So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2) Page 12

  ‘I started wondering then. I started drinking, too, more than I should have. Maybe if I’d laid off the drink for those few months, maybe I would’ve made more sense of it. But here’s the thing. She was a swimmer. A good swimmer. Not everyone knew that, but I did. She used to go to Lisburn, and I saw her there, doing lengths. She cut through that water like she could win a medal. And somehow she goes out into the sea and loses her child? Nearly drowns herself ?

  ‘The more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t make sense of it. And the way she’d looked at the funeral. Maybe I should’ve gone to Harry about it, or the police, or just kept my bloody mouth shut. But one Sunday after church, Harry and Roberta had me and the wife to theirs for lunch. I’d had a few wee nips from a quarter bottle in my pocket, the wife didn’t approve, but I felt like I needed it. Anyway, usually Janet and Roberta would’ve done the dishes, but I insisted Janet sit down and take it easy.

  ‘So there’s me and Roberta in the kitchen, loading up the dishwasher, sorting out the pans, and I says to her about wee Erin. I say, tell me again how it happened, and she sort of closed up, said she didn’t want to go over it again. But I didn’t let it go. I says to her, I don’t understand it, as good a swimmer as her, and she couldn’t help wee Erin. Even if she lost hold of her, how come she couldn’t get her back? How come she nearly drowned herself ?’

  George went quiet, his eyes distant, the memory holding his mind there in the past. Flanagan wondered how many hours he’d lost to it over the years, locked there.

  ‘How did she react?’ Flanagan asked.

  ‘She just stared at me for a minute,’ George said. ‘I remember the two of us standing there, her with a stack of plates in her hands, me with my hands in my pockets. And then I saw who she really was. Like she’d taken off this disguise she was wearing, and I could see what she really was underneath. And I knew then she killed her daughter. And she knew I knew. We stood still like that for I don’t know how long, not saying anything, just knowing each other. I saw something inside her, something that’s sick, that’s not human. I see it every night when I try to sleep. I see it every time I think of my brother, and when I remember wee Erin. I think of the monster she showed me that day.

  ‘She dropped the plates. There was this almighty crash, pieces going everywhere. And then she screamed, stop it, stop it, let go of me, and she ran for the door. Harry came in then, and she ran right past him and upstairs. I went and got Janet and said, let’s go, and I got out of there.

  ‘Harry called me that night. He said he didn’t want to see me ever again, not at home, not in the street, and not at church. Before I know it, it’s all around the town and country that I grabbed my brother’s wife, tried to feel her up when she’s still grieving for her child. And of course, the rumour got worse the further it spread. Janet started hearing all sorts of things on the street. She stuck by me for a month, but it got too much for her, all the talk and all the looks she got. She couldn’t take it any longer, even though she knew it was nonsense. She moved back to Bushmills, where she’s from.’

  He seemed diminished, shrunken into the seat, as if telling all this to Flanagan had bled something out of him. He shook his head and looked at her.

  ‘That woman destroyed me. She might as well have put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger. It’s years since I set foot on this street. And now my brother’s dead. My brother, who was the strongest man I ever knew in my life, who thought suicide was the worst sin a person could commit. I tried, but I never got to see him after the accident. I know he was in bad shape, but if he had a thread of life to hang on to, he never would have given up. I know that. I know it in my heart. My brother did not kill himself.’

  Flanagan remained silent and still, her mind racing.

  ‘Have you nothing to say?’ he asked. ‘Tell me I’m mad, at least. Tell me something.’

  ‘The coroner has reported it as suicide,’ she said.

  ‘I know that, but—’

  ‘I was there when the pathologist did the post-mortem examination. Everything pointed towards suicide. Everything.’

  ‘You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me,’ he said.

  Flanagan shook her head. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’

  ‘Well, at least I told someone.’ He reached for the door handle. ‘I don’t have to go to my grave carrying this thing around with me. I suppose what you do with it is up to you. But I had to tell you. You understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ Flanagan said. She put her hand on his arm. ‘And again, I’m sorry for your loss, I really am.’

  He nodded and opened the passenger door, climbed out, ducked down to look in at her.

  ‘Whatever happens,’ he said, ‘just remember what she really is.’

  He closed the door before Flanagan could reply, and she watched in her rear-view mirror as George Garrick slipped between the parked cars and out of her vision.

  26

  ‘You’re looking terrible, Reverend Peter,’ Miss Trimble said.

  McKay had tried to avoid her, had veered around a row of chairs, but she had ducked through a gap and headed him off.

  ‘Have you not been sleeping?’ she asked.

  He looked past her, beyond the rows of people with their combination plates and saucers, cups of tea or coffee balanced on one side, mounds of sandwiches and sausage rolls on the other. At the long table at the top of the hall, by the curtained stage, Roberta sat, people leaning in from all sides to offer their kinship, like Christ at the Last Supper. One empty chair at the table where McKay should have sat. He had spent as much time as he could touring the room, shaking hands, smiling, saying thank you for the compliments on his sermon. Miss Trimble had not been the first to comment on his gaunt appearance.

  Now, as people began to say farewell, the room emptying, he had no choice but to take his seat. First, he went to the long table laden with trays and cups and plates, two large urns at one end. He took a plate, lifted a few scraps of food, paying no mind to what he had chosen.

  ‘Tea or coffee, Reverend?’ Mr Wellesley asked.

  ‘Yes, please,’ McKay said, watching her across the hall.

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Oh,’ McKay said, turning back to Mr Wellesley. ‘Tea, please.’

  Mr Wellesley poured him a cup and set it on the outstretched plate. McKay thanked him and walked towards the stage, and the table before it. She glanced up as he approached, looked away again, leaning across to listen to whatever drivel Jim Allison spouted.

  McKay sat down between them, forcing Allison to speak around him.

  ‘I was just saying, it was a good service.’

  ‘Thank you,’ McKay said.

  ‘I saw that policewoman talking to you outside the church,’ Allison said. ‘Has she been bothering you? I can deal with her if she has.’

  McKay shook his head. ‘No. She’s been nothing but courteous and professional. I think we’ll not be hearing from her again until the inquest next year.’

  ‘Okay, good,’ Allison said. ‘I need to be off, but I’ll see you on Sunday.’

  He stood and patted McKay’s shoulder before crouching down and putting an arm around Roberta. ‘Take care, now, and let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.’

  McKay watched Allison’s back as he left, saw him shake hands and smile his way through the thinning crowd.

  ‘You don’t like him, do you?’

  He turned to Roberta, startled at the teasing in her voice. ‘It’s not up to me to like or dislike my congregation. My job is to care for them, whoever they are.’

  ‘He’s not that different from you,’ she said.

  ‘He’s nothing like me.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  He tried to read her face, even though he should have known by now that she was unreadable. Was she mocking him? Was it playfulness or spite? Or were they the same thing to her?

  ‘You were right,’ he said.

 
‘About what?’

  ‘About DCI Flanagan,’ he said. ‘We don’t have to worry about her. She’s not—’

  Roberta squeezed his arm, stopping the words in his mouth. She looked around the room, at those close by, those still at the table.

  ‘I need the bathroom,’ she said. Then she lowered her voice. ‘Follow me in two minutes.’

  She left the table without waiting for a reply. McKay watched her walk to the entrance hall, avoiding encounters with sympathetic friends, moving through the people like a snake through grass. He checked his watch, counted the seconds. Someone at the table spoke his name. He pretended he didn’t hear.

  When two minutes had passed, exactly, to the second, he rose from his chair and made his way to the entrance hall. No one tried to talk to him, no one reached for his elbow. He rounded the corner to the two unisex toilets out of view of the hall. One stood open and empty, the other an inch ajar. He went to it, put his fingertips to the wood, pushed.

  Roberta stood at the washbasin, examining her face in the mirror above. She turned to him as he closed the door, locking them both inside.

  McKay opened his mouth to speak, but before a word could find his tongue, her hand lashed out, her palm hard across his cheek. He staggered back, tried to speak again, but she lunged at him, caught his throat between her fingers, pushed him against the door. The back of his head connected with the wood. Her fingers tightened, closing his windpipe. Black dots speckled his vision.

  ‘Don’t ever talk like that again in public,’ she said through bared teeth. ‘If someone heard, we’d both be finished. Watch your fucking mouth. Do you understand me?’

  He tried to speak, but no air could pass through his throat.

  She eased her grip and repeated, ‘Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, a thin croak between gulps of air. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself as his head seemed to drift away from his shoulders.

  ‘Good,’ she said, stepping back. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, her eyes burning. Then she lunged forward again.

  McKay said, ‘No,’ and brought his hands up, tried to keep her away. But she grabbed his wrists, pulled his arms aside.

  Please don’t, he would have said, but her lips closed on his, her tongue soft and warm, her body in tight to him. Her hands went to his waist, his belt, the button, the fly. She took his lower lip between her teeth, and he felt a hot sting and tasted metal.

  As chattering voices drifted in through the small bathroom window, Roberta dropped to her knees. She pulled fabric aside, baring him to her.

  She grinned up at him, a red smear of his blood on her teeth.

  27

  Flanagan found DS Murray at his desk, engrossed in paperwork. She knocked on the wood to get his attention. He looked up, startled.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he said, blinking as if he’d come out of a slumber.

  ‘Get on the phone to Barcelona, get hold of whoever in the Mossos d’Esquadra dealt with the death of Erin Garrick four years ago.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Garricks’ little girl,’ Flanagan said, her voice rising with her impatience. ‘She drowned at a beach there. I want to speak with whoever dealt with the case. Today, if possible. Organise a translator if one’s needed.’

  She walked away, and he called after her.

  ‘Ma’am, what’s going on?’

  ‘Just get it sorted,’ she said without looking back.

  Flanagan went to her office, fired up her computer. A minute later she had the telephone number for the British Consulate in Barcelona. One minute more and she was on hold for the Third Secretary. She had to wait five more before an answer came.

  ‘This is Julia Heston-Charles, how can I help?’

  The accent was stiffly English, public school through and through.

  ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Serena Flanagan, Police Service of Northern Ireland, based in Lisburn. I need to discuss the case of a child, a British national, who drowned at the beach in Barcelona four years ago. Her name was Erin Garrick, her parents were Henry and Roberta Garrick.’

  A moment of hiss in the earpiece before Heston-Charles said, ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘You dealt with this?’

  ‘Yes. It was just before I went on maternity leave. I was seven or eight months pregnant at the time. Not a pleasant case to deal with when you’re about to have a child of your own.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Flanagan said.

  ‘What do you need to know?’

  ‘Anything,’ Flanagan said, her pen ready. ‘Whatever you can remember about it.’

  ‘All right,’ Heston-Charles said. The line went quiet as she gathered her memories. ‘If I recall correctly, the initial contact came from the police officer who dealt with the case. Can’t think of his name, but he was an inspector. He called a few hours after the accident. In these situations, the Consulate needs to liaise with the police, the coroner, the local government, the undertakers, the airline for getting the body home, all on the family’s behalf. It’s quite an operation to oversee.’

  ‘Did you have much contact with the Garricks themselves?’ Flanagan asked.

  ‘Some. They were still at the hospital when I first met them. The mother was in the emergency ward herself, she almost drowned trying to save the little girl. The father was just wandering the corridors, he didn’t know what to do with himself. I sat him down and talked him through the procedures. He was in a terrible state, understandably. Confused, angry, despairing. It was a difficult conversation.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Flanagan said, remembering the many death notices she’d delivered, facing the denial and fury of the bereaved. ‘And what about the mother? How was Mrs Garrick?’

  ‘She was different,’ Heston-Charles said. ‘Whoever pumped the water out of her lungs cracked one of her ribs in the process, so she was in physical pain as well as emotional. The doctors had given her morphine, as much to sedate her as to kill the pain, I think. It all seemed to be washing over her, as if she was watching this happen to someone else. She was almost serene, I remember. Almost smiling, at times. I didn’t deal with her much; it was mostly Mr Garrick after that. He pulled himself together over those few days, got everything dealt with. I believe his brother flew over to help, too.’

  Flanagan took a breath before asking, ‘Were there ever any questions about what happened?’

  A pause, then, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The police, the coroner, did anyone dispute the Garricks’ version of events?’

  ‘Goodness, no. Can I ask, what’s this about? That little girl drowned four years ago. Why are you digging into it now?’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t discuss that,’ Flanagan said. ‘It’s nothing for you to be concerned about.’

  Heston-Charles’s voice hardened. ‘But it concerns me enough that you need to interrupt my working day to question me about it.’

  ‘I do appreciate your time,’ Flanagan said. ‘I’m sure you understand why I can’t discuss what I’m dealing with here.’

  ‘I understand. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. Now, is there anything else you need to know?’

  Flanagan scanned her notes. ‘Not at the moment. You’ve been very helpful, thank you. Can I get back in touch if need be?’

  ‘I suppose so. Good afternoon.’

  The line died, and Flanagan looked at the handset. ‘Fuck you too,’ she whispered before hanging up.

  Her fingers hadn’t left the telephone before it rang. She picked it up.

  ‘DCI Flanagan,’ she said.

  ‘What’s going on?’ DSI Purdy asked, not even bothering with a greeting.

  Flanagan closed her eyes as she searched for something convincing. ‘Just following up on some details, sir,’ she said, knowing he wouldn’t accept such a weak explanation.

  ‘Some details,’ he echoed. ‘I was chasing young Murray for some paperwork and he tells me you have him tracking down someone in Spain for you. To do w
ith the Garrick case, I’m told. Exactly what details can a cop in Barcelona clarify for you?’

  Flanagan winced as she spoke. ‘I just had a few questions about the little girl’s death.’

  ‘I fail to see the relevance,’ Purdy said.

  She would have to tell him, there was no getting around it. ‘This morning, at the funeral, Henry Garrick’s brother found me, said he had to talk to me.’

  ‘And?’

  Flanagan told him all of it, every detail. When she’d finished, he said nothing for a while. When he did speak, he said, ‘All right, but tread carefully. I don’t need that Allison prick annoying me because you stuck your nose where it didn’t belong. Understood?’

  ‘Understood, sir,’ Flanagan said. ‘Thank you.’

  Relieved, Flanagan hung up and turned back to her computer and its web browser. A few search phrases later, she had Roberta Garrick’s Facebook profile open once more. A string of condolence messages had been posted by her friends, but otherwise nothing had changed. Including the irrational feeling that this woman did not really exist in the world. No schools listed, no former places of work. As if she’d sprung into life fully formed seven years ago.

  Flanagan returned to Google and combined Roberta Garrick’s name with that of every social network site she could think of, even those that had fallen from fashion years ago, as well as every major shopping site in case she’d ever reviewed anything online.

  Still nothing.

  After an hour’s fruitless searching, Flanagan realised she had forgotten to eat. She went to the canteen and ordered some toast and a coffee. She ate alone, the only other customers being a cluster of uniformed officers discussing a protest they were to attend in Belfast city centre to make sure it didn’t get out of hand. Their relaxed manner suggested they didn’t expect any trouble.

  Just as she swallowed the last mouthful of toast, her mobile pinged to tell her a text message had arrived. Flanagan looked at the display. From Miriam: You were right – it was a cyst. Thank God! A smiley-face emoticon finished the message, and Flanagan felt a smile spread on her own face.