Those We Left Behind (18 page)

THE SHEET OF
paper sat on the desk, sealed in a clear plastic bag. The handwritten words glaring blue, Daniel Rolston’s blood a deep maroon. Punctures from the dog’s teeth.

Flanagan studied the weariness on Cunningham’s features as she sat opposite. She’d offered to postpone the statement, allow the probation officer to get some sleep, but Cunningham had declined.

Sleep had proved evasive for Flanagan as well. As Alistair had snored and snuffled beside her, she had lain awake, trying not to think about Ciaran Devine or the feel of his hands in hers. All her life she had been a rational person, every action driven by logic above all things. She knew the strange feelings she’d experienced were a reaction to Alistair’s fear of her body, and an instinct to care for this wounded young man. That was all, an intersection of emotions resulting in an irrational desire that would never, could never, be fulfilled.

Her higher mind should have been able to compartmentalise that feeling, fence it off from the rest of her consciousness, but somehow it could not. Instead, the desire lingered softly there, like the memory of a bright light trapped behind her eyelids.

Now when Cunningham stifled a yawn, Flanagan had the urge to do the same.

Flanagan pointed to the page. ‘I’ll get that off to Carrickfergus this morning. The Forensic Service are still working through the materials from Daniel Rolston’s death, but they should have the report back before too long. Three or four days, maybe. If Thomas left any traces, they’ll find them. They didn’t find anything on your letterbox, though.’

‘No,’ Cunningham said. ‘Looks like he’s careful.’

‘Very. He left nothing of any use at the murder scene. But he’ll slip up sooner or later. They always do. You should know I’m going to apply for a Crime Prevention Order, stop Ciaran and Thomas from seeing each other.’

‘That’s a big step. It’ll destabilise Ciaran.’

‘He’s a suspect in a murder case. How stable do you think he is now?’

‘Can’t you wait?’ Cunningham asked. ‘As soon as Ciaran’s arrested, put under caution, the notification will come through the Reportable Incidents Desk. Then I’ll have grounds to call a Risk Management Meeting. We can push to have his release licence revoked. Have him back in Hydebank where he can be watched. If he’s out and free when you separate him from his brother, God knows how he’ll react. At least if he’s in custody, he can be controlled.’

Flanagan felt a defensive anger rise. She quelled it and said, ‘Controlling him isn’t the objective. Getting the truth is. I’ve a better chance of doing that if going back to Hydebank is a threat I can hang over him. If you have his licence revoked, that leverage is lost.’

Cunningham visibly tensed in her seat. ‘My primary concern, my job, is to stop Ciaran harming himself or anyone else.’

‘Then you’ve already failed,’ Flanagan said.

Cunningham’s face first paled then reddened. A tremor in her voice. ‘You think I don’t know that?’

Flanagan felt a sting of regret, exhaled as she slumped back in her chair. ‘That was uncalled for. I apologise. But I’ve made my decision. I’m making the application.’

‘I advise against it.’

‘Noted,’ Flanagan said. ‘But I’ll do my job as I see fit.’

‘These past seven years,’ Cunningham said, ‘you’ve suspected Ciaran was innocent, even though you helped put him away. That’s a heavy thing to carry around with you.’

‘I’ve carried worse,’ Flanagan said. ‘I still do. Look, we had all the evidence in the world to say the brothers were there, that they were both involved to some extent. And then Ciaran confessed, and that was that. Didn’t matter what doubts I had, I wasn’t in charge of the case. Once the confession was on record, the PPS went for the conviction. I did everything I could to stop it.’

Flanagan paused, wondered if she should say it. She took a breath.

‘There’s something you should probably know about Ciaran. And me.’

Cunningham tilted her head. ‘Oh?’

‘You know I spent more time with him than anybody. I got him to come out of his shell, just a little. It was me he confessed to. We actually got to be quite close in those few days. But there was more to it for him.’

‘What, you mean he had a crush on you?’

‘Something like that. Remember, he was at that age, just hitting puberty. I was the only woman he’d ever spent time with, the only one who’d ever shown any interest in him. At the time, I thought it was a maternal thing. Like I’d become a mother figure to him. I mean, Christ, I was in my late thirties then, it wasn’t like I was some young dolly-bird to tempt him. It wasn’t until the end I realised it was more than that in Ciaran’s mind.’

‘Did he say something?’ Cunningham asked.

‘No, it wasn’t what he said . . .’

Flanagan did not finish the thought, and Cunningham did not ask her to elaborate, so she left it unsaid.

‘He wrote me a letter after the conviction, before he was sentenced. I suppose you could call it a love letter. But a schoolboy’s idea of one.’

‘What did you do with it?’

‘I destroyed it,’ Flanagan said. The same lie she had told Purdy. And her husband. ‘The thing is, when I went to talk to him last night, when we were face to face. Whatever he felt for me, it was still there.’

‘Does that mean you’ll have to step away, hand this over to someone else?’

‘Possibly,’ Flanagan said. ‘That, or I use it. See if I can get Ciaran to open up to me again.’

Cunningham stared at her from across the desk. ‘You can’t. It’s too dangerous.’

Flanagan did not back down from her gaze. ‘Yes, it’s dangerous, but it might be my only way in. If we can’t find anything to link either of the brothers directly to Daniel’s killing, something real and solid, then getting Ciaran to talk is all I’ve got left.’

‘But the security guard at Forestside—’

‘Saw Daniel in a confrontation with two young men. I’ve got DS Ballantine going through the CCTV footage right now. Even if it clearly shows the Devines, all that proves is they had some sort of argument on Saturday morning. It doesn’t prove anything about what happened that evening.’

Cunningham shook her head. ‘He’s a very vulnerable young man. You can’t manipulate him like that.’

‘I can,’ Flanagan said, feeling her own features harden. ‘And if I have to, I will.’

CUNNINGHAM STEERED HER
car through the estate, past the murals, beneath the flags, deeper until she found the expanse of waste ground at its centre. She parked close to the Portakabin, got out of the car, and looked for Ciaran.

There, at the far end, digging within a rectangle formed by tape suspended between metal posts. She skirted the ground, and the men who worked there, and made her way towards him. The men ignored her until she set foot on the coarse grassy earth, entering their dominion. Then the catcalls started. Whistles, mostly. Nothing too offensive yet.

Ciaran looked up, saw her coming. She watched his face as it went from an almost serene blankness to fear, a flash of what might have been anger, then nothing. He set the spade down, stood up straight and watched her approach.

Jeers from the other men, suggestions about what she might want with Ciaran. Ciaran blushed, dropped his gaze. A foreman shouted at the men to shut their mouths, leave the lad alone. Cunningham might have reminded the foreman that she was the true target of their taunts, but she doubted he would have understood. She realised she should have sought the foreman’s permission before disturbing Ciaran’s work, but she no longer felt inclined to extend that courtesy.

‘Can I have a word?’ she asked.

Ciaran ducked under the tape, pulled his gloves off, wiped his hands on his jeans.

‘I just wanted to see how you were getting on,’ Cunningham said. ‘Are you enjoying it?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. He smiled.

Actually smiled. Cunningham couldn’t help but mirror the expression.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Shall we take a walk?’

Ciaran looked over her shoulder. She followed his gaze. An older man stood watching: the foreman. He would know the score, know Cunningham was a probation officer checking on her client. The foreman nodded. Cunningham did the same, then looked back to Ciaran.

‘Come on,’ she said.

Cunningham made it a habit to visit her clients on their first day in a job. Normally, if nowhere was available, she’d speak with them in her car. But the idea of sitting so close to Ciaran, being so confined with him, sent a shiver to her centre. Instead they walked around the perimeter of the square of houses facing the waste ground. Curtains twitched as they passed, residents watching the interlopers.

‘It’s good to work,’ Cunningham said.

Ciaran kept his hands in his pockets. ‘Yeah.’

‘Have you made any friends?’

Ciaran’s face brightened. ‘Emmet. He shared his lunch with me.’

‘That was kind of him. You’ll remember to bring your own tomorrow, won’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ Ciaran said.

Cunningham wondered if there would be any work for Ciaran tomorrow. A young policewoman had knocked Flanagan’s door before she left, said she’d found the footage they needed. Said it looked like the Devines. Flanagan would have them both in custody that evening. This might be Cunningham’s last chance to talk to Ciaran outside of a cell. At least until he was released for lack of evidence.

‘I know about last night,’ she said. ‘About the police talking to you.’

Ciaran did not reply.

‘I want you to think very carefully, Ciaran. Think about where you’ve been for the last seven years. Where you could be seven years from now. See, there’s something I know about you, Ciaran.’

He stopped, looked at her, terror on his face. ‘What?’

‘People think you’re stupid, don’t they?’

He looked back to his feet.

‘Because you’re quiet, because you don’t say much, they think maybe you’re not that bright. But I’ve seen the reports. You’re a very smart young man. You could be anything you want to be. You could go back to school. Go to night classes, get your GCSEs, maybe even A levels. Who knows, you could go to university if you worked hard enough. But you’ve always let Thomas do the talking, haven’t you?’

Ciaran started walking again. Cunningham caught him up, kept pace beside him.

‘You let Thomas do the talking, and you’ve always let him do your thinking too. Isn’t that right? He’s made you believe you can’t talk or think for yourself, that you need him to do it for you. But that isn’t true. You don’t need Thomas to do anything for you. There’s nothing he can do that you can’t do yourself. I know you love him, but you don’t need him.’

‘Fucking shut up.’

He stopped, visibly shaken at his own words. He looked away, put his gaze anywhere but on her.

‘Ciaran, don’t talk to me like that,’ Cunningham said.

‘Sorry,’ he said, barely audible above the sounds of the estate around them.

‘Okay. Look, I don’t know how things are going to go over the next few days. I do know you could be in a lot of trouble. I mean the worst kind of trouble. So you need to think, Ciaran. Think about how much you want to give Thomas. Do you want to give him the rest of your life? You’ve got a future now. Are you going to sacrifice yours for his? Whatever happened seven years ago, whatever happened two nights ago, all that matters now is you tell the truth. Even if that means hurting your brother.’

‘I should go back to work,’ Ciaran said.

‘Okay, I need to get back to the office anyway. Off you go.’

He turned and walked back towards the site.

‘Ciaran,’ she called after him.

He stopped and looked back at her.

‘You’re your own person. Your brother doesn’t own you. Just remember that.’

She watched him as he returned to his patch of ground, to his spade, and started digging again.

CIARAN SITS ALONE
in the interview room.

They were waiting for him at the hostel when the van dropped him and the others off at the end of the day’s work. Serena Flanagan wasn’t there; instead, it was the younger policewoman, the one who had stood at the door and taken notes the night before. Her and two policemen in uniforms. She said something about rights as one of the policemen bound Ciaran’s hands behind his back, the metal of the cuffs digging into his wrists.

Ciaran kept quiet as the other boys watched. Mr Wheatley stood in his office doorway, looking at the floor. Ciaran stayed quiet as he was led away, put in the back of the car, driven to the station in Antrim, the same one they took him to seven years ago. They swapped his clothes for the same navy blue sweatshirt and bottoms, the same plimsolls, but a better fit now.

They told him DCI Flanagan would be with him presently. Ciaran tingled at the idea.

Now he waits quietly.

The door opens, startling him. He looks up, expecting, hoping, to see her.

It’s a man in a suit. Ciaran exhales disappointment along with spent air.

The man sets a file on the table, extends his hand. Ciaran takes it, feels the man’s soft grip before releasing it.

‘Ciaran, my name’s Michael Wells, I’m the solicitor that’s been appointed for you. You’re going to be interviewed under caution, so I need to be here to advise you. Do you understand?’

Ciaran nods.

Wells sits down. ‘Now, I’ve been looking over the case and what the police have against you. It’s very little, just some alleged footage of you and your brother in an altercation with the deceased man. Not enough to charge anyone, so you don’t need to worry. They’re going to push you hard on this, so your best bet is to just say no comment to everything. All right?’

Ciaran nods again.

‘So long as you keep your mouth shut, they’ve nothing to hold you for. They’ll have to let you go within twenty-four hours. They can apply for an extension, but as far as I can see, they’ve no grounds. Okay. Are you ready?’

‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says.

Wells gets to his feet, opens the door, says a word to someone outside.

Serena Flanagan and the other policewoman follow him back into the room. Wells sits down beside Ciaran, the two women across the table.

Serena smiles as she organises her notepad and pen. Ciaran can’t help but smile back. The other policewoman shows Ciaran and Wells two sealed blank CDs before she opens them and loads them into the audio recorder at the end of the table.

Then they begin.