So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2)

by Stuart Neville

Roberta gathered up the plate and cutlery from dinner, clearing space on the wheeled table that overhung the bed.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ Mr Garrick said.

  As McKay went to the chair by the bed, Roberta carried the plate to the door, out into the hall, and started to close it behind her.

  ‘Are you going?’ McKay asked, a hard edge to his voice he hadn’t intended. He cleared his throat. ‘I thought you might stay and chat with us.’

  She shook her head. ‘Sure, you boys chat away and I’ll get the dishes done.’

  If not for the panic in his breast, he might have noted for the hundredth time how her accent took on her husband’s soft country lilt when she was around him.

  The door closed, and McKay stared at the wood until Mr Garrick said, ‘Sit down, Peter, sit down.’

  McKay did so, holding out the yogurt pot.

  ‘Oh, she’s got me the fancy stuff this time. Set it on the table, there, I’ll have it in a wee bit.’

  McKay put the pot on the table, then put his hands on his knees. His mind scrambled for something to say, anything, anything at all.

  ‘For a man who came to chat, you’re awful quiet tonight,’ Mr Garrick said. ‘No crack with you?’

  McKay swallowed and said, ‘No, nothing at all, just work at the minute. How’ve you been?’

  ‘Oh, much the same, good days and bad days. More bad than good, if I’m honest. If it wasn’t for Ro, I wouldn’t be able to stick it.’

  Ro. His pet name for her. McKay could never call her that.

  Mr Garrick winked, the gesture creasing the pink scar tissue on his cheek. ‘Still no movement in your love life, then? No wee Dilsey-Janes chasing after you?’

  McKay felt heat in his cheeks. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve no time for that.’

  ‘Then make time.’ Mr Garrick raised a clawed hand to him. ‘Cherchez la femme, as the man says. You should try online. There’s no shame in it these days. Sure, I did all right out of it, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ McKay said. ‘You have that to be thankful for, at least.’

  ‘At least,’ Mr Garrick echoed. ‘Speaking of thanks, maybe we should say a few words to Him upstairs, what do you think?’

  ‘Would you like to?’

  Mr Garrick’s eyes glistened. ‘Yes, I’d like to.’

  Even though there was nothing he wanted less at that moment, McKay said, ‘All right.’

  He leaned forward, bowed his head, put his hands on the edge of the bed, brought them together. He inhaled, ready to speak, but Mr Garrick started first.

  ‘Dear Lord,’ he said, ‘I just want to thank you for all my blessings. I’ve had some hard times, but You’ve blessed me with good friends. And I thank You for bringing Ro to me, and I pray that You give her the strength to care for me the way she has done so far.’

  McKay felt knuckles nudge his shoulder.

  ‘And Dear God, I pray You put some sense into this man’s head, and help him get up off his backside and find a decent woman, because he deserves one as much as he needs one. Amen.’

  In spite of himself, McKay smiled and said, ‘Amen.’

  He looked up at the table, the yogurt pot, the spoon.

  ‘Maybe you don’t want that,’ he said, standing as he reached for it. ‘I’ll put it into the bin for you.’

  Mr Garrick hooked his clawed hand around the pot. ‘No, you’re not taking that off me. That’s the good stuff, and I’m not wasting it.’

  With his right hand he was able to grip the spoon between his thumb and index finger. He scooped yogurt into his mouth, worked it around his tongue, and swallowed. He opened and closed his mouth a few times.

  McKay sat down again, watching.

  ‘Texture’s a bit funny,’ Mr Garrick said. ‘Tastes good, though.’

  He took another spoonful, then another. With the next one, the spoon slipped in his grasp before it reached his lips, spilling yogurt down his chin. He tutted and shook his head.

  ‘Here, let me,’ McKay said. He reached for a napkin from the table.

  ‘These spoons are too small,’ Mr Garrick said. ‘I can’t keep hold of them like the big spoons.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ McKay said.

  He used the napkin to grip the spoon handle, scooped some yogurt out of the pot and into Mr Garrick’s mouth.

  When he’d swallowed, Mr Garrick gave a dry laugh. ‘Look at me, like a baby. Don’t be making choo-choo noises, now.’

  He giggled, and his head rocked forward then back onto the pillow. ‘She’s kicking in quick tonight, boy.’

  ‘Good,’ McKay said, scooping as much as he could into the spoon. ‘The sleep will do you good.’

  Into his mouth, there, don’t spill.

  ‘I remember feeding our wee Erin,’ Mr Garrick said, his eyes focusing and defocusing, the pupils growing. ‘She was a great eater. You remember our wee Erin?’

  Another spoonful.

  ‘Of course I do,’ McKay said.

  Mr Garrick’s head nodded forward but didn’t fall back again. ‘She’s getting big,’ he said. ‘She’s near up to my . . . what?’

  McKay put a finger beneath Mr Garrick’s chin, lifted it until the weight of the head carried it back. His eyes glassy now.

  Don’t go yet, McKay thought. If he passed out too soon he might not get enough morphine. He might wake and know what they’d tried to do. McKay clicked his fingers in front of Mr Garrick’s face until he blinked and said, ‘What?’

  Another spoonful in, and Mr Garrick swallowed by reflex. And another.

  The eyelids fluttering.

  ‘I . . . I . . . don . . . wan . . .’

  Another, and another, then McKay scraped the bottom of the pot for the last drops. He tipped them into the open mouth. Mr Garrick smacked his lips together then went very still. McKay stood there over the bed, the napkin-wrapped spoon suspended in one hand. He held his breath, felt the silence press in on him.

  Then Mr Garrick inhaled with a long, low, guttural snore and McKay let the air out of his lungs. He reached across and placed the spoon handle between the fingers of Mr Garrick’s right hand, feeling the dying man’s breath upon his cheek. He shivered and stood up straight.

  Simple as that.

  And wasn’t Roberta right? Wasn’t it a mercy?

  No, it wasn’t. McKay was a murderer. The truth of it threatened to flood his mind, drive all reason from him. Be calm, he thought. You’re not done yet.

  Roberta had googled suicide, the methods and investigation. Often people place photographs around themselves, watch them as they die. McKay took another napkin from the bundle on the table. He moved each of the framed pictures from the bedside locker and arranged them in front of Mr Garrick. There, good.

  He went to the door, opened it, out into the hall, across to the kitchen.

  Where was Roberta? No time to think of that now.

  He squeezed his hands into another two pairs of surgical gloves then gathered up the empty morphine sachets, bundled them in one hand, lifted the box with the other. Back in Mr Garrick’s room, he spread the sachets on the table, put the box on the bedclothes, just within Mr Garrick’s reach.

  That done, he surveyed his work. Yes, everything was as they’d discussed and planned. All he had to do now was leave the room and close the door.

  Then he noticed the utter silence. No snoring. Not even a whisper of a breath.

  Some time between McKay’s leaving this room and returning, Mr Garrick had died.

  A wave of panic swelled in him, and he began to shake as adrenalin surged through his body, telling him to run, run, get away, get out of here.

  ‘Stop it,’ he said. ‘Stop it now.’

  Breathe. For Christ’s sake, breathe.

  He willed his lungs to obey, air in, air out, until the tremors subsided enough for him to be able to step back through the door and close it behind him.

  Done.

  God help him, he had done it.

  Suddenly, all air left the hallway. McKay inha
led as deep as his lungs would allow, but there was no air. Breathed out, and in again. No air. He reached for his collar, pulled aside the white tabard, found the button at his throat, undid it. Inhaled again, but no good, there was no air. His vision narrowed, closed in.

  McKay’s legs gave way, and he tried to put his hands out to break his fall. The wooden floor slammed into his knees. His heart boomed behind his breastbone, and he felt that the next thunderous beat would burst it inside him.

  An idea pierced through the chaos behind his eyes: Heart attack. I’m having a heart attack and I’m dying. One hand on the floor to stop him toppling over, the other clutched at his heaving chest, his lungs pulling at the air that wasn’t in the hallway.

  He didn’t see Roberta approach, didn’t hear her shoes on the floor, only realised she was by his side when her hands gathered him up to her.

  ‘Panic attack,’ she said. ‘It’s just a panic attack. Try to breathe. Come on. Breathe.’

  And he did. Somehow, slowly, sweet air returned to the world. Thin at first, but thickening so that he could take a gulp, then another, and another until the booming of his heart eased.

  He didn’t know how long passed as he kneeled on the floor, his head on her breast. Eventually she said, ‘It’s over. It’s done.’

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered as he pushed himself up to sit alongside her.

  ‘I’ll find him in the morning,’ she said. ‘Just like we talked about.’

  ‘Then you’ll call me,’ he said between breaths.

  ‘That’s right. You should go now. I’ll take care of everything else.’

  She helped him to his feet as he asked, ‘What about the pestle and mortar, the bag?’

  ‘I’ll take care of them.’ She pushed him towards the front door. ‘Now go.’

  A minute later, he steered his Ford Fiesta through the gates at the end of the driveway. Branches and hedgerows blurred as they passed through the glare of his headlights. Without thinking, he headed west, skirted Moira, and found his way onto the motorway, south, left it again.

  Lurgan, the signs said. A service station. Houses, sixties boxes and newbuilds.

  After a few turns, he came to a roundabout. He circled it once, twice, three times, unable to choose which exit to take. Finally, he jerked the wheel at the next junction he saw, not caring where it might lead. He found himself on a straight stretch of road, railings on either side. Then he saw the wide stretch of water he crossed, reflecting the weak moonlight: the River Bann. He slowed the car, stopped at the centre of the bridge, the river rolling away either side of him. Darkness everywhere.

  He climbed out of the car, put his hands on the metal railing, felt the cold of it seep through the flesh and into the bones. Trees hissed at him. He wondered for a moment what it would feel like, the fall, only a second or two, then the sudden cold of the water. Would his body fight to live? Or could he allow himself to sink, to drown down there in the black?

  He saw the beam of the headlights illuminating the pale skin of his hands before he heard the engine. It’ll pass, he thought. The driver will see me and think I’m odd standing here at night, but that’s all.

  The car did not pass. Its engine note dropped in pitch, stepping down as the driver moved through the gears. McKay heard the tyres rumble on the road, a faint high whine as the brakes gripped the wheels, then the engine died. He didn’t have to turn his head to know the car had pulled in behind his own. But when he heard one door open, then another, he did turn his head and his heart froze.

  Two police officers closed the doors of their patrol car. One, the driver, lit a torch and shone it at McKay. He squinted, brought his hand up to shield his eyes.

  Did they know what he’d done? Had they tracked him here? Would they arrest him?

  No, no, they can’t know. Be calm.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’ the policeman asked.

  If he answered, would they hear the terror in his voice? He had no choice. He swallowed and said, ‘Fine.’

  The policeman paused as the torchlight found the white collar at McKay’s throat. ‘Any reason why you’re out here this time of night?’

  McKay put his hands in his pockets to hide his trembling. ‘Oh . . . I, uh . . . well, I was just out for a drive, and I saw how pretty the moonlight on the river was, so I wanted to just stop and have a look. Take it all in, you know?’

  ‘Just out for a drive,’ the policeman echoed. ‘Do that often, do you?’

  ‘Occasionally,’ McKay said. ‘I have trouble sleeping sometimes, so I find a nice drive settles me a little bit.’

  The policeman turned his torch towards McKay’s car, shone it through the windows, examined the empty seats. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Will you do me a favour, though?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Get on the move again. We’ve had a few hijackings in the area over the last couple of weeks, young lads taking cars and rallying them around the place then burning them out. I wouldn’t want them getting a hold of you. These wee bastards wouldn’t go easy on you just because you’re a minister.’

  McKay nodded as the torch beam glared at him once more. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that. Thanks for the warning.’

  He went to his car, opened the driver’s door.

  ‘Take care, now,’ the policeman called as he and his colleague returned to their vehicle.

  ‘You too,’ McKay said as he lowered himself in. He watched the rear-view mirror as he closed the door and put on his seatbelt. Waved as the patrol car pulled out and passed him. When the other car was out of sight, he leaned his head against the steering wheel, kept it there until the shaking stopped.

  29

  Flanagan took the seat opposite DSI Purdy.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘I want to question Roberta Garrick,’ Flanagan said.

  ‘I thought you already did.’

  ‘Here,’ Flanagan said. ‘I want to bring her in, do it in an interview room, put the fear of God into her.’

  Purdy chewed the end of his spectacle arm for a few seconds before saying, ‘No, absolutely not. You can’t hit her that hard with so little to go on.’

  She considered arguing, but knew this was not a fight worth having. ‘Do you have any objection to me questioning her at home?’

  ‘What sort of tone?’ he asked.

  ‘Firm,’ Flanagan said. ‘I’ll not let her know what I’m after specifically, but I want her to know I’m suspicious. If she’s innocent, it’ll probably go over her head. If she’s guilty, it’ll rattle her. Put her on the back foot. I’ll learn a lot just from her reaction.’

  ‘Prearranged or drop-in?’

  ‘Drop-in. Not tonight, of course, but tomorrow.’

  Purdy nodded and put his glasses back on. He leaned back and said, ‘You know, I’ve got mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I’ve no desire for this to turn into a murder investigation, so I hope you’re wrong. On the other, if you are wrong, if you’ve been pursuing a recently bereaved woman for no good reason, then you’ll have gone down in my estimation.’

  ‘I understand that, sir,’ she said, feeling the weight of his gaze on her.

  ‘This will be the last investigation of yours that I oversee before my retirement. What I said to Allison on the phone the other day, that was true, you’re probably the best I’ve ever worked with. I don’t want my last memory of you to be a monumental fuck-up.’

  She looked at her lap. ‘No, sir.’

  He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. ‘Look at me,’ he said.

  She did so. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’ll give you one chance, right now, to drop this. You let it go, and I’ll forget everything you told me about the brother and the baby, all of that. You can put this case behind you and move on, no harm done.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ she said, keeping her eyes hard on his.

  ‘All right. But know this: if you go chasing after a murder and the whole thing blows up in your face, there’ll be sweet fuck
all I can do for you.’

  ‘I know, sir.’

  ‘Okay. Have at it, then.’

  Flanagan made it home before dinner, in time to eat with her family. It seemed like the first time in forever. She called Alistair on the way, asked if he’d started cooking anything yet. He hadn’t, and she offered to grab a Chinese takeaway. She picked up a bottle of wine and some beer while she was at it, and now all four of them sat around the table, sharing sweet and spicy food. Flanagan took a mouthful of cold Czech lager, savoured the sharp taste, the burn of the carbonation on her tongue, and felt a gladness in her heart.

  Ruth and Eli talked about school, their friends, the film they were looking forward to at the cinema. Some new superhero nonsense with a character Flanagan had never heard of.

  ‘We’ll go tomorrow,’ Alistair said. ‘Let me see.’

  He thumbed his smartphone, clicked his tongue behind his teeth as he searched. ‘There,’ he said. ‘There’s a morning showing in Lisburn – 2D, I’m not squinting at the screen for two hours in those stupid 3D glasses – and we can go and get burgers after. How does that sound?’

  Ruth and Eli threw their hands up and cheered.

  ‘Actually,’ Flanagan said.

  Alistair’s smile fell away. He stared across the table at her. ‘Actually, what?’

  ‘I need to do something for work in the morning,’ she said.

  ‘On a Saturday morning?’

  ‘Yes.’ She felt the temperature drop around the table, the smiles gone. ‘But I’ll probably be done by lunchtime. I can meet you guys in Lisburn, we can get something to eat, then go to an afternoon showing. Have a look, see what times there are.’

  He sighed and swiped his thumb up and down the phone’s screen. ‘Well, yes, but the times aren’t so good. We’d be hanging around for an hour and a half.’

  ‘Then we can go bowling for an hour,’ she said. ‘We haven’t done that in ages. Or Sunday. What about Sunday?’

  Alistair put his phone down. ‘Sure, we’ll figure something out.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ Flanagan said. ‘Let’s just pick a time and go.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Alistair said. ‘I’ll just take the kids to the film in the morning, and if you’re done in time, you can meet us for lunch. Or you can leave it. Or whatever.’