‘Towards women?’ Flanagan asked.
‘The world in general, but women in particular. The way he used to talk, sometimes. The way he saw women. I found it . . . well . . . distasteful. But he seemed to settle down for a while, with that Marie McKenna, the politician’s niece. Then she got pregnant, and he cleared out. I thought that was rotten, and I told him so. He went downhill after that. Got nastier, that bitter streak coming out in him. That’s when I started hearing about the backhanders.’
‘Bribes?’
‘Small things, at first. Favours, more than anything. He got pally with some dodgy boys running prostitutes. They’d get wind of any raids that were coming, he’d get freebies from the girls. So my sources said, anyway.’
‘What kind of sources?’
Hewitt smiled. ‘The kind of sources that aren’t discussed outside Intelligence Branch.’
‘Fair enough,’ Flanagan said. ‘Did money ever change hands?’
‘Occasionally,’ Hewitt said. ‘But it was more like payment in kind, if you know what I mean?’
‘What about drug use?’ she asked.
Hewitt shifted in his seat.
Flanagan waited.
Hewitt shrugged and said, ‘It’s only a whisper.’
‘Go on.’
A high whine as he exhaled through his nose, a crease in his brow. ‘It’s just something I heard, a friend of a friend of an informer.’
Impatience made Flanagan tap her pen on the desktop. Hewitt looked at it, then back at her.
‘He’s never bothered with narcotics as far as I know, but since the incident last year, he’s been taking prescription painkillers. But without the prescription. It’s hardly surprising. We both know cops who’ve suffered post-traumatic stress. We both know what it does to them.’
‘Where does he get the painkillers from?’
‘I don’t know. Presumably one of the pimps he deals with. Like I said, it’s second-hand information.’
Flanagan knew it was the first outright lie Hewitt had told since he entered her office. He tried to cover his deception by a smooth manner he probably thought of as charm, but she saw through it like looking through dirty glass. Everything else he’d told her had been the truth, or at least Hewitt’s version of it. He’d skewed it all, made sure only to tell her what he wanted her to know. His sole fabrication had been that he didn’t know Lennon’s source for the painkillers. But Flanagan had learned long ago never to expect a straight answer from an Intelligence Branch officer when it came to their sources. Or any other topic, for that matter.
‘I’ve one more question for you,’ she said. ‘And I want you to think carefully before you answer it.’
‘Fire away,’ Hewitt said.
Flanagan locked her eyes on his. ‘Do you believe DI Jack Lennon had it in him to kill Rea Carlisle?’
Hewitt held her gaze. Swallowed. Wetted his lips.
‘Yes I do,’ he said.
Flanagan sat back in her chair, watching him. His eyes flicked down to her chest and back again. Then down once more, lingering there.
She felt heat rising on the skin of her neck.
Hewitt shifted in his seat. Touched a finger to his cheek, scratching some itch Flanagan knew to be a phantom. Showing his discomfort. He looked back up at her.
‘You’re bleeding,’ he said.
Flanagan glanced down, saw the red bloom on her blouse where Dr Prunty had taped the cotton wool that morning.
‘Thank you for coming by,’ she said. ‘It’s been a help.’
‘Not at all,’ Hewitt said. ‘If you need any material on Jack, who he associates with, that sort of thing, just let me know.’
He stood and left her there, her face burning red.
22
HOURS HAD PASSED before DCI Serena Flanagan arrived. Lennon had drunk three coffees, eaten two rounds of toast and a bar of chocolate, and wished desperately for a cigarette, even though he didn’t smoke. Not when he was sober, anyway. He thought about leaving. He wasn’t under arrest, they couldn’t hold him here. But still, something told him to stay put, to endure.
An ache had settled into his lower back, echoed by the joints of his shoulders and hips, and a throbbing inside his skull. He’d left the painkillers in his car. His tongue dried at the idea of swallowing codeine and the comfort that would seep through his body.
But no. He couldn’t afford to dull his mind.
He thought he might feel relief when Flanagan finally entered, but the expression on her face offered none. She wore a navy blue trouser suit. Light brown hair pulled back. Pale skin that had begun to freckle with the spring sunshine.
Lennon’s gaze immediately went to her left hand in search of a ring, a habit he had not been able to break. He knew she would notice, and that she would resent it. She bristled as she sat down opposite him, holding her jacket closed tight around her. She set an open notebook in front of her, along with a collection of loose A4 pages, printed side down.
Lennon had a good idea what was printed on them.
Flanagan did not introduce herself.
‘Detective Sergeant Calvin told me what you said. Now, you’ve got one chance to convince me you didn’t kill Rea Carlisle before I put you under caution.’
She stared hard at Lennon across the table.
‘You know I didn’t kill her,’ he said.
‘I don’t know any such thing,’ she said. ‘At this moment, I’ve got one suspect. And that’s you.’
‘If it was me, why would I come here to tell you what I know?’
‘Any number of reasons,’ she said. ‘To cover your own arse is the most likely. To try to hide in plain view. You think by coming in with this story that you’ll throw me off. But you won’t.’
‘I’m trying to help your investigation,’ Lennon said. ‘Rea Carlisle was a friend. More than that, at one time. I want you to find whoever did this, and the sooner my being at the house stops distracting you, the sooner you can get after the killer.’
Flanagan glanced at her notes. ‘How did you know the murder weapon was a crowbar?’
‘I was told,’ Lennon said.
‘By who?’
‘A colleague.’
‘Who’s this colleague?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It matters to me.’
‘I’m not going to cause grief for him unless I have to. Put me under caution, get me a lawyer, and I’ll tell you then.’
‘I might just do that,’ she said. ‘We lifted a good set of prints from the crowbar. What if they match yours?’
Lennon swallowed. He remembered the feel of the crowbar in his hand. The weight of it.
‘They could be mine.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was lying on the floor. On the landing. I lifted it and put it straight down again.’
Flanagan sat back in her chair. ‘This just gets better and better, doesn’t it? Her mobile phone’s missing. What did you do with it?’
‘She had it when I left her,’ Lennon said. ‘She called someone when I was there. I assume it was her father. She left a message. And if you’re still looking for her car, it’ll be parked near the Errigle Inn, where I met her.’
Flanagan made a note.
‘Have you talked to her parents?’ Lennon asked.
‘No, not yet. But don’t worry, I will.’
Lennon slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. ‘When you do, ask Mr Carlisle about this.’
He dropped the photograph on the table, watched her pick it up, studied her face as she examined it. She revealed nothing.
‘What’s this got to do with anything?’ she asked.
‘Rea gave that to me. She wanted me to look into her father’s history. How involved with the paramilitaries he was.’
‘He wouldn’t be the first politician to have connections, unionist or otherwise,’ Flanagan said. ‘I don’t see what bearing this has on my investigation.’
‘She told me she found that inside a book in
her uncle’s house. Something like a wedding album, or a ledger. That’s what she called me about, why she wanted to see me. She said it was full of press clippings and notes.’
‘What about?’ Flanagan asked.
‘About all the people her uncle killed.’
Flanagan stared back across the table, her face blank.
Lennon took the photograph from her hand, placed it on the table, and tapped his fingertip on Raymond Drew’s face. ‘Him,’ he said.
Flanagan didn’t look down at the picture. ‘And where’s this book now?’
‘I don’t know. It wasn’t there when Rea took me to the house. She said it had been taken.’
‘Well, that’s inconvenient.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Lennon said.
‘You do realise fairy tales like this aren’t going to help you,’ Flanagan said.
‘Fairy tale or not, that’s what she told me. Now I’m telling you. That book will help you find whoever killed Rea Carlisle. She told her father about it, and he stopped her from going to the police. That photograph has something to do with it.’
‘If you’re so keen on photographs, what about this?’
Flanagan turned over the first A4 page, an image covering its surface. She slid it across the table. Dark hair and a red sheen. Dull eyes open. Sprawled at the top of the stairs. Lennon would not look away.
‘You left her like that,’ Flanagan said.
Lennon tried to keep the confidence in his voice, to keep emotion out of it. ‘I didn’t,’ he said, a quiver creeping in whether he liked it or not. ‘She was alive when I left her.’
‘What happened?’ Flanagan asked. ‘Did you try it on with her? You and she used to be an item. Did you want a quickie for old times’ sake? Did she turn you down?’
‘No, there was nothing like that,’ Lennon said, still staring at the image. ‘She was upset when I left her. I didn’t believe what she’d told me about the book. She gave me the photo, and I left.’
Flanagan placed another printed photograph on top of the last. Closer. The damage to the skull more visible.
‘You got angry, didn’t you? She turned you down, and you couldn’t take it. So the anger got the better of you. It can happen so easily, can’t it? Things are fine one minute, next thing you’re seeing red. You’ve no control over yourself. You just lash out. I’m sure you didn’t mean to do it. You didn’t plan it.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Lennon said. ‘Like I told you, I left her sitting in the back bedroom. She was upset. And you can’t force me to look at—’
‘Why were you in her bedroom?’ Flanagan asked.
‘It wasn’t her bedroom. It wasn’t even her house. It belonged to her uncle. Like I told you. She was clearing it out.’
‘So she took you up to this bedroom – not hers, you say – and you thought you were on to a good thing. When she didn’t put out, that made you angry.’
‘Jesus, come on, you know that’s not—’
‘I know how you treat women. Yes, I’ve heard all about you. You fancy yourself as a bit of a ladies’ man. And I know about the prostitutes.’
‘I haven’t done that in—’
‘You got suspended over a prostitute. You helped her flee the jurisdiction in the middle of a murder investigation.’
‘And I got three bullets in me for my trouble. She was under threat from the gang who’d trafficked her into Belfast. If I hadn’t—’
‘Do you know how many rape and assault cases I’ve dealt with? How many men have sat where you are now, telling me I had it all wrong? No, honest to God, officer, she was willing, she wanted it, she was fine when I left her. Men like you. Women and girls like Rea Carlisle.’
‘And how many convictions have you got?’ Lennon asked. He knew it was a mistake, but he asked it anyway. Hit her where it hurts.
‘More than most,’ she said, her eyes sparking with hate. ‘And I’ll get you.’
23
SUSAN WAS WAITING with the girls when Lennon finally arrived home. He’d sent her a text message, asking her to pick them up from school, saying he’d explain later.
She had them at the table, doing their homework while she hovered, correcting their spelling, talking them through their times tables. She barely gave him a glance when he dropped his keys on the kitchen counter.
‘Thanks for lifting them,’ he said.
She did not reply.
‘I need to explain what happened.’
Susan looked up from Lucy’s jotter. ‘When their homework’s done. Give us some peace until then, all right?’
Lennon nodded and went to the bedroom he shared with Susan. At least he used to. It seemed like weeks since they’d last slept together. They had lain alongside each other some nights, but not together. Not really.
He lay back on top of the duvet and studied the ceiling. Fatigue dried his eyes, weighed down his mind. His body craved painkillers, aches in his joints nagging him to swallow a couple of tablets, but he would deny himself until he and Susan had spoken.
DCI Flanagan had talked him in circles for more than an hour. Lennon knew the techniques, he’d used them himself a hundred times. The accusations turning to compassion turning to outrage turning to disgust. Cycling through emotions, trying to get a hook into at least one so she could drag a confession out of him. Dire threats, promises of lenience. None of it would work on Lennon, even if he were guilty.
What frightened him, however, was that she believed it. Lennon had often leaned on a suspect he knew to be innocent – all interrogating officers did, taunting and frightening them with suspicion in the hope that it would shake some scrap of information loose. That was not her tactic. DCI Serena Flanagan believed he had beaten Rea Carlisle to death with a crowbar in her late uncle’s home.
She didn’t have enough to formally arrest and interview him under caution, but the moment the fingerprints on the weapon were confirmed as his, a car would be dispatched to take him into custody. A day at most to make the match, then she could hold him for twenty-four hours at the Serious Crime Suite in Antrim before either charging or releasing him; maybe ninety-six hours if she got permission from her superiors.
By then, whoever had killed Rea would have melted away, his trail dusted over by Flanagan’s certainty that she had her man.
Lennon started and inhaled as a weight settled on the mattress. He blinked, realised he had fallen asleep. Sitting up, he saw Susan at the foot of the bed, looking back.
His brain seemed to grate the inside of his skull.
‘So?’ she said.
Lennon rubbed his dry eyes. ‘It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Oh, Jesus. Which means, start worrying.’
‘Honestly, it’s nothing,’ he said. ‘I’ll get it squared away within a day or two.’
She stared at the wall, her face slack. ‘Just tell me.’
Lennon spoke for five minutes, gave her every detail, held nothing back.
Susan kept her silence for a time before asking, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about her? Why did you lie to me?’
Lennon chose his words with care. ‘Because things haven’t been good between us. I didn’t want you to think there was anything going on with Rea and me. I didn’t see any point in giving you anything to worry about.’
Susan gave a short, desperate laugh, her gaze still locked on the wall. ‘Good job, Jack. You saved me all that worry. Well done.’
Lennon put a hand on her shoulder. ‘A day or two, three at the most, and it’ll be sorted.’
She laced her fingers together and said, ‘I don’t want you to sleep here any more.’
Lennon nodded. ‘Okay, I’ll stay on the couch. Won’t make any—’
‘No, I mean this flat. I don’t want you here any more.’
‘A couple of days, Susan. That’s all. Then it’ll be sorted. I promise.’
She brushed Lennon’s hand from her shoulder, stood, and took a step towards the door. ‘What good’s a promise from you, Jack? I want y
ou out today. I don’t want you around my daughter.’
‘What about Ellen? I can’t put her in a hotel.’
‘She can stay with me till you get a place.’ Susan paused at the doorway. ‘Today, Jack. I mean it.’
She closed the door behind her, sealing him in the silence.
Lennon took the keycard from the receptionist and rode the lift up to the fifth floor. His room overlooked an expanse of city centre car park, the Baptist church on Great Victoria Street beyond that, the mix of old and new red-brick buildings, traffic streaming in and out of town.
The hotel cost more per night than he could afford, but he’d be damned if he’d go to some grotty hostel with the alcoholics and the dropouts. He had enough room on his credit card for three or four nights at best. If things worked out the way he expected them to, he’d be here no more than one.
He dropped his bag on the bed. He’d packed it with the few essentials he needed and left the flat without saying anything to Ellen. Susan agreed it was best not to cause her the upset. Lennon’s daughter was used to him coming and going at odd hours. When she noticed he hadn’t come back, Susan would deal with it then. Besides, Lennon wasn’t sure he could bear saying goodbye to her, even if it was only for a few days. If that made him a coward, then so be it.
Lennon hadn’t told Susan which hotel he’d gone to. Flanagan’s team would come to Susan’s flat to arrest him either late tonight or early tomorrow morning and find him missing. That would buy him half a day at least, twenty-four hours if he was lucky.
Would it be enough time to figure out what had happened in that house? Probably not, but Lennon had to try. Whatever he could learn in that time was ground recovered from Flanagan’s mistake.
Nothing he could do tonight, though. Except blot out his mind, give himself a night of unconsciousness. His bag contained four cans of cheap lager and a half-bottle of supermarket vodka. Those, and the last blister strip of painkillers in his possession.
He took the ice bucket from his room, filled it from the machine at the end of the corridor, and poured the contents into his bathroom basin. He topped it up with water, then dropped the cans of lager into the basin to chill.
The Final Silence Page 11
