The Final Silence (22 page)

‘Is that right?’ she said, looking back over her shoulder.

Flanagan thought of the file she had taken from Susan McKee’s closet, the one she had decided not to store with the rest of the items taken from Lennon’s home, that now lay hidden in a drawer in her office.

‘It is,’ he said, tending to the plant’s leaves. ‘If I was you, I’d be careful whose word you take.’

She nodded, said, ‘I will,’ and left him there.

A ONE-BEDROOM APARTMENT
in the city centre. It smelled of cheap perfume and disinfectant, but it was clean. Roscoe Patterson watched from the living area as Lennon toured the flat. Portraits of nudes on the walls. Cheap flat-pack furniture.

‘It’ll do,’ Lennon said.

‘There’s gratitude for you,’ Patterson said.

‘Don’t worry, I’m grateful. You know I always take care of you.’

Patterson snorted. ‘It’s a long time since you took care of me. Come to think of it, there’s not much you
can
do for me. Last I heard, you were still on suspension.’

Lennon had known Roscoe Patterson for coming on ten years. Their relationship was one of expediency, and neither man enjoyed being in the other’s company for any longer than was strictly necessary. Patterson was respected and feared as a senior loyalist paramilitary, but he had never been overly concerned with the ideals and politics of that movement. His primary reason for belonging to such a group was profit.

Roscoe Patterson had a particular talent for managing the services of prostitutes. He was known to have strict policies about the working conditions of the women on his roster, tolerated no abuse of them by clients, and made sure they earned more with him than they would with any other pimp. And he would not have any dealings with women who were coerced into this life, or those who trafficked in them.

In their past conversations, Lennon had gathered that Patterson regarded himself more as a booking agent than a pimp. The happier his workers were, the more money he made. It was a simple formula, and he didn’t like anyone or anything coming along that might disrupt his business. Thus, he had shared certain information with Lennon, and others, over the years. If a rival was getting too uppity, or rankling the human rights campaigners by mistreating the girls who worked for him, Patterson would try to smooth things out by passing leads on to the police. The alternative was to tackle such problems directly, and despite his size and appearance, Roscoe Patterson did not deal in violence if he could possibly avoid it.

Lennon and Patterson’s relations had fundamentally changed when the pimp passed information about Lennon and Ellen’s mother to Dan Hewitt, information that led to Marie McKenna’s death. Patterson could not have known that his betrayal would have such consequences, but even so, being around him made Lennon’s nerves jangle with anger and hate. If Patterson hadn’t been so bloody useful, Lennon would gladly have never set eyes on him again.

So how could Patterson be trusted now? He couldn’t, not really. But Lennon had given him such a beating over the last treachery that he was fairly confident Patterson would not risk doing it again.

Lennon walked back to the living area. Two cheap sofas still with plastic sheeting on them. The kitchenette had seen little use.

‘What else have you heard?’ he asked.

Lennon watched Patterson’s face for any sign of a lie. His shaven head was darkened by a few days’ growth. His expression remained closed, dead-eyed, giving nothing away. Patterson slumped onto the couch, plastic rustling beneath him.

‘Not much,’ he said. ‘Are you planning on staying here long?’

‘I’m not sure. Depends how things work out.’

‘Things,’ Patterson echoed with a half-smile. ‘Never you worry, I’ll ask around. Whatever shit you’ve gotten yourself into, I’ll find out. Anyway, I’ve a girl due over from Birmingham next weekend. Sexy wee thing. I’ve two nights’ worth of punters booked in for her. That’s five grand of takings. No chance I’m going to bollocks that up just to give you a place to hide.’

‘I’ll be gone long before then,’ Lennon said. He sat down opposite Patterson. ‘But I need another favour.’

‘Shite,’ Patterson said, shaking his head. ‘Answering my door before noon on a Sunday should be favour enough, let alone giving you the use of this place. And now you’re looking for more? Jesus.’

Lennon had called at Patterson’s Sydenham home, a small terraced house beneath the City Airport’s flight path and less than a hundred yards from the railway line. Patterson shared the two-up two-down with a wife and three children, and Lennon wondered how the noise didn’t drive him insane. The loyalist pimp could have easily afforded a nice four- or five-bedroom detached place in a better location, but not without the taxman getting curious as to how he could afford it with no other income than the benefits the family claimed.

On the drive into town, Patterson had tried to press him on how he’d got a face full of cuts and bruises but was given no answer.

Lennon took the photograph from his pocket and dropped it onto the cheap coffee table between them. He turned it with his fingertips and pushed it towards Patterson.

‘Take a look,’ Lennon said.

Patterson lifted the picture and studied it for a time. Lennon watched his eyes move from face to face until they narrowed with recognition.

‘Here, is that . . .?’

‘Graham Carlisle,’ Lennon said.

‘I heard about his daughter. Jesus, you’re not mixed up with that, are you?’

‘She gave me the photo before she died. She wanted to know how involved her father was with the paramilitaries.’

Patterson snorted. ‘Up to his neck, by the looks of this. Do you know who the others are?’

‘The one on the left was Raymond Drew, Rea’s uncle, Graham Carlisle’s brother-in-law. You don’t know him?’

‘Nah,’ Patterson said. ‘Creepy looking fucker.’

‘You don’t know the half of it. Anyway, he died a week or two ago. Rea was clearing out his house when she was killed.’

Patterson tossed the photograph back across the table. ‘Whatever the fuck this is, you can leave me out of it. Jesus, you dig yourself into some holes, boy, and you’re not dragging me into this one.’

Lennon leaned forward and lifted the picture. He looked at Graham Carlisle’s face, then Raymond Drew’s. He thought of Rea lying at the top of a flight of stairs, the life beaten from her broken body.

‘It’s the one thing she asked me to do for her,’ Lennon said. ‘She’s dead because I didn’t listen to what she was telling me. Because I didn’t believe her. I have to do this for her. Please help me.’

He looked up at Patterson, who stared towards the apartment’s window, the balcony beyond, his face expressionless in the light.

‘Don’t be getting all emotional on me, Jack. You’ll have me in tears.’

‘Will you help me?’ Lennon asked.

Patterson exhaled, his muscled shoulders falling. ‘All right. I’ll ask around a bit, see what I can scare up.’

‘Thank you,’ Lennon said.

Patterson stood. ‘Is that all the favours you’re going to ask? I’ve work to be getting on with.’

Lennon smiled. ‘Work?’

‘You know what I mean. Right, I’m off. Look after the place, all right?’

‘I will,’ Lennon said.

‘Here, I almost forgot.’

Patterson reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small cardboard box, white with blue lettering, a pharmacist’s prescription label stuck to it. He shook it in front of Lennon’s eyes, the contents rattling within. ‘You’ll want some of these.’

Lennon looked at the box, imagined the blister strips inside, the pills in their plastic cocoons, waiting for his tongue. As if on command, pain signalled from his joints, his back, even his knuckles.

He swallowed and said, ‘No.’

Patterson held the box out, gave it another shake. ‘Don’t worry, you can pay me later.’

Lennon shook his head. ‘I don’t want them.’

‘All right, suit yourself.’

As Lennon watched Patterson exit and close the door behind him, he felt a grating regret at showing so much of himself to a man he hated with all his heart.

HE SAT ALONE
in the cafe, a cup of black tea in front of him, dry toast and a fried egg to eat. A television chattered from its place on the wall. No other customers. The owner sat at the counter, her fat chin rested on her hand, empty eyes pointed towards the screen.

The toast crunched between his teeth. He had stayed inside all morning, feeling the pressure of the walls around him. That voice in his head, telling him what a terrible mistake he’d made. How the anger had got the better of him, how he might have lost it all. He listened until he could stand it no longer. He had to get out and away.

The local news played on the television, the earnest presenter rattling off the headlines. Rea Carlisle’s death was no longer the lead item, but second. He felt a mix of relief and resentment.

‘And a development in the murder inquiry into the death of Stormont politician Graham Carlisle’s daughter,’ the newsreader said. ‘A suspect has been named. Lauren McCausland has more.’

He dropped his toast. The knife clattered from his other hand, splashing egg yolk across the plate. His gaze locked on the screen.

Footage of the house from the day before. Men and women in white overalls coming and going. He held his breath.

‘The hunt for the killer of Rea Carlisle took an unexpected turn today,’ the voiceover said.

The air tight in his chest, pushing out against his ribs. A ringing in his ears.

Then a still image. An identity photograph, the man’s face against a plain white background.

He exhaled. Stared.

‘Police leading the investigation have named one of their own colleagues, Detective Inspector Jack Lennon, as a person of interest.’

Jack Lennon. The policeman. The number on Rea’s phone. He felt a smile twitch on his lips.

Cut to a news conference outside a police station. The woman detective. Her name flashed on the screen. Microphones and voice recorders lined up beneath her chin.

‘We believe this person is still in the Greater Belfast area, and we wish to question him urgently. We appeal to anyone who knows of Jack Lennon’s whereabouts, or has had contact with him in the last forty-eight hours, to call us immediately. However, we urge members of the public not to approach him as we believe him to be potentially dangerous.’

Potentially dangerous. The twitch turned to a grin, died again just as quickly.

The woman cop, Flanagan, continued: ‘Instead, if you see him, please contact us directly. Thank you, that is all.’

A flurry of questions from the reporters as she turned away from the camera.

Poor Rea. She thought a policeman could help her. No one could help her now. But the policeman had the photograph.

What to do about that?

What to do about any of it?

Perhaps he should run. Get away. Leave everything and go.

Or was that madness talking?

There was a time, long ago, when he could have chosen a different path. He’d had his chance to keep the blood from his hands, and he did not take it. The choice not taken ceases to exist once that decision is made. A person might as well regret the direction of the wind, or the shape of a cloud.

He thought of Raymond, and sadness pierced and clawed at him.

Raymond and he had never had a choice.

Not in this world.

DO YOU REMEMBER
the driver? How we left him there, the engine still running? Do you remember the blood slashed across the windscreen? The look in his eyes when he saw, when he knew what was going to happen to him?

That was more than twenty-five years ago. I still think about it. I dream about it. Sometimes I wonder how things would be for us if that night hadn’t happened. Would we have had normal lives? Can people like us ever have normal lives?

I couldn’t. I was always going to be this way.

Do you remember how we lay together that night, talking about it? You were shaking. I had to calm you, hold you tight. You cried, said you couldn’t ever do it again, you’d thought you could, but it was too much, too real. Too hard to see it up close. So I had to do it for you.

We should have been born in a different place. This country was far too small for us. It still is. The minds of the people too closed. They look at us and say, ‘They are not the same.’ And they hate us.

I felt it when I was a boy. I know you felt it too. They beat everything that was different out of me. They beat me so hard, tried to bend me to their shape so often, that I didn’t know what I was any more. I am neither man nor beast, fish nor fowl. I am the dark place in between. They made me that.

How can they expect me, us, to behave as normal human beings if they treat us this way? The names they called me. I pretended I didn’t mind, but I did. I’ve stored the anger and hate up until it glows and burns in me, searching for release. Of course it shows itself. Of course others suffer. That is inevitable.

I have been indoors for a month now. I go outside to buy tinned food, bread, enough to keep me alive. The smell doesn’t bother me. It’s better if I stay inside. The wicked is rattling around inside me, trying to break loose. But I can’t do anything here, not so close to home. It’s too dangerous. I need to be away, some other place, where no one knows me. But there’s no work to take me away.

One day, I’ll make a mistake. It’s only a matter of time. The wicked will get the better of me. I will be seen, reported, caught. What then?

Will you abandon me?

Will you pretend we never lay together in the dark, whispering our secrets? When you see the news report, will you look away as if it’s some stranger’s photograph? Will you become a human being like the rest of them, put the beautiful things we shared behind you?

That’s the only thing that frightens me. That you will leave me alone, that you’ll go and become one of them. And then who will keep me right?