The Final Silence

by Stuart Neville

  ‘Please tell me where Ellen is,’ he said.

  Susan said nothing until she heard the bathroom door close and the lock snap into place.

  ‘Her aunt Bernie came and got her late last night.’

  Adrenalin hit him like an electric shock, sending tremors through his limbs and down to his fingertips, chasing the hangover from his system. ‘Why did you let Bernie take her? Why did you do that?’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? I didn’t know where you’d gone or when you’d come back for her. So I called Bernie. So Ellen would be with the only real family she’s got.’

  Lennon gripped the edge of the table as rage threatened to lift him off his feet. Anger so hot it seemed to swell inside his skull, ready to split him open. Susan saw it on him and backed away. He sat down, clamped his teeth onto the back of his hand and felt the pain cut through it all.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said.

  Tears threatened to shame him, fury turning to salt water. He swallowed hard and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw bright red flares against the black.

  When the urge died away, and his vision had returned, Lennon looked for Susan. She stood on the far side of the room, her back against the wall. Her face set hard by fear and pity.

  ‘Please go,’ she said.

  He sniffed and wiped his face clean.

  ‘I’ll never forgive you for this,’ he said. ‘Never.’

  She gave a short, sad laugh. ‘Why would I ever want forgiveness from you? Go on, get out.’

  Lennon stood. ‘I need to get a few things.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But be quick. And leave the keys. If you’re not out of here in three minutes, I’m calling the police.’

  He reached into his pocket, twisted the apartment key from the ring, and dropped it on the table. He walked to the hallway, and the bedroom beyond, anger still simmering in him. What he wanted lay in the bottom of the wardrobe. The notes on Dan Hewitt, locked in the safe.

  As he crossed the room, he saw movement through the window, a small convoy of cars pulling into the triangle formed by the buildings.

  Two marked, one unmarked, and a van.

  No flashing lights, no sirens, but they were coming for him, no question. They had matched the fingerprints and now Flanagan wanted Lennon in custody. He backed away from the window.

  Maybe he could wait there for them, let Flanagan take him in. She would accept his innocence eventually. But after how long? Rea’s killer would have disappeared, his trail gone cold. And Bernie would have her claws deeper into Ellen.

  Lennon had to run.

  He saw Flanagan emerge from the passenger side of the unmarked car, Calvin from the driver’s seat. They marched towards the entrance and out of his view.

  He looked at the wardrobe. Could he spare the seconds to unlock the safe and grab the file? No, he couldn’t.

  Run.

  Out of the bedroom, along the hall, past Susan in the living area.

  ‘I don’t want you coming back here,’ she called after him, but he barely heard as he exited the apartment.

  Lennon glanced at the lift, already on its way up, and jogged as best he could to the stairway at the end of the corridor. He paused at the door, listened, looked through the small reinforced glass window. No one there. He stepped through and started down. Descending a stairway caused Lennon more pain than climbing, the old injuries in his side and hip reminding him of their presence.

  As he approached the landing on the first floor he heard a door swing open and closed below, two or three sets of footsteps on the stairs. He ducked through the door onto the first floor corridor, flattened himself against the wall, out of sight of the window, and listened to the officers pass on their way up to Susan’s floor.

  When they’d gone, Lennon went back through and down the stairs once more, breathing hard. On the ground floor, a fire exit opened onto the river side of the building, away from the car park.

  There was no way to get to his Seat Ibiza. His only option was to walk, limping away as fast as his damaged body would allow. He headed south along the path that tracked the water’s edge and rounded the end of the building. Glancing back to ensure no one was following, Lennon cut across the road and into the network of streets that led away from the river.

  30

  FLANAGAN PACED THE floor of the kitchenette, fury burning the very heart of her. Closing her eyes, she breathed deep, brought the anger under her control. Keep the rage where you can use it, she thought, don’t squander it.

  She opened her eyes and saw Susan McKee watching from the couch in the living area. Her eyes red and wet, her daughter huddled close to her.

  DS Calvin hovered close by Flanagan. Two uniformed cops waited by the apartment door, another two searching the bedrooms.

  ‘What now?’ Calvin asked.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ Flanagan said.

  She crossed to the living area, and sat down opposite Susan.

  ‘You know how much trouble Jack’s in,’ Flanagan said.

  Susan kissed her daughter. ‘Go and get some paper and pens to draw with. You can sit at the table. I’ll not be long.’

  The little girl did as she was told without complaint. She looked like Susan, the same keen features and dark hair.

  ‘What are you hoping to find?’ Susan asked.

  ‘I won’t know until I have it,’ Flanagan said. ‘I need all of his clothes, shoes, anything that could carry any traces.’

  Susan locked her fingers together in her lap. She did not look up as she spoke. ‘Did Jack kill that woman?’

  ‘It’s early in the investigation,’ Flanagan said. ‘But right now, he’s our primary suspect. Our only suspect.’

  Susan’s tears flowed freely. She leaned forward, brought her hands to her face. Her shoulders trembled.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Flanagan said. ‘You can’t help him by keeping anything back. The only way to fix this is by telling the truth. Do you understand?’

  Susan nodded. A small gesture, barely a movement.

  ‘Good. Susan, where is he?’

  She took her hands away from her face, shook her head. ‘I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. I asked him to leave last night, and he went. Just packed a bag and left. Then he showed up here this morning, asking for Ellen.’

  ‘And where’s she?’

  ‘Her aunt collected her last night. Bernie McKenna. She and Jack don’t get on. He was angry with me for letting her take Ellen.’

  ‘Is there anyone else he might’ve gone to? Family? Friends?’

  Susan shook her head. ‘No. His sisters haven’t spoken to him in years. His mother’s in care. Alzheimer’s or dementia or whatever it is. He hasn’t any friends I’ve ever met.’

  Flanagan watched Susan’s face as she spoke, hunting the signals of dishonesty. She had spent her career listening to women lie for their men, even as they bore the bruises and cuts their love had earned them.

  She asked, ‘What was Jack’s relationship with Rea Carlisle?’

  Susan remained quiet.

  ‘Ms McKee, please answer me.’

  Susan inhaled, exhaled, her shoulders slumped.

  ‘They were a couple once, as far as I know. It was years ago, before I knew him. He told me they lasted six months. He gave me this story about a book, that she’d asked him to come over and see it, help her with it somehow, but it was gone when he got there.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’ Flanagan asked.

  ‘No.’

  Susan lifted her eyes to meet Flanagan’s.

  ‘He lied to me about her,’ she said. ‘When he was going to meet her, he said it was an old friend from the police.’

  Flanagan leaned forward. ‘Why would he lie to you about that?’

  Susan shook her head. ‘I’ve been asking myself that question over and over. And I can’t think of one good reason.’

  Flanagan could tell by Susan’s voice that she knew her words were tightening the noose around Lennon’s ne
ck. Before she could ask another question, one of the uniformed officers called from the hall.

  ‘Ma’am, there’s a safe in the bottom of the closet in here.’

  She turned her attention back to Susan. ‘Do you know what’s in it?’

  ‘It’s Jack’s,’ she said. ‘He keeps information on a colleague of his. Colleague isn’t the right word.’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘Evidence, he says.’

  ‘Against who?’

  ‘His name’s Hewitt,’ Susan said. ‘They used to be friends. I don’t want to say any more.’

  Flanagan followed the constable to the bedroom. The closet door remained open.

  ‘Have you photographed the safe?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Flanagan opened the closet and crouched down. She looked to the doorway. Susan stood there, her arms wrapped around herself.

  ‘What’s Jack’s birthday?’

  Flanagan tried the numbers. The safe remained closed.

  ‘And his daughter’s?’

  This time, the lock whirred open.

  Flanagan pulled the metal door aside and reached for the manila folder within. She stood and placed the file on the bed, opened it. Sheets of paper, printouts, photocopies. Statements. Arrest reports. Internal memos.

  She thought of Hewitt’s well-cut suit, his French cuffs, the expensive watch.

  ‘Jesus,’ Flanagan said.

  Her mobile phone vibrated. ‘Yes?’

  A woman’s voice. ‘Is that . . . Detective? Detective Chief Inspector? What do I call you?’

  Flanagan turned away from the papers on the bed. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Ida Carlisle. I got your number off your card. I hope it’s all right that I called you.’

  ‘Of course it is. What can I do for you?’

  A few seconds of breathing and indecision. ‘Can we talk? Not on the phone. In person.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Flanagan said. ‘I can be there in twenty minutes.’

  ‘No, not at my house. In town. This afternoon, after Graham’s gone.’

  ‘All right,’ Flanagan said. ‘The new theatre, The Mac, in the Cathedral Quarter. There’s a cafe there. Meet me on the upper floor. At four?’

  ‘At four,’ Ida said.

  31

  LENNON PAID THE driver and got out of the taxi at the end of Fallswater Parade. He’d found a cashpoint on Stranmillis Road and emptied his current account. One hundred and eighty pounds. He had a few hundred more remaining in a savings account, but no means of accessing it quickly.

  Head down, he walked along the street to Bernie McKenna’s house. He hammered the door with his fist.

  Voices inside. Net curtains twitched.

  He hammered again, shouted, ‘I know you’re in there.’

  Lennon turned in a circle. All around, faces appeared at windows. The door opposite opened. A heavy-shouldered man leaned against the frame.

  Kevin McKenna, mid to late thirties. Bernie McKenna’s nephew, a cousin of Ellen’s late mother. A reputation known to every cop in the city. An arrest record as long as Lennon’s arm. Firearms, explosives, extortion, intimidation. But never a conviction. He glared at Lennon from across the street.

  Lennon turned back to Bernie McKenna’s door and hammered again. And kicked.

  ‘Open the fucking door right now.’

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  Lennon turned to the voice. A young woman, no more than twenty, was standing in the next garden. One of Bernie McKenna’s nieces, presumably.

  ‘Where’s Bernie?’ Lennon asked.

  ‘She’s out,’ the young woman said. ‘Fuck away off before I get Kevin on you.’

  Lennon kicked the door once more. Harder. It rattled in its frame. And again, with his weight behind it, even though it sent spasms of pain coursing through his side and lower back.

  He heard a chain lock slide into place, and the door opened a few inches. Bernie McKenna’s thin, pointed face slid into the gap. She stared up at him.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You know what I want,’ Lennon said. ‘I want Ellen.’

  ‘Well, you’re not getting her,’ Bernie said. ‘She’s with her family now, and you won’t get your hands on her again.’

  ‘I’m her family,’ Lennon said.

  Bernie laughed. ‘Oh, aye? Says who?’

  ‘She’s my daughter, and you’ve no fucking right to—’

  ‘Your daughter, you say.’ A grin spread on her face.

  Lennon blinked. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That woman you’re shacked up with, she packed all of Ellen’s stuff up for her. Including her birth certificate.’

  ‘So what? Just bring her out here before I kick this door through.’

  ‘I’ll tell you, so what. Your name’s not on the certificate. You’ve no proof you’re anything to that child. You’ve no rights to her at all.’

  A wave of dizziness rocked Lennon on his heels.

  ‘You get a DNA test,’ Bernie said, the grin still cracking her face. ‘You get proof you’re that wee girl’s father, and then maybe you can talk to the courts about access. A man has no place raising a child, not a man on his own, and not a man like you. Now get away from around my house and don’t come back.’

  The door slammed shut.

  Lennon heard laughter and a cheer from inside.

  The young woman in the next garden said, ‘You heard her, fuck away off.’

  He threw himself against the door, shoulder first. And again. His body clamoured with pain. Nausea swelled inside him. He ignored it, slammed the sole of his shoe against the wood.

  A hard hand gripped his shoulder, spun him around.

  Lennon hadn’t realised he’d been screaming until Kevin McKenna slapped him hard across the face and silenced him. He fell back against the door, but McKenna grabbed his jacket in both hands, flung him along the path to sprawl on the pavement.

  He tried to stand up, but McKenna’s foot struck him hard beneath his sternum, driving all the air from his lungs and the strength from his legs. Lennon crawled away, spitting and coughing.

  ‘You come back here again and I’ll knock the shite out of you,’ McKenna said.

  Lennon used a garden wall to haul himself to his feet. He turned, looked back.

  He heard a muted voice call, ‘Daddy!’

  Up at the front bedroom window, Ellen, her hands against the glass, her eyes and mouth wide open.

  Lennon lurched back towards McKenna.

  A moment before the big man’s fist connected with his jaw, he saw Bernie McKenna snatch his daughter away from the window. Lennon landed hard on his back, his head glancing off the pavement. Black spots, a thunderous ache behind his eyes. McKenna reaching down for him, dragging him to his feet, marching him onto the road, down the street.

  Lennon tried to fight, tried to break away from McKenna, but he didn’t have the strength. Every time he went to pull or push, or shout, or kick, meaty knuckles thumped into his temple or cheek.

  McKenna shoved him all the way to the corner of the Falls Road, and threw him down onto the pavement in front of the shops, the hairdressers, the takeaways. Passers-by kept their distance, averted their eyes, hurried past. No one challenged the big man. No one offered to help Lennon.

  ‘Now get the fuck out of here,’ McKenna said. ‘I see you again, I’ll have your knees.’

  He turned and walked back towards his house, his arms swinging like a soldier’s.

  Lennon spat blood on the ground and staggered to his feet. He looked no one in the eye as he walked away.

  32

  IDA CARLISLE WAITED in a booth in the cafe gallery, overlooking The Mac’s concourse. All dark grey slate and cool lighting. Happy young people walked here and there, sat and drank coffee, chatted and laughed. None of them lying bleeding, their heads smashed beyond recognition.

  The image would not leave Ida. Rea at the top step, the life spilled out of
her.

  Flanagan entered the concourse, walking slowly, looking for Ida. Ida considered waving, calling out to her, but instead she watched. The policewoman moved as if she carried a great weight, some dark thing riding on her shoulders.

  How old was she? Mid forties, Ida guessed. Odd how a woman less than fifteen years her junior should stir motherly feelings in her. Since Flanagan had first entered her home, Ida had wanted to care for her, comfort her, and she had no idea why.

  Perhaps the sudden vacuum that Rea had left behind needed to be filled. Maybe because Ida had no real friends of her own, only those that Graham allowed her to have, and she desired the warmth of a sister to understand her pain.

  Silly notions. Ida dismissed them as Flanagan climbed the stairs. When she appeared at the top, Ida raised a hand. Flanagan saw her and smiled as she approached.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Ida said.

  ‘Not at all,’ Flanagan said as she sat down opposite. ‘I’m always happy to talk.’

  A waitress placed menus in front of them.

  ‘Just coffee, please,’ Flanagan said.

  Ida ordered the same.

  When the waitress had gone, Flanagan asked, ‘So what can I do for you?’

  Ida took a tissue from her sleeve, worried it between her fingers. ‘We’ve been lying to you,’ she said.

  She watched Flanagan’s face. It remained blank.

  ‘I know,’ Flanagan said. ‘But it’s never too late to tell the truth.’

  Ida took a breath. Then another.

  ‘We both saw the book. Rea called me to the house and showed it to me. Then I called Graham. He said he wanted rid of it, that we couldn’t go to the police. It would’ve ruined him, he said.’

  ‘What was in the book?’ Flanagan asked.

  ‘Terrible things,’ Ida said. ‘All the people my brother killed. He wrote it all down. And he kept stuff, like souvenirs, I suppose. Fingernails and hair.’

  ‘Where’s the book now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ida said. ‘It was there the day before Rea died. Now it’s gone. Whoever killed her must’ve taken it.’