‘Yeah, it’s gone for analysis – they say it won’t take long, they’re going to make copies and send them across.’
‘Finally, something is going our way, thanks for that, Westmont.’ He’d needed some good news. He moved towards the window once more, lifted the blinds and tried hard to ignore the uneasy feeling that was making its way through his bones. Grady lifted the blind slightly, looked out the window. Still on the path opposite a crowd of reporters waited for news about the case. Grady scanned the crowd again, searching for something; he wasn’t sure what, something or somebody who shouldn’t be there. And then it dawned on him, perhaps it was why they hadn’t interviewed Kerr – how could they when he’d been here all along?
By four o’clock Iris was wrecked, feeling the tiredness of the previous night’s lack of sleep. There was a briefing in an hour, a quick wrap-up of everything they’d been doing for the day. It had been sixteen-hour days since Anna Crowe and her family had been murdered, most of the squad was exhausted. Either way, Iris decided that if there were going to be any detectives waiting on late, she was going to be one of them. She had no commitments; no one would really care if she never got home to bed, and most of all she wanted to show she was keen. She wanted in to Murder in Limerick and she was going to do her damnedest to show that she was the woman for the job. She decided to nip back to the apartment, just for an hour, grab a shower, and change her clothes. That should make all the difference in the world to how she felt. She was still wearing the same suit she’d had on the previous day. It may not have smelled exactly, but it had looked better all the same.
The evening was drawing in, damp and dark, but it was only a fifteen-minute walk to her apartment so she pulled her coat collar close to her throat and set off. The fresh air would do her good. She soon left Corbally station behind, the rally of press photographers lying in wait, hoping that there would be something to report today, good or bad. It was all news, and she wondered if it mattered much to them either way.
Iris walked on, past the Georgian buildings that marked Limerick as a city worth fighting for. It had been a city of sieges and rebellions over the years, and even today, the blemishes of battle remained on city walls. Ahead of her she saw Thomond Bridge, the traffic bumper to bumper, everyone in a rush to leave the city behind. The wind was whipping up nicely, and if Iris thought she heard a footfall behind her, it could as easily have been carried from some distance off on the breeze. The mist started to thicken and she picked up her pace. It felt as if she’d been indoors forever when it massaged her cheek, a gentle, cool cleansing that she hoped would wash away some of her fatigue before she got back to the apartment. She pulled her phone from her bag. This, all of this, Limerick, Baby Fairley, Anna, her kids and now Veronique – they deserved more. She punched in her father’s number, bit down the last of her pride. She left a message, wasn’t sure what to say, something about the old Fairley case, if there truly was a connection, well, it didn’t bear thinking about. He’d call her as soon as he got a chance, the mention of a child would be enough to make him want to help. She knew him like no one else; he’d do anything to keep a child safe.
As she turned in towards the apartment, she felt a shiver run through her. She shook it off as a flashback to the night out in Kilgee. Occasionally, it struck her that this case and in particular that night in Kilgee had left a handprint on her. Perhaps it would fade with time, or at least that’s what she was telling herself. She’d come across evil before, the terrible things people do to each other, so often there could be no explanation. The thing was, though, and perhaps this was what had driven her to Coleman Grady’s house in the early hours of the morning – she’d never known what it was to be the victim. If she was honest, it wasn’t a label she could carry easily. But now, in the cold misty streets of Limerick, she wondered if maybe she wasn’t over reacting. It’s late afternoon, with lots of people and traffic about, and here I am, still spooked. A small voice worked its way from her brain, calming down her nervous system, so that the tingling feeling that had begun to riddle along her spine quelled somewhat. She couldn’t let that kind of fear take her over, not now, not when she was so close to getting onto a murder team. Had she really been that afraid? She struck in the number combination to open the front door of the apartment block, stalking her way across the empty foyer. She did not notice the hand that held the door ajar behind her. Did not see the eyes that travelled to the fourth floor where the lift stopped to let her out. Did not guess for one moment that she was in the sights of a pursuer, did not realise that an invisible clock ticked in his brain and as he circled closer his excitement grew at the thought of her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was clearly a summons, not a request; Slattery was to head for Cullen’s office immediately on return to the station. Do not pass go, do not have a cup of tea, do not waste any time in getting there. Slattery knocked, not too lightly, on her office door. He was looking forward to a fatty rasher sandwich when he’d finished with her. He’d guessed it was the fags, what else could it be? He hadn’t, so far as he knew, stepped on too many toes recently, certainly nothing that might warrant an official complaint, and as for the fags, well, these things happen, don’t they? Just an unfortunate incident of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and thanks to Iris, no harm done.
Cullen was on the phone, peered over glasses that had more frame than lenses – Too small for her fat face, he thought. They were too stylish to sit on her plain features; they jarred with her jowls and with her thinning hair. Mostly, they highlighted her small eyes that seemed to fall further into the folds of skin that drooped from her lids and bulged from the bags beneath them. She’d never been a beauty and age had not helped her. She motioned towards an uncomfortable chair and he took it. Won’t be long here, he thought. When she put the phone down it was with a thoughtful click, as if she was moving onto the next unpleasant part of her day.
‘Slattery.’ Spoken with a sigh, as if even the thought of him pained her. ‘I’m not going to beat about the bush here.’ She looked towards him. ‘You’re a big boy and regardless of whatever else you are, you’re nobody’s fool.’
It was more than he’d bargained for, he supposed. If he’d worried about what she’d thought of him, apart from intense dislike, then she’d have said, ‘thick as an ass,’ all brawn and attitude, no brains worth talking about. And maybe, she’d have been right. For all he knew, and for most of what he believed, at this stage well over two thirds of his once working brains were now stewed in the alcohol in which he continued to steep them. He had lost hours of his life. Vanished. Couldn’t say where he’d been for them, who he’d spoken to – or probably insulted – and he knew with certainty those times would never return. He figured, too, that these absences would occur more frequently as time went on, and he was okay with that. Really, there was damn all he could do about it anyway.
‘It’s come to my attention that you’ve been boozing…’
‘That’s hardly news.’
‘On the job.’ She looked at him now across the top of her unfortunate glasses. ‘Here, in the station, Slattery, and we both know what that means, don’t we?’ She managed a thin smile. He figured it had been wide as a mile when she’d picked up this nugget.
‘Can’t say as I remember having anything more than a whiskey with Grady at the end of the last case, but if that’s a problem, well, then…’
‘No one’s ever had their knuckles wrapped for an end of day drink, when you’re off duty, when it’s shared at the end of a case, when it’s…’ she looked at him meaningfully, ‘not a problem.’
‘My drinking is not a problem.’ He spoke with conviction. The booze didn’t slow him down, he was as quick any of the new bright sparks that had come through the door.
‘You have an unpleasant manner, Slattery, and a bad attitude. We could overlook one, if the other was just a little less noxious, but the two together? Well, you’re lucky to have lasted this length.’ She looked down
at the papers before her. ‘I’m putting you on suspension, pending disciplinary.’ Her words began to fuzz into a stream of meaningless sounds. ‘You’ll get full pay when you’re off, but… and I’m not saying this lightly, once the disciplinary is over, you’re going to be out on your butt.’ Her eyes glided to her diary. Moving on.
‘Hang on a minute.’ Slattery felt himself, as though waking from a coma, coming back from a nasty shock. ‘You can’t do that; you can’t just throw me out on a couple of words. You…’ The words would not come. He was fighting a losing battle, this wasn’t about the drink, and it wasn’t about the job. This was about Anita Cullen and the fact that he’d screwed up her chance of promotion and now she was going to watch him pay for it. Slowly and satisfyingly. Anyone else would get a warning, counselling and plenty of leave – this wasn’t about supporting him. This was all about her and what had happened so far back in time it was barely a blur to him any more. But for all that, she couldn’t throw him out on his butt just on her word, could she?
‘Oh, Slattery,’ her voice was soft, knowing, irritating, ‘do you really think that I’d risk my reputation on you?’ She swivelled her computer screen towards him, a freeze frame of him in an empty corridor lifting a bottle of whiskey towards his mouth.
‘Have you told Byrne?’
‘He will be fully briefed.’ She smiled sweetly, evasively.
He had too much on Byrne over the years for the old man to screw him like this. ‘We’ll see about this.’ His voice was even, he couldn’t remember a time when he’d been more sober in his life. He took out his identity card, and his hand gun, placed them on the table between them, stood silently and headed for the door. ‘It’s not the last you’ll be hearing from me, you auld bitch.’ He could hear her laugh as he banged the door behind him. It was, he knew, a fair cop.
To say that Slattery was shell-shocked only half covered his mental state as he managed to make his way through the incident room. No sign of Grady either. No sign of anyone. What could he say to them even if they were there? He was practical enough to know, there was nothing Grady could do for him now, the only one who could help was Byrne.
‘Feck off,’ he’d told June as she had hovered about his desk while Slattery, through eyes burning with temper, had searched for he knew not what.
‘You all right?’ June had just asked once she’d taken in Slattery’s general air of don’t mess with me bullishness.
‘Oh yeah, I’m just brilliant, how do I look to you, kiddo? Like a fucking survivor, do I?’ If he shouldn’t take it out on June it wasn’t something that was going to keep him awake.
‘I’m only asking. You look like shit, Slattery; if you don’t begin to wise up…’
‘Too late.’ Slattery put up a hand, not in defence, so much as in peace.
‘How do you mean, too late… I’m just saying, a good night’s sleep, lay off the gargle for a bit…’ She wasn’t even looking at Slattery now, wouldn’t maintain the eye contact and so Slattery knew, she didn’t want a row.
‘Answer me this, friend.’ He leaned so hard on the word, June could only wonder if it was ironic or not. ‘You came looking for me a few days ago, found me in the corridor.’ He jerked a thumb towards an almost unused emergency exit sign. ‘Am I right so far?’
June had the good grace to avoid his eyes; looking out for him had been her full-time occupation since her husband had died – was this what she thought was best for him? He was too blind with rage to think clearly now.
‘So, you slunk off, saw what you saw and kept it to yourself.’
Slattery could feel his fury rise through the centre of his body. Was he having a heart attack? But he suspected, no, this was just disappointment, regret and something else he didn’t want to put a label on. A great big, volcanic eruption of emotion. Was this what it felt like to kill someone? Was this what it felt like to die? Part of him, the cynic, thought in those few moments, when his heartbeat had doubled and his blood pressure was probably at its highest ever, Bring it fucking on, baby, bring it fucking on. He managed to stop himself from lunging at the woman, from taking aim, grabbing her by the throat and throttling her until all life had left her sorry form. Whatever trouble Slattery was in now, however blind was his rage, he knew for certain that an assault on a colleague would be the final nail in his coffin. And Cullen would be like the cat that got the cream.
‘So,’ Slattery managed, with some effort, to keep his voice even. ‘So, you held onto it for a few days, slept on it, chewed on it and probably offered up a couple of prayers for me, thinking you’d manage to sort me out. Didn’t you?’
Slattery didn’t wait for a reply. Instead he just grabbed his jacket, turned the key in his locker. There was nothing there, not even an empty at the moment if they looked, just foul socks and reports he’d never finished, never filed.
‘And then what?’ June was following him now, defiant, but she shrank when Slattery turned on her, maybe knowing how thin the ground was beneath them suddenly.
‘Like you need to ask. Then you hightailed it into Cullen’s office—’ He raised his voice, a whimpering whine, an ugly bitter smirk tying his mouth up at the corners. He hated June now, hated everyone in this shitty place. ‘Please miss, Slattery’s drinking in the corridors, I saw him with my own eyes, I did.’ He moved closer to her, into her space, into her face. When he spoke next his voice was a whisper, a threatening murmur filled with spit and hate. ‘It’s like this, June; you’ll get yours for this. I might not be around here any more, but these things tend to come back and bite you in the arse when you least expect it. No one’s going to work with a squealer. Word will get out.’ Slattery was almost nose to nose with June now. ‘I’ll make sure of that, don’t you worry.’
When he turned on his heel, Slattery was only vaguely aware that June was speaking, hardly heard her words.
‘That wasn’t me. I never said a word to Cullen.’ But Slattery was already volleying along the corridors towards the evening cool air. He was going to get as pissed as he’d ever got. Now, he had an excuse.
The man could feel his hands sweat. The nerviness tingling through him sent beads of perspiration from his forehead, down the back of his neck, even his toes seemed to crackle with an electric current that streamed his body. He was so close now. He’d managed to steal through the open front door, he’d stood then for a while in the darkest corner of the foyer, watched as the lift counted out the floors. She was at the top; there was no mistake, no stops in between. In the silence, it felt like there was only the two of them in the whole universe; and maybe in some ways there was, they were the only ones who mattered any more. Anna was gone – this was down to him now.
The foyer was dimly lit; the walls and doors ran seamlessly into each other, a muted grey. The lift doors were a dull metallic. At his back, mottled brick silently recorded a century of change. He stood as close as he could to the bricks, his breath shallow, his heart racing. Damn, the light switches were on the far side of the hall. He’d prefer to have darkness when he crossed to the elevator. That was the hunter in him, he’d already spotted one camera and it looked top of the range. Still, good and all as it was, if he kept his head down, moved fast, kept his back as much as possible to it, he knew that it would be hard to identify him from it. The problem was there could be more than one. Hanging around at the lift doors, waiting for it to come down four floors that was a lot of footage to be checked through.
He sloped back deeper into the corner, biding his time. He was here for Anna, here for all the time they wouldn’t have, all the time they’d lost. She was dead, her soul, that thing that made her what he’d loved for all these years had slipped from her. An invisible, intangible thing – he knew that the greatest minds in the world argued about the existence of the soul.
Across the hall he heard the rumble of the lift begin. It stopped once on the third floor, and then descended – was he ready? Part of him wanted to slink back into the brickwork, stay there until she emerged, and wat
ch her from a distance, just as he’d done with Anna. All had been well while he’d stayed back. He could admit to himself that once they’d spoken, once she’d told him what she knew, his whole world had turned on its axis, and maybe too so had hers. It was meant to make things better, should have made things perfect. The world would probably have been a much better place for all of them if he’d left well enough alone and just kept watching her.
The lift was down now; he could hear the slight clang of metal, the whoosh of hydraulics as it seemed to dip below the floor level and mini bungee back up the few millimetres to let its passenger exit. He felt his heart dip with it, the anxious anticipation of earlier had risen to a pitch now where he feared that he might vomit. Here. All over the fancy carpet. Wouldn’t the guards just love that? Enough DNA to put him away for a lifetime. It was something he could honestly say hadn’t occurred to him before – not really – that those patronising detectives might actually cop onto him. They might realise that he knew more than they did and put him away. The thought chilled him, a searing second of panic shot through him. He couldn’t survive being locked up. He’d spent his life outside, working, hunting, free. He could still turn back; he didn’t have to go near her.
The elevator doors began to open slowly. He started to count to ten. If he made it to ten, then he’d turn on his heels, not get into that lift, not confront her, not do what he knew he’d come here to do. He’d walk away. Silently he’d counted them out – two, three and four. The lift doors opened. Five, six. A tall, fair-haired youngster, maybe a student, stood inside carrying a huge folder, flat and black and the size of a half door. Seven, eight. He struggled for a second, and then turned sideways slightly. The lift began to close on him again. Nine. He reached out, a slim hand pressed flat against the door button, and they swung back obediently. It took only one more twist of the case to manoeuvre it out through the lift doors. They were still wide open as the student made his way past his unseen voyeur. Ten.
Silent Night: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Page 22