‘I don’t remember him,’ Ciaran said. ‘Not really.’
‘Nothing at all?’
Ciaran thought for a moment, his eyes distant, then said, ‘He had hard fingers. I remember him holding my hand. His skin was dry and scratchy. And he smelled of cigarettes.’
‘Do you remember when he died?’ Flanagan asked.
‘I remember the funeral,’ Ciaran said. ‘All the crying.’
‘And after that?’
‘We went to live in the house by the sea. Near Newcastle. It belonged to Mum’s parents. She got it when they died. It was good at first. Then Mum started to get sick.’
‘Then tell me about the good part.’
Ciaran rested his chin on his knees, stared at something far away.
‘She used to take us to this little beach, near the house. We used to look for crabs in the rock pools. Play hide-and-seek in the dunes. I used to laugh while we ran. I remember laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. Thomas used to laugh then too. He doesn’t laugh any more.’
Flanagan hesitated for a moment, then lowered herself to the floor beside Ciaran, leaned her back against the bench. ‘Have you ever gone back there?’ she asked.
Ciaran shook his head. ‘Thomas sold the house when he got out.’
‘Did he share the money with you?’
‘No,’ Ciaran said.
‘Doesn’t that bother you?’
‘No. I don’t need any money.’
‘Do you miss that house?’
‘Sometimes.’ He moved to a cross-legged position. ‘The good times, anyway. Not after. Not when it got bad.’
Flanagan became aware of his knee touching her thigh, the small overlap of their bodies.
‘Would you like to go back?’
‘I wanted to, but Thomas said no. He told me it’s empty, waiting to be knocked down. You can’t get in.’
Flanagan watched him as she said, ‘Maybe I could take you.’
He seemed shocked by the idea. ‘You?’
She swallowed, a dry click in her throat. ‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Thomas wouldn’t want me to.’ He dropped his gaze.
‘So? You told me you don’t need him, remember?’
‘But . . .’ His mouth opened and closed as he searched for an answer.
‘We could go,’ Flanagan said, leaning in closer to him. So close she could feel his warmth. ‘Just you and me. All you have to do is tell the truth about what happened to Daniel Rolston, and to his father. Tell me what Thomas did, and I promise you and I will go to the seaside, where you used to live. Just talk to me.’
A sudden tremor through Ciaran’s shoulders. ‘But Thomas won’t let me.’
‘Thomas has no say in it.’ Flanagan put a hand on his forearm. ‘You don’t need him.’
Tears rolled now, crystal beads racing on his cheeks. ‘But he won’t let me, he won’t, he’ll be angry, and he’ll bite me.’
‘Bite you?’
‘He’ll bite me if I’m bad,’ Ciaran said, the words choked between sobs. ‘He always bites me when I’m bad.’
Flanagan remembered the marks on Ciaran’s forearm, now covered by his sleeves. She lifted her hand away, looked at his wrist, the bruising that crept beneath his cuff.
She knew what she wanted to do. That same impulse as long ago. But it was too dangerous. She looked up at the camera. Imagined Ballantine watching, judging.
‘Oh Jesus,’ she said. ‘C’mere.’
In spite of everything, she took him in her arms. Like so many years before. His body, at first unyielding, softened against hers. She felt the spasms of his torso as he wept, his cheek pressed into her neck. Like before. A child then, a young man now.
‘Thomas won’t let me go,’ he said.
Every nerve in her body seemed to fire in volleys, fear tangling with emotions strange to her. The truth, she told herself. I will get the truth and I will have done the right thing.
For the truth, that’s all.
‘He will,’ Flanagan said. ‘I promise. I’ll make sure he never touches you again.’
‘You can’t stop him.’
‘Yes I can.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll put him away,’ she said, her lips finding his ear. ‘I’ll put him where he can never hurt you again. I promise you. But you have to trust me. Do you trust me?’
He nodded, his face burrowing deeper into the hollow between her shoulder and her chin. She felt his mouth move, the heat of his breath, as he whispered, ‘Yes.’
For the truth. That thought echoed in her mind. Only the truth and nothing else.
Flanagan rocked him in her arms. ‘Then tell me the truth. Tell me what happened in that bedroom with Daniel’s father. Tell me who killed him.’
‘I can’t,’ Ciaran said, his voice soft and thin like a child’s.
‘You can,’ she said. ‘If you trust me, then tell me. Then we can go to the seaside together. I promise, I swear on my life, I will take you there. Just tell me what happened.’
He became still and quiet. Through his skin, Flanagan felt something shift inside him, some change in his soul.
She eased back from him, her hands on his upper arms, her eyes locked on his. ‘Ciaran, tell me.’
He took one deep breath. ‘It was—’
‘Flanagan.’
Her head snapped up, her gaze to the cell door. DSI Purdy, unshaven, a suit with no tie. Horror on his face. Ciaran inched away from her.
‘Not now,’ Flanagan said.
‘Now.’
‘Please,’ Flanagan said, ‘I’ll come to your—’
Purdy’s face contorted in rage. ‘Right fucking now!’
His bellowing voice resonated and boomed in the cell.
Ciaran backed away, pushing with his hands and his feet, curled into a ball in the corner.
Flanagan stood, smoothed her clothing, went towards the door. She looked back over her shoulder, saw Ciaran staring back at her over his knees.
‘I promise,’ she said.
‘What exactly are you playing at?’ Purdy asked.
He had led Flanagan to her makeshift office and barked at her to sit, but he remained pacing on the other side of the desk. The clock on the wall read 1:34 a.m.
‘Trying to get Ciaran’s trust,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to stop me talking to him off the record, getting him to open up. Then I can use that when he’s under caution.’
‘Getting his trust. I see. So for him to trust you, you have to feel him up.’
‘What?’
‘You want to know what happened about an hour ago?’
Flanagan didn’t answer.
‘I’m just nodding off in bed, nice and snug, then my phone rings. Detective Sergeant Ballantine, awful sorry to disturb me at this time of night, wants a quick word.’
Flanagan’s mouth dried. Dizziness and nausea followed. She gripped the arms of the chair.
‘She’s got a situation and she doesn’t know what to do about it. Of course, I tell her to talk to you about it, but no, she can’t do that because Detective Chief Inspector Flanagan is the fucking problem.’
‘Sir, I don’t know what DS Ballantine has told you, but—’
‘Oh, she told me plenty. She told me she’d seen you touch a detained person in an inappropriate manner. She said you were going back in to talk to him some more, and she was worried about what was going to happen.’
‘Please, sir, if you’ll let me—’
‘Of course I told her, don’t be daft, Flanagan’s a pro, she’s as good as they come, she wouldn’t do anything stupid like that. All the same, I got out of bed, drove up here, and had a look at the CCTV feed from that boy’s cell.’
He leaned over the desk. Flanagan looked at the floor.
‘And there’s you and young Ciaran Devine getting all cosy on the floor.’
‘Sir, I don’t know what it looked like, but I can assure you nothing inappropriate happened. He was distressed, and I was comforting him. That’s al
l.’
‘Oh, he looked comfortable, all right.’
‘He was getting ready to talk. If you hadn’t interrupted, he would have told me the truth about what happened to Daniel Rolston’s father.’
Purdy gave a dry crackling laugh. ‘Oh yes, I know what you said to him earlier today, in front of the solicitor, on record.’
‘It was a valid question.’
‘Valid? You put it to him that he didn’t kill his foster carer, that his confession was bullshit, that he was wrongly convicted. I listened to the interview. I heard you say it.’
‘It’s a line of inquiry that—’
Purdy’s voice rose as his jowls quivered. ‘It’s a fucking lie that’s going to land me in the shit.’
Flanagan blinked, shook her head in confusion. ‘Sir?’
He stabbed at his chest with a finger. ‘That was my case. Mine. And you’re trying to make out I fitted up the wrong boy for it.’
‘Sir, he confessed, there was no reason for you to—’
‘If that conviction gets overturned, the blame goes on me.’
‘I worked that case too,’ Flanagan said. ‘It was me who took the confession. I’m as much to blame as you are.’
‘And I’m the one who’ll take the grief for it. I’ll be destroyed. You think I’m going to let you take a wrecking ball to my career?’
Flanagan forced calm into her voice. ‘If Ciaran Devine didn’t kill that man, then the truth has to come out.’
Purdy threw his arms wide. ‘Why? Who’s it going to help? They were both there in the room. They both went away for the murder. You get that boy to change his story, what difference is it going to make?’
‘Maybe none, but what are we here for if not to get the truth? It won’t get Ciaran back those seven years, but I’ll have done my job.’
‘Are you saying I haven’t?’
‘No, I—’
‘Shut up and listen to me.’
‘I—’
He leaned over the desk once more, his voice shaking now. ‘I said shut up.’
Flanagan locked her hands together in her lap, clenched her jaw.
‘Now, I’m taking this case away from you.’
Flanagan opened her mouth, but Purdy raised his hand to silence her.
‘Don’t breathe another fucking word, or so help me God, I’ll have you in front of a misconduct panel. Clear?’
Flanagan nodded.
‘Good. Now, you were supposed to be investigating a murder that took place at the weekend, not one that happened seven years ago. Given the lack of anything solid that ties those boys to the murder itself, I’m going to let them go before the morning. You will hand over all material you have relating to this case and provide any support requested to whomever the ACC and I appoint in your place. You will not make any further reference, to anybody, to their previous conviction other than the facts established by Ciaran Devine’s confession and the evidence that was presented at trial. Do you understand me?’
‘But—’
‘Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Okay. Now get the fuck out of my sight.’
Flanagan marched along the corridor from her office, rage bound up like a fireball in her chest. She wanted to scream, to curse, but kept her mouth tight closed as she exited the building, even as the pressure of it built inside her. Furious tears and tremors escaped as she unlocked her car. Inside, she slammed the door, and screamed her throat raw.
47
CIARAN HAS BEEN waiting and waiting for her to return. He’s waited so long it’s light outside. Somewhere in those hours he fell asleep, and revisited Mother-Serena in the hospital bed where she made him beautiful promises that he can no longer remember.
He knows she will return. She will come back and set him free. Free of this cell, and free of his brother. And she will take him to the seaside.
And what then?
Ciaran doesn’t know, but the idea of it is bright and glowing in his mind when the cell door opens. He looks to the door, joy flowering in him, but it isn’t Serena. Instead, it’s a uniformed policeman and the other policewoman, the one with the long blonde hair and hard eyes.
‘You’re free to go,’ she says.
‘I’m waiting for Serena,’ he says. ‘I want to talk to her.’
‘DCI Flanagan is no longer working on this investigation,’ the policewoman says. ‘You won’t have any further contact with her.’
Ciaran’s mind cannot absorb what the policewoman has told him. ‘But I need to talk to her,’ he says. He hears the quiver in his own voice.
‘The Crime Prevention Order DCI Flanagan requested is still in force,’ she said. ‘You’re to have no contact with Thomas Devine unless under supervision. For the time being, you’re free to go.’ She stepped away from the door, leaving a space exactly as wide as Ciaran. ‘So go. Now.’
Mr Wheatley comes and gets him at six in the morning. He barely says a word as he drives along the motorway from Antrim, his eyes dark with fatigue.
As Mr Wheatley parks at the hostel, he says, ‘The van will be here to lift the other boys in about ten minutes. If you’re quick, you can still go to work today. If you don’t, you’ll probably get the sack.’
Ciaran says, ‘Okay.’
‘Good. Away you go.’
Fifteen minutes later, Ciaran waits with the other boys on the pavement. They don’t speak to him, or even look at him. The van arrives, and they climb in. The seat next to Emmet is free, so Ciaran sits beside him once more.
‘Jesus, did you forget your lunch again?’ Emmet asks.
‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says.
‘Well, I’m not sharing with you today.’
Ciaran doesn’t answer as the van pulls away. He thinks only about Serena Flanagan and how she broke her promise.
They’re all the same, Thomas would say.
All the same.
48
CUNNINGHAM WAITED AT the long table in the boardroom listening to her boss’s breathing. Edward Hughes sat at the other side of the table, his head nodding forward then jerking up again. He stirred himself, blinked, checked his wristwatch and said, ‘Fifteen minutes.’
Cunningham didn’t answer. The meeting was supposed to start at ten. Flanagan hadn’t struck her as the type to miss appointments. She checked her own watch to be sure Hughes had got the time right.
Sixteen minutes, now.
She quietly thanked God when there was a knock at the boardroom door.
‘Come,’ Hughes said.
A man Cunningham didn’t recognise entered, a file tucked under his arm. Mid-to-late fifties, around her boss’s age. Hughes had frozen halfway out of his seat. He remained there, hunched over the table, staring at the new arrival.
‘DSI William Purdy,’ the man said. ‘I’m here to talk about the Ciaran Devine case.’
Hughes finally stood upright, extended his hand. Cunningham did the same. As Purdy shook hers, she said, ‘I was expecting DCI Flanagan.’
He released her hand. ‘DCI Flanagan is no longer working on this case.’
‘Why not?’ Cunningham asked.
‘It’s an internal matter,’ Purdy said as he took a seat at the end of the table. ‘Can we get started?’
Cunningham remained on her feet. ‘But DCI Flanagan knows Ciaran’s case inside out.’
Purdy gave her a tight-lipped smile. ‘Seeing as I led the investigation that resulted in Ciaran’s conviction, I’d say I’m pretty familiar with it myself, wouldn’t you?’
Cunningham studied him as she lowered herself to her seat, suddenly worried for Flanagan. Purdy had the demeanour of a man more concerned with the safety of his pension than with the moral obligations of his job. Had he pushed Flanagan aside for his own benefit? Or had she done something to deserve to be stood down?
Hughes cleared his throat. ‘So, the purpose of this Risk Management Meeting is to establish whether Ciaran Devine poses a threat to himself or anyone else and, accordingly, if
there are grounds for his release licence to be revoked. Paula, do you want to start?’
Cunningham swallowed before she spoke. ‘This hinges entirely on the killing of Daniel Rolston. Ciaran and Thomas Devine are suspects in that killing, therefore—’
‘Just a moment,’ Purdy said. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but it’s a stretch to call them suspects given that the only thing we really have to connect them is some sort of an altercation at a shopping centre earlier in the day. We have nothing physical to put them at the scene of the killing, no CCTV footage, no witnesses who can place them there. All we’ve really got is supposition.’
‘Supposition?’ Cunningham echoed. ‘Are you being serious?’
‘Paula,’ Hughes said, his tone a warning.
‘Murder isn’t something I joke about,’ Purdy said, giving her a hard look.
Cunningham stared back, her concern for Flanagan deepening. ‘You had grounds enough to arrest the Devines, interview them under caution. Now you’re telling me it was just supposition.’
‘DCI Flanagan had all of yesterday evening to turn something up. She didn’t get a scrap out of either of them. Now, I’ve talked with the officers who searched Thomas Devine’s flat and Ciaran Devine’s room at the hostel. They took some clothes away, but there were no obvious traces from the murder, and no weapon. It’ll be a day or two before the analysis of the clothes comes back, but when it does, I’d bet my house there’ll be nothing.’
Cunningham shook her head. ‘But they’re the only possible suspects.’
‘Based on what? That they had a row with the victim? There are at least two of Daniel Rolston’s workmates that have had disagreements with him in the last few days, one of which got physical. Should I take them into custody too?’
‘How can you be so wilfully blind?’ Cunningham asked.
Purdy sat back in his chair, contempt on his face. He turned to Hughes. ‘Are you going to let her talk to me like that?’
‘Paula, enough,’ Hughes said.
‘No,’ Cunningham said. ‘It’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough. You can’t dismiss this as if it’s—’
‘Stop, Paula.’
‘—some punch-up outside a pub. A young man has lost his life. The last of his family. All of them wiped out by Thomas Devine and—’
Those We Left Behind Page 20