Those We Left Behind

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Those We Left Behind Page 11

by Stuart Neville


  ‘Apart from what the Rolston boy told you,’ Purdy said, ‘we’ve nothing to contradict Ciaran’s confession. You’ve both compared notes. Their stories match up. Every last detail. Tell me what you’re thinking.’

  Flanagan sat back in her chair and exhaled. She brought her fingertips to her temples, massaged them, as if the pressure would solidify her thoughts into a cogent argument.

  ‘I’m just not sure,’ she said. ‘The time I’ve spent with Ciaran. He doesn’t seem like the kind of boy who could do this. Thomas, on the other hand . . .’

  Speers looked up from his notepad. A few years older than Flanagan, a clear and handsome face. He enjoyed being a cop, acted as if he was constantly on camera in some TV drama.

  ‘Thomas is a cold one, all right,’ he said. ‘But he hasn’t put a foot wrong since he was brought in, from the First Account on. I’ve used the cognitive method throughout, narrowing it right down, the information funnel, just like you and me were trained to do. Thomas has been rock solid all the way. From what you’ve reported, so has Ciaran. The events, as far as we can ascertain, run like this: Ciaran goes upstairs to the master bedroom, finds Thomas cornered there by Mr Rolston. Ciaran grabs the bookend, sets about Mr Rolston with it. Thomas tries to stop him, but Ciaran’s too far gone, he’s lost control. The only person who’s saying different is a kid who was miles away when it happened. I don’t know how else to come at it. Do you?’

  ‘If I can keep working with Ciaran,’ Flanagan said, ‘see if I can get him to open up. I don’t mean on record, we don’t need the social worker there. I mean talk to him alone, as a friend, see if I can get him to—’

  Purdy interrupted. ‘We’ve had them coming up on forty-eight hours without a charge. That’s pushing things as it is. It may be a murder case, but they’re still children. If I go to the superintendent and ask for another extension, you know damn well he’s going to tell me to shit or get off the pot.’

  ‘But, sir, you can try,’ Flanagan said. ‘I know another twenty-four hours is a lot to ask for when we’re dealing with kids, but Christ, if we get this wrong, it’s the rest of their lives we’re talking about.’

  Purdy leaned forward, rested his chin on his palm. ‘All right, fuck it. I’ll give it a go.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But I’ll tell you now,’ Purdy said. ‘You’re wrong on this one. Ciaran Devine is the killer.’

  20

  CIARAN HAS BEEN waiting outside the hostel for ten minutes already. His stomach is all fluttery inside. Nerves and joy, joy and nerves. As the minutes grind past, the nerves turn to fear. Has Thomas forgotten? Ciaran chews his thumbnail. Of course Thomas hasn’t forgotten. Thomas never forgets anything.

  Almost another five minutes go by before the red car pulls in from the main road. Ciaran feels the grin break on his face, a laugh rising up all bubbly from his belly. He lifts a hand and waves. Thomas does not wave back. He’s too busy turning the car.

  Ciaran opens the passenger door and lowers himself into the seat. Thomas leans across, puts a hand around Ciaran’s neck, draws him closer and plants a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Newcastle,’ Thomas says. ‘Will that do?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says. He can’t keep the laughter from his voice.

  Newcastle, not far from where they lived in those last good days. County Down, he thinks. Ciaran hasn’t been back since. He knows there’s a place in England with the same name, but Newcastle here is different with its long beach and rolling waves.

  ‘It’s a bit of a drive, but we’ve got all day.’

  Thomas puts the car in gear and sets off. Soon they are heading out of the city, going south, buildings left behind, green all around.

  Ciaran notices the torn skin on Thomas’s knuckles.

  He says nothing.

  21

  DANIEL ARRIVED AT the office five minutes late. Melanie stood at her door, waiting for him, the smile on her lips looking like it had been fixed there since the previous morning. She stood back and allowed him to enter.

  Beside the desk sat Andrew Hanna, the regional manager. Daniel recognised him from his picture in the company newsletter. Hanna stood and extended a hand. Daniel shook it.

  ‘Take a wee seat,’ Melanie said.

  Daniel did so, waited for her to do the same.

  When everyone was in place, Melanie said, ‘So.’

  She looked towards Hanna, who looked at Daniel.

  Hanna said, ‘Daniel, we’re letting you go.’

  Just like that. No preamble. No soft landing.

  Daniel cleared his throat, said, ‘Okay.’

  ‘I assume you know why,’ Hanna said. ‘But I’ll explain anyway. We received a complaint early this morning that you had, for whatever reason, used our network and databases to find personal information on someone and then harass them.’

  ‘I didn’t harass anybody,’ Daniel said. ‘I just knocked on her door to—’

  Melanie spoke now, that smile still on her lips. ‘And one of your colleagues tells me you printed out this information here in the office, then took it home with you. By the terms of your wee contract, that’s an immediate dismissal. Do you have anything to say for yourself?’

  ‘Just one thing,’ Daniel said. ‘Please, for the love of God, stop smiling.’

  She did, for a moment.

  ‘And stop calling everything wee. It’s not a wee contract. It’s fifteen pages, for Christ’s sake.’

  Hanna pushed an envelope across the desk. ‘Here you go. You’ll be paid up to the end of the month, which I’m sure you’ll agree is more than fair under the circumstances. Now, if you’ve no more questions . . .’

  Daniel stood and left the office without lifting the envelope. At the Xerox machine he saw Chris Greely, a paper cup full of water in his hand, waiting for a printout. Greely saw him approach, smiled, said, ‘You off, then?’

  Daniel slapped the cup from Greely’s hand, sent water splashing across the copier. He felt a surge of pleasure as he seized Greely’s throat, pushed him back against the wall, forced his knuckles in under his chin, squeezing the windpipe. Greely’s eyes bulged, his mouth opening and closing. Gasps around the office. A hand on Daniel’s shoulder. He turned his head to see Hanna. Whatever Hanna saw in Daniel’s eyes was enough to convince him to take his hand away.

  He turned back to Greely. ‘I’ll be back for you,’ Daniel said. ‘Might be here, might be somewhere else. Might be today, might be some other day. But I promise I’ll get you.’

  Daniel let go and Greely fell to the floor. Colleagues rushed to help him, giving Daniel fearful glances. Daniel supposed he should have felt ashamed, embarrassed, possibly regretful. Instead, he felt taller than he ever had.

  He took the lift down to the ground floor, exited the building, and walked the hundred yards or so to the bus stop. When the police car rounded the corner he knew they were coming for him, and he was glad.

  22

  FLANAGAN FOUND PAULA Cunningham in the far corner of the coffee shop. Early lunchtime chatter all around, the smell of cooking food and sweet things. Her stomach rumbled, and she remembered she’d skipped breakfast that morning.

  Cunningham stood as Flanagan approached, extended her hand. She already had a half-empty coffee cup on the table. Flanagan ordered a tea from a passing waitress. Cunningham declined another cup.

  ‘So, you needed more on Ciaran Devine,’ Flanagan said as she took a seat.

  ‘That’s right,’ Cunningham said. ‘Him and his brother.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can tell you anything that isn’t already on record.’

  ‘I’ve read everything I could get my hands on,’ Cunningham said. ‘But I wondered how you felt about him and his brother, personally. Setting the confession aside, did you have Ciaran for this?’

  The hunger left Flanagan’s belly, her appetite frozen out by a sudden chill there. She hoped it didn’t show on her face. ‘It didn’t matter much what I thought personally. It wasn’t my case, remembe
r, I just worked on it. It was the coordinating DCI who called the shots. In the end, all that mattered was the confession, and what the Public Prosecution Service could do with it.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Cunningham said. ‘I know these things are never black and white, this case more than most, but it’s your gut feeling I’m interested in.’

  A pot of tea arrived. Flanagan left it to brew. ‘Has Ciaran said something?’

  ‘No, not directly. Do you remember the Rolstons’ son?’

  ‘Yes,’ Flanagan said. ‘Daniel. I only spoke with him once. He was a bright boy. But very mixed up.’

  ‘He called at my house last night.’

  ‘What, just out of the blue?’

  ‘Yes. He was angry, and frightened, I think. I had to call the police. He’d gone by the time they came, but they tracked him down, gave him a warning.’

  ‘What did he want?’ Flanagan asked.

  ‘To tell me the police and the court had got it all wrong. That Ciaran hadn’t killed his father. It was Thomas. I suppose he thinks I can get something out of Ciaran, something the police couldn’t, but I don’t know why. Did Daniel say anything at the time of the investigation?’

  ‘Not on record. His statement barely came into things, the case seemed so clear cut, particularly with the confession. He didn’t have to give evidence during the trial. Everyone felt it would be too hard on him; it wouldn’t have made enough of a difference to justify putting him through that.’

  ‘Not on record, you said. What about off the record?’

  Flanagan poured tea into her cup, followed by milk, watched the swirling clouds, and her own glinting reflection on the surface.

  Cunningham waited.

  No avoiding it, Flanagan spoke. ‘Yes, Daniel told me he believed Thomas had killed his father. He said Ciaran and he had become friends. That Thomas had been hurting him. I put that to Ciaran, of course, but his story never changed.’

  ‘You spent a lot of time with Ciaran,’ Cunningham said.

  Flanagan shifted in her seat and reached for the cup. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘A lot more than most investigating officers would spend with a suspect.’

  Steam rose from the cup and warmed Flanagan’s lips.

  ‘It took a long time for him to open up,’ she said. ‘Even with the confession, we needed to understand what exactly happened in that house. I spent hours and hours working with him. I needed to get his trust. Remember, he and his brother had been from institution to foster home and back again for most of their lives. I’m not sure how well Ciaran really knew his mother. A situation like that, the bond between siblings becomes incredibly strong. They build a wall around themselves. It becomes them against the world. I had to try to break through that.’

  ‘It looked like you managed,’ Cunningham said.

  ‘Eventually.’ Flanagan took a sip of tea. Stinging hot in her throat.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Cunningham said. ‘Please.’

  MONDAY 26TH MARCH 2007

  While Purdy talked to the Superintendent, Flanagan and Ciaran sat opposite each other in the interview room waiting for another social worker. She’d brought him two slices of buttered toast and a cup of milky tea. She watched as he picked the crusts off the bread.

  ‘I’ll cut them off next time,’ she said.

  Ciaran didn’t answer. He licked melted butter off his fingers. The same fingers that had been slickened red only two days before.

  Flanagan looked at her wristwatch, then up at the clock on the wall. The social worker was approaching ten minutes late.

  ‘What’s your favourite thing to eat?’ she asked.

  Ciaran shrugged, took a bite of toast.

  ‘There must be something,’ Flanagan said.

  He shrugged again, chewed.

  ‘What about burgers? Sausages? Crisps?’

  Ciaran took a breath. Flanagan held hers. He did not speak.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  ‘I like chip butties.’

  ‘Ah.’ Flanagan nodded respectfully. ‘Red or brown sauce?’

  ‘No sauce,’ Ciaran said. ‘Just salt and vinegar.’

  ‘I like red sauce on mine. Do you know what my husband likes on his?’

  ‘What?’ Ciaran asked.

  ‘Mayonnaise.’

  Ciaran’s nose wrinkled in distaste.

  ‘I know,’ Flanagan said.

  Ciaran smiled. Flanagan’s heart floated in her chest.

  A knock on the door, and she went to it. Purdy waited on the other side.

  Flanagan stepped through, pulled the door closed behind her. ‘Well?’

  ‘He gave us another twelve hours, starting at five-thirty,’ Purdy said. ‘Unless you turn up something remarkable, those boys will be charged before dawn tomorrow morning.’

  Flanagan shook her head. ‘That’s not enough time.’

  ‘It’s all you’ve got,’ Purdy said, walking away. ‘Make the most of it.’

  The social worker dashed along the corridor, apologising as she approached. Flanagan brought her into the interview room. Once the audio recorder was running, as soon as Ciaran was cautioned, the child whose smile had thrilled her so had vanished. Instead, here was this boy who repeated the same answers to the same questions until Flanagan wanted to shake him.

  She ended the interview after forty-five minutes, sent the social worker on her way, and signed Ciaran back into the custody suite.

  Outside in the car park, Flanagan called Alistair from her mobile.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s looking like an all-nighter here.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Alistair said. ‘Not in your condition. What about the baby?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. And so will the baby.’

  Her hand went to her stomach. This thing in her belly, not much bigger than a peanut.

  ‘Just you worry about Ruth,’ she said. ‘Give her a kiss for me.’

  ‘All right. But take it easy.’

  ‘You too,’ she said. ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  Warmed by those last words, Flanagan walked from the station to the chippie one street over. She ordered two chip butties, one with red sauce, the other with salt and vinegar, along with a can each of Coke and Fanta, and brought them back to Ciaran’s cell. She sat beside him on the mattress, the cell door open, and handed the plain buttie to him. He took it from her fingers, breathed in the aroma of fried potato and malt vinegar.

  ‘Did you get Thomas one?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Flanagan said. ‘Just you and me.’

  Ciaran held the bread roll in his thin fingers, chips squeezing out from within. He hesitated, then took a bite, big enough to puff his cheeks out. Flanagan did the same. They sat side by side in the cell and ate in silence until every bite was gone.

  Only when she’d drained the last swallow of cola from the can did Flanagan realise that Ciaran was leaning against her, shoulder to shoulder. She suppressed the urge to put an arm around him, to gather him in. But nor did she move away.

  He took a breath, held it in his chest. A word unspoken.

  ‘What?’ Flanagan asked.

  ‘What’s it like in jail?’ he asked, the fear rippling beneath his voice.

  ‘It won’t be a proper jail,’ she said. ‘It’s a young offenders centre. Hydebank. It’ll be tough, but it won’t be prison. It’s probably not that different from places you and Thomas have stayed before.’

  ‘Will I be there for the rest of my life?’

  Flanagan closed her eyes against the ache his question caused. If his confession was real, he didn’t deserve her pity, child or not. But it was there, regardless.

  ‘There’s no fixed sentence for a child,’ Flanagan said. ‘It’ll be years, but if you’re good, you’ll be out before you’re twenty. You’ll still have your life ahead of you.’

  ‘Will Thomas be there too?’

  ‘Yes,’ Flanagan said. ‘But he’ll get out before you do.’

 
She felt him tense against her arm. ‘So I’ll be on my own?’

  ‘He’ll be able to visit you.’

  He began to shake, and now Flanagan did put her arm around him. He leaned in to her, chewed on his thumbnail.

  ‘Thomas is nearly fifteen, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ciaran said.

  ‘You know, if Thomas had done this, it’d be very different. He’d go to Hydebank, just like you, but he’d be held longer. Very probably, he’d move to a real prison, to Maghaberry, when he turned twenty-one. But if you took the blame for him, because you’re younger, the judge would go easier on you. And even lighter still on Thomas.’

  Ciaran became still and silent, not even a breath.

  ‘You’d do anything Thomas asked you to, wouldn’t you?’

  He seemed to shrink in her embrace, as if retreating from the world. She ran her fingertips over his short-cropped hair.

  ‘You’d say you killed someone if he asked you to, wouldn’t you?’

  He turned his face downward and away so she couldn’t see him. His shoulders hitched.

  Flanagan let the air out her lungs in a weary exhalation. ‘Oh, sweetheart, it’s going to be a long night.’

  23

  A CHILLED BREEZE comes in off the sea as Ciaran sits on the bench beside Thomas, eating the chip buttie his brother bought for him. Thomas eats nothing. Sunlight reflects off the water, a sheet of solid grey, like storm clouds stretching away from them. Ciaran had forgotten the smell of salt on the air, the sound of waves on sand. He savours them now.

  They had arrived late morning and walked the length of the beach twice before seeking food. Once they’d found the nearest chip shop, they came back to the waterfront and settled on a bench beneath the grand buildings and sloping gardens of the Slieve Donard hotel. Elderly couples walk arm in arm along the sand, dogs and their owners play, a few children shout and run through the foaming edge of the tide.

  Ciaran should feel happy, but Thomas is thoughtful. Thomas never spends thought on good things. He is restless, his fingers tapping on his thighs, the soles of his shoes grinding on the fine layer of sand that coats the concrete under their feet.

 

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