So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2)

by Stuart Neville

  She felt anger build, but held it back. The children ate, quiet now, their disappointment tainting the air between them. Flanagan would not have another argument in front of them. She forced a smile and said, ‘All right, we’ll play it by ear, then.’

  They didn’t speak for the rest of the meal.

  That night in bed, Alistair reached for her hand. ‘Sorry about earlier,’ he said.

  ‘Me too.’

  He squeezed her hand and let go. Sleep soon took her, but she was woken in the dark hours by Alistair’s gasping. She lay quiet and still as he woke from his nightmare, got up and went downstairs. Flanagan returned to her rest by the soft murmur of the television downstairs. Her last thought before her mind darkened was that she’d forgotten to reply to Miriam McCreesh’s text message. Never mind, she would do it in the morning.

  But she didn’t.

  Flanagan drove the short distance to Morganstown in less than ten minutes, passing along its main street as the clock on the Volkswagen’s dashboard showed eleven. Another few minutes took her out the other side and to the driveway of the Garrick house. She applied the handbrake and shut off the engine. The house seemed quieter now, more grey, less grand on this overcast morning.

  As Flanagan got out of the car, she looked at the sitting room window. Roberta Garrick stood there, looking back, wearing a dressing gown, a mug held in both hands. By the time Flanagan got to the front door, Mrs Garrick had already opened it.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, a polite smile on her mouth. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Flanagan put one foot on the doorstep. ‘Just a few follow-up questions,’ she said. ‘Can I come inside?’

  Mrs Garrick’s smile remained in place, but her eyes narrowed. ‘I thought everything was settled.’

  ‘Almost,’ Flanagan said. ‘I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.’

  ‘I was hoping to have today to myself. It’s been a difficult week, and I’d like some peace.’

  Flanagan moved her other foot onto the doorstep, closer to Mrs Garrick. ‘Like I said, it won’t take too long.’

  Mrs Garrick gave her a hard stare, then said, ‘All right.’

  She stepped back, allowed room for Flanagan to enter.

  ‘Coffee smells good,’ Flanagan said, looking at the mug in Mrs Garrick’s hand.

  With a rigid smile, Mrs Garrick asked, ‘Would you like some?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Flanagan said. ‘Black.’ Without invitation, she walked towards the kitchen.

  ‘Why don’t you take a seat in the living room?’ Mrs Garrick asked.

  ‘No, kitchen’s fine,’ Flanagan said, not looking back. She proceeded to the tiled and shining room, placed her bag on the granite-topped island at the centre.

  Mrs Garrick followed her into the room and went to the coffee machine. She placed a mug beneath the spout, put a pod in the top, pressed a button. The machine gurgled.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to get one of those machines,’ Flanagan said.

  Mrs Garrick turned to her. ‘Shall we get started?’

  Flanagan ran her fingertips over the shining black granite. ‘You have a beautiful home.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mrs Garrick said. ‘Can we start?’

  ‘Your husband had it built, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, when we married. Please, can we start?’

  Flanagan sat on a stool by the island and took her notebook and pen from her bag. She opened the book to a fresh page and asked, ‘How long ago? We have started, by the way.’

  Another hard stare. ‘It’d be seven years now.’

  ‘How did you two meet?’

  ‘Online.’

  ‘So, he saw your profile and messaged you, or was it the other way around?’

  ‘Actually, I messaged him.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

  Flanagan gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I’m just trying to get the broader picture.’

  ‘I don’t remember what I said in the message. Something short, I think, that I liked his profile, the usual sort of thing.’

  ‘What about your relationship history before then?’ Flanagan asked.

  Mrs Garrick raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t see the relevance of that.’

  ‘Like I said, the broader picture.’

  ‘I had a few boyfriends over the years.’

  ‘Serious? Casual? Long term? Flings?’

  Mrs Garrick bristled, folded her arms across her chest. ‘Both.’

  ‘Which was the longest?’

  ‘Three years, on and off.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The broader picture.’

  ‘His name was Malachi. He was a drug user. So was I at the time. Cannabis, speed, MDMA, that sort of thing. Cocaine, sometimes. When he moved on to heroin, that’s when I knew I had to leave him.’ Her features softened, as did her voice, her gaze distant. Then she came back to herself and said, ‘That’s when I cleaned myself up. That’s when I found Jesus and turned my life around. Is that enough for you?’

  ‘Malachi. What was his surname?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  Flanagan met her gaze. ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘I do, but I’m not going to tell you because it’s none of your business.’

  ‘Were you ever violent towards Malachi?’

  Mrs Garrick paled. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Were you ever violent towards him?’

  Mrs Garrick shook her head. ‘That’s a ridiculous question.’

  ‘Is it? I thought it worth asking seeing as I was told you were violent towards your husband.’

  Mrs Garrick took a step forward. ‘That’s a lie. Who told you that?’

  ‘The police officer in Barcelona who investigated your daughter’s death,’ Flanagan said. ‘Your husband told him in what I suppose was a moment of weakness.’

  ‘I think you should leave now,’ Mrs Garrick said. ‘If you want to ask further questions, it’ll be with a lawyer present.’

  ‘I haven’t had my coffee yet,’ Flanagan said, indicating the machine, which had ceased gurgling and hissing.

  ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to do without.’ Mrs Garrick took the cup from beneath the spout and poured the steaming contents down the sink. ‘Please leave now.’

  Flanagan did not move from the stool. ‘Mrs Garrick, how did your daughter really die?’

  Silence. Mrs Garrick stared at Flanagan, wide-eyed. Then she threw the empty mug into the sink. Fragments exploded from the bowl.

  ‘Get out of my house,’ she said. ‘Get out and don’t come back.’

  ‘What did you do, Mrs Garrick?’

  ‘Go,’ Mrs Garrick said. ‘Right now. Leave.’

  Flanagan stood, packed her notepad and pen away, slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘Thank you for your time,’ she said, heading for the kitchen door. ‘I’ll be in touch soon.’

  As Flanagan walked to her car, Mrs Garrick slammed the front door behind her. Once behind the wheel, she looked back to the house and saw Mrs Garrick through the living room window. She had a phone pressed to her ear.

  Reverend McKay or Jim Allison, one of the two.

  Mrs Garrick stared back at Flanagan, her anger burning through the glass.

  Flanagan gave her a nod, started the car’s engine, and pulled away.

  30

  McKay hung up his cassock and lifted his mobile phone from the desk. He had kept the morning prayer service short, and some of the congregation had seemed confused to be leaving so early. Instead of bidding farewell to the stragglers, he had come straight to the vestry. After a sleepless night, he intended to cross to his house and try for a doze, though he was not optimistic.

  What little sleep he’d managed had been riven with dreams of Henry Garrick dragging him to the hell to which he was surely damned. Except McKay didn’t believe in hell. But even so, no matter how he protested, Mr Garrick dragged him there a
nyway, down into the fire and the tangled screaming souls.

  At one point in the night, McKay had gone to the bathroom to relieve his bladder. Washing his hands, he saw a strange and hollow man in the mirror. He remembered that he had neglected to eat again, so he went downstairs and toasted some stale bread, chewed it without tasting, swallowed it without satisfaction. Then he fetched the cigarette packet and lighter from the cutlery drawer and smoked one to the butt before lighting another from its embers.

  He had realised then that it was only a matter of time. Roberta would cast him aside now that he had served his purpose, leaving him with the dreams of burning and nothing else. He had wept. Like a child, desperate hacking sobs like he cried when Maggie died.

  Let it end, he thought. Just let it end.

  Now, as morning light hazed through the small vestry window, he felt little better. But another cigarette would help. Another drive into Moira, to the filling station or the supermarket. Remove the white collar, undo the top button, and he’d be nothing but a man in a black suit.

  He switched on the phone, put it in his pocket while it booted up. It was quiet outside now, so he slipped out of the side door, locked it behind him. The phone pinged and vibrated against his thigh. He was about to reach for it when he saw DCI Flanagan leaning against her car. Frozen, he could only watch as she approached.

  ‘Reverend McKay,’ she said, ‘can you spare a few minutes?’

  As hard as he tried, he could think of no reason why he couldn’t. ‘All right,’ he said. He considered correcting how she addressed him, but he had grown weary of that. Instead, he unlocked the side door again and led her into the vestry, pulled a chair out from the table. Flanagan sat, and he took the seat opposite.

  ‘I’d thought everything was all wrapped up,’ he said, watching her take a notebook and pen from her bag.

  ‘More or less,’ she said. ‘Just a few loose ends. Have you heard from Mrs Garrick this morning?’

  ‘No, my phone’s been turned off,’ he said. ‘I’ve been busy with the morning service.’

  Was that surprise on her face? Gone before he could really see it, her expression turned to concern.

  ‘Are you feeling all right? You don’t look well.’

  ‘Tired,’ he said. ‘It’s been a difficult week.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll try to make this quick. Did something happen?’

  She brought a finger to her lower lip, mirroring the redness on his.

  ‘Oh, this.’ His fingertip found the tender spot on his own lip. ‘Stupid. I was leaning in to get something out of the car, and I misjudged it. So what do you need to know?’

  ‘I wanted to ask about Mr Garrick’s brother, George Garrick.’

  ‘George,’ McKay said, picturing the tall man who looked so much like his brother. ‘I spotted him at the funeral yesterday, right at the back. That was the first time I’d seen him in a few years. It was a shame what happened.’

  ‘And what did happen, to your knowledge?’

  ‘I suppose it’s no secret. Not long after Erin died, George . . . touched Mrs Garrick inappropriately. In their home, while Mr Garrick was in the other room. I think George had been drinking at the time.’

  ‘Did George Garrick ever give you his version of events?’

  McKay nodded. ‘Yes, he came to see me a few days after. He denied it.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘It wasn’t up to me to believe or disbelieve him. It was my job just to listen. Anyway, it was too late by then. Word had gotten around the congregation. He couldn’t show his face around here any more.’

  ‘You couldn’t have supported him?’

  ‘I could, but that would mean turning my back on Mr and Mrs Garrick. You understand, a congregation is like a family, a very tight-knit family. And sometimes families split. The tighter they are, the harder the split. Churches sometimes break in two. Even in a small town, you’ll get two churches of the same denomination because somewhere along the way there was a split. If I’d stood by George Garrick, this church would have been blown apart. It was a difficult choice, but it was the right one for my congregation.’

  ‘Even if George Garrick might have been innocent?’

  McKay thought about the cigarettes in his kitchen drawer. ‘I don’t get everything right. Do you?’

  She did not drop her gaze. ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, looking away. ‘I didn’t mean to be confrontational.’

  She dismissed his apology with a shake of her head. ‘You were close to Mr and Mrs Garrick.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘More so than others in the congregation.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ McKay said. ‘Mr Garrick was very generous in his support of the church. And he was very good to me when my wife died.’

  ‘Did he ever speak to you in confidence?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Did he ever talk to you about his relationship with his wife?’

  ‘Not really. They were very happy together.’

  ‘Did he ever indicate that Mrs Garrick might have been abusive towards him? Violent?’

  McKay pictured his own blood on her teeth. Felt her hand at his throat. He had to fight to keep his fingers from going to the red swelling on his lip again.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Never. Why?’

  ‘Just an avenue I’m exploring. Did he ever show up with any marks or injuries that he couldn’t explain?’

  ‘No, not that I can remember.’

  She turned to a fresh page in her notepad. ‘Okay. Let’s talk about Jim Allison.’

  McKay felt a strange sensation, like cold sparks running up his spine to his brain. ‘What about him?’

  ‘What’s the nature of his relationship with Mrs Garrick?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Flanagan shrugged. ‘He seems very protective of her. Defensive, even. I wondered exactly how close they are.’

  The cold sparks turned to hot flashes of anger. ‘What are you suggesting?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing specific. I don’t know them like you do. Have you ever wondered if their relationship went further than friendship?’

  No, McKay had never wondered that. Not until now. He clenched his fists under the table and shook his head, no.

  ‘You’re certain of that?’ Flanagan asked.

  ‘I’m certain,’ he said, keeping his voice low and calm as he pictured Allison’s hands on Roberta’s body. ‘Why, have you seen something? Heard something?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I find it useful to explore all possibilities.’

  Perhaps he should have felt relief in that, but he didn’t.

  She closed her notebook. ‘Okay, I think that’s all for now. While I’m here, I wanted to thank you again for the other day. It did help a lot.’

  He forced a smile. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘I might come to the service tomorrow morning. See if I can convince the kids to come too. I don’t think they’ve ever seen the inside of a church.’

  ‘You’ll be very welcome,’ he said, wishing she would hurry up and leave.

  At last, she stood. ‘Hopefully see you tomorrow, then,’ she said.

  He nodded, stood, and showed her to the door. From the vestry window, he watched her get into her car. She sat there for an agonising time.

  ‘Go,’ he said to the window. ‘Just go.’

  There, her hands moved on the steering wheel and the car moved off, turning towards the gate. He reached into his pocket, retrieved his phone and his keys. He exited through the side door, locked it, and thumbed the phone as he crossed the grounds to his house. The display showed a missed call from Roberta. As he unlocked his front door, he pressed the callback option and put the phone to his ear. It connected as he reached the kitchen, and he listened to the dial tone as he took the cigarettes and lighter from the drawer. By the time the answerphone message played, he had breathed a lungful of tarry smoke.

  A cloud of blu
e billowed around him as he said, ‘It’s me. Flanagan was here. Call me back.’

  He sat down at the table and finished the cigarette, holding it between quivering fingers. Twenty minutes later, the packet was empty and the phone still silent. McKay returned it to his pocket and lifted his car keys.

  31

  Flanagan had checked her watch as she returned to the car. Maybe time to meet Alistair and the kids. In the driver’s seat, she opened the favourites list on her phone and called her husband. As she listened to the dial tone, she saw McKay through the vestry window, watching her.

  A realisation hit her, sure and clear in her mind: Reverend McKay loved Roberta Garrick.

  He couldn’t hide his shock and anger when she mentioned Jim Allison’s name. Jealousy had been clear and plain on his face. Had he ever acted on it? Surely not. Not a man like him. McKay had a decency about him, and not just something she inferred from his vocation and his collar.

  Before she could consider it further, Alistair’s impatient voice sounded in the phone’s earpiece. ‘Hello? Are you there?’

  How long had he been on the line? ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’m here, I got distracted. Where are you?’

  ‘In Lisburn, we’re just out of the cinema. Will you make the restaurant?’

  ‘I’ll be fifteen, twenty minutes. Go ahead and order for me.’

  ‘All right,’ he said.

  Flanagan hung up and looked back towards the vestry. McKay still stood there, watching her.

  Another idea formed in her mind, clearer, brighter, colder than the first.

  Was it you?

  No. She looked away and shook her head. She had already reached far enough on this case. Her mind had been slipping into irrationality too often recently. Enough. She turned the key in the ignition and set off, chiding herself for letting her thoughts run away like that. Keep control. Reach within your grasp.

  Flanagan turned right out of the gate, towards the far end of Morganstown’s main street. As she neared the filling station, without thinking, she slowed her Volkswagen to a halt. She gripped the steering wheel tight.

  No, not him. Couldn’t be.

  A car horn blasted behind her. She flicked the indicator stalk and pulled onto the filling station’s forecourt, manoeuvred into a parking space by the exit, shut off the engine.