So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2)

by Stuart Neville

Flanagan had no comeback for that. She offered him a tea or a coffee, but he declined, said he was needed back at the scene.

  ‘I’ll see myself out,’ he said, getting up. He stopped in the doorway and said, ‘Don’t dwell on this. You’ll drive yourself crazy.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she said, knowing he didn’t believe her.

  ‘Take care.’

  He closed the door behind him. From her seat by the window she heard his car door open and close, his engine starting, the tyres on the driveway.

  ‘Shit,’ she said.

  A knock on the door, then Alistair entered. He carried a fizzing glass of gin and tonic, a wedge of lime trapped among the ice, and a pale ale for himself. She gratefully took the glass from his hand, had a sip, savoured the juniper and lime taste, the hard crisp cold of it. He’d made it strong, and she was glad.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Alistair took her mobile phone from his pocket; she’d left it on the kitchen table. ‘Sounds like there was a text for you,’ he said, handing it to her.

  Flanagan entered her passcode and saw Miriam McCreesh’s name. She cursed herself for neglecting yet again to reply to Friday’s message. The text read: I see from the news that you’ve got your hands full. Might see you tomorrow. Catch up then.

  But Flanagan wouldn’t see Dr McCreesh tomorrow. DCI Brian Conn would stand watch as the pathologist cut Peter McKay open on the cold steel table. That thought, the relief of not having to endure the post-mortem clashing with the regret at not seeing McCreesh, dissuaded her from replying now. She tossed her phone onto the desk and took another deep swallow from her glass.

  Alistair perched on the edge of the desk, swigged his ale. She had discussed little of the case with him, given how seldom they’d talked at all in recent weeks, but he knew enough to understand things weren’t good if Purdy had called to the house.

  ‘End of the world?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably not,’ Flanagan said. ‘Just feels like it.’

  He put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed, took it away.

  They sat and drank together without speaking. She thought of the turmoil of the last couple of months, how much her job had cost her, what it cost her family. And yet it came to this. No one saved, no justice served. Another dead man and a hollow feeling in her gut.

  Flanagan leaned into Alistair, her head resting against his side, and he put his arm around her.

  ‘Let’s get drunk,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve both got work tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘So? Wouldn’t be the first time either of us went in with a hangover.’

  ‘What about the kids?’

  ‘They can fend for themselves. He’s got his games, she’s got her books. I’ll throw a ham sandwich at them at some point.’

  He smiled and said, ‘All right.’

  41

  Roberta Garrick was not surprised when the police officers called at her home that evening, only that it had taken so long. She recognised the male as she watched him approach through her living room window. He had been with Flanagan, seemed to be an assistant of some kind, but she couldn’t recall his name. A younger policewoman followed him, a uniformed officer, sturdy, broad at the hips, but pretty enough in her own way. Roberta Garrick always noticed these things.

  ‘Answer the door, would you?’ she said.

  Jim had been dozing on the couch, had not heard the police car pull up to the house.

  ‘Hm?’ He blinked at her like a slow child asked to solve an equation.

  ‘Get the door,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  Jim looked out to the hall, confusion still lingering on his face. Then the doorbell rang, and he said, ‘Oh.’

  He got to his feet, tucked his shirt into his trousers, smoothed and straightened himself as he went to the hall. Roberta listened to the murmur of voices, then Jim returned, the two young officers following.

  ‘Roberta,’ Jim said, ‘Detective Sergeant Murray needs a word.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?’ she asked.

  Murray clasped his hands together as he spoke, an act of supplication. ‘There’s been a significant development in the case of your husband’s death,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ She raised her eyebrows, felt the worry on her face like she’d slipped on a mask.

  Murray indicated the couch. ‘Maybe you should take a seat.’

  She went to the couch, sat down, reached a hand out towards Jim. ‘Can Jim stay?’

  ‘Of course,’ Murray said.

  Jim took her hand and sat down next to her, a good family friend offering comfort and support. Murray sat in the armchair opposite, where DCI Flanagan had sat almost a week before. The uniformed policewoman remained standing near the door. Murray hadn’t bothered to introduce her.

  The sergeant sat forward, his hands clasped together once more, as if praying. ‘Mrs Garrick, I have to warn you, what I’m about to tell you will be upsetting.’

  She blinked, searched for that feeling inside, the one she used to summon tears. There, there it was. She blinked again, felt the warm wetness in her eyes. Jim squeezed her fingers between his.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Garrick, we have reason to believe your husband’s death was not a suicide.’

  She opened her mouth, inhaled, held her breath. Just long enough. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked in a very small voice.

  ‘We have reason to believe that Mr Garrick was murdered,’ Murray said. ‘More than that, we believe that Reverend McKay might have killed him.’

  Jim looked from the sergeant to Roberta and back again. ‘What?’

  ‘No,’ Roberta said. ‘That can’t be true.’

  ‘We have evidence to suggest that’s the case,’ Murray said. ‘It’s early days in the investigation, but right now we’re not looking for anyone else in connection with this.’

  Roberta shook her head. ‘There must be a mistake.’

  ‘Mrs Garrick, is it possible that Reverend McKay might have been able to take some sachets of morphine granules out of this house?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I suppose it’s possible. When he came round, he often fed Harry his yogurt with the morphine in it. We kept the sachets by the bed.’

  Murray wrote something on his notepad. ‘As you’re aware, Reverend McKay committed suicide at some time last night. He used a belt to hang himself from the vestry door.’

  She pushed the tears out, fished a tissue from her sleeve, dabbed at her cheeks.

  ‘We found a pestle and mortar on the desk in the vestry. It’s yet to be confirmed, but there were traces of powder in the mortar that we believe to be crushed morphine granules. We believe that Reverend McKay took some sachets from your home, crushed the contents with the pestle and mortar, then when he came back to your house, he mixed them in with your husband’s nightly yogurt.’

  Roberta began to shake, more tears. ‘No, no, no,’ she said. ‘It can’t be true, it can’t be.’

  Murray shuffled forward on his seat. ‘Where we’re struggling, Mrs Garrick, is the reason. Why would Reverend McKay do this?’

  She became still and quiet, staring into space. She felt their gaze on her, their waiting breath, their anticipation. Let them wait.

  ‘Mrs Garrick?’

  What was the threat she’d made to Peter before he left yesterday? What had she said she’d tell the police? Oh, yes. She slowly came back to herself, shaking her head as she did so. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘That can’t be it.’

  ‘Anything at all you think of, Mrs Garrick.’

  She tilted her head as she spoke, knitted her brow. ‘There is something, but it seems so unlikely.’

  Murray’s voice took on a pleading tone. ‘Anything at all.’

  Roberta exhaled, a defeated sigh. ‘Peter had feelings for me.’

  She felt a twitch in Jim’s fingers and had to suppress a smile.

  ‘Feelings?’ Murray echoed.

  ‘I always dismissed it,’ she said. ‘
He was lonely. I never knew his wife, she died before I became a member of the church, but I know he missed her constantly, even to this day. And he was all on his own, alone in that big house, the rectory. He was always a good friend of ours, but after Harry’s accident we became very close. We talked a lot, just me and Peter. I suppose he hadn’t had anyone to talk to like that for a long time. And I suppose it became more for him.’

  Murray asked, ‘Did he ever make any . . . approaches to you?’

  ‘You mean, physically?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, at least not at first. It started with him telling me how close he felt he’d come to me over those few months. How he wished he could meet someone like me, someone to keep him company. So I tried to talk him into getting out there, meet people outside the congregation, but it didn’t seem to do any good. You know, I didn’t think much of it at the time, but he would always hold my hands when we prayed. It seemed to be a very intimate thing for him.’

  Dare she push the lie a little further? Murray and the young policewoman seemed so rapt in her words. One more tiny detail to reel them in.

  ‘Then once,’ she said, ‘he tried to kiss me.’

  Jim let go of her hands.

  ‘And what happened?’ Murray asked.

  ‘We were praying, like we always did, and he had my hands held to his chest. I remember I could feel his breath on my skin. Then, as we finished, I opened my eyes, and he was so close. He leaned in and kissed me. I was so shocked, I didn’t pull away immediately, but when I realised what was happening, I pushed him back.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘I remember his face,’ Roberta said, warming to the tale, the picture she painted for them. ‘At first, for a moment, he looked shocked, then angry, then sad. He kept apologising, over and over, and I kept telling him not to worry about it, I understood, he was lonely, and so on. Perhaps I led him on. Maybe I shouldn’t have let our relationship get so close.’

  ‘How was he after that?’ Murray asked. ‘Did things get back to normal?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘He was bashful, timid around me for a week or two, then things seemed to be fine. He still came round to see Harry, to pray with me. Just like before. But there was always this look in his eyes, like there was something going on behind them. And sometimes in church, he seemed to be looking at me in a way he didn’t look at the other women. I told myself it was my imagination, but now I’m not so sure. Does any of this help?’

  ‘It helps a lot,’ Murray said, closing his notebook. ‘Would you be prepared to repeat this in a full statement?’

  ‘Yes, if you think it’s necessary.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, opening his notebook again. ‘One thing, though.’

  An alarm sounded in Roberta’s mind. She had made a mistake. But what?

  ‘Given what happened between Reverend McKay and you,’ he said, ‘why did you agree to stay at his house after your husband’s death?’

  She sat quite still, staring into the empty air between the two officers. Think of something. Think.

  There. Imperfect, but it would have to do. She let her features harden.

  She turned her gaze on Murray. ‘I had just discovered my husband’s dead body,’ she said. ‘Forgive me if I wasn’t in the most rational state of mind.’

  Murray looked away. ‘Of course,’ he said, a red flush creeping up past his shirt collar. ‘I think that’s all for now.’

  He stood. Roberta and Jim did the same.

  As Murray turned to the door, Roberta said, ‘Can you please do me a favour?’

  ‘Of course,’ Murray said.

  ‘Please pass on my apologies and thanks to DCI Flanagan. I was harsh with her. I realise now that she suspected something and was just doing her job. If she hadn’t pushed so hard, then the truth might not have come to light. I’m grateful to her. Please tell her that.’

  Murray nodded. ‘I will. I’ll be in touch over the next day or two.’

  Jim saw them out while Roberta waited in the living room. She watched them get into the car and pull away. As the car passed through the gate at the end of the drive, she felt a warm satisfaction in her breast. She turned away from the window as Jim returned to the living room.

  Without looking at her, he said, ‘I should go.’

  ‘You should,’ Roberta said. ‘Your wife will be wondering where you’ve got to.’

  ‘You should have mentioned Peter to them earlier, after Harry died. How he felt about you.’

  ‘Should I?’

  He still did not meet her gaze. ‘Maybe if they’d questioned him about it, he might have confessed. He might not have taken his own life.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Might. I suppose we’ll never know.’

  ‘If I’d known, I wouldn’t have said what I did about DCI Flanagan on the news. I wouldn’t have made a fool of myself like that.’

  ‘For God’s sake, get your head out of your arse, Jim,’ she said, unable to keep the sneer from her voice.

  Now he looked at her. ‘What?’

  She speared him with her gaze, let him have the full force of it. ‘No one cares what you said. Now go on home, there’s a good boy. Don’t keep Mrs Allison waiting.’

  He left without saying another word.

  42

  Flanagan sat at her desk in Lisburn station, the lamp on so she could read the local newspaper. Always dark in here, the tiny window that didn’t open more than a crack. On a warm day the air grew thick and heavy with heat. Today was cool, but that was about all she had to be glad of.

  CLERGYMAN’S SUICIDE LINKED TO MURDER.

  A shriek of a headline above a story that relished the details of the case, scant as they were. DCI Conn had given a press conference the previous night; she had watched it on the news that morning as she had an early breakfast. Conn at a desk, flanked by DSI Purdy and DS Murray, PSNI insignia behind them.

  A suicide, Conn said, believed to be linked to the death of Henry Garrick six days before. Reverend Peter McKay had been very close to the dead man and his wife. They were seeking no one else in their inquiries. A few shouted questions from the journalists, most of them dismissed with pat answers, then one about the relationship between the minister and the widow. A flicker on Conn’s face was enough.

  The story Flanagan now read had taken those points, extrapolated, made insinuations far beyond anything that was in the public domain. ‘Sources close to the investigation’ suggested that there was an abnormally close tie between Reverend McKay and Mrs Garrick, and that formed a central pillar of police inquiries.

  Purdy had told Flanagan what Mrs Garrick had said to Murray the previous evening, but she felt certain that Murray would not have spilled to a reporter. More likely, whoever had written the piece had grasped a thread and woven his story from that, citing sources that simply didn’t exist.

  A brief paragraph stated that local MLA Jim Allison had been publicly critical of her handling of the case. No mention of Flanagan’s suspicions of murder being proven correct, or of the statement Allison had issued that morning to apologise for his stance. In fairness, that would have been too late for this edition of the paper, but she doubted that any of the news outlets would bother carrying the apology.

  When she’d called into Purdy’s office this morning, Flanagan had once again offered to assist Conn through the remainder of the investigation.

  ‘I told you no already,’ Purdy had said.

  She had tried to argue. ‘But I could save him so much digging, all the work I’ve already—’

  ‘No,’ Purdy said, his voice higher and harder. ‘DCI Conn is going to wrap this thing up, do all the box-ticking. You should be thankful he’s saving you from a mountain of paperwork.’

  She knew then that Purdy just wanted it over and done with, off his desk before his retirement on Friday. The explanation of events that had been presented to him was good enough. She couldn’t blame him. There was no evidence of Roberta Garrick’s having had a han
d in either death. Her suspicions and instincts did not outweigh what was in front of Purdy’s nose.

  ‘All I need you to do,’ Purdy said, ‘is make sure you have everything gathered and ready to hand over to Conn. And I’d better not get any complaints from him about you sticking your nose in. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

  Now all her work sat in three file boxes against the far wall while she studied the newspaper piece as if it contained some secret, some new scent for her to track. Nothing but speculation dressed as reportage. As crappy a piece of journalism as she’d ever seen. Salacious and puerile. There, a boxed-out image of Roberta Garrick at her husband’s funeral. Flanagan would have been angered at the paper’s intrusiveness had it been any other widow at the front of any other funeral procession.

  She studied the woman’s face, the blankness of it.

  Who are you?

  The question Flanagan could not escape. She’d been asking it for a week now and had yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. Who is this beautiful woman who appeared in this community seven years ago seeming never to have left a trace elsewhere?

  Who are you?

  Flanagan set the newspaper aside and once again opened the web browser on her computer. Facebook again. That profile again. This nothing life, this existence of Bible verses and flower arrangements and coffee mornings.

  Who are you?

  A knock on the door startled her, and she clicked the mouse to close the browser before calling, ‘Come.’

  DS Murray entered carrying a manila folder. ‘Ma’am, these are the bank records. Where do you want them?’

  She pointed to the stack of file boxes. ‘Stick them in there.’

  Murray crossed to them, lifted the lid of the top box, was about to shove the folder inside.

  ‘Hang on,’ Flanagan said.

  Murray paused, looked at her.

  ‘That’s both Mr and Mrs Garrick’s personal accounts, yes?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Murray said. ‘I went through them like you said, but nothing stood out.’

  As a matter of course, DSI Purdy had sought authorisation for a RIPA request for access to two years’ records of the deceased’s and the widow’s current and savings accounts. The Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act meant that any such request had to be made by an officer of his rank or higher, but not one directly involved in the case. Signs of financial distress would reinforce the assumption of suicide, but Murray had found they seemed to be comfortably solvent, to say the least.