Silent Night: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Geraldine Hogan

  ‘You know I’m a sly enough old dog not to make a move unless I’m certain.’ He depressed the button with the smile of a madman about to hurl himself off the Cliffs of Moher. No answer.

  Grady moved closer to the door, there was a whimpering noise coming from within. Someone was crying and when he motioned to Slattery to listen, the sound quickly wiped him clear of anything but complete disengaged panic. Grady felt like one of those poor sods who comes home after a bad day at the office to a house full of people shouting ‘Surprise!’ from the darkened corners of his living room. Except this surprise couldn’t be seen at any level as being pleasant. Automatically, both men fell away from the door, down to the ground, Grady pulled out his hand gun. Slattery was unarmed – Grady knew, that somehow, that was actually a good thing.

  The place was silent again. Not one neighbour stuck a head round a door to see if everything was okay. This was Limerick – people knew better than to get involved. Grady shuffled awkwardly, moved his head so he could shout through the door. ‘Stand back from the doorway; I’m going to shoot off the lock.’ Still no sound from inside. He held up the Sig Sauer, aimed it from above at the Chubb lock and fired, just the once. This was the real world. Every single bullet had to be accounted for. He flung the door inward, still shielding himself to the right of it. Waited for a moment or two, until the silence from the room beyond had settled heavy enough on his shoulders so he could wait no longer. The smell of sulphur in his nostrils was gritty and strong – Slattery opposite signalled to him, What’s the hold up?

  Kerr was sitting slumped in a chair before him. He walked towards him, taking no chances but he knew immediately the man was dead. A large knife protruded through layers of unwashed clothes. The chair he sat on was already crimson with his blood and his face had taken on the blank stare of someone who’d died long ago.

  ‘Kerr is dead,’ he called to Slattery who had been only footsteps behind him. They both stood over him for a second; aware that somewhere in the apartment Iris could be dead too. Grady took in the room, a tasteful, expensive mixture of exposed stone and brick, an open-ended U of deep white couches and chairs faced a large wall-mounted TV. Grady made his way along the wall, walking slowly. He found her, a whimpering, shaking heap, crouched behind a single chair, her Sig Sauer held tight against her chest. When he took it from her, her eyes were blank, unseeing beyond the bloody mess before them. There were no injuries, no physical injuries at least, that he could make out.

  ‘It’s okay, now. I have you, you’re safe.’ He said the words over and over into her hair, felt her body relax into his, an occasional quiver reminding him that she was badly shocked. Was he comforting her or himself?

  ‘We need to find him.’ She spoke so softly he thought for a moment he’d dreamed it. Then she moved away from him for a second and looked into his eyes. There was no escaping the terror behind them. ‘We have to go. He’s not going to leave any loose ends.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Slattery listened while everything tumbled out of Iris, the past and the present jumbled up – a lifetime destroyed in a moment. Five lives lost to repay the debt of Baby Fairley and all the time the answers were right here in front of them. Ollie Kerr had carried a heavy secret and tonight he’d passed that burden on to Iris. No doubt, she was in shock, but her version of events made sense. She clutched the photograph in her hands, held it like it was the Book of Kells. The most precious thing in the country, the most precious thing in the world. Slattery, more than anyone, knew that truth was a costly commodity; he knew it because from what he could see, it was rarer than hens’ teeth.

  Cullen arrived just as the ambulance was leaving. Grady had no time to talk to her; there’d be plenty of time for explanations later. He half carried Locke out the door with him, leaving Cullen to clean up the mess. She eyed Slattery with the disdain people would normally keep in reserve for pond scum.

  ‘You’ve been busy,’ Cullen said, stepping before him and blocking his path, as she surveyed the bloodied living room.

  ‘Aye, all in a day’s work, ma’am.’ He knew the term would annoy her, make her feel that she was far older than him.

  ‘Yes, except it’s not, is it?’ She looked at him, a cruel smile playing about her lips. ‘In a day’s work, that is, because you’re not working any more, are you?’

  ‘Amn’t I now?’ He smiled evenly back at her, so she moved a step away from him; gauging him as much as the room around them. He wanted to be gone with Grady and Locke, but this had to be done, too, and without it, maybe he had no place going anywhere near Woodburn. ‘You really wanted out of Templemore, didn’t you?’

  ‘I missed the real world, if that’s what you mean, yes, who wouldn’t?’

  ‘Believe me, Cullen, I more than anyone can understand that.’

  ‘I’m sure you can.’ She wasn’t softening, despite her words.

  ‘Would you have sold your soul for it, though? Or just lied through your teeth? Or maybe the reason you wanted to come so badly was why you had to lie.’ He watched her now; she hardly blinked, cool as an Irish summer. ‘You know one of the things I learned very early on, Cullen?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘It’s a small world, and a smaller country. That’s the thing about Ireland. People try to have secrets, they can try as hard as they like, but everyone is connected, it’s like we’ve all buggered each other, somewhere along the way. What is it they call it? Six degrees of separation. Only with us Paddies, it’s more like three degrees, at most, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve had lots of time over the years in the boozer to mull over these philosophical issues with your beer buddies.’ Her voice was bored but her eyes were wary. She hadn’t moved an inch. Her posture remained exactly as it had been before he began talking. He hoped he could see a little rigidity creeping in, but if he was honest, it was probably just wishful thinking. Anita Cullen had done every training course going to spot a liar: duplicity should come easily to her. She knew how to cover all the bases.

  ‘Funny you should mention that,’ he said, smiling at her now. He too had long since learned a few tricks and he knew how to smile a threat better than most. ‘What you’d call my boozing buddies, I’d call contacts – they’re informers and they’ve been more than helpful over the years.’

  ‘So we’ve been paying for your loser pals to tell us what the dog in the street probably knows.’

  ‘The dogs in the street don’t know everything now, do they?’ He ignored her snort of derision. ‘But it’s amazing what they’d like to know.’ He moved closer to her. ‘Like, I’m sure the dogs in the street would be very interested to know that a senior officer who was leading out the investigation into one of Ireland’s most publicised crimes was actually covering her own tracks.’ He watched her expression – hardly a quiver, but there was one small movement, just beneath her left eye. It was like bait to Slattery. ‘I’m sure they’d be very interested to know that one of Ireland’s most respected female officers actually got where she was by covering up for a more senior officer and of course keeping quiet.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, I think you do. I think we both know that you got your start thanks to that missing baby all those years ago. I think we both know that you knew a lot more about things than you ever committed to any files, official or otherwise.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Her words were even, there wasn’t so much as a flicker and if Slattery hadn’t caught it earlier, he knew he’d think this was all bullshit now. But he could bullshit too, bullshit better than any of them.

  ‘I mean that you should never have been a guard at all, you never made the height, never passed an exam and then Locke put you onto a case, the case, to cover up his…’

  ‘You have no proof.’

  ‘What proof do I need exactly, just a phone call to a local reporter would do the trick from where I’m sitting.’ He smiled at her now, a smile that he loaded with as much threat as he cou
ld. ‘If I’m going down, dolly, you’re coming with me.’

  ‘You need to be careful who you’re pointing fingers at, Slattery.’ She was brusque, not even denying it. He knew then that there was more than a ladle of truth to it. She turned on him, ready to walk out the door. ‘The forensic boys will be here soon, we’d better leave them to it.’

  ‘You have two hours. I have every intention of continuing on this case, of heading back to the office in a few hours’ time, of sitting behind my desk, having a cup of tea and being my normal obnoxious self.’ He leaned closer to her now, so he could smell expensive sweet perfume – deceiver perfume – but it didn’t quite cover the fear. ‘When I look into my desk drawer, I want to see my warrant card and my Sig Sauer. If there’s so much as a whisper of suspension or any other kind of shit, you’ll be front-page news before you know what’s happened to you.’

  Cullen looked at him, calculating just how much she could push him perhaps. But his eyes were hard, he had no intention of losing this battle and in that moment, perhaps she realised that to fight on would be futile.

  ‘Does Byrne know?’ he asked as she stepped aside to let him pass through the front door, trying to avoid the pieces of metal and wood that had been strewn confetti-like about the floor.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good, that saves me having to have a word with him too.’ He smiled to himself, Byrne wouldn’t have been all that easy, but he had enough on him to keep him in his place at the same time.

  Slattery walked out of the apartment with lightness in his step. He handed the keys of the Ford to one of the uniforms – Joyner. He was new, but already he had a bit of a reputation about the station – he liked fast cars and speed. ‘You can drive, lad, guarantee you more excitement than you’re going to see around here tonight.’ No point getting done for dangerous driving, at least not until he was sure his suspension was lifted. He was headed out to Jack Locke’s place, with a little luck they’d make it in time.

  Iris was blind with hurt and rage. The streets of Limerick passed by in a blur. The car radio played low, The Cranberries, thumping out their heavy drum heartbeat, a slow unending pulse, throbbing and enduring, like the Shannon, pounding its way through the centre of Limerick. They crossed the river at Thomond Bridge. The oldest bridge in the city, its seven arches held steadfast, strong and noble, tonight its sturdy permanence was reassuring. It connected the city up to and over the longest river in the country. As they crossed it, Iris felt some small encouragement that she could be resilient enough to see through the next few hours, at least until the morning light shone again. She had to remind herself now that it would.

  Grady took a series of narrow roads away from the horror left in her apartment. These were back roads she wouldn’t have known, winding down long narrow working-class streets. They travelled in broad silence through the underbelly of the sleeping city until they came to the fringes of suburbia. It didn’t take long; he knew the streets well and once they hit the open country he put his foot to the floor. She hardly noticed that he clipped corners at twice the legal speed limit.

  The house, when they arrived, was in darkness, bar one light shining at the rear – hard to tell if it was inside, or a tripped security light at the back. They’d hardly opened the gate when Slattery arrived in a Ford, barrelling its way too fast down the quiet drive. Joyner, a big bruiser of a bloke, still in uniform, jumped from the car with the enthusiasm of a beagle on a scent. For a moment, Iris almost forgot that if they caught this guy – well, he wasn’t just anyone, he was the man she’d called ‘Dad’ for almost thirty years now. Could she really put her own father in prison? Jack Locke, a great teddy bear of a man, a doting father, a loyal husband, a good man. Where had all that gone to in the last hour? Iris knew that there were no answers now, none that would really make any sense to her tangled mind.

  Grady looked at Slattery. ‘Front door?’ It was unlikely he’d make it round the back without collapsing; the short gallop from the car had almost finished him.

  ‘I think so.’ He made his way up the short path. They left Joyner standing guard to the side of the house, patrolling front and back, back-up at either side. Iris could hear the bell sounding as Slattery stood in the faded light at the front door. It seemed then, looking at him standing there, as if everything had suddenly gone into slow motion and Iris wasn’t sure if she heard the doorbell ring out through the darkened house or if she just imagined it. Then Grady jolted her and they were moving quickly around the side and towards the kitchen garden her father had been cultivating since his retirement.

  To the rear of the house only two things struck Iris: the first was how quickly her senses adjusted to the garden; the second, and it took a moment for this to settle in, was the smell of petrol. As if the whole place was bathed in it. Grady before her, stood for a second, taking in all that lay before them.

  ‘Are we too late?’ The words escaped from somewhere at the back of her throat. Were they dead already and they were just arriving in time for the bonfire?

  ‘Maybe not.’ Grady pointed towards an open drum of petrol. It had obviously been tipped over. Some of it now lay, fresh and pungent, a small pool of filmy fuel, trapped in the worn grooves of stonework leading towards the back door. ‘It’s hard to know how much he’s taken inside.’

  Grady moved closer to the door, put a hand against it and pushed it easily in. The oil trailed along before them, a ribbon of translucent terror.

  In the darkness beyond the warren of rooms to their left, a clock struck out the hour. It echoed throughout the slumbering house. Grady slipped a small torch from inside his jacket and switched it on with a soft click. They were in a small anteroom, just off the kitchen. The door before them led towards the main body of the house. She pushed it forward gently. Everything had been left unlocked, the price of innocence, perhaps – if only. More like he had nothing to lose now. The rooms beyond lay in silent darkness, the day’s activities discarding their own scent about the place. In the kitchen, her mother had cooked an omelette. Its odour still hung on the air, a lingering reminder above the petrol fumes that everything had been normal not so very long ago. The corridor from there opened out into the stairs and the living room, closed up for the night. Jack Locke would not be there. The trail of fuel beckoned them upstairs. Iris opened the front door gently as she passed it, nodding at Slattery as he slipped his bulk into the hallway. On the stairs, each step creaked its own groaning protest. They did not belong here, none of them, not at this time of night, not in darkness. Each of the doors at the top of the stairs lay slightly ajar. There was no light from them. Iris felt with certainty that they were too late.

  And then, one, ominous grunt. It seemed to echo throughout the whole universe, loud and prophesising all that Iris did not want to think about. She could hardly move. She knew that once she looked around, her life as she’d known it would be over for good. She felt Grady, at her side, stiffen, only slightly. He moved the flashlight slowly towards the sound. The movement when it hit the spot was quick and light. Her father surely couldn’t move like that? It had taken refuge behind a slightly ajar door and part of Iris knew then, it might have been better for all of them if they’d just been too late.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Maybe Jack Locke had always been a nasty fucker, and maybe Slattery had always known it, who could say at this stage? But the expression Slattery spotted for just a moment when the moon caught his eyes told him Locke was a dangerous man now. It had been just a movement, little more than a shadow, but somehow Slattery had managed to pick him out. ‘Mrs Locke – Theodora?’ he shouted, loud as he could, hoping it would be enough to halt Nessie before he did something they would all regret. He took the steps two at a time, feeling Joyner behind him. He was at the top of the stairs now. Grady and Iris stood, flashlight in hand, ready to pounce. There was no waiting for Slattery. Ben Slattery bounded through the door, switching on the light as he went, one blustering movement, and he was at Mrs Locke’s bedside. She
was sleeping, soundly. He could see some small lift in the bedclothes, her shallow breaths working away rhythmically, and then he smelled it. Petrol. The place had been doused in it. Jack Locke was standing on the far side of the bed, the bed he’d shared with his wife for over forty years. Tonight he stood watching her, maybe for the last time for all of them knew now; lighter in one hand, his eyes full of sadness, his posture ready for murder.

  ‘Dad?’ Iris said the word gently from the doorway and Slattery watched as Locke’s face crumbled into desperation.

  ‘Iris, my love, you shouldn’t be here.’ He looked at Slattery as if somehow he should have kept her away, but they both knew that this was about her. Iris was the reason he doused his home in petrol, her voicemail telling him that she was on her way armed with the truth was the only ignition Jack Locke had needed to know the lies had to finally end.

  ‘Dad, it doesn’t have to be like this, nothing has to change, come on with me,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Iris, you go, I’ll be right with you.’ His eyes were pinned to Slattery. Slattery looked down at Theodora again.

  ‘Oh God. Something’s wrong.’ Slattery moved closer to the gently sleeping form. The smell of petrol almost knocked him backwards, but she hadn’t woken. ‘He’s given her something.’ He said the words almost to himself and thought, Where the hell was Grady? ‘What did you give her?’ He’d almost flung himself across the bed. ‘What have you done to her?’

  ‘Never mind, you’re too late for her now.’ Locke held the lighter up, raised his lips in something that was meant to be a smile. ‘Go on, Iris, get out of here, let us sort this out.’

  ‘I can’t go, you know that.’ Slattery heard her voice, steady as a pioneer at closing time and he marvelled for a second at her nerve – not even undercover gives you that kind of strength. ‘What did you give her, Dad?’ She moved closer to the woman she’d known all her life as her mother, raised her head and shoulder from the pillow in one arm, hoisting her higher in the bed. ‘I can’t let her die, Dad, don’t you see?’