Lennon felt exposed, almost naked, as he crossed the fairway of the golf course, heading for the clusters of trees at the other side. Once hidden within their shelter, he hunkered down, hugging himself to combat the shivers that rattled through him.
He never would have believed he could sleep in such conditions. But he did.
It had gone nine by the time Lennon was on the move again. He had woken with a start, freezing cold, his teeth chattering. A few golfers were already on the course getting an early round in, so Lennon stuck to the treeline as he headed north and out of the park. He needed a taxi to get him to Sydenham, but he saw none as he worked his way from street to street. He couldn’t risk turning on his mobile phone to call one, so he relied on luck to hail a passing cab.
Tattered Union flags hung from lamp posts, marking out territory, leaving no question who these streets belonged to. Lennon had lost track of his direction, given up telling north from south, had only a vague idea of where he was. The street names didn’t mean anything to him. He felt a quiet relief when he emerged onto the Woodstock Road, knowing a taxi would be easier to chance upon here, or failing that, a bus stop.
As he headed north, he heard the rumbling waves of voices from a church service. There, isolated in a sea of Protestantism and red, white and blue flags, was St Anthony’s Catholic Church. An early mass, attended by a full congregation by the sounds of it.
Lennon wondered if it was a feast day, given how early the mass was under way. Then he remembered: Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week. He stopped, stared at the church doors, a strange and light feeling at his centre. For no reason he could fathom, he walked towards the doors and in to where the voices swelled and resonated.
He almost passed the font before he remembered his duty. He dipped his fingers in the water, made the sign of the cross, and struggled to recall what he was supposed to say. It had been decades since Jack Lennon had attended a mass. Even the handful of funerals he’d been to in recent years had been at Protestant churches.
He found a space near the back of the congregation and squeezed in beside an elderly gentleman, who smiled and nodded at him. Others glanced at the marks on Lennon’s face, judgement behind their eyes.
What am I doing here? he thought. This place had nothing for him. No belief should have drawn him into this cold building. But still he remained, standing and sitting when others did, saying, ‘And also with you,’ or ‘Amen,’ along with the faithful.
He did his best to ignore the ache in his lower back, in his shoulders and hips, and the dull throb behind his eyes. The painkillers would have eased him, but he’d left the blister strip in the bin beneath the Uprichards’ kitchen sink, the two remaining pills untouched.
Lennon’s mind drifted as the priest read from the Gospel of Luke, chapter twenty-two, the story of a betrayer’s kiss. He thought of the wretchedness his life had become. His home and daughter gone, forced to sleep beneath a tree in a park, or beg a friend for shelter. And even that friend didn’t want him around. Decent people believing him to be a murderer.
Perhaps he should have listened to Susan, gone to see a therapist. He knew all about post-traumatic stress disorder, he recognised the symptoms, but that didn’t mean he had it. But it wouldn’t have hurt to talk to someone. Tell them about the nightmares, the panic attacks, his inability to live with himself, let alone anyone else.
He shut out the sounds around him, the voice of the priest, its echoes rising up through the church, the coughs and sniffs and yawns of the parishioners.
In the quiet sanctuary of his own mind, Lennon began to pray. Even though he had not a shred of faith in his heart, he prayed that God would reveal a way out of the darkness that had swallowed him, some light to follow. He prayed that God would bring his daughter back to his arms, allow him the chance to be a better father. He asked that Susan would find the happiness she sought, that they could forgive each other. Finally, he prayed that Rea Carlisle’s killer be found so that this curse could be lifted from him.
The congregation around Lennon said, ‘Amen.’
He said it too.
Lennon looked up to the vaults of the ceiling, his gaze following the voices as they rose and were trapped there. He realised his prayer, too, was caught in that ceiling, like a fish trawled in a net, never to escape heavenward.
With the pain in his joints ringing louder than the worshippers around him, Lennon got to his feet and limped outside once more, the sun warming some of the church’s chill from his skin.
What use was a prayer?
A taxi passed, and he raised his hand.
36
FLANAGAN HAD SET her phone’s alarm for seven, but she had woken long before it went off. Alistair had been lying snoring on his side of the bed, Eli sandwiched between them since he’d wandered in during the early hours. The collective heat of their bodies had caused her to sweat, her nightclothes clinging to her skin.
The children would be awake by eight. Alistair would get up with them, offer to let her sleep on, seeing as she’d worked late. When she came down for breakfast, they would talk. He would ask what was bothering her, just as Ida Carlisle had. The sickness must have shown on her, and Alistair would see it too.
He would ask in front of the children, not realising how terrible the answer would be.
So at 6:55 she had lifted her phone from the bedside table, cancelled the alarm, pulled the duvet aside, and eased out of bed. Her bare soles made little noise on the carpet as she slipped out of the bedroom and down the short flight of stairs to the bathroom.
She washed quickly and quietly before putting on the clothes she had left there the night before, then down the stairs, closed the front door behind her without a sound. Perhaps Alistair would stir as he heard the car’s cold diesel engine bark and clatter. Even if he did, he would roll over and go back to sleep, guessing she had gone to work to get an early start.
Which wasn’t entirely untrue.
She found CI Uprichard in his office, watering a pot plant that perched on the windowsill.
‘You’re Flanagan,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Can I have a word?’
‘About Jack?’
‘Yes.’
He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. ‘You’d better sit down, then.’
Uprichard’s office was smaller than the temporary one Flanagan had been given, and less well equipped. He must have pissed someone off, she thought as she took the offered seat, or maybe he didn’t suck up to the right people. Which was probably why he had been lumbered with an early Sunday shift.
His white uniform shirt looked crisp enough to snap at the creases, his epaulettes deep black, the buttons gleaming under the fluorescent light. He touched the tip of his tongue to the centre of his upper lip as he wiped each of the plant’s broad green leaves with a damp cloth.
As quickly and absolutely as Flanagan had taken a dislike to Dan Hewitt, she realised she liked Uprichard. It was illogical, she knew, but her gut instincts had always served her well.
‘He didn’t do it,’ Uprichard said as he set aside the cloth. ‘I don’t care what you’ve got on him. I don’t care what anyone else told you. And by anyone else, I mean Dan Hewitt. Jack Lennon did not kill that woman.’
Flanagan watched him as he took his seat. ‘What makes you so sure of that?’ she asked.
Uprichard folded his hands on his desk. ‘I talked to him last night.’
‘Where?’
He hesitated for the briefest of moments. ‘In my home.’
She sat forward. ‘He came to your house and you didn’t call it in?’
‘He stayed the night,’ Uprichard said, not taking his gaze away from hers.
Flanagan felt her jaw tighten, a pulsing in her temples. ‘You do realise what kind of trouble you could be in, don’t you? The kind that ruins careers. How close are you to retirement?’
‘Not bloody close enough,’ he said.
Flanagan leaned forward. ‘Yo
u’d better explain yourself before I go to the ACC with this.’
‘Jack and I talked last night. Not much. Just a few words, really. But enough to see the sort of shape he’s in. That man’s no killer.’
‘He killed a fellow officer not much more than a year ago, and—’
‘A corrupt fellow officer who’d been paid money to kill him and the girl. Jack took three bullets to protect a young woman who’d been held captive and gone through God knows what in—’
‘A young woman who was herself a suspect in a murder case.’
Uprichard’s face reddened. ‘She killed one of the bastard thugs who’d trafficked her to Belfast. She did it to save herself from being raped by him. If Jack hadn’t got her out of the country, she wouldn’t have lasted another day. He nearly died to save that girl. He threw away his career for her. Now you’re going to tell me he battered this ex-girlfriend of his around the head just because she wouldn’t let him have his way with her?’
Flanagan felt heat spread from her neck up to her cheeks. She closed her eyes and breathed deep through her nose, flushed the anger away like dirty water from a sink. When she opened her eyes again, Uprichard still stared back. He spoke before she could.
‘When I left Jack in my kitchen last night I told him to be gone before the morning. I didn’t sleep a wink. I lay there all night, thinking it through, looking at it from every side I could imagine. Yes, he’s not always been the most noble of men. Yes, it looks bad that he was there in the house with her. Yes, he touched the crowbar that killed her. But it’s all circumstantial. You sent all the clothes you took from his apartment to Carrickfergus, right? I’ll bet you my house they don’t find a single spot of blood from that woman. I’ve known Jack Lennon since he was in uniform. I know he can be a hard man to like, but I also know he’s got shot on two separate occasions trying to help someone else. And I know he didn’t kill Rea Carlisle.’
‘Everything points to Lennon,’ she said. ‘Everything. The fingerprints on the weapon, the witness who saw him leave, the history he had with the victim.’
‘Who are you trying to convince?’ Uprichard asked. ‘Me or yourself?’
‘If you were in my position, you’d have him for the murder too.’
‘Maybe I would,’ he said. ‘But I’d be wrong. And so are you. You’ve got a press call this morning. Are you going to name him?’
‘I’m considering it,’ she said.
‘It’s a hell of a risk.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘You seem to know plenty,’ Uprichard said as he got to his feet. He retrieved the cloth and went back to his plant. ‘Who am I to question a detective’s judgement?’
Flanagan simmered for a few moments before she stood. ‘All right. Thank you for your time.’
She headed for the door. As she reached for the handle, Uprichard said, ‘One thing to remember, though. Some people in this station can be trusted more than others.’
‘Is that right?’ she said, looking back over her shoulder.
Flanagan thought of the file she had taken from Susan McKee’s closet, the one she had decided not to store with the rest of the items taken from Lennon’s home, that now lay hidden in a drawer in her office.
‘It is,’ he said, tending to the plant’s leaves. ‘If I was you, I’d be careful whose word you take.’
She nodded, said, ‘I will,’ and left him there.
37
A ONE-BEDROOM APARTMENT in the city centre. It smelled of cheap perfume and disinfectant, but it was clean. Roscoe Patterson watched from the living area as Lennon toured the flat. Portraits of nudes on the walls. Cheap flat-pack furniture.
‘It’ll do,’ Lennon said.
‘There’s gratitude for you,’ Patterson said.
‘Don’t worry, I’m grateful. You know I always take care of you.’
Patterson snorted. ‘It’s a long time since you took care of me. Come to think of it, there’s not much you can do for me. Last I heard, you were still on suspension.’
Lennon had known Roscoe Patterson for coming on ten years. Their relationship was one of expediency, and neither man enjoyed being in the other’s company for any longer than was strictly necessary. Patterson was respected and feared as a senior loyalist paramilitary, but he had never been overly concerned with the ideals and politics of that movement. His primary reason for belonging to such a group was profit.
Roscoe Patterson had a particular talent for managing the services of prostitutes. He was known to have strict policies about the working conditions of the women on his roster, tolerated no abuse of them by clients, and made sure they earned more with him than they would with any other pimp. And he would not have any dealings with women who were coerced into this life, or those who trafficked in them.
In their past conversations, Lennon had gathered that Patterson regarded himself more as a booking agent than a pimp. The happier his workers were, the more money he made. It was a simple formula, and he didn’t like anyone or anything coming along that might disrupt his business. Thus, he had shared certain information with Lennon, and others, over the years. If a rival was getting too uppity, or rankling the human rights campaigners by mistreating the girls who worked for him, Patterson would try to smooth things out by passing leads on to the police. The alternative was to tackle such problems directly, and despite his size and appearance, Roscoe Patterson did not deal in violence if he could possibly avoid it.
Lennon and Patterson’s relations had fundamentally changed when the pimp passed information about Lennon and Ellen’s mother to Dan Hewitt, information that led to Marie McKenna’s death. Patterson could not have known that his betrayal would have such consequences, but even so, being around him made Lennon’s nerves jangle with anger and hate. If Patterson hadn’t been so bloody useful, Lennon would gladly have never set eyes on him again.
So how could Patterson be trusted now? He couldn’t, not really. But Lennon had given him such a beating over the last treachery that he was fairly confident Patterson would not risk doing it again.
Lennon walked back to the living area. Two cheap sofas still with plastic sheeting on them. The kitchenette had seen little use.
‘What else have you heard?’ he asked.
Lennon watched Patterson’s face for any sign of a lie. His shaven head was darkened by a few days’ growth. His expression remained closed, dead-eyed, giving nothing away. Patterson slumped onto the couch, plastic rustling beneath him.
‘Not much,’ he said. ‘Are you planning on staying here long?’
‘I’m not sure. Depends how things work out.’
‘Things,’ Patterson echoed with a half-smile. ‘Never you worry, I’ll ask around. Whatever shit you’ve gotten yourself into, I’ll find out. Anyway, I’ve a girl due over from Birmingham next weekend. Sexy wee thing. I’ve two nights’ worth of punters booked in for her. That’s five grand of takings. No chance I’m going to bollocks that up just to give you a place to hide.’
‘I’ll be gone long before then,’ Lennon said. He sat down opposite Patterson. ‘But I need another favour.’
‘Shite,’ Patterson said, shaking his head. ‘Answering my door before noon on a Sunday should be favour enough, let alone giving you the use of this place. And now you’re looking for more? Jesus.’
Lennon had called at Patterson’s Sydenham home, a small terraced house beneath the City Airport’s flight path and less than a hundred yards from the railway line. Patterson shared the two-up two-down with a wife and three children, and Lennon wondered how the noise didn’t drive him insane. The loyalist pimp could have easily afforded a nice four- or five-bedroom detached place in a better location, but not without the taxman getting curious as to how he could afford it with no other income than the benefits the family claimed.
On the drive into town, Patterson had tried to press him on how he’d got a face full of cuts and bruises but was given no answer.
Lennon took the photograph from his pocke
t and dropped it onto the cheap coffee table between them. He turned it with his fingertips and pushed it towards Patterson.
‘Take a look,’ Lennon said.
Patterson lifted the picture and studied it for a time. Lennon watched his eyes move from face to face until they narrowed with recognition.
‘Here, is that . . .?’
‘Graham Carlisle,’ Lennon said.
‘I heard about his daughter. Jesus, you’re not mixed up with that, are you?’
‘She gave me the photo before she died. She wanted to know how involved her father was with the paramilitaries.’
Patterson snorted. ‘Up to his neck, by the looks of this. Do you know who the others are?’
‘The one on the left was Raymond Drew, Rea’s uncle, Graham Carlisle’s brother-in-law. You don’t know him?’
‘Nah,’ Patterson said. ‘Creepy looking fucker.’
‘You don’t know the half of it. Anyway, he died a week or two ago. Rea was clearing out his house when she was killed.’
Patterson tossed the photograph back across the table. ‘Whatever the fuck this is, you can leave me out of it. Jesus, you dig yourself into some holes, boy, and you’re not dragging me into this one.’
Lennon leaned forward and lifted the picture. He looked at Graham Carlisle’s face, then Raymond Drew’s. He thought of Rea lying at the top of a flight of stairs, the life beaten from her broken body.
‘It’s the one thing she asked me to do for her,’ Lennon said. ‘She’s dead because I didn’t listen to what she was telling me. Because I didn’t believe her. I have to do this for her. Please help me.’
He looked up at Patterson, who stared towards the apartment’s window, the balcony beyond, his face expressionless in the light.
The Final Silence Page 17