‘I’m going out; you can lock the door when you leave.’
‘We’ll be a few hours, at least.’ Slattery didn’t add, that’s if you’re unlucky; if they didn’t find anything, Grady would keep the team going, checking and rechecking, until they had something more than they had now. Even if Anita Cullen hadn’t said it, plenty of strings had been pulled to get them in here, Slattery knew, they couldn’t leave without something to show for it.
Chapter Nineteen
‘So the dead have arisen and now they walk?’ Maureen Slattery sat up in her bed, fixing her husband with a look that said she hadn’t expected to see him any time soon. He took it as a good sign that she was back to her old self – nagging him.
‘That’s a nice welcome for your husband.’
‘Not so flipping loud; I’m hoping they’ll take me for a widow. I’m sure Angela’s hoping the same thing.’ Her voice was heavy, but her eyes smiled, probably just relieved to be alive. Slattery sat awkwardly in the chair opposite her, pulling his anorak close in around him, and leaning forward to grab a chocolate he knew she couldn’t eat. ‘They’ll kill you too,’ she said.
‘Not as fast as they’ll kill you, my sweet.’ Slattery looked at her. It was a bloody vicious God that declared she should develop diabetes while he could throw just about anything into his belly with no greater penalty than an occasional bout of heartburn. Aye, someone up there had a sick sense of humour all right. Still, Maureen Slattery went to mass seven days a week, kept her rosary beside her bed and would remain married to him until the day she met her maker with a fixed scowl on her face. The expression of martyrdom suited her best, he’d always thought. Well, a broken arm, neck braces and a bit of internal bleeding would give her plenty of praying time.
‘What have you been up to?’ she asked him now, her eyes narrowing, to glimpse his soul perhaps, although she should know by now it had rotted years ago.
‘Big case.’ He grabbed another chocolate, to keep his mind off having a fag. ‘Fire out in Kilgee, a woman and her two kiddies.’ He kept his voice low, it never did her any good to hear about his work.
‘That’s not good,’ she said, looking down into her hands; then she brightened. ‘I met your boss today.’ She nodded towards an expensive-looking arrangement of white roses. ‘Anita Cullen, she seems very nice, very nice indeed.’
‘Oh, she just popped in, did she?’ Slattery could hear the words journey from his lips, a remote sensation as if they’d been spoken by someone else. What in hell was Anita Cullen doing visiting Maureen, and what the fuck had they talked about?
‘Aye, popped in with those and the sweets.’
Slattery thought he’d choke.
‘Wondering where you were, actually. I got the impression she thought you might be here.’
‘Well, sure…’ He tried to look as though he couldn’t give a toss, but damn it he had to know. ‘What did you say to her?’
‘I didn’t say anything at all. Angela though, Angela said you’d just popped home for a shower – honestly, she gets that from you.’ She looked at him now, irritated. ‘The lying – not from my side anyway, even if we’re responsible for the flat feet.’
‘That’s grand so,’ he said. He’d finished with the chocolates. ‘Anyone else in to see you?’ He wasn’t really interested, but at least it gave them something to talk about for a few moments. While she prattled on, he could lose himself in thoughts of the case.
‘And you know what I’d like…’ She was still talking; it seemed to him she must have been talking for hours, but when he looked at his watch, hardly five minutes had passed. How had they stayed married for so long? How had they managed to give birth to a daughter and remain under the same roof for over twenty years? He wondered now as he looked at her. Not so much that he disliked her, it wasn’t that. He didn’t love her either, mind, but rather they had nothing of interest to say to each other. Had they ever? His sister Una had brought them together, but that subject was closed now, Maureen never mentioned her any more and Slattery stopped asking. ‘You’re not listening to me, Ben Slattery…’
‘What would you like?’ A lifetime of keeping one ear open still paid off.
‘I said, I’d like you to find out who it was that made mincemeat out of me little car – not to mention what they did to me neck – I’ll be paying the price of that long after they’ve taken the plaster off, let me tell you, won’t do me arthritis a lot of good either.’
‘I’m sure Traffic are well onto it now, Maureen,’ he said automatically, then sighed a long sigh; he’d have to tell her. He looked at her now, for the first time really, probably in years. She was getting old. His wife was getting old, and so what exactly did that say about him? He knew when he looked at her that someone should have told her by now. Someone should have told her she was lucky to be here, luckier than Peter Hynes at any rate.
‘What is it, Ben?’ she asked, her voice a low quiver.
He moved closer to her, all else forgotten. He had to tell her. He just didn’t quite know how. He’d been giving people bad news for thirty years, always gave it straight, kinder that way, he reckoned, no point meting it out. But here he was, staring into the eyes of a stranger, and still the closest person in the world to him, and he didn’t know what to say.
‘I’m sorry, Maureen, but…’ He watched as tears began to drop, fast and silent. He didn’t need to say any more. Maybe she already knew and that, for so many reasons, made things a hundred times worse for her and so many more times worse for Slattery.
He stayed for – he didn’t know how long after that. They didn’t even hold hands. It wasn’t what they did. Instead, she just cried. Great big whale breaths overtaking her body, it seemed like oceans of salty tears had flowed from her innocent blue eyes. And Slattery said nothing. There was nothing to say; they knew the score already.
‘Suppose I’d better be off…’ In the end, he shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, his square hands and large gut out of proportion with his skinny legs and arms.
‘About time too…’ she huffed at him, her eyes still red and tired.
He knew better than to lean in to kiss or embrace her in any way – at this stage it would be like hugging Westmont. Still, there was history; truth was, this woman, for all her gruffness was his next of kin. She was probably the only one who’d give a shit for him some day. Maybe the only one to give a damn for him today. Slattery tried not to think about that for too long. ‘I’m glad you’re… y’know,’ he said awkwardly, not managing to meet her eyes, not managing to say the words he knew should be said.
‘I know you are, Ben. I know you are,’ she said quietly, and he knew she couldn’t hold his eye either. They were some pair, no doubt about that, but at least they were a pair and it was more than some had at this stage.
He caught up with the doctor in a corridor, called her aside, Just a sec, nothing to worry about. Not unusual to have concussion. Forgetting things? We’ll run some tests. And that was that. He could walk away from this. Couldn’t he? He made his way to the car, all sorts of outcomes racing through his head. He knew that if he went back to Corbally station, next up was a team meeting. Well, he wasn’t going in for that. A few more minutes here and he was off, down the Westward Ho for a swift one, then to the Ship Inn for closing time, hopefully there’d be no bloody guards there tonight.
Chapter Twenty
‘All right, the sooner we get this over, the sooner ye’re all out of here…’ Cullen beat a notebook off a table. It let out a hard slapping sound that managed to quell the sea of deep voices filling up the incident room. Grady took in who was there. Noticed immediately Slattery was absent. That was the problem with having the same desk for a decade; everyone automatically knew where to find you – if you cared to turn up. Not that Grady would have minded Slattery taking time off, for Maureen. The truth was, he’d have applied for the leave for the old bugger himself, but there was no point. Slattery wouldn’t miss an investigation unless he happened to be dead
– even dying probably wouldn’t keep him away. Grady looked across at Cullen. She was a woman who wanted out of here sooner rather than later this evening. She nodded at him to start.
‘Grand.’ He grabbed a legal pad, made his way to the front of the room and perched on a table, loosening his tie at the same time. ‘Well, some of you have spent a good part of the day round at Crowe’s house…’
‘And?’ Anita Cullen already knew the answer to this question, she’d known it since he’d decided to call it a day and sent the forensic boys home.
‘There was nothing there. Fibres and hairs probably belonging to the victim, as you’d expect since she lived there for ten years, but nothing to point any fingers at Adrian Crowe. We checked everything, drainpipes, between floorboards, the lot. If he set that fire, he didn’t return home to shower and change.’ Grady felt his forehead pound. He had the start of a bad migraine on its way to whittle whatever bit of sleep he’d been hoping for between tossing the case around in his head into the early morning. He’d go for some fresh air, soon as this briefing was over. Clear his head; it was breezy outside, the odd shower, real soft weather.
‘Well, he mightn’t have, but our man wasn’t what you’d call surprised when we suggested a possible affair.’ Iris pushed her impossibly shiny copper hair away from her eyes. ‘Alan Gains has remained friends with Anna Crowe since they were kids, probably the closest she had to someone decent in her life and he hardly batted an eye when I mentioned it.’ She looked across at McGonagle who nodded enthusiastically at her, a golden retriever, eager to please.
‘And we still have Darach Boran – have we ruled him out completely yet?’ Cullen looked across at Grady.
‘Well, he has an alibi, but he’s as dodgy as a two-legged stool down in the Ship Inn. June?’
‘I had a chat to a couple of the ladies in his art group; they’re all vouching for him. Trouble is, none of them saw him after twelve and he didn’t surface the following day until late. No one can say they had breakfast with him; no one can say there was any sign of him before midday. I’d say, if they could at all, they’d be lining up to give him an alibi. Whatever his charm, he seems to have won all the WI women over.’ June looked down at her notes, pulled a yellow sheet from somewhere midway down through one of the many piles. ‘I ran the times, just did a check with Traffic. He’d have made it down if he was fond of the throttle, wouldn’t even have to pass a camera, apart from here.’ She held up the sheet pointing to a stretch of road just north of Galway city. ‘As it turns out, though, that particular camera has been off for a couple of days. Traffic are replacing it now we’ve let them know.’ June threw her eyes up to heaven; sometimes even when you have a dog you still have to sit out in the garden and do the barking, it seemed.
‘So he’s a very real possibility.’ Cullen began to brighten.
‘Well, yes, but he’d have to have been travelling like the clappers all the way down and back up again – the chances of him making it without either killing himself or getting pulled in at some point are so slim – well, it’d be just freaky, right?’ Grady looked around the room. The only one nodding agreement with him was Westmont and that wasn’t a good sign, since he was the thickest guard in the building. Grady didn’t like Boran, but he didn’t figure him for this either. But then, the murder of Anna Crowe and her kids was so senseless could he figure anyone for it?
‘Where’s Slattery tonight?’ Anita Cullen thrust her stubby finger towards Slattery’s untidy desk.
‘He’s down the hospital with Maureen.’ June had the words out before Grady had a chance to think. She was a true blue, no doubt about that, but she’d make Slattery pay for the fib in the long run.
‘Well, that’s something I suppose.’ Cullen looked around the room again. Her eyes settled on McGonagle, and then out of the blue, ‘What was Slattery working on today?’
‘He was out at Crowe’s, with me,’ Iris said quickly.
‘I see.’ Cullen’s words were soft and final and they managed to send a quiver of fear through Grady like he hadn’t felt for many years, not since he’d managed to rise above the rank of sergeant and that seemed like a very long time ago.
Maureen’s house was a lot cleaner than when Slattery lived there; gone was the smell of stale fags and the lingering odour of booze left behind after a few hours’ kip. He suspected the frying pan was less often used too. Maureen was a martyr to her bowels, so there was more yoghurt than bacon in the fridge. Angela had rung after six; she’d never asked him for anything much out of life. Probably hadn’t bothered on account of… well… he didn’t want to think about those things too much. Anyway, once the sun had come up, he’d made his way as dutifully as he could to the ward, where Maureen sat waiting for him. Her coat was buttoned tightly, her bag perched on her lap and her lips pursed into a thin disapproving line, just in case he didn’t know he could have collected her an hour earlier.
They travelled against the morning rush, gliding past drivers whose eyes saw nothing more than the bumper before them, the daily grind for most an obvious diurnal misery. Perhaps, Slattery thought, they dreamed of golf, or fishing, or weekend trysts with mistresses young enough to be their daughters. What the hell was wrong with him? When Slattery had hours to fill, he thought only of dead bodies, and murderers, of whiskey chasers and heavy dark Guinness, served in shady bars, surrounded by losers like himself. Maureen handed him the bag, walked a little before him, keeping up her pace so he’d never catch up. He wondered if she was embarrassed by him, or if she just wanted to be away from here, away from him, away from all they’d ever been. He couldn’t blame her, felt the same himself. He knew he was wrong to feel it, for the damage that had been done could all be laid at his door.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked when he’d finally taken his place behind the wheel of the car.
‘How do you think I’m feeling?’ she said and she turned her battered face towards him. It looked worse in the unforgiving daylight. There were dark purple bruises beneath both eyes, and a long gash that ran the length of her jawbone. He wondered fleetingly if people might think he’d done this to her. He’d seen worse inflicted on women over the years. She exhaled loudly. ‘I just want to go home, Ben. Okay?’
‘Sure,’ he said.
She let him carry her bag and open the front door, but once they’d got into the hall she’d turned on him.
‘I’ll be fine from here now, you go on,’ she said and her face was severe. She’d managed to get him out of the house only a few years ago; she didn’t want him back in.
‘Are you sure?’ But they both knew he was glad of the excuse to get out the door as quickly as possible. He dropped her bag on the stairs and turned towards her. ‘Maureen, I don’t mind staying, make you a cuppa, and get you settled.’ Her whole body had a look of weariness about it. It seemed to Slattery that she’d managed to shrink her normally rotund nature into the frail figure of an old maiden aunt that could crack in two given a light wind coming in the wrong direction.
‘Sure you don’t.’ She looked at him, and he knew she didn’t believe him, felt he wanted to be gone as much as she couldn’t wait to see the back of him. ‘Ben, we’re too old not to be straight with each other – be off with you to find whoever it is you’re looking for.’ She shrank backwards towards her kitchen.
He followed her nervously; he hadn’t stood in this room in almost three years. It was a room that had seen too many drunken arguments, too many miserable tears, too many let downs, too many excuses. But, when he hadn’t been here, Slattery guessed it had been her cocoon. It was where she entertained the neighbours with cups of tea. It was where she’d stuck up every picture Angela had ever drawn and it was where she said her prayers at night before she climbed the stairs to her empty bed. He walked towards the kettle now, rinsed it out under the tap and filled enough for a pot of tea. When he looked around the kitchen he figured it hadn’t changed much, it may have been painted a different colour, but not so much that Slattery couldn�
�t remember what the colour had been before.
‘What will you do when it’s all over?’ she asked and her voice was more measured than he’d ever heard it before.
‘I suppose I’ll do what I always do, wait until the next one…’ He stood by the sink and looked into the barren back garden. Maureen had never been much for the garden.
‘No, I mean, when it’s all over. You must think about it… retirement? There’s not all that long to go now.’
He took down two mugs and rinsed out the teapot with the warming kettle, tried to keep his voice as even as he could. ‘I don’t think about it.’ The words had come out too low and he wondered when he said them if he’d actually voiced them at all.
‘Oh yes you do, Ben, yes you do. I always thought you’d be dead long before,’ she said softly. ‘I prayed for that, for you.’ She sat back in the only comfortable chair in the kitchen, a high-backed Queen Anne that sat next to the kitchen stove.
‘I take it that was meant as an act of kindness?’ He kept his voice light, hoping they could make some kind of a joke, move on, and talk about her health or the neighbours, people who meant nothing to him any more.
‘We both know, I wish you no ill, Ben. Never have.’ Of course, it would be a sin, but she didn’t need to say this to maintain the higher ground. He made the tea, as quickly as he could, and checked that there was enough in the fridge to keep her going until Angela called later in the day. He hurried down the tea, taking hot gulps, whereas she seemed to sip hers with apprehension. ‘You know, I thought I was going to die in there.’ She didn’t look at him as she spoke. ‘And the one thing I worried about was you, Ben. You’re a lost soul – and don’t look at me like that, I’m not worried about you going to heaven or hell. I know I’m not about to convert you now. But I mean this constant searching, being surrounded your whole life by death and wickedness – you need a plan, so when you retire, well, so there’ll be something to go on for. Something more than the pub.’
Silent Night: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Page 15