The Final Silence (31 page)
Ida smiled. ‘Thank you. You’re a good person.’
Flanagan returned the smile. ‘So are you. You were just in a bad situation.’
Ida dropped her gaze. ‘I’m not a good person. I thought I was, but I’m not. A good person would’ve stood up for her daughter.’
Flanagan went to her side and sat down. She took Ida’s hand in hers. ‘Like I said, a bad situation.’
‘What about him?’
‘Monaghan? He’ll recover, and he’ll be charged with Rea’s murder. It’ll take some time to figure out what we do with the book, whether there’s enough in that to prosecute him, but he’ll answer for what he did to your daughter. I can promise you that.’
Ida touched a finger beneath Flanagan’s chin. ‘And how are you?’
‘I’m okay. Tired. But I’ll live.’
‘Have you told your husband?’
‘No,’ Flanagan said. ‘Tonight. I’ll tell him tonight.’
‘I bet he’s a nice man,’ Ida said.
‘He is.’
‘Then he’ll want to know. He deserves to know. And I expect he’ll be everything you need him to be. He’ll hold your hand through it all. That’s what good men do.’
Flanagan pulled her close, wrapped her arms around her.
The drive home took less than thirty minutes. She had texted Alistair as she got into her car to say she was on her way. She opened the Volkswagen’s windows, used the chill of rushing night air to blow the fatigue from her mind.
Flanagan knew she should have spent the journey going over the conversation she was about to have with her husband, but her thoughts lingered with Ida Carlisle, and her poor daughter. She wondered who Rea Carlisle was in life. In most murder cases she had got to know the victims, as if they were old friends that had slipped away from her orbit and suddenly returned. But not Rea. Flanagan had been too fixated on Lennon, too eager to see it done.
She resolved to get to know Rea. She owed her and her mother that much.
When she got home, Alistair was waiting for her at the kitchen table, pouring a glass of his favourite beer, an American pale ale that cost too much. He had fixed her a gin and tonic. A slice of cucumber trapped between the ice, bubbles clinging to its surface.
He got to his feet, brought the glass to her. She took it from him and set it on the table. His back stiffened with surprise when she kissed him, then his body softened as they embraced.
When they parted, he asked, ‘What was that for?’
‘Just because,’ she said. ‘How’re the kids?’
‘They’re okay. They’ve been asking for you, but I said you’d see them in the morning. Bit of trouble convincing Eli to go to sleep, but fine other than that. I didn’t let them see the news.’
‘Good,’ Flanagan said. She lifted her drink and sat down. Alistair did the same.
He watched her from across the table.
‘How bad was it today?’
‘Bad enough,’ she said.
‘Could you have been hurt?’ he asked. He tried to hide the tremor in his voice, and she loved him for it.
‘It’s always a possibility,’ she said. ‘You know that. But I wasn’t, and that’s what matters.’
His expression hardened, but his voice remained kind. ‘What matters is the children. I live with this constant fear that one of these mornings I’m going to have to wake them up and tell them you’re not coming home.’
Flanagan saw the shake in his hands, the brimming of his eyes.
She said, ‘Darling, I’ve got something to tell you.’
LENNON LINGERED AT
the rear of the crowd. Far enough back that he didn’t have to hear the sobs of Roscoe Patterson’s widow and children at the graveside. Grey clouds billowed over the cemetery, bringing with them a light drizzle.
He knew many of the faces. He’d arrested most of them at one time or another. And some recognised him through the stitches and the bruising. He ignored the hateful glares.
As the mourners dispersed, he sought out Dixie Stoops. He found him shaking the hands and slapping the backs of Rodney Crozier and Dandy Andy Rankin, a pair of men Lennon had witnessed trying to kill each other two and a half years before.
Rankin turned as he approached, looked him up and down. ‘Jesus, a funeral brings the shit to the surface, doesn’t it?’
‘How’s the ticker, Dandy?’ Lennon asked.
‘Shove it up your arse,’ Rankin said as he nudged Crozier’s elbow, and they both walked away, leaving Lennon alone with Dixie.
‘Sad day,’ Dixie said.
Lennon nodded. ‘I’m sorry it happened. And I wanted to thank you for your help. Howard Monaghan would’ve got away if you hadn’t identified him.’
‘Aye,’ Dixie said, ‘and Roscoe wouldn’t have got killed if I hadn’t named him. I’ve got to live with that now.’
‘I imagine you live with worse already.’
Dixie looked to the city skyline. ‘That’s true. You’ll never know the half of it.’
Lennon allowed Dixie to face his memories for a few seconds before he asked, ‘Were you able to do that favour for me?’
Dixie nodded and trudged along the path, away from the crowds, towards the lonelier parts of the cemetery. Lennon followed.
When all around was quiet, and unkempt graves surrounded them, Dixie stopped walking. ‘Have you got your end?’ he asked.
Lennon nodded.
Dixie beckoned with his finger. ‘Let’s see it.’
Lennon took the envelope from his pocket, fat and heavy. ‘It’s all I have left,’ he said.
Dixie reached into his own jacket. ‘Then you shouldn’t have wasted it on this.’
He presented a packet around the size of a paperback book. Lennon handed the money over, and took the packet.
‘You didn’t get that from me,’ Dixie said.
Lennon nodded. ‘Of course not.’
He walked away, followed the pathways out of the cemetery, and back to his car.
Bernie McKenna answered her door after one knock.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘You know what I want,’ Lennon said.
She shouted across the street. ‘Margaret? Margaret!’
Lennon heard a door open behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the teenage girl.
‘What?’
‘Get your daddy.’
The girl disappeared.
Lennon turned back to Bernie. ‘Where is she?’
‘Never you mind where she is. She’s none of your concern. Not any more. Now, go on, get out of here before Kevin comes over and gives you another dig in the mouth.’
‘I’m not going anywhere without my daughter,’ Lennon said.
‘I told you the last time, talk to my solicitor. You get proof you’re that child’s father, and then we can see about access.’
‘Bring her out here now,’ Lennon said. ‘That’s your last warning.’
A movement in the hall behind Bernie, then, ‘Daddy!’
Ellen ran towards the front door, arms outstretched, but Bernie intercepted her, scooped her away. A cousin, Lennon couldn’t remember which, appeared from nowhere and took the child from Bernie’s arms.
‘Are you back for more?’ Kevin McKenna’s voice called from behind. He stopped when he saw Lennon’s face. ‘Fuck me, somebody else got to you first.’
‘Walk away,’ Lennon said.
‘Fuck off,’ McKenna said, jerking his thumb in the direction of Lennon’s car, idling in the middle of the street.
When McKenna was ten feet away, Lennon drew the small revolver from his waistband, the pistol Dixie Stoops had sourced for him, and aimed it square at the big man’s forehead.
McKenna froze.
‘Go back inside your house,’ Lennon said. ‘Close the door behind you. I won’t tell you again.’
McKenna gave an uncertain laugh. ‘Oh, so we’re waving guns around now, are we? Don’t show me that unless you mean—’
Lennon cocked the hammer.
‘All right,’ McKenna said. ‘But you better keep one eye over your shoulder, boy. I’ll catch up with you before too long, don’t you worry.’
He backed away, across the street, into his house, slammed the door shut.
Lennon turned his aim on Bernie.
‘You’re insane,’ she said.
Lennon ignored her. ‘Ellen, come with me, love.’
Ellen writhed in her cousin’s grip. ‘Let me go,’ she hissed.
Bernie sneered. ‘Oh, the big tough man with the gun. Taking a child from her family.’
‘I’m her family,’ Lennon said. ‘Let her go right now.’
‘She’s not going—’
The cousin squealed as Ellen’s teeth closed on her hand. Ellen ran towards Lennon, slapped Bernie’s clutching hands away as she passed. She hugged Lennon around his waist.
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
Lennon kept his aim on Bernie as he backed towards his car. ‘Never contact me again,’ he said. ‘And stay away from my daughter.’
Curtains twitched all around, faces at windows. Lennon had no fear of a call being made to the police. Not on this street.
He didn’t hear Bernie’s response as he bundled Ellen into the back of the car and strained his way into the driver’s seat. He saw Bernie and the cousin in the rear-view mirror, running along the street behind him as he accelerated away.
‘You shouldn’t bite people,’ he said. ‘Put your seatbelt on.’
‘You shouldn’t point guns at people,’ Ellen said. ‘And put your seatbelt on. Are we going home to Susan and Lucy?’
‘No,’ Lennon said.
‘Then where are we going?’
For want of a lie, Lennon said, ‘I don’t know.’
As ever, I must thank those who helped me through the writing and publication of this book.
First and foremost is my agent, Nat Sobel, whose support and advice helped me through a very difficult time while trying to write this novel. And also Judith Weber and all at Sobel Weber Associates, and Caspian Dennis at Abner Stein Ltd.
My editors Geoff Mulligan and Juliet Grames; it is a great privilege to work with such talented people, and they make editing the most pleasurable stage of the process for me.
All the great people at Vintage Books and Soho Press, including Alison Hennessey, Bronwen Hruska and Paul Oliver. I’m very fortunate to have these partners in my career, and I can’t imagine doing it without them.
Special thanks to three people who helped me with some research points: Dr Denise Shirley for the medical insights; Caroline Kerr for explaining the legal stuff in simple enough terms for a dimwit like me to understand; Colonel Ant for the nuts and bolts of policing. And also Billy Scott for showing me all the parts of Belfast I never knew before.
All the writers, publishing pros, booksellers, reviewers, and my closer circle of friends, who are far too numerous to name. As ever, I’ll single out David Torrans and his fabulous bookstore, No Alibis, for his unwavering support. And Fiona Murphy for the ‘Where are my eyes?’ story.
My family for sticking with me: Issy, Ezra, and even Sweeney. Finally, my most heartfelt thanks to my wife Jo who put up with a very, very grumpy husband when the words weren’t coming. I really, really couldn’t have done it without you, my love.
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Epub ISBN: 9781448138487
Version 1.0
Published by Harvill Secker 2014
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Copyright © Stuart Neville 2014
Stuart Neville has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
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ARVILL
S
ECKER
Random House
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London SW1V 2SA
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781846556944
