So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2)

by Stuart Neville

  Roberta Garrick stared at her from the threshold, her face blank.

  ‘Mrs Garrick,’ Flanagan said. She swallowed, searched for something to say. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Mrs Garrick asked, stepping into the room.

  ‘Nothing specific,’ Flanagan said.

  ‘It’s hard to find something if you don’t know what it is,’ Mrs Garrick said. ‘I’ll give you anything you need, but I’d consider it a courtesy if you’d ask before you go rummaging through my personal items.’

  Flanagan held Mrs Garrick’s stare. ‘I would have asked if I’d been able to speak with you. But Reverend McKay wouldn’t allow it.’

  Mrs Garrick put her hand to the drawer, began to push it closed.

  ‘Why do you keep your daughter’s photograph in there?’ Flanagan asked.

  Mrs Garrick’s hand paused, the drawer still half open. ‘Because sometimes it’s too hard to look at her. Sometimes I can’t bear it, other times I want to see her, then I take the picture out and hang it up.’ She pushed the drawer the rest of the way, sealing the framed photograph inside. ‘You wanted to talk with me. Let’s get it out of the way.’

  They sat opposite each other in the living room, the blinds open, sunlight reflecting off the polished surfaces. Flanagan, pen in hand, set her notepad open on her lap.

  ‘Reverend McKay tells me you met your husband online,’ Flanagan said.

  Mrs Garrick nodded. ‘That’s right. Lots of people meet like that these days.’

  ‘True,’ Flanagan said. ‘And how long after that did you marry?’

  ‘A bit less than a year.’

  ‘That was quick,’ Flanagan said.

  ‘We knew we were right for each other,’ Mrs Garrick said. ‘Why wait?’

  ‘And you had your little girl within a year. Was she planned?’

  ‘Not really. Harry was a bit older than me. He wasn’t sure about having a baby at his age. But when I realised I was expecting, then we accepted the Lord’s blessing.’

  ‘How did he take your child’s death?’

  Mrs Garrick’s features hardened, her lips thinned. ‘That’s a ridiculous question,’ she said. ‘How do you think he took it?’

  ‘Well, I’m told he coped well with the consequences of his car accident, under the circumstances. Was he able to deal with your child’s death in the same way?’

  ‘No. No, he wasn’t. It almost destroyed him. It almost destroyed us both. We put a brave face on it, but we barely held our marriage together. It took a year to come back to anything resembling a normal life. Even then, it was still difficult. But the Lord got us through it eventually.’

  ‘And Reverend McKay helped.’

  ‘He’s been very good to us. I don’t think we could have coped without him.’

  ‘You and he are particularly close,’ Flanagan said.

  Mrs Garrick nodded. ‘He’s a good friend.’

  An idea flitted across Flanagan’s mind, a question. Too much? Too hard? She asked anyway. ‘More than that?’

  Mrs Garrick stared, her eyes burning. ‘How dare you?’

  Yes, it had been too much, but Flanagan kept her face impassive, would not take it back. ‘It’s just a question.’

  Mrs Garrick stood. ‘We’ll have to do this another time.’

  Flanagan remained seated. ‘Can’t we just keep—’

  ‘Another time,’ Mrs Garrick repeated, a tremor in her voice now. ‘Please.’

  ‘Mrs Garrick, if we can—’

  ‘Isn’t it enough?’ she asked, her voice rising, breaking. Her hands shaking. ‘When is it enough? I have nothing left to give.’

  Now Flanagan stared. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

  Mrs Garrick blinked, seemed to return from somewhere. ‘First my little girl,’ she said, her voice thinner, softer. ‘Now my husband. Just when I think God might let me breathe, let me live, He burns it all down again. I don’t know if I can take any more.’

  Mrs Garrick collapsed back onto the couch, her body limp. Tears spilled.

  Flanagan sat frozen, caught between her instinct to comfort this bereaved woman and the need to follow her suspicion.

  Mrs Garrick shook her head as she spoke, her face contorting as she turned it up to the ceiling, her voice aimed beyond. ‘I can’t, I can’t take any more. If you want to kill me, then kill me. Don’t make me suffer this, please, I’ve had enough. No more, please, no more.’

  Flanagan thought of the white coffin, the devastated car, the body she’d watched being taken apart that morning.

  ‘Christ,’ she whispered. She set her pen and notebook aside, then crossed to the couch, beside Mrs Garrick. She slipped her arm around the other woman’s quivering shoulders, gathered her in.

  Mrs Garrick curled into Flanagan’s lap, muttering, ‘No more, no more, no more . . .’

  Back in her car, Flanagan called DS Murray’s mobile.

  ‘Are you at the station?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Just got the last of the info back from the computer searches.’

  ‘Anything to trouble us?’

  ‘No, ma’am, not that I can see.’

  ‘All right,’ Flanagan said.

  She closed her eyes, placed her free hand on the dashboard, concentrated on the sensation of the soft plastic on her skin, the coolness of it, allowed it to settle her mind.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  Flanagan opened her eyes again. ‘Gather up all the paperwork, all the reports, get everything in order for me to sign off on.’

  ‘You’re going with suicide?’

  ‘Yes,’ Flanagan said. ‘Yes I am.’

  18

  McKay waited for her in the kitchen, a mug of tea long cold in front of him. It had occurred to him to prepare a meal, but he didn’t know what she’d want to eat. What if he made something she didn’t like? The idea of displeasing her caused a small terror in him.

  Could that be right? If he loved Roberta, how could he be afraid of her? And yet he was. McKay banished the thought. To seek logic in the madness of recent days was the maddest idea of all.

  Roberta had said she wouldn’t be long, no more than an hour. It had been more than two going by the clock over the kitchen door, and he had been picking at a thread of worry for thirty minutes now. As the notion that she might not return, that she had fled, began to take form in his mind, the front door opened.

  From the kitchen table, McKay watched Roberta, the fading evening light silhouetting her on the threshold as his fear dissolved. She closed the door and approached the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t worry about the policewoman,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ McKay asked, fear returning, colder and brighter than before. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Never mind why,’ Roberta said. ‘We don’t have to worry about her any more, that’s all.’

  McKay studied her face, but it was unreadable. He wiped his fingers across his dry lips and said, ‘There was a call from the coroner’s liaison. They’ve declared it suicide, pending the inquest, and they’ll have the interim death certificate ready by tomorrow.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ she asked.

  ‘It means you can bury him.’

  Her shoulders fell. She placed a hand on the table to steady herself.

  ‘Then it’s all done,’ McKay said. ‘It’s over.’

  She exhaled, a long, whispery expulsion of air. ‘Over,’ she said. She pulled out the chair opposite McKay and sat down, rested her palms on the table. Stared at some point miles beyond his shoulder.

  ‘We can talk after the funeral.’

  Her gaze returned to him. ‘About what?’ she asked.

  He swallowed. ‘About us.’

  She blinked once and said, ‘I’ll go back home first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘It’d be best.’

  He looked down at his hands. ‘All right.’

  Without speaking further, she stood and left the ki
tchen. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, he called after her.

  ‘Can I bring you something to eat?’

  She did not reply as she climbed the stairs, and the idea that he had lost her reared up again. And again, he told himself no, no she is mine now, always and for ever.

  To think otherwise might kill him. Might kill them both.

  19

  Alistair looked up from his plate as Flanagan let herself through the back door and into the kitchen. Ruth and Eli both glanced in her direction, but neither spoke. Bolognese sauce smeared Eli’s chin. Ruth went back to spinning spaghetti onto her fork.

  ‘Anything for me?’ Flanagan asked.

  Alistair nodded towards the hob. ‘There’s a little left in the pot. I wasn’t expecting you home.’

  Flanagan put her bag on the worktop, slung her jacket over the back of a chair. ‘Well, I wanted to make sure and eat with everyone tonight. I haven’t done that enough lately.’

  Alistair shrugged and picked up his fork. ‘If you’d let me know, I would’ve made more.’

  She scooped the few spoonfuls of minced beef and pasta from the pot onto a plate. ‘This is plenty,’ she said, even though it wasn’t. An empty jar of ready-made sauce sat by the cooker. She took a fork from the drawer and brought the plate to the table. She sat down opposite Alistair, with Ruth and Eli at either side.

  The children stared at their food. Alistair stared at the wall.

  Flanagan reached for the last piece of garlic bread, broke it in two, chewed a mouthful without tasting it. She swallowed and said, ‘So, any news?’

  No one answered.

  ‘Ruth, what about school? Anything happening?’

  Ruth shrugged and said, ‘Same as usual.’

  Flanagan reached for Eli’s hand and asked, ‘What about you, wee man?’

  Eli looked down at Flanagan’s hand, kept his gaze there until she released her hold on him. His hand retreated to his lap.

  ‘All right,’ she said, forcing a laugh into her voice. ‘I’ll just shut up, then, will I?’

  Alistair’s fork clanked on his plate. ‘You can’t just waltz in here and expect us to act like everything’s fine. You’ve barely spoken to your children in months, and you think they’re going to be all over you just because you decided to show up tonight? You know I had to go and see Eli’s teacher today?’

  Flanagan shook her head.

  ‘Mrs Cuthbertson,’ Alistair said. ‘Do you even know that’s who his teacher is? No? Well, I had to go and see her today and be told he’s been picking on other kids.’

  She turned to her son. ‘Oh, Eli, why—’

  ‘Save your breath, I’ve already talked to him about it. The point is, you have no idea what’s going on with your own family. You think it’s just another late night on the job, what does it matter? And every night I’m having to make excuses for you when they ask where you are. Now, I’m at the end of my bloody rope with this. You need to decide if you’re part of this family or not.’

  Ruth pushed her plate away and left the table. Only when she’d gone did Flanagan notice the tiny pools where her tears had fallen.

  ‘If you want to stay with us,’ Alistair continued, ‘then stay with us. But be here with us. Or else there’s no point. Or else you might as well pack up and get out.’

  Now Eli stood and left. His fork rang as it hit the tiled floor.

  ‘Well?’ Alistair said. ‘Are you going to say anything?’

  Flanagan brought her hands together to suppress the tremor of anger. ‘Of course I want to stay here. This is my home. Those are my children. But what are you? You’ve been pushing me away for a year now. Longer than that. Ever since I was first diagnosed, it’s like I was tainted.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’ Alistair sat back, his hands on the table. ‘I did everything I could for you while you were having the treatment.’

  ‘Everything except be my husband.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You know what it means.’

  Alistair’s chair scraped on the tiles as he stood. He said nothing as he left.

  Flanagan brought her hands to her face, rested her elbows on the table.

  ‘Fuck,’ she said. ‘Fuck.’

  Flanagan woke in the night, stirred by her son’s cry.

  A few seconds of disorientation scrambled past before she remembered she had gone to sleep in the spare room, on the lower landing, next to the bathroom. Eli’s cry had come from in there, echoing against the tiles. She threw back the duvet and went to the door, the creeping tendrils of a dream still snaking through her mind.

  She found Eli crouched over a puddle on the floor, his soaked pyjama bottoms bundled beside it. He held a wad of toilet paper in his hand, mopped at the liquid with it. He looked up as she entered, shame and fear on his round face.

  ‘I couldn’t hold on,’ he said, tears coming. ‘I tried really hard, but I couldn’t.’

  Flanagan kneeled down next to him. ‘It’s all right, love, don’t worry about it. It’s just an accident, that’s all. We’ll get it sorted.’

  She pulled more paper from the roll and mopped up the rest then tossed the pyjama bottoms in the laundry hamper. After washing her hands, she reached for the buttons on Eli’s pyjama top.

  ‘Let’s pop you in the shower for a second.’

  Eli pulled away. ‘I want Dad to do it.’

  Flanagan reached again. ‘Dad’s sleeping.’

  ‘No, I want Dad.’

  ‘He’s sleeping. Come on, I can do it.’

  ‘I want Dad!’ His voice rang in her ears.

  Flanagan stood and said, ‘Okay.’ She left Eli there, climbed the short flight of stairs to the top floor and entered the bedroom she should have shared with her husband. She nudged him and said, ‘Eli needs you.’

  Alistair sat up in the bed, blinking in the light from the landing. ‘What?’

  ‘Eli needs you,’ she said. ‘He’s in the bathroom.’

  She returned to the spare room, closed the door, and got back into the cold bed. The tears came then, and she covered her mouth and nose so no one would hear.

  20

  McKay set Roberta’s bags on the hall floor.

  ‘I can bring them upstairs for you if you want,’ he said.

  Roberta followed his gaze up to the double doors of her bedroom. ‘No,’ she said. ‘They’re fine here.’

  She turned and walked to the end of the hall and the closed door to her husband’s death bed. She turned the handle, opened it. McKay saw the bed, the wheeled table, the photographs. The framed verse on the wall.

  ‘Just two days ago,’ she said.

  ‘It’s done now,’ McKay said. ‘No going back.’

  ‘No,’ she said as she pulled the door closed. ‘No going back.’

  They stood at opposite ends of the hall for a time, he staring at her, she staring at the door.

  ‘Look,’ he said eventually, ‘I’ll leave you in peace. I can come over this evening, if you like.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  That cold feeling in his stomach again. He realised it was somehow worse that she hadn’t understood why he offered than if she’d simply said no.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Well, they’re bringing him home tomorrow. With the wake and all the fuss, tonight might be the last chance we have to . . . to . . .’

  He waved his hand towards her bedroom door, feeling heat creep up his neck and into his cheeks. Don’t make me say it out loud, he thought.

  She walked the length of the hall to him, the click-clack of her heels resonating through the house. ‘It’s best we be discreet,’ she said before placing a dry kiss on his cheek.

  ‘For now,’ he said. ‘You’re probably right, let’s keep things simple for now.’

  She nodded, smiled, took his elbow and turned him towards the door.

  McKay saw DCI Flanagan’s Volkswagen Golf as he pulled into the church grounds. He parked his Fiesta by the house and crossed to where she waite
d, the driver’s door open. She looked up at him as he approached, but couldn’t hold his gaze.

  With terror in his heart, McKay asked, ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’

  She glanced up at him and away again, indicated the building that cast a shadow over them both. ‘I thought I might come to the morning service,’ she said.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. ‘Sorry, only Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays for matins.’

  ‘Matins?’

  ‘Morning prayers.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘It’s just . . . I . . . I think I need to pray.’

  She took a seat at the end of the third row, gripped the rolled top of the pew in front of her. Her fingers flexed and relaxed, gripped again. Real strength there, but they were not masculine hands. McKay’s eyes were always drawn to a woman’s hands before any other part of her. The touch of cool soft skin, hard bones within. These were the sensations he recalled when he thought of the few women he had been with in his life.

  ‘Am I supposed to kneel?’ Flanagan asked.

  He looked from her hands, along her arms, her shoulders, up to her face. How frightened she looked. And yet he suspected this was a woman who feared little in the world.

  ‘You can kneel if you want,’ he said. ‘Or you can sit, or you can stand, or you can run laps around the church.’

  He gave her a smile, but the joke seemed lost on her.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘What I’m trying to say is, God doesn’t much care what you do when you pray. All He wants is for you to open your heart to Him.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, returning his smile now, if only a flicker. She looked towards the altar, her eyes wet, reflecting the greens and reds of the stained-glass windows.

  ‘Shall I leave you alone?’ he asked, pointing his thumb back to the vestry.

  She opened her mouth, her voice crackling in her throat before she found the words. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I don’t believe in this.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ McKay asked.

  Flanagan shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  McKay hesitated a moment before sliding into the pew in front of her. He rested his arm on the back. Her hands lifted from the wood, hung in the cool air, then returned, knuckles showing white beneath the skin as she gripped.