‘No. We can’t let her live. She will have nothing to live for when this comes out. Believe me, Iris, this is kinder. She doesn’t know you know the truth, let her have that much at least.’ His eyes were hard now and Slattery knew that if Iris tried to take the woman out, he could turn on her just as easily as he did on Anna Crowe.
‘It’s too late, Dad, they already know, they know everything. Best now if we get to the hospital and…’
‘They don’t know, they haven’t the first iota. How could they?’ He looked across at Slattery. ‘Look at him, hardly married five minutes and he was a father. Twelve years – Iris, we were twelve years and then your mother said that she was pregnant. We had a baby boy, baby Idras. Your mother chose the name, it was meant to mean feisty.’ He laughed now; a cruel wounded laugh that wrenched even old Slattery’s worn-out gut. ‘Ye were born side by side, you arrived just a few minutes after him. Theodora and the Fairley woman had exchanged addresses before they’d both been discharged, they planned to meet up. Perhaps, if things had been different, ye’d have been friends.’
When he spoke again, his words were flat, all emotion had gone. ‘Our boy died after fourteen hours. I never realised, it was all done so quickly. Your mother never let us see him; I never got to hold him when he was alive. Then she went out and came back with you. She wasn’t gone an hour. By the time I got home from work, they’d buried Idras. I don’t know, if you hadn’t been a girl, maybe I’d have been none the wiser. But then, your hand. There was no mistaking the markings on your hand. The Fairley woman was so shocked, she never mentioned it, but the girl, Anna, she remembered, right up until the end, she remembered that damned birth mark.’
In the hall a radio cackled into life. Slattery heard movement, wondered briefly and then Coleman Grady stood in the doorway. ‘Jack, let me take her. You make up your own mind, but don’t make up hers.’ He looked down at the pathetic form of Theodora Locke. No bigger than a child, curled up, her hair halo-like across the pillow, seemed to take up more space than her whole body. ‘You’ve had to visit too many crime scenes not to know the score. This is pointless, do for yourself if you have to, but not for her, let her choose.’
Locke said nothing, but he bent over Theodora, kissed her softly on her lips, lingered for a moment. Slattery watched as one slow tear slid from his cheek to hers. Then he stepped away, a lifetime of regret etched on his face.
‘I’m sorry, Dad, we have to take her now.’ Iris said the words slowly, but her voice was strong, there was no mistaking the intention in her eyes. Slattery knew that once Grady had the woman in his arms, they would both go up like a Halloween fire candle if Locke flicked the lighter. Iris held on to the woman’s head, supporting her with gentle hands, while Grady lifted her from harm’s way. Surely he would not harm Iris? Slattery wasn’t sure; he was far from sure about anything.
‘What about the boy?’ Iris stood now with the sleeping woman draping into her arms.
‘They buried him in the garden. You can see the spot from my study, just beneath the yew tree…’ His eyes were sad. ‘I didn’t realise what they’d done at first, even when I got the call out to Kilgee, but either way, you were ours by then. I’d seen the Fairley woman going downhill. She could hardly look after the daughter she had, never mind let you back there.’
‘And Mum was so fucking stable?’ Iris almost spat the words at him.
‘You were always going to be fine. I looked after everything.’
‘You and Anita Cullen?’ Iris fired back at him.
‘It wasn’t like that. She was in the house when Idras died.’
‘She helped to bury him?’
‘She buried him; your mother wouldn’t have been able. Anita was very young. Maybe she didn’t know what else to do. But your mother arrived back with you and… well, maybe she knew… maybe not.’ He took a long deep breath. ‘I think it was only as the publicity about the missing Fairley baby really took off that she realised what had been done – the enormity of the thing. I had to do something for her, and she made a good guard. I knew she would.’
‘I’m going now, Dad, I hope you’ll come with me.’ Iris turned away, and Slattery could see her eyes were closed, as if with each word she was counting out the seconds before she could get away from this place. Slattery watched as Jack raised the lighter in his hand, his eyes manic, but she was gone, couldn’t see him. Just as well, Slattery thought, she’s seen enough.
He could hear them as they made their way downstairs. It was only Slattery and Locke now. Their lives didn’t mean as much as anyone else’s. There would not be the same sadness if they both perished in flames, that there might be if they were better men.
‘So, what’s it to be?’
Slattery knew now he wasn’t afraid to die here. In fact he’d be tempted to take out his fags, go with a smile on his face at least, sit back smoking, two old fuckers burning. He knew that, low and all a value as he’d usually place upon his own existence, the news about Maureen had thrown his currency completely out of sync. There were, on the one hand, so many fewer reasons to live. He didn’t want to watch her disintegrate into a frightened, confused mess. He didn’t want to have to make the choice of walking away, or staying to see that. But she’d stood by him; maybe but for her, and her nagging and her constant checking, he’d have been dead a long time ago. He held out his hand for the lighter. Maybe that was reason enough not to die here tonight.
‘Ah, Ben, you know that I can’t go inside.’ Spoken as if he regretted the life he saw passing by his eyes, moving away from him.
‘She still loves you, you’re her father no matter, it could be…’ He wasn’t sure what else to say. Tell him that the court would see he was just trying to protect his beautiful, vulnerable, unstable wife? That was Jack Locke all over; he’d been loyal to the things he’d held dear all his life.
‘Ah, no, we both know that everything has changed now.’ His eyes were sad, but that steely determination that had set him apart as a detective settled now so Slattery knew that there would be no talking him out of what he planned to do. ‘Go on with you now. I won’t be going, but you have another few years to try and get kicked off the force.’ He smiled a small quiver of a smile at Slattery and they both knew that it was the only way.
‘Good luck,’ Slattery said as he closed the door behind him. He took the stairs maybe more slowly than he should have, called out to anyone who still might be inside. ‘Out, out, everyone out.’ There was no sound. Just as he reached the front door, he thought he heard the spring of a lighter and then that small quaking flame. Before he reached the gate the place was ablaze. Jack Locke didn’t make a sound. It finally ended here.
Iris barely made it to the gate. Grady had carried Theodora and half dragged Iris down the wide stairs. Whatever strength she’d summoned to confront Jack Locke was well gone now and Grady kept a firm arm about her back to ensure she remained upright. Outside, some way from the house, an ambulance had drawn up to administer whatever medical aid would be needed. Theodora had been well doped, so she still had no idea that her world was crashing down around her. Her husband had slipped something into her night-time routine that knocked her sideways.
‘He was not a bad man,’ Grady said softly to Iris. She was shivering and silent, violent rattles overtaking her body every now and then. She was suffering from shock; it had drained the speech from her lips. Grady wrapped his coat about her, hovered as if there was more he wanted to do, but some invisible force stopped him. Soon, they were speeding through Limerick; headed for the nearest A&E department in St Dominic’s; Theodora was travelling in the ambulance before them. They’d left Slattery, left Jack Locke and in the distance, they could hear the scream of sirens, rushing towards the hades they were leaving behind. Of course, what they’d learned had changed everything. Iris had watched as Slattery made his way towards the gate. She knew then that she’d never see her father again. Knew it was the only way out for him. She vaguely wondered at what would happen next. The
fire brigade had rushed past them. It would be too late for Jack Locke.
‘No?’
‘No, he was a good man, caught up in a terrible situation. You could just say, he loved too much.’
‘Yes.’ She’d known that all her life. Iris watched while he’d made excuses for her mother, papered a fine veneer of happiness over their lives. Still, she’d never guessed at the true reason for the hollow hub that had been at the centre of their world. For years, she’d assumed it had been her mother’s frail personality.
‘Maybe this was the only way for him?’
She couldn’t answer him, but she caught his eyes as they turned towards her. They were filled, not with pity, nor with empty sadness, rather, she thought she saw that he cared. Maybe, it was just what he felt for every victim he came across?
‘You and I…’ Her words were hardly audible to herself, but he shifted slightly in his seat.
‘Yes.’ He reached across and held her hand for what seemed like an eternity. It seemed there was nothing more to say, not now.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Byrne’s house was snuggled in an upmarket cul de sac, just off the North Circular road. A detached eighties-build, upgraded with all that money and current fads could throw at it. At either side of the front door two bay trees struggled against the winter cold; Slattery knew they would not be the only thing that wouldn’t survive the season. He could have phoned. In fact, if right was right, it should be Anita Cullen making this call. Of course she never would. Not as he intended to, at least. It was going to be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He’d waited until the very end. Waited until the flames had been doused into submission, waited until the crackle and hiss of the dying house had become a subdued undercurrent in the night. He’d waited until Jack Locke’s body had been examined, photographed, loaded into a black body bag and taken away from that terrible place. There had been no sign of Cullen. All right, so she was at the scene of Ollie Kerr’s murder, but knowing Cullen, that wouldn’t have stopped her getting across the city to stomp through a second murder scene.
‘Busy night?’ Byrne said drily when they were sitting at his kitchen table. He flicked the switch on the kettle and set about making two strong cups of tea. Slattery held his words and didn’t say it was more than tea he’d need. It took about forty minutes to get Byrne up to date, he’d made him backtrack once or twice, but Slattery managed to keep his voice low and steady. There was no good news here, but then neither was it his job to break it to Byrne gently. ‘What evidence do we have?’ Byrne asked, deflated by the end.
‘We have enough to arrest her, enough to make sure that she’s put away for the foreseeable,’ Slattery said soundly.
‘I see.’ Byrne got up from the table, took down a bottle of Glenmorangie. The seal cracked as he opened it, but that didn’t account for the heaviness of his movements. He poured them two large measures, sat back for a while considering. Eventually he moved forward in his seat. ‘She’s still one of us, Ben.’ The words were so quiet, Slattery wasn’t sure if he heard them at all.
‘Jesus, Byrne, have you not listened to a word I’ve said?’
‘I’ve heard every word.’ He pursed his lips, drew up his knotted hands to them. ‘The least we can do is give her twelve hours.’
‘She’ll be fucking well gone by then.’
‘She won’t; she rang earlier on, she’s probably only just left the Kerr death in the last hour or so.’
‘I don’t bloody believe this.’
Byrne cleared his throat. ‘We leave it till morning, give her time to get her thoughts together, get a brief in place and…’
‘It’s a feckin’ wipe over…’ Slattery could feel the bile of resentment and injustice rising in his throat; he couldn’t be part of this.
‘And I’ll forget the tape she emailed me earlier on today; forget that she almost had you out the door.’ Byrne took their two glasses, rinsed them in his spotless Belfast sink and stood with his back to the draining board. There was nothing more to say. Slattery gathered his anorak around him and headed out into the night.
Anita Cullen had lived frugally her whole life. She’d bought a place in South Africa many years before it became anyway fashionable to holiday there. Truth was, she’d only been there a handful of times. Nevertheless, it had the right climate, or at least the right legal climate, it was bought and paid for ten times over, and now she had quite a nest egg wrapped up on the sunny continent. Even with the property crash, Cullen had managed to keep her investments safe. She’d spent her whole career waiting for this day to come, resigned to its inevitability, dreading it, planning it and now that it was here she thanked God she’d planned so meticulously. She’d almost made it to the final fence, obviously she’d rather they’d never found out, have the last laugh without them realising it. Damn it.
There were no direct flights from Shannon to Port Elizabeth; she had to fly to Heathrow and onwards from there. It hadn’t taken long to arrange as much as she needed arranging, most things she could do online. There was only one thing she wanted to do before she left. From deep in her bag, she took a small envelope. She’d kept it with her for twenty-nine years. The only thing she could keep to remind her of the baby she’d buried in scratchy blankets on that windy day. She’d taken them when Theodora wasn’t watching. It had been easy; once Iris had arrived, she’d had no interest in the little boy she’d given birth to. Anita had gently snipped one dark curl from the baby’s head, slipped it and his identity bracelet from the hospital into her purse. Later she’d transferred them into an envelope, carried them like a talisman all these years. But they weren’t hers. Maybe they weren’t Iris Locke’s either, but that was the name Cullen wrote on the outside of the envelope, then she left it in Locke’s cubby hole. It was something, wasn’t it?
By the time Slattery was having his miserable breakfast in the grotty canteen; Anita Cullen was sitting in a taxi headed for her little apartment in the sunny suburbs of Kabega. Despite her bulk she almost skipped up the small path to her complex. She knew she’d never set foot on wet Irish soil again – it had all worked out as she planned in the end.
Chapter Thirty-Six
‘It’s a right shaggin’ mess.’ Slattery said the words low before taking a long sip of the whiskey Grady had poured for him.
‘It is that,’ Grady agreed, but at least the mess was no longer theirs. He’d packaged up everything they had on the Crowe murders, the Baby Fairley disappearance, Veronique Majewski and Idras Locke. Everything had been sent by courier to the Director of Public Prosecutions. It was up to him after that. Grady thanked God it wasn’t his job to decide what happened next. He sipped his whiskey thoughtfully.
‘I think the saddest thing is that tiny baby.’ June looked into her barely touched glass. ‘I’ve never seen anything so pathetic as when he was taken from the ground.’ Grady had been there, they all three had been there – as much for each other as for Iris. She was one of them now – whether she came back or not, she was one of them from here on in. ‘Any word from Iris?’ she asked now, maybe thinking what they were all thinking.
‘No,’ Grady lied, but he kept his voice steady. He’d been talking to her earlier, of course; somehow, she’d stirred something deep inside him, something he thought he’d lost forever. Family? He still wanted to protect her even if he couldn’t quite figure out why. So, he rang her, every day. Same conversation. Same replies. She wasn’t ready yet. She wasn’t ready for anything yet. Grady wasn’t sure she’d ever come back to Corbally station; maybe she’d never be a detective again. Every reason she’d had for the job had been snatched away from her, as surely as her family had, as surely as her whole identity had. She was on extended leave of absence – Grady figured it would be some extension to get past everything she’d learned over the last few weeks.
‘Damn this; I say we go for a right good drink.’ Slattery drained what remained of his Bushmills, pulled his anorak on so it sat at an angle and he looked mo
re like a belligerent schoolboy than a hard man detective sergeant.
‘Slattery,’ June said softly. She looked across at Grady but the slight shake of his head was enough to tell her that it was not a good time. He’d spoken to Angela earlier in the day, told June already. There was nothing they needed from anyone now, just time, as much of it as the Alzheimer’s would give them, and maybe then, when they needed help, they’d know who to ask. June took a sip of the whiskey, grimaced as though she’d been poisoned. ‘I think I’ll pass on the pub, lads, I just want to go home and have a bath – wash this case from my skin.’ She stood beside Slattery; put a hand on his arm.
‘Thanks, June.’ His tone was low and gruff, but Grady and June knew what he meant.
‘You’re welcome,’ June said as she made for the door. Neither of them was built for too much sentimentality, especially not towards each other.
‘Come on.’ Slattery nodded at Grady, and, as he closed the incident room door behind him with a rattle and a click, Grady knew the Crowe case was finally closed.
Epilogue
Woodburn was gone. Razed almost to the ground and with it everything that Iris had taken for granted as her past. She pulled her woollen scarf closer to her neck, feeling a shiver run through her that had little to do with the windy autumn afternoon.
Darkness settled about the trees around the property now, even here, in the garden, she felt the chill of secrets and lies encircle her.
Idras Locke had laid buried here for almost thirty years. It was inconceivable that they had lived their lives walking past his unmarked grave and there had never been a word. Not so much as a mark put on their son’s resting place.
Silent Night: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Page 26