Imagine it tearing through her skull. She hadn’t the courage to shoot him, but maybe she had the courage to shoot herself.
Imagine if Graham and his solicitor had heard the shot and come running upstairs. Imagine if they found her lying on the bed, her brains spilling out over the Egyptian cotton.
Imagine, imagine, imagine.
What if Graham had taken the gun and driven to some dark place, beneath a bridge or behind a disused warehouse? Maybe he had parked there, turned off the engine, and taken the pistol out of the glovebox, brought the muzzle to his lips. Perhaps he had tasted oil before his existence blinked out.
Imagine.
The doorbell jangled, startling her. She sat still and quiet, her breath held tight. Through the open kitchen door, along the hall, through the frosted panes of the front door she saw the shape of a person.
Another chime, and Ida returned the piece of toast to the plate. She stood, opened the kitchen door and took slow steps along the hall.
‘Who is it?’ she called.
‘Mrs Carlisle, it’s DCI Flanagan. Please open the door.’
Ida did as she was told. Beyond the garden, the street seemed frozen like a photograph. She felt no breeze, heard no sound.
The policewoman stood alone on the step, darkness in and around her eyes.
‘Where’s the other policeman?’ Ida asked.
‘It’s late,’ Flanagan said. ‘I sent him home.’
‘Does he have a family?’
‘Yes. A girlfriend and a baby boy.’
‘Not married? I suppose that’s the way these days.’
Flanagan smiled her agreement. ‘Can I come in?’
Ida stepped back and allowed her to pass. Without bidding, Flanagan headed for the kitchen, switched the light on as she entered. Ida followed.
‘Did I interrupt your supper?’ Flanagan asked, indicating the plate of half-eaten toast.
‘Not really,’ Ida said. ‘I’ve not much of an appetite. Would you take a cup of tea?’
‘Please,’ Flanagan said, sitting at the table.
Ida flipped the switch on the still hot kettle. It hissed and bubbled as she fetched a mug from the cupboard and a teabag from the caddy.
Flanagan said, ‘Actually, it was your husband I wanted to talk to.’
‘He’s out,’ Ida said.
‘Will he be long, do you think?’
Ida poured boiling water into the mug. ‘He said he’d be an hour. That was before eight.’
‘Does he often disappear like that?’
The policewoman’s tone had changed. Even Ida could hear the difference between polite conversation and a question to which the answer had real meaning.
‘Always,’ Ida said. She poured a dash of milk into the mug. ‘Ever since we were first married and Rea was born. I was pregnant out of wedlock, you know.’
Flanagan gave a nod and a smile as Ida placed the tea in front of her. ‘That’s not unusual these days.’
‘It was then.’ Ida sat opposite her. ‘Especially in this country. I never told my parents. They knew, of course, when the months didn’t add up. But we never talked about it.’
‘So where does Mr Carlisle go when he disappears?’
‘Party business. Meetings, constituency clinics, fundraisers. That’s what he’s always told me.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I used to.’
‘Used to?’
Ida held Flanagan’s challenging gaze. ‘Now I realise I don’t know him at all. I’ve been lying beside a stranger for more than thirty years. I used to blame myself for the way he treated me. I thought I deserved it. What a stupid woman I am.’
Flanagan extended a hand, perhaps meant to comfort Ida, but she thought better of it and returned her fingers to the side of the mug.
‘He made you blame yourself. He needed you to think it was your own fault. I’ve seen the same pattern of abuse time and time again. It’s all about control. I can give you contacts, people you can talk to. People who can help.’
Ida almost told her she didn’t need any help, that her path was clear. Instead, she asked, ‘Have you told your husband about the cancer yet?’
The compassion flaked away from Flanagan’s face, showing the tiredness beneath. She shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t had the time. I’ve hardly been home over the last few days.’
‘You’re afraid to tell him,’ Ida said. It wasn’t a question.
Flanagan looked down at the mug, her hands wrapped around its warmth. ‘Yes.’
‘So you come here at eleven o’clock at night to avoid facing him. Just like Graham stays away to avoid facing me.’
‘It’s not the same,’ Flanagan said, the edge of her voice sharpening. ‘Not the same at all. And I’m not here to talk about me.’
Ida said, ‘You’re here to talk about Graham.’
‘That’s right.’ The small cloud of anger left Flanagan’s expression. ‘How has he been since Rea died?’
‘Drunk, mostly. He hadn’t touched a drop since our wedding day, but he bought a bottle of whiskey the morning after she was killed. And a few more since. There’s a bottle in the cupboard if you want some.’
‘No, thank you.’ Flanagan placed her palms flat on the table. ‘Ida, we found the book. We know who—’
The bang and judder of the front door bouncing against the wall, a wave of cool air. They both looked along the hall and saw Graham leaning against the door frame.
He blinked at them, red eyes in a redder face, and asked, ‘What’s going on?’
49
FLANAGAN HELD THE words back. She had hoped to prise some sort of truth out of Ida before her husband returned, but now it was too late. And he was drunk.
She got to her feet. ‘Mr Carlisle, I need to ask you a few questions.’
He slammed the front door behind him. ‘I told you before, I won’t say a bloody word to you without my solicitor. Now get the fuck out.’
Carlisle shuffled along the hall, his fists clenched. He had violence on his mind, Flanagan could tell.
Stay or go?
No, she wouldn’t leave Ida alone with him.
‘By all means, call your solicitor. We can talk while we wait for him.’
His frame filled the doorway to the kitchen. ‘I said, get out.’
‘Mr Carlisle, we can talk here, or I can call for a car to take you to—’
He grabbed the underside of the table, hauled upwards, sent the mug of hot tea to shatter and spill on the floor along with the plate of uneaten toast. The table refused to tip over until he gave it another shove, a hoarse sob of anger in his throat.
Flanagan stepped away, pressed her back against the fridge.
Carlisle barked at his wife. ‘Clear that up.’
Ida obeyed, her face blank, picking fragments from the floor and taking them to the sink.
‘Mr Carlisle, we have the book.’
He turned to look at Flanagan. She expected shock and fear on his face. Instead, she saw hate.
‘So what?’
‘You lied to me. You made your wife lie too.’
He lurched forward, skidded on the spilled tea, regained his balance. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me,’ he said, indignant.
‘And the photograph.’ She held his reddened gaze. ‘You stopped your daughter from coming forward with that book. You made her keep it secret to protect your career, and now she’s dead.’
He pointed at the door. ‘Get out.’
‘I know who killed Rea,’ Flanagan said.
‘Get out now.’
‘Howard Monaghan,’ she said. ‘He was in the photograph with you and Raymond Drew. He killed your daughter.’
Not a hint of shock or surprise on his face, only drunken fury.
He knew, Flanagan thought. The idea formed bright and hard and clear in her mind. Carlisle had known who had killed his daughter all along and had said nothing. And he knew that she knew it too.
He knew.
Ca
rlisle shambled towards her, made a grab for her coat. She slapped his hand away.
‘Mr Carlisle, have you spoken with Howard Monaghan today?’
‘Graham,’ Ida called from the other side of the room.
‘Get out!’
Flanagan felt his breath hot on her skin. ‘Answer the question, Mr Carlisle, have you had contact with Howard Monaghan?’
Ida moved closer, called again, ‘Graham.’
He put his hand at the centre of Flanagan’s chest and pushed hard. The back of her head glanced off the fridge door.
‘Get the fuck out of my house, I don’t have to—’
Ida said, ‘Graham.’
He spun towards her voice, his hand up and ready to strike. ‘What do y—’
Silence then, as if Flanagan had gone suddenly deaf, leaving only the rushing and pulsing in her head.
As Carlisle stood frozen, his mouth open, Ida moved once more, something bright flashing between her and her husband.
Too late, as the red spilled out from his belly, Flanagan understood. Again, Ida’s hand withdrew the blade, drove it back, then again, and again.
A whining expulsion of air from Carlisle’s mouth broke whatever bound Flanagan in place. She threw herself forward, grabbing for Ida’s wrist, pushed her away.
The knife rang on the tiled floor, the blade breaking away from the hilt. Ida stumbled backwards, tripped over her own feet, and fell against the cupboards on the other side of the kitchen. She dropped down and curled her knees up to her chest, staring back at Flanagan.
The patter of blood on the tiles drew Flanagan away from Ida’s gaze, back to Carlisle. He remained upright, swaying. His hands went to his stomach. He looked down, saw them drenched red, then leaned against the fridge, leaving bloody smears across its polished white surface. His knees cracked on the floor and he settled back with a wheeze, facing his wife.
Carlisle’s face crumpled in grief and regret.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Ida, I’m sorry. Tell Rea I’m sorry.’
Ida remained still and quiet for long seconds, then screamed, ‘She’s dead!’ She threw herself forward, hands clawed and outstretched. ‘She’s dead, you killed her, you killed—’
Flanagan grabbed her shoulders, hauled her back across the room, shaking, sobbing and kicking.
‘Tomorrow,’ Graham said, the word thin in the air between them.
Flanagan turned to him. ‘What?’
‘To . . . tomorrow. Howard . . . the Spark . . . the Sparkle.’
She crawled across the floor, through the warm tide of blood. ‘What? Were you seeing him tomorrow?’
‘Vic . . . Vic . . . toria . . . Sq . . .’
‘Victoria Square? Were you to see him at Victoria Square? Where in Victoria Square? What time?’
His eyes widened as he opened his mouth to speak.
Then, silence.
Flanagan put her fingers to his throat, felt for life. She found none. She turned her head, saw Ida reach for the broken blade, bring the metal to her wrist.
‘No!’
Flanagan dived across the floor, hands outstretched. She knocked the blade from Ida’s grip before she could find a vein. Ida went after it, but Flanagan took her in her arms, gripped her tight, rocked her just as she had been rocked by Ida the day before.
50
THE SPARKLE WOKE early, his bare room lit a dim grey by the coming sunrise. He lay on the top bunk, huddled against the wall, blankets wrapped tight around him. Ordinary beds had never suited him. Too soft, like sinking in mud. He preferred the firm cots of his merchant navy days. This bunk bed had been rescued from a youth hostel in Downpatrick that was being renovated some years ago.
Most of his possessions had been acquired this way. Taking cash-in-hand wiring jobs around the country, gutting old houses and office blocks, threading new veins into their walls, collecting whatever he found useful in the site skips.
The Sparkle pushed back the blankets and lowered himself to the bare wooden floorboards. He went to the small window and pulled aside the sheet of linoleum that served as a blind.
Quiet and still on the street outside.
It had been anything but, last night. The students that shared most of the houses along this street had been drinking on the pavements until the early hours, moving threadbare couches and armchairs out to the footpaths despite the weather not being quite warm enough yet.
A few hardy types remained by their front doors, coats and hooded tops wrapped around them, two-litre cider bottles in their hands, or Buckfast fortified wine. Litter everywhere, empty beer cans, the remains of takeaway meals.
He hated them all, spoiled brats pissing their parents’ money up the walls, expecting the city council to come and clean up after them. Most ordinary residents had fled, selling their homes to the property investors and landlords, leaving the streets to this invasion of vermin.
They called this part of Belfast the Holylands. Nothing holy about it.
But the Sparkle had stayed in the house he’d rented under a false name for more than a decade. He came and went quietly. The students barely noticed him. Few stayed longer than a year. He lived like a mouse behind the skirtings, watching them go about their wasteful business.
While the revellers had shouted and sung to the heavens last night, the Sparkle had packed a bag. Not much. A few changes of clothes. Some wash things. A few of his favourite drawings rolled up and bound with a rubber band. Four-and-a-half thousand pounds in sterling notes, a little over two thousand in euros.
He needed one more thing.
The pistol lay on the peeling top of the child’s bedside locker. He crossed the room to it, lifted the gun in his right hand. It had been years since he’d pulled a trigger. He didn’t like such weapons. Too loud, too sudden, too easy. But he liked the weight of the pistol in his hand. The cold and the hard of it, the power held tight within the metal.
The springs of the lower bunk creaked beneath his weight as he sat down to wait beside the bag. He had much to do today, but not yet. He set the gun aside, lifted a pad of lined A5 pages and a pencil, began to draw, starting with diagonal slashes, building them up until they formed the shape of a tower of boat-shaped platforms. Circles and lines representing people standing on and climbing over them. How many levels were there in the shopping mall? Three? Four? No matter.
The Sparkle would arrive at Victoria Square a few minutes before noon so that he could be there waiting for Graham. He was confident Graham would not go to the police; he didn’t have the nerve. He would either come or he wouldn’t.
If Graham came, all would be well. He would hand over the money, and the Sparkle would walk the short distance to Central Station, take the next train to Dublin, and all this would be over and done with. For him, at least.
And if Graham didn’t come? Well, then his fate was laid out before him, just like he’d always imagined it.
He turned the page, began a new picture. A pistol, much like the one that sat on the bed beside him. A finger, much like his, on the trigger.
51
LENNON FOLLOWED FLANAGAN to the conference room, a Styrofoam cup full of coffee in his hand. The same room he’d spent an hour fidgeting in last week while the Police Federation lawyer read notes.
He’d managed only a brief sleep, and a shower, every cell of his body craving the warm blanket of painkillers, before the call came. Flanagan looked like she’d had none at all. Lennon checked his watch as they made their way along the corridor. Ten past seven. As they approached the door, two passing officers saw him approach, surprise clear on their faces. Apart from his meetings with the lawyer, he hadn’t been seen in this station for more than a year, so he could hardly blame them.
The chatter and bustle in the room ceased as Flanagan entered, followed by straggling whispers at the sight of Lennon. He felt his skin burn at their attention. Officers from E Department, Special Operations Branch. Surveillance, undercover work, often tasked with investigating their colleagues on the
force. Lennon guessed some of them had been digging into his own case.
Adhering to the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act, Flanagan had put a request to mount the operation in to the ACC at four a.m. The nine-strong team had been sent over from Palace Barracks in Holywood. Most of the men hadn’t shaved. One of the three women sat applying make-up.
Flanagan took her place at the head of the room. Lennon took a seat facing DS Calvin at the far wall. Calvin nodded. Lennon returned the gesture.
‘Thank you all for coming at such short notice,’ Flanagan said. ‘We don’t have a great deal of time, so I’ll keep this brief. As of yesterday afternoon, we have a firm suspect in the killing of Rea Carlisle. I’m sure you’re aware of the case from the news reports.’
The officers exchanged glances and murmurs. Calvin stood and opened the folder he’d been holding on his lap. He took out a bundle of A4 pages and handed them to the nearest cop, who took one and passed the pile along.
Lennon got the last page. A grainy blown-up image of the Sparkle’s face, copied from the photograph Rea had given him only four days before.
‘Howard Monaghan,’ Flanagan said. ‘This photograph is around thirty-five years old. Monaghan is about sixty now. I believe he has killed two people in the last few days, one of them Rea Carlisle, the other Roger ‘Roscoe’ Patterson, a career criminal who I’m sure was well known to some of you. There is also reason to believe Howard Monaghan has killed a further eight people across the British Isles since the early nineties.’
Another ripple of hushed words across the room.
‘Quiet, please,’ Flanagan scolded. ‘Last night, between eleven and eleven-fifteen, I called at the home of Rea Carlisle’s parents, hoping to speak with Mr Carlisle. Largely due to information brought to light by Detective Inspector Lennon, I had reason to believe there was some connection between Graham Carlisle and Howard Monaghan, dating back to their youth. Mr Carlisle wasn’t there when I called, but he arrived a short time after. There followed an altercation, and before I could intervene, Mr Carlisle was stabbed by Mrs Carlisle with a large kitchen knife.’
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