Those We Left Behind

by Stuart Neville

  ‘Hello?’ he said, knowing already who it was.

  Niamh lingered in the kitchen doorway, her face expressionless, as Daniel spoke with the police officers around the small dining table. A sergeant and a constable, both tall men, dark green uniforms. He noticed the pistols at their belts. They smelled of fried food. He pictured them in their patrol car, parked up in some side street, eating fish and chips.

  The sergeant did most of the talking. He said there would be no further action, they just wanted a quick chat. No harm done. But don’t go back.

  ‘I won’t,’ Daniel said. ‘I shouldn’t have gone in the first place. Please pass on my apologies.’

  ‘Miss Cunningham believes you were following her this morning,’ the sergeant said. ‘And that you’d followed her and a client yesterday. Is that correct?’

  Daniel cleared his throat. ‘That client confessed to killing my father.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ the sergeant said, ‘but Miss Cunningham is just doing her job, and you’ve no call to be harassing her. If you have an issue with how the Probation Board has handled things, then there are ways of raising your concerns with them. You don’t go doorstepping people. Now, I believe you got Miss Cunningham’s address through your workplace. Where’s that, exactly?’

  The sergeant wrote on his notepad as Daniel told him. ‘Hang on, you’re not going to tell them what happened, are you?’

  ‘I’m not,’ the sergeant said. ‘But if Miss Cunningham wants to make a complaint about how you used her information, then I think she’s entitled, don’t you?’

  Daniel said nothing. Over the sergeant’s shoulder, he saw Niamh close her eyes and shake her head. Her lips so thin they almost disappeared.

  ‘Anyway, I think you’ve got the message.’ The sergeant got to his feet. ‘I don’t want to be hearing any more about this. Understood?’

  ‘Yes,’ Daniel said.

  The policemen saw themselves out. They did not speak to Niamh as they passed. She came to the table, sat down opposite Daniel. He kept his gaze on the grain of the oak tabletop.

  After a while, she said, ‘Well?’

  Daniel swallowed. ‘Can we talk about it tomorrow?’

  ‘No, we can talk about it now.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘You could start with telling me why.’

  He looked up, met her gaze, saw the anger there. ‘I thought if I could just talk to her, get her to ask Ciaran the right questions, maybe she could get the truth out of him.’

  ‘But what good would it do now? They served their sentences. Even if the wrong one was convicted, they both did time. What could you possibly gain from this?’

  ‘I could clear my father’s name. They said he was abusing Thomas. The things they said my father did. That never went away. Even though nothing was ever proved, what they said followed me and my mother around. You know what happened to Mum, what those lies did to her.’

  A little of the anger faded from Niamh’s eyes. ‘Yes, I know. But you can’t help her now. You can’t change anything.’

  ‘I can’t help her, but what about me? I can help myself. What’s so wrong with that?’

  She reached for his hand, held it tight. ‘Look, I understand how angry you are. I know how important all this is to you. But if we’re going to stay together, you have to promise me you’ll let it go. Maybe get some counselling. Maybe we could go away for a couple of weeks. Whatever it takes to help you get past this.’

  Daniel shook his head. ‘If you really understood how I felt, you’d know there isn’t any getting past this.’

  Tears formed in her eyes. ‘Then where does that leave us?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  Niamh slept on her own in the bedroom while Daniel took the couch in the living room. Sleep came and went in slow waves, bringing memories and dreams, the real and the unreal overlapping. He recalled his mother’s long decline, how she had crumbled from the inside out. The pills from the doctor dulling her edges but not flushing out the rot that had taken hold of her mind. He had gone to live with his aunt and uncle, their children viewing him with the same distrust as he had viewed the foster kids that had invaded his own home over the years.

  He remembered his aunt taking him to see his mother – still in the old house, in spite of everything – the weekend before the news of her suicide came. She had seemed better, more alert, more positive. Changes, she had said. She was going to make changes, make things better, so Daniel could come back home.

  Then, three days later, she had driven for miles along the Ards Peninsula and found a small, isolated beach. There, she had undressed at the edge of the water, and walked naked into the surf. Her body washed up two days later. The coroner had said the cold probably killed her before she drowned.

  Daniel did not cry at his mother’s funeral. He would not allow himself.

  The next morning, Niamh left for work without speaking to him.

  A text message from Melanie Sherry at 8:37 a.m. asked him to call in to her office at ten-thirty. Daniel showered, dressed in fresh clothes, and went to catch the bus.

  19

  WEARINESS DRIED FLANAGAN’S eyes as she stepped from the shower and towelled herself. She went to the mirror over the hand basin, watched her reflection as she ran a brush through her wet hair.

  She did not look down.

  With no conscious effort, she had developed a knack for avoiding seeing her body. She had only become aware of the habit of aversion in recent weeks and quickly decided she could forgive herself for this foible. Now, she made herself look.

  It wasn’t that bad. It really wasn’t. Other women had it so much worse, their bodies devastated, but she had needed no reconstruction. In truth, it was only a bit of scarring, just like she’d said to Alistair two nights ago. It had only been a lumpectomy, after all. She examined the shiny pink disturbance of flesh on her breast.

  No, it wasn’t that bad.

  But it was bad enough.

  Of course, her body had changed over the years: she was far from the pert girl she had been twenty-five years ago. Age and childbearing had taken their toll, and the Tamoxifen she now had to take daily had caused her to gain a little weight, but she’d done her best to keep in shape.

  Now this, this mark that she would carry for the rest of her days. Her body was no longer her own. It belonged to the cancer now. No wonder Alistair couldn’t bring himself to touch her, not if she could barely stand to look at herself.

  Flanagan cursed and turned away from the mirror, feeling guilt for considering her husband so shallow, and for her own self-pity. Poor-me wallowing, and she’d be damned if she’d indulge in it.

  She had slept badly the night before. Alistair had lain on the bed beside her, listening attentively, a serious expression on his face, while she recounted what had happened to Penny and Ronnie Walker. He passed no comment on her suspicion of Julie Walker’s account of events.

  ‘Well, argue with me,’ she had said, ‘tell me I’m wrong, whatever, just say something, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked. ‘Should I tell you you’re crazy? Or should I tell you you’ve nailed it?’

  ‘Just tell me what you think.’

  ‘I think you’ve got nothing solid to base this on,’ he said. ‘All you’ve really got is a feeling. Is that enough to accuse this woman of killing her parents?’

  ‘It’s not enough to arrest her, but surely it’s enough to take a second look, to ask some questions.’

  ‘Don’t you think this other DCI – Conn, wasn’t it? – don’t you think he’s capable of sorting through this case for himself?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Flanagan said, hearing the hard edge of defensiveness in her own voice. ‘But he doesn’t know the victims like I do.’

  Alistair turned on to his side, facing away from her, pulled the duvet up to his chin. ‘Get some sleep,’ he said. ‘Worrying about this isn’t going to do you or them any good.�
��

  But she slept little, turning it over and over in her mind, trying to see every angle. Yes, the events appeared to have flowed in exactly the way Julie Walker described them. A suicide pact between a couple unable to face their own future. Ronnie Walker putting that pillow over his wife’s face, bearing his weight down on her even as her body fought to live. When Flanagan tried to picture such an act, she simply could not. Not dear shambling Ronnie who no more had the will to take a human life than he had the power to walk on water.

  And Penny. She would not ask such a thing of her husband, even if she had no desire to let the disease take its agonising course.

  But Julie Walker – could she do this? Could she take two lives, snuff out her parents as if they were lame horses? Was it to spare them the pain of separation? Or was it that she couldn’t face caring for her father in his dwindling years?

  These questions kept Flanagan from sleep through much of the night, and now her mind felt weighted by them.

  A little after ten o’clock, Flanagan sat at her desk, rereading the notes from the Milligan case, fighting the weight of her fatigue as her head nodded forward again and again. The ring of the telephone cut like a light through the fog inside her head, and she was glad of the disturbance as she reached for the handset.

  ‘I’ve got a Paula Cunningham from the Probation Board,’ the duty officer said. ‘Shall I put her through?’

  ‘Yes,’ Flanagan said, curious.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you again,’ Cunningham said. ‘I wondered if we could have another talk about Ciaran Devine.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘In person.’

  Flanagan hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘All right. Where?’

  A coffee shop on the Lisburn Road, on the southern edge of Belfast. Noon, they agreed, and ended the conversation.

  Flanagan had given little thought to Ciaran Devine, or his brother, in the day or two since his release. He was grown now, had served his time, and had nothing to do with Flanagan any more. Now she remembered the boy, so young, so still and quiet on the other side of the interview room desk. She thought of the family he and his brother had destroyed, the devastation they’d left behind.

  MONDAY 26TH MARCH 2007

  Flanagan sat on an armchair in the Rolstons’ living room, Mrs Rolston on the couch, a tissue pressed to her mouth, her eyes red. Beside her, Daniel Rolston, a pimply boy, still carrying puppy fat. The kind of boy who got bullied at school, who was picked last for sports. He had been staying with an aunt and uncle since yesterday. They had driven him over and now waited in the kitchen.

  Only two days since Flanagan had last been in this room. It had seemed darker, smaller then. Now the sun shone through the window, glinting off china and picture frames. But the sunlight did not touch the Rolstons, as if averting its gaze in shame.

  ‘Have you charged them yet?’ Mrs Rolston asked.

  ‘No,’ Flanagan said. ‘We have the confession from Ciaran, but we can’t take it at face value. Confessions from children are always treated with caution. A child in custody will say almost anything to get out. We have to be certain before the charge is made.’

  Daniel spoke, then. ‘It wasn’t Ciaran,’ he said. ‘It was Thomas.’

  Flanagan paused, then asked, ‘Why do you think that, Daniel?’

  ‘Because Ciaran’s my friend. Thomas is the mean one.’

  Mrs Rolston took Daniel’s hand. ‘Ciaran hasn’t got a school placement yet,’ she said. ‘Thomas has to take a bus across town for his school, so there were about forty minutes or so on school days when Ciaran and Daniel were alone together. They got to be pals, sort of, as much as anyone can be friends with a boy like Ciaran.’ She looked directly at Flanagan, lowered her voice as if her son wasn’t sitting right beside her. ‘Daniel doesn’t have many friends.’

  ‘Thomas used to hurt me,’ Daniel said. ‘I told Mum and Dad, but Mum didn’t believe me.’

  Mrs Rolston squeezed his fingers between hers. ‘I thought it was just boys being boys. You know how rough they play. David gave the boys a talking-to, all three of them, told them to go easy.’

  Daniel pulled his hand away. ‘You should’ve believed me.’

  Mrs Rolston seemed to retreat into herself as she dropped her gaze to the crumpled tissue in her lap. ‘It was David wanted to foster children, not me,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t have any more after Daniel, so David wanted to take in the ones who needed help, as he put it. He was an orphan himself, you see. He thought he was doing good. They were decent kids at heart, he said, they just needed a bit of care. He was trying to help Thomas with his schoolwork, telling him he could make something of himself. And look what that got him.’

  When she was sure Mrs Rolston had finished, Flanagan leafed through her notes and said, ‘I have a difficult question to put to you. I have to warn you both, you’ll find this upsetting.’

  Mrs Rolston looked up from her tissue. Daniel kept his stare fixed on the wall somewhere over Flanagan’s shoulder.

  ‘The Devine brothers have made an accusation against Mr Rolston.’

  ‘What kind of accusation?’

  Flanagan swallowed. ‘They have alleged that Mr Rolston sexually abused Thomas Devine repeatedly over the three months leading up to the killing.’

  Fresh tears welled in Mrs Rolston’s eyes before rolling down her pale cheeks. ‘The bastards,’ she said, her voice quivering in her chest. ‘Those evil little bastards.’

  Her hands began to shake.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Rolston, I understand how difficult this is, but I have to ask. Had you any knowledge or suspicion that your husband might have abused Thomas?’

  Mrs Rolston shook her head. ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘I have to ask the question, however hard it is.’

  ‘I’d like you to leave now.’

  Flanagan turned to the boy. ‘Daniel, have you ever seen or heard anything like this? Had your father ever behaved inappropriately towards you?’

  ‘Get out,’ Mrs Rolston said as she stood.

  ‘Daniel?’

  Daniel stared straight ahead.

  ‘Get out of my house,’ Mrs Rolston said, her voice rising in pitch and volume with each word, her finger pointing to the door.

  ‘Please, Mrs Rolston, I have no choice but to follow this line—’

  ‘Get the fuck out of my house!’

  The force of Mrs Rolston’s cry jangled in Flanagan’s ears.

  Footsteps in the hall, then the door opened, and the uncle looked through. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Get this bitch out of my house,’ Mrs Rolston shouted, her voice shrill and piercing. ‘Get her out of my fucking house right now!’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Flanagan said, packing away her notebook and pen. ‘We can do this another time. Thank you.’

  She looked no one in the eye as she left the room, hurried along the hall, and exited the house. Once inside her car, she closed her eyes and willed herself to be calm.

  The social worker – a different one from yesterday and the day before – looked bored as she sat beside Ciaran in the interview room. She had contributed almost nothing to the interview save for the occasional nudge or whisper in the boy’s ear.

  Flanagan had stacked up hour after hour in this room. She’d worked Ciaran all day yesterday, and more today. The vague questions narrowing down until they reached the specifics of the act. Nothing changed. Not a single variation in the answers. It bothered her that neither he nor Thomas had misremembered a single detail the way most people would under pressure.

  It was too good.

  ‘I spoke with Mrs Rolston and her son earlier today,’ Flanagan said. ‘Mrs Rolston denied any knowledge or suspicion of her husband ever abusing your brother. Do you have anything to say to that, Ciaran?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘For the record, the detained person responded in the negative. Ciaran, I also spoke by telephone with three boys the Rolstons fostered over the
years. They’re grown-ups now. I asked all of them if Mr Rolston had ever sexually abused them. All of them said no. In fact, all three of them were very shocked at the suggestion. They all said Mr Rolston had been very kind to them. I’m going to speak with as many boys the Rolstons fostered as I can. I have to tell you, I expect their responses to be similar. Do you have any comment to make?’

  Again, Ciaran shook his head.

  ‘The detained person has responded in the negative. Ciaran, please think very carefully about what you’re accusing Mr Rolston of. You have to think about how much more hurt this is going to cause his family. Remember we talked about the truth? The truth is the best thing for everybody – for you, for Thomas, for Daniel, for Mrs Rolston. If Mr Rolston did those things to Thomas, then that’s what you have to tell me, and the court when it comes to trial. But if he didn’t, Ciaran, please don’t lie about it.’

  ‘He did do it to Thomas,’ Ciaran said. ‘I heard him. That’s why I had to kill him. To make it stop.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell anyone before that? You could’ve told your case worker. A teacher at school. The police. Anyone.’

  ‘No one would believe us,’ Ciaran said.

  ‘They might have,’ Flanagan said. ‘Then you wouldn’t have had to hurt Mr Rolston. You wouldn’t be here now.’

  ‘I had to kill him,’ Ciaran said, staring hard at Flanagan. ‘For Thomas.’

  ‘So?’ Flanagan asked as DCI Purdy shut off the video.

  DI Mark Speers studied his own notes across the table. He had logged hours of interviews with Thomas Devine, he and Flanagan reporting back to Purdy. Newspapers lay scattered over the surface of the table, the Sunday rags, and Monday dailies. And not just the local Belfast papers. There was the Sun, the Mirror, the Daily Mail. Glaring headlines about the barbaric killing of a decent man by the children in his care. The Devine brothers hadn’t been named, though the reporters surely knew who was in custody, and Flanagan hoped that would remain the case.