Silent Night: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Geraldine Hogan

  It was a sign. Anna was calling to him, asking him to do one final thing for her, and if he didn’t run now, it might be too late. Somehow he had to put things right for her.

  Something propelled him from the wall into the lift. He jammed a fat thumb on the button to bring him to the fourth floor. He hummed, softly if none too tunefully, just low enough to calm himself, ‘Scarlett Ribbons (For Her Hair)’.

  Chapter Thirty

  She stood beneath the hot jets of water for a long time, her eyes closed, the case rushing through her brain, until some of the tension washed from her body and her mind felt clearer than it had in days. It hadn’t just been the case, either. She thought about Anita Cullen, about Ben Slattery and Coleman Grady. By the time she’d finished, she knew there was nothing to be gained from worrying about what might be; all she could do now was get on with it, work like a beaver and if a post came up, apply like everyone else. After the shower, she felt better, as if some invisible pressure had been washed away. As for Slattery and Cullen, she was sure that nothing would happen there. After all, they needed all hands on deck now. Cullen wouldn’t go pulling the team apart in the middle of a murder inquiry, would she? The buzz of her phone pulled her from her thoughts.

  She picked it up on the third ring.

  ‘Iris?’ It was June Quinn. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I just popped back to the apartment, figured it might be a long night ahead.’

  ‘Grady’s just asked me to ring around a few people to check in. We have the briefing in under an hour.’

  ‘Yeah, I knew that. Anything else turn up in the last while?’

  ‘Funny you might mention that.’ She could hear June smile as she spoke on the other end of the call. ‘Grady is pretty sure that Kerr is our man for the Crowe murders.’

  ‘Oh?’ Iris grabbed a towel, clenching the phone under her ear she began to dry off her arms and legs.

  ‘He thinks Kerr’s been watching the station for the last few days. He wants to know if you’ve noticed him.’

  Iris wracked her brains for a second. ‘I’ve never met him.’ A small shiver ran through her, but she wasn’t cold. She walked towards the bedroom, pulled out fresh clothes for work and began to wriggle one-handed into them.

  ‘Oh, he seemed to think that you might have run into him at some point?’

  ‘I… might have.’ Iris dropped to the bed. That night… in Kilgee… she shivered at the memory of him. Her voice when she spoke next sounded scared even to herself, but she tried to keep it as even as possible. ‘Did he say where I might have bumped into him?’

  ‘Um…’ June sounded distracted now, as if she had calls to make, things to do that were more important than this empty conversation. ‘No, but if you’d met this character, I’m sure you’d remember him, he has a face even a mother couldn’t forgive.’ She laughed a little to herself, and then she said, ‘Big, ugly and dirty, from what I can gather, not a lot of personality either.’

  Locke didn’t need to hear any more. She mumbled something into the phone before dropping it. She didn’t hear June telling her that Grady said to be careful, to keep an eye out, and to take no chances. She flopped onto the bed, lay there for a few seconds and then with a determination to her movements set about putting on the rest of her clothes. She’d have a coffee before she left, gather her thoughts together, by the time she was leaving, she’d feel much more confident, less scared. She was still spooked enough to strap on her gun belt, leaving the Sig Sauer on the table, until she’d finished her coffee.

  She was searching for a hairdryer when she heard the noise at the door, more a careful tap than an actual knock. The tap was so light Iris might have missed it had she not been padding past. She walked to the door distractedly, a million other thoughts streaming through her brain. Opened it without checking. Swung back the door, expecting to see Cullen or her father or at least someone she recognised.

  When she’d tried to bang it shut again he jammed his foot beneath it, his hand reaching out. She backed away from him, terror racing through her body. She’d never seen his face before, but there was no mistaking who he was. He towered over her, dominated the doorway, his presence taking over the room. For a moment she felt herself reel backwards, thought maybe she was about to faint. Somehow, against a sturdy pine table she managed to steady herself. She watched as he turned, casually, slowly, and locked the door; as if he was a jailer, locking her in, keeping her from the world beyond. When he turned around, he slipped the key into a large pocket at the front of his shabby jacket. She knew then she had no chance of making it through that door, no chance of getting out of there, not unless she killed him first.

  When he began to smile at her, she found it hard to keep fear-fuelled bile from rising in her throat. He handed her a photograph that sent shivers down her spine and his first words did little to comfort her.

  ‘Hello, Janey. You and I have a lot of catching up to do, haven’t we?’

  Slattery surprised himself by not going to the pub. Not immediately anyway, he told himself, as the car he’d borrowed from the lot moved at a steady pace away from Corbally station. He wasn’t quite sure where he was off to, one of two destinations. At Idle Corner, he made his decision, turned right and figured he could always backtrack later on.

  The house, when he pulled up outside it, was in darkness save one light in the sitting room. Maureen would be watching the news, the weather and then taking down her rosary beads. He leaned back further into the seat, breathed deeply and closed his eyes for what seemed like just a moment, but probably lasted nearer half an hour. In the silence, it was not the case, not the drink, not even Cullen that crowded out his brain, but rather it was Maureen. By the time the concerned doctor – ‘call me Maedhbh’ (she put her finger to her lips as if to silence their fears) – had come along, he’d already known. She brought with her too much sympathy to blanket out the bad news. Slattery felt suffocated; his brain woollen with inadequacy.

  Alzheimer’s, she’d said, as though it was a complete sentence. A life sentence, more like, for both of them – another responsibility to run away from, perhaps. For now it was their secret. Just like when she’d been expecting, something they shared for a while before the world needed to know, before they guessed and descended upon them with wise words they didn’t need and Slattery resented. The good doctor was sorry, she couldn’t tell them any more yet. They’d have to wait and see what the progression was like; there were pills, there were pills for everything now. But there would be no pills when the time came. Nothing could stop the descent for Maureen away from the people she loved, away from the places she knew, into a terror-filled world that would rob them of all dignity. Dementia would take from Slattery whatever he might have had left in this shambles of a life he’d created. He thumped the steering wheel, he wasn’t sure if it was in anger or anguish.

  He’d put his phone on silent when Grady had tried to ring him, twice already. He needed more time, not sympathy for the mess he’d let happen with Cullen. He needed a game plan. He needed ammunition. He tossed about the notion of walking up the short drive and knocking on the front door. What would he say? He’d already mulled over the many possibilities. Best he could come up with was that he’d been passing by the door, got caught short, could he use the loo?

  It was over an hour since he’d met with Cullen, but he was setting things straight – in his mind, at least. Come what may over the next few days, he had a feeling this time would be important. When he started up the car again, somehow he felt like he’d made a difference just being here, even if Maureen didn’t know. Perhaps if he came here often enough, one day he’d go inside and say what needed to be said. Only time would tell.

  Slattery drove his car back towards Idle Corner, full intentions of heading towards the Ship Inn. Now he could sink into his misery. He had a feeling it’d take a lot of alcohol to convince himself that this fuck-up hadn’t been his own doing entirely. He pulled the car up at the lights before turning onto O’Con
nell Street. He failed to ignore the eclectic mix of Georgian buildings with a couple of nasty-looking moderns thrown in. Typical Limerick, he thought to himself, it was always the one or two bad apples that brought the place down. With that he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He thrust a clumsy hand about his jacket, seizing it just before the caller rang off. Jackie Tierney. He almost didn’t bother answering it.

  ‘Just getting back to you on that little matter earlier in the day.’ There was a lightness to Tierney’s voice and if Slattery hadn’t been so tied up in knots over everything else that was going on, he might have twigged that it was early days to be coming back with a big fat nothing.

  ‘Go on.’ He pulled in. It was hard to smoke, drive and talk all at once. Last thing he needed was some eager uniform pulling him over; he figured that Cullen would just love that, especially since technically, he was now driving a stolen Gardai vehicle. ‘Amaze me with your intel.’ Tierney was well used to Slattery’s cynicism.

  ‘Hey, if you’re not interested, this stuff could get in the papers. It’s the kind of thing some would pay for.’ If he was trying to whet Slattery’s appetite, he’d managed.

  ‘Okay, let me have it and then we’ll see if it’s worth you passing it on.’

  ‘Hey, I might just pass it on for the fun of it, Ben. You’ll find out soon enough, it doesn’t take a lot to amuse you when you’re out of the game for a while.’

  ‘Tierney, we’ll never be out of the game, we both know it.’ Although he said the words with some confidence, Slattery didn’t quite feel the bravado.

  ‘Okay, your woman Cullen, one with an arse the size of a family shithouse?’

  ‘Yeah, sounds like her, what did you get?’

  ‘She’s some big wig, yeah?’

  ‘Yup, as she likes to remind us all daily.’

  ‘Bet she doesn’t remind ye that she shouldn’t be there at all.’ Tierney’s voice was sing-song, at least he believed he’d hit the jackpot.

  ‘How d’ya mean?’

  ‘She never made it through the entrance exam, didn’t make the Irish and she’s too short. From what I heard, she’s never been five-six in her life, not unless she was standing on top of a friendly superintendent, that is.’

  ‘Any particular super?’ Slattery could feel a terrible thirst rising from the back of his throat. There was nothing new in guards managing to squeeze around these things back in the day, though it was never admitted. But Slattery had to agree, it had been plain to all that the closest Cullen had ever got to five-six was if she played bingo.

  ‘Someone we both know quite well.’ Tierney paused, savouring the moment. ‘The sterling Superintendent Locke – with his perfect record and his medal for service.’ Tierney hadn’t liked Locke since the old guy took him down for misappropriation of funds with a charity Tierney had set up to do with Chernobyl. It was a long time ago now, but Tierney was a man who never forgot.

  ‘So what, she was banging Locke and he got her onto the force as a farewell gift.’

  ‘Who said anything about farewell? Locke turns up again and again over the course of her career, generally around interview committees, he’s given her a boost every step of the way.’

  ‘Wonder what she’s done to deserve that kind of mentoring,’ Slattery guffawed.

  ‘Well, I suppose, that’s for her to know and you to find out, my friend.’ Tierney rang off, satisfied that he’d passed on all that he knew. But, of course, what he knew was little more than anyone who went looking could have found. The thing was, until now, no one had gone looking.

  Slattery sat for a while, thinking about what Cullen might have done to deserve such special care and then it dawned on him. It wasn’t so much what she had done, as what she hadn’t done. Jesus, Slattery thought, and a thin film of sweat covered his forehead. She had something on Locke, something far bigger than an affair. For feck’s sake, every one of those big boys wearing the shiny brasses has been bonking left, right and centre for years. Probably give out medals for it in their secret clubs, Slattery thought. No, Cullen had something on Locke and it had to do with the Baby Fairley case. Now, Slattery felt his thirst rise, the sweat seeping from his every pore. He had to talk to Iris, because whether she realised it or not, she was probably their best chance at solving this case. He started up the car, a smile trembling on his lips.

  ‘Fuck.’ Slattery felt a wave of something that might have been considered joy in anyone else; he’d settle for giddy excitement. Wouldn’t it be sweet, if this once the mouse might trap the cat? He flicked his indicator, drove up O’Connell Street, passed by a parked traffic patrol, headed for that swanky pad Iris lived in. It was his best bet for answers, he’d wait until she finished at the station, wait a week, if he had to. They were going to solve this case after all, and he had a feeling that it would be a lot sooner than any of them had expected.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  He’d pushed past Iris with a violence that seemed to characterise his every movement now. His voice was low and something in it gave away the urgency of the deeds she figured he planned to commit.

  ‘I’m not Janey, I’m Iris,’ she said as evenly as she could manage. She’d stayed standing, her feet planted firmly to keep her balance, trying not to shake, trying with every fibre not to tremble. She knew if he was a little less excited he might have noticed. As it was, she could sense his edgy instability in the way his mouth twitched, a nerve pulling somewhere taut along his bearded cheeks.

  ‘Don’t say that, for God’s sake, don’t say that…’ He shook his head. ‘I know it was all a long time ago, but you’re still that girl to me, still…’ He looked at her now, his expression softening. ‘This could be a second chance, don’t you see?’

  ‘I don’t see, tell me.’ For some stupid reason his name had fallen out of her head. She couldn’t for the life of her think of anything beyond the seconds in which he spoke. All that came back to her from basic training was to keep him talking. While he talked, maybe she’d figure out a way of getting out of here. ‘Tell me what happened a long time ago.’

  ‘Don’t you know, haven’t you worked it out yet? It was all over the papers, changed everything for everyone. The Fairley Baby – no one else had a look-in after that.’

  ‘That was what?’ Iris took a shot in the dark. ‘Almost thirty years ago?’

  ‘Yeah, it was that and more.’

  ‘And you waited until Anna came back to Kilgee?’

  ‘I wasn’t waiting for her, I thought I’d lost her, don’t you see? She’d blamed me, blamed me for years until she met you.’ He smiled at her now, handed her a faded photograph and somewhere behind the weather-beaten skin and the unkempt hair and ragged beard, she thought she could see a drop of sincerity. Maybe this man meant her no harm.

  She examined the photo he’d handed to her. It was creased and worn and yellow with age. The colour had faded, a pink blanket and a little lemon hat. It was a newborn baby; snuggled into a pram that probably dated the picture somewhere in the eighties. From the hood hung a brown scapula and a miraculous medal. She could almost feel him hold his breath, as though he was waiting for some great wisdom to shine upon her. She stared at it for some time, turned it over; the caption just said, ‘my baby sister Janey’. She rubbed her fingers across the faded ink.

  A sensation of familiarity flooded through her body, as if some part of her had seen this before. Then she turned it back, looked at it more closely; there seemed to be something in the baby’s right hand. She drew the photo nearer, strained her eyes and then she knew – knew with the certainty of one who is baptised in light. Baby Janey and she shared the same birthmark on their right hands. Many times over the years, her mother had brought her along to various specialists to try and have the mark faded. It hadn’t bothered Iris, caused no pain and she rather liked it, felt it marked her out as special. Like small rosary beads running about her thumb and over the back of her hand.

  ‘That’s how she knew you. The little marking on her sister
’s hand had never vanished. She knew then for certain, when she met you, that her sister was still alive. And thank God, she knew that I had not taken you and done the terrible things she thought.’

  ‘Was she killed for this?’ Iris heard the words, hollow in her own throat. Suddenly her head felt like it might implode, her brain only processing what was before her in a standby mode. There had to be some mistake, some terrible coincidence at play here, she couldn’t believe that her whole world was being turned on its axis by a man she didn’t even know. ‘Was she killed for this?’ She whispered the words again. If the answer was yes, there were only two people who might have murdered Anna Crowe and now she had a feeling that Ollie Kerr wasn’t one of them.

  ‘I don’t know, but…’

  ‘And Veronique?’

  ‘Yes. She was killed for this.’ It was said without sentiment.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered automatically. There was too much confused emotion swirling through her to extend any real sympathy towards the woman whose corpse she’d stood over in that little cottage.

  ‘I’m sorry, too. I didn’t love her, I think I was gone beyond loving her, by the time I met her, but well, you… you and Anna, you set me free. I’ve lived with so much guilt for years. I’d almost convinced myself I had taken you. Taken you far away and killed you. Of course, now we know what happened, don’t we?’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘Oh Janey, of course we know, your father was in charge of the case. You’re the detective around here… surely you don’t need me to figure it out.’