she spoke them.
‘Just a feeling.’
‘Surely it’s worth following up on.’
Flanagan listened to the hiss in the earpiece, waiting.
Eventually, Conn said, ‘First of all, I’m not going to question a grieving young woman on the strength of a feeling. Second, I don’t much appreciate you sticking your nose into my case. I know they were friends of yours, but that’s no excuse.’
‘I’m sorry, I just thought—’
‘Next time, keep your thoughts to yourself. Goodbye.’
A distorted rattle and click in the earpiece as he hung up.
Flanagan returned the handset to the cradle and stared at it. Only a matter of time before the call came.
Less than half an hour passed before the phone rang.
Flanagan went to DSI Purdy’s office as soon as she was summoned. She could feel his rage from the doorway.
‘Sit down,’ he said through thin lips.
He made her wait while he typed an email. Long enough for her to know she was in trouble.
When he’d finished, Purdy said, ‘Four days back. Only four days. And already you’ve pissed off two fellow DCIs.’
‘I have that knack,’ Flanagan said, hoping levity might ease things. She was wrong.
‘DCI Thompson went straight to the ACC, said you were accusing him of negligence.’
‘I accused him of no such thing,’ Flanagan said. ‘I only asked if he’d explored every avenue with those witnesses.’
‘You’re lucky he didn’t call his Federation rep. Jesus, imagine the shit that’d be falling on our heads right now.’
‘I was hoping he’d give me some pointers on this mess he’s leaving behind.’
Purdy shook his head. ‘Bad idea. Thompson’s a lazy git, and a miserable shite too, he always has been. You might as well have asked that wall for help.’
‘All right,’ Flanagan said. ‘I’ll not trouble him again.’
‘Good. But that was only the first call I got from the ACC today.’
Flanagan braced herself.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Brian Conn,’ Purdy said. ‘Do you think he’s incompetent?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Do you think he’s lazy?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Do you think he’s a frigging idiot?’
‘No, sir.’
Purdy leaned forward. ‘Then why in the name of Christ did you walk onto his crime scene? Why did you call him up and tell him how to do his job?’
Flanagan took a breath as she chose her words. ‘You’re quite right, I should have approached it—’
‘You shouldn’t have approached anything,’ Purdy said, his voice rising. ‘You had no business getting involved in the first place.’
‘The victims were friends of mine.’
‘There was only one victim there, one victim and a suicide. And it doesn’t matter two shites if they were friends of yours or not. You didn’t just walk into this job yesterday. You know better than to barge into someone else’s case like that. And you sure as hell don’t go throwing around those kinds of accusations while you’re at it.’
Flanagan met Purdy’s hard stare. ‘I didn’t make any accusations. I just asked DCI Conn if he might consider questioning Julie Walker. But I acknowledge that I let my personal feelings get the better of me. I apologise. I will call DCI Conn in the morning and apologise to him too. And the ACC, if you think it’s necessary.’
Purdy sat back in his chair, his expression softening. ‘Okay, you do that.’
‘But . . .’
Purdy took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘But what?’
‘But I strongly recommend that DCI Conn question Julie Walker and her boyfriend, look for any inconsistencies in their stories.’
‘That’ll be DCI Conn’s choice, and no such suggestion will come from you. Understood?’
‘But it doesn’t add up,’ Flanagan said. ‘That they’d do this. It doesn’t make sense.�
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He tossed his glasses onto the desk. ‘In all your career, have you ever seen a single murder – or a suicide, for that matter – that made sense?’
‘No,’ Flanagan said. ‘But Penny Walker told me she’d booked a weekend away only that morning. If they were planning this, why would she book a cottage by the seaside?’
‘You’re reaching,’ Purdy said.
‘But surely if they wanted to end things like this, they’d at least do it while they were alone at the cottage, not at home with their daughter sleeping in the next room.’
‘Reaching.’
‘But—’
‘Go home,’ Purdy said. ‘Make your apologies in the morning, then that’s the end of it.’
Flanagan swallowed her growing anger and said, ‘Yes, sir.’
She left Purdy’s office, went back to her own, gathered her things, and left the building. She went to her car, got in, locked the doors, and cried for her friend Penny Walker.
17
PAULA CUNNINGHAM READ the wine bottle’s label.
No, not tonight, she thought, and put the bottle back in the fridge. The hangover had dragged on her all day, coating each of her senses, dulling them all. Part of her knew that at some point later in the evening she’d open the fridge again, open the bottle, and pour a glass. But for now, she could pretend that wouldn’t happen.
The microwave pinged as Cunningham poured herself a pint glass full of water. Angus followed her from the kitchen to the living room, tail wagging, staring in hope at the plate in her hand. She flicked through TV channels as she ate, seeking out the most brainless trash she could find. Alex had always given her a hard time about her taste in television, never seeming to understand how badly she needed the vacuous pleasure of these programmes after the days she had. Maybe after a day selling newspaper ad space Alex desired something more cerebral, but having spent hours in the company of violent offenders, Cunningham needed shows about competitive brides and amateur cooks.
She scolded herself for letting her mind wander back to her former partner. More than a year, and there was Alex, still interrupting her simple joys of microwaved curry and trashy television.
‘Get out of my fucking head,’ she said aloud.
Angus looked up from his spot by her feet.
‘What?’ she said. ‘Are you judging me?’
Sixty minutes had passed, and a whole recorded episode of The Only Way is Essex, when the doorbell rang. Angus had pre-empted the chime, sitting up, ears erect at a sound she hadn’t heard. Then a furious peal of barking, his nails scrabbling on the once-glossy floorboards as he tried to sprint to the hall.
Cunningham followed him out, saw the shape of a man through the frosted glass of her door. She pointed back to the living room. ‘Angus, in.’
Angus put his paws up on the glass, his barks ringing through the hall.
‘For Christ’s sake, Angus, come on, in, now.’
The dog ignored her. She grabbed his collar, hauled him back to the living room, closed him inside. His barking rose in intensity, the door rattling in its frame as he scratched at it.
Cunningham went back to the front door, opened it, trapped a breath in her chest as she recognised the young man on her step.
‘Paula Cunningham,’ he said.
The same young man who had watched her buying coffee that morning.
‘My name’s Daniel Rolston,’ he said.
She stared at him for seconds on end before she thought to ask, ‘What do you want?’
He cleared his throat. His hands shook. Fear radiated from him, the kind of fear that turns to anger. Cunningham eased the door a few inches closer to its frame.
‘My parents were Jenny and David Rolston. Ciaran Devine was convicted of killing my father. Thomas was convicted as an accessory.’
‘Okay,’ Cunningham said, adrenalin charging through her system. ‘Again, what do you want?’
Angus’s barking had not abated. His nails still scratched at the door. Cunningham silently wished she had not closed him in, had held him here by the collar, let him growl and show his teeth to this visitor.
‘I want to talk to you,’ Daniel Rolston said.
‘I don’t think we have anything to talk about,’ Cunningham said, hoping the tremor was not audible in her voice.
‘We do,’ Daniel said. He gave her a smile that he probably intended to be friendly. ‘I’m sorry, I know this is a bit out of the blue, me calling like this.’
‘How did you get my address?’ she asked.
‘Through work,’ Daniel said. His eyes widened as soon as he spoke, a clear realisation that he’d said too much.
‘Your work?’ Cunningham asked. ‘Where do you work?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Look, I just need to—’
‘Daniel, I think you should go now. If you want to talk about Ciaran Devine’s case, call the Probation Board and they’ll set up an appointment for you. Then you can sit down with me and my department head, and you can ask us anything you want.’
Daniel’s smile faltered. ‘But I want to talk to you now. It won’t take long, honestly.’
‘Daniel, I’m going to close the door now. If you don’t leave, then I’m going to call the police. Do you understand?’
‘Please don’t,’ he said, putting his hands up.
‘I’m closing the door now, Daniel. Please leave.’
‘It wasn’t Ciaran,’ he said.
Cunningham pushed the door, but Daniel blocked it with his hand.
‘All this time, everyone thought it was Ciaran. Right from the start. But they were wrong.’
‘Please move your hand,’ Cunningham said.
Trembling now, but she kept it hidden. The barking from the other end of the hall had reached a level of hysteria, Angus sensing her distress from the other side of the wood.
‘Listen to me,’ Daniel said. ‘Please just give me five minutes.’
She put her shoulder to the door, shoved it closed, locked it.
From outside, his voice. ‘It was Thomas. I tried to tell them at the time, the police, everybody, but nobody would listen to me. They wouldn’t even let me say it in court. It wasn’t Ciaran. It was never Ciaran.’
‘Daniel, I’m calling the police.’
Her mobile was on the coffee table in the living room. She opened the door, and Angus bolted past her, charged along the hall. Through the glass, she saw Daniel step back. But still he talked – no – shouted now.
‘You ask him. You get the truth out of him. He confessed for his brother. They destroyed my family, the two of them. They destroyed my life. And they’ve lied all this time.’
Cunningham took her phone from the table, dialled the emergency number, said, ‘Police, please.’
By the time the marked car pulled up outside, Daniel had gone.
18
DANIEL WAS STILL shaking by the time he got home. He knew it was a mistake before he did it, but he had gone to the probation woman’s house anyway. In his mind, two hours ago, it seemed better to talk to her at home than tackle her on the street. He had told himself she would feel less threatened that way.
The mistake became clear as soon as she opened her door. He had walked for more than an hour after he left her front garden, the dog barking inside the house. Up one street, down the next, cutting through alleyways. Each street looked much like the next, the same small houses, the same bedraggled Union flags hanging from the lamp posts.
He realised he’d lost his bearings when he recognised a mural that he’d passed fifteen minutes before. Where was he? He stopped on a corner and turned in a circle, looking all around. His mobile couldn’t pick up a 3G signal, so the map feature would do him no good. A roar in the darkening sky drew his attention and he saw lights descending towards the airport.
That way was north. The railway line he’d used to get here was also in that direction. A light drizzle began to fall as he walked. Five minutes brought him to the platform and the small shelter.
Twenty minutes before a city-bound train arrived.
Daniel watched the glittering buildings through the window, Belfast looking like a proper city from here. If he searched, he’d find the building he worked in. He remembered telling the probation woman how he’d found her. No point in worrying now, he thought.
He exited Great Victoria Street station, walked through the arcade that cut beneath the Europa Hotel, past the sculptures of the Monument to the Unknown Woman Worker, the figures of two stout women in bronze. Someone had draped strings of beads around their necks. The noise of the street jarred his senses, the traffic, the hordes of people. The string of bars across the road called to him, even if they were jammed with tourists and drunks, but he kept his head down and walked south-east. Close to twenty minutes later, he reached his apartment building with its view over building sites and car parks.
Niamh met him in the hall, already in her pyjamas.
‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked, her voice carrying a mix of anger and concern.
‘I had a few things to do,’ he said.
‘I called your work. They said you left before lunch.’
Daniel stepped past her into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, asked, ‘Is there anything to eat?’
Niamh stood in the doorway, arms folded. ‘What have you been doing all day?’
‘Just some messages,’ he said. ‘I’d a few things I needed to get in town. That’s all.’
The buzzer in the hall rang.
Niamh went to lift the telephone handset by the door.
‘No,’ Daniel said, rushing after her. ‘I’ll get it.’
She lifted the handset, saying, ‘It’s all right, I’ve got it.’
He tried to snatch the handset from her, but she wouldn’t let go. They tussled over it for a second or two until he pushed her back, harder than he’d intended. She stumbled against the wall, hit the side of her head against the plaster. He couldn’t meet her gaze when she stared back at him.
Daniel brought the handset to his ear, and Niamh punched his arm as she passed him on the way to the living room. He felt the rush of displaced air as she slammed the door.
Those We Left Behind Page 9