The Final Silence (27 page)

‘You can cry all you want when I’m gone,’ the Sparkle said. ‘Now pull yourself together and listen to me.’

Graham turned his wet face to the Sparkle’s. ‘What kind of animal are you?’

Quick as water on glass, the Sparkle reached down to Graham’s waistband, seized the pistol in his right hand, hugged him around the shoulders with his left arm. He kept the gun pressed flat against Graham’s soft stomach, hidden from view.

‘Stop your crying and listen to me or I’ll blow a hole through your gut right in front of all these people. You don’t have the nerve to do it, but I do. That’s the only difference between you and me. I’ve got the strength. You haven’t.’

Graham wiped his sleeve across his eyes.

‘Are you listening?’ the Sparkle asked.

Graham nodded.

‘Good. I need money. Enough to live on for a year or two. I have a bit hidden away, sterling and euro, but it’s not enough. I want fifty thousand euro in cash.’

‘I can’t,’ Graham said, his jowls quivering as he shook his head. ‘It’s too much.’

‘Don’t lie to me.’ The Sparkle jabbed at Graham’s belly with the pistol’s muzzle. ‘You’ve got ten times that, probably more. You want me out of the way, you’ll hand it over.’

‘Christ. All right. I’ll need a few days.’

‘We don’t have a few days. I want it here, tomorrow, at twelve. You show up a minute later, I’m going to take your gun and start shooting till the police get here. Women, children, I don’t care. I’ve nothing to lose. And when the cops arrive, I’m going to lower the gun, like a good boy, and I’m going to tell them everything.’

He leaned close, his lips against Graham’s ear. ‘Everything,’ he whispered. ‘Every dirty little secret.’

Graham whined. ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’

‘You know I’ll do it. And every dead mummy, and every dead baby, they’ll be on your head. And everyone will know you could’ve stopped it. And when I’ve told them, I will end it all.’

The Sparkle looked around, slipped the pistol into his coat pocket, and stepped back.

‘Tomorrow at noon,’ he said. ‘Not a minute later.’

He walked away through the chattering crowd, almost tasting the clarity of it all.

The Sparkle had never felt so well. The Sparkle had never shone so bright.

LENNON’S MOBILE RANG.
Number withheld.

‘Yes?’

‘Hello again, Jack.’

Lennon sat down on the plastic-covered couch. After Flanagan had let him go, he’d returned to the apartment Roscoe Patterson had given him the use of. It felt strange knowing the owner was dead, the air inside somehow different, colder. Now that he was no longer being chased by Flanagan, he could use his own mobile again. The first call he’d made had been to Bernie McKenna. It had gone straight to voicemail.

Now this.

He listened to the Sparkle’s breathing. After a few seconds, he asked, ‘What do you want?’

‘Just to talk. I was a bit emotional this afternoon. I wasn’t myself.’

‘I didn’t think killing bothered you that much.’

‘It doesn’t bother me at all.’ Lennon could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Not after all this time. But it does get my blood up. It’s a dizzy feeling, like going on a fairground ride. You know. You’ve killed people.’

Lennon swallowed. ‘Yes, I have. But I didn’t get any pleasure out of it.’

A small, childish laugh. ‘Oh, Jack. See, that’s what people like you never understand. I didn’t get any pleasure from killing all those people. I never killed anyone for fun.’

‘Then why?’

‘Because it was . . . necessary.’

‘What?’

‘To take what I needed from those people, to let the wicked out, it was necessary to kill them. Killing was a part of it, but it was never the point. Do you understand?’

‘No, I don’t. And I never will.’

‘Of course not. But don’t worry, I’ll be gone soon enough. You won’t have to think about it any more.’

‘Gone where?’

‘Far away where you can’t touch me. Not you or anybody else.’

‘You’ve no passport,’ Lennon said. ‘It’s too hard to fake one now. You can’t get out of Ireland. You can only go south across the border. How long do you think you can hide out down there?’

‘As long as I need to.’

‘And what happens when you want to kill again? What if you slip up? You’re not a young man. How long can you keep doing this?’

‘As long as I need to. Anyway. Must go. I just wanted to say goodbye.’

‘Maybe you’ll see me again. Maybe sooner than you think.’

‘Oh?’

‘Maybe we’re getting close to you.’

‘And maybe not. Whichever, you’d better make your move soon or I’ll be gone. Bye-bye, Jack.’

Click.

Lennon dropped the phone on the coffee table. It spun away, its display dimming. He thought of Graham Carlisle and Serena Flanagan, and of Rea, and how she hadn’t deserved to die that way.

He thought about the feel of Ellen’s hand in his, her arms around his shoulders, and how he would kill to get her back. If it was necessary.

IDA CARLISLE ATE
toast at her kitchen table, alone, in only the light that filtered through the door’s glass panels. She had slathered the bread with butter, yet it felt dry and tasteless as dust on her tongue.

Graham had not come home.

No more than an hour, he’d said. Now it drew close to eleven, and he was still out there somewhere, doing whatever he did. How many secrets did he keep? How many lives did he have? One more than he deserved, she knew that much.

He had taken his gun with him. She had heard the heavy clank of the safe’s door closing up in their bedroom. Once he’d left, she checked, and yes, it was gone.

Ida was relieved, in a way. She had gone up there several times today, keyed in the combination, and lifted the plastic case out. She had flipped open the latches with her thumbs and found it nestled there in the foam, run her fingertips across its flank, and felt a hateful surge low down in her belly. This afternoon, while Graham was downstairs with the solicitor, she had even lifted the pistol out of its case. She could still feel the weight of it in her hand.

Imagine it tearing through her skull. She hadn’t the courage to shoot him, but maybe she had the courage to shoot herself.

Imagine if Graham and his solicitor had heard the shot and come running upstairs. Imagine if they found her lying on the bed, her brains spilling out over the Egyptian cotton.

Imagine, imagine, imagine.

What if Graham had taken the gun and driven to some dark place, beneath a bridge or behind a disused warehouse? Maybe he had parked there, turned off the engine, and taken the pistol out of the glovebox, brought the muzzle to his lips. Perhaps he had tasted oil before his existence blinked out.

Imagine.

The doorbell jangled, startling her. She sat still and quiet, her breath held tight. Through the open kitchen door, along the hall, through the frosted panes of the front door she saw the shape of a person.

Another chime, and Ida returned the piece of toast to the plate. She stood, opened the kitchen door and took slow steps along the hall.

‘Who is it?’ she called.

‘Mrs Carlisle, it’s DCI Flanagan. Please open the door.’

Ida did as she was told. Beyond the garden, the street seemed frozen like a photograph. She felt no breeze, heard no sound.

The policewoman stood alone on the step, darkness in and around her eyes.

‘Where’s the other policeman?’ Ida asked.

‘It’s late,’ Flanagan said. ‘I sent him home.’

‘Does he have a family?’

‘Yes. A girlfriend and a baby boy.’

‘Not married? I suppose that’s the way these days.’

Flanagan smiled her agreement. ‘Can I come in?’

Ida stepped back and allowed her to pass. Without bidding, Flanagan headed for the kitchen, switched the light on as she entered. Ida followed.

‘Did I interrupt your supper?’ Flanagan asked, indicating the plate of half-eaten toast.

‘Not really,’ Ida said. ‘I’ve not much of an appetite. Would you take a cup of tea?’

‘Please,’ Flanagan said, sitting at the table.

Ida flipped the switch on the still hot kettle. It hissed and bubbled as she fetched a mug from the cupboard and a teabag from the caddy.

Flanagan said, ‘Actually, it was your husband I wanted to talk to.’

‘He’s out,’ Ida said.

‘Will he be long, do you think?’

Ida poured boiling water into the mug. ‘He said he’d be an hour. That was before eight.’

‘Does he often disappear like that?’

The policewoman’s tone had changed. Even Ida could hear the difference between polite conversation and a question to which the answer had real meaning.

‘Always,’ Ida said. She poured a dash of milk into the mug. ‘Ever since we were first married and Rea was born. I was pregnant out of wedlock, you know.’

Flanagan gave a nod and a smile as Ida placed the tea in front of her. ‘That’s not unusual these days.’

‘It was then.’ Ida sat opposite her. ‘Especially in this country. I never told my parents. They knew, of course, when the months didn’t add up. But we never talked about it.’

‘So where does Mr Carlisle go when he disappears?’

‘Party business. Meetings, constituency clinics, fundraisers. That’s what he’s always told me.’

‘Do you believe him?’

‘I used to.’

‘Used to?’

Ida held Flanagan’s challenging gaze. ‘Now I realise I don’t know him at all. I’ve been lying beside a stranger for more than thirty years. I used to blame myself for the way he treated me. I thought I deserved it. What a stupid woman I am.’

Flanagan extended a hand, perhaps meant to comfort Ida, but she thought better of it and returned her fingers to the side of the mug.

‘He made you blame yourself. He needed you to think it was your own fault. I’ve seen the same pattern of abuse time and time again. It’s all about control. I can give you contacts, people you can talk to. People who can help.’

Ida almost told her she didn’t need any help, that her path was clear. Instead, she asked, ‘Have you told your husband about the cancer yet?’

The compassion flaked away from Flanagan’s face, showing the tiredness beneath. She shook her head. ‘No, I haven’t had the time. I’ve hardly been home over the last few days.’

‘You’re afraid to tell him,’ Ida said. It wasn’t a question.

Flanagan looked down at the mug, her hands wrapped around its warmth. ‘Yes.’

‘So you come here at eleven o’clock at night to avoid facing him. Just like Graham stays away to avoid facing me.’

‘It’s not the same,’ Flanagan said, the edge of her voice sharpening. ‘Not the same at all. And I’m not here to talk about me.’

Ida said, ‘You’re here to talk about Graham.’

‘That’s right.’ The small cloud of anger left Flanagan’s expression. ‘How has he been since Rea died?’

‘Drunk, mostly. He hadn’t touched a drop since our wedding day, but he bought a bottle of whiskey the morning after she was killed. And a few more since. There’s a bottle in the cupboard if you want some.’

‘No, thank you.’ Flanagan placed her palms flat on the table. ‘Ida, we found the book. We know who—’

The bang and judder of the front door bouncing against the wall, a wave of cool air. They both looked along the hall and saw Graham leaning against the door frame.

He blinked at them, red eyes in a redder face, and asked, ‘What’s going on?’

FLANAGAN HELD THE
words back. She had hoped to prise some sort of truth out of Ida before her husband returned, but now it was too late. And he was drunk.

She got to her feet. ‘Mr Carlisle, I need to ask you a few questions.’

He slammed the front door behind him. ‘I told you before, I won’t say a bloody word to you without my solicitor. Now get the fuck out.’

Carlisle shuffled along the hall, his fists clenched. He had violence on his mind, Flanagan could tell.

Stay or go?

No, she wouldn’t leave Ida alone with him.

‘By all means, call your solicitor. We can talk while we wait for him.’

His frame filled the doorway to the kitchen. ‘I said, get out.’

‘Mr Carlisle, we can talk here, or I can call for a car to take you to—’

He grabbed the underside of the table, hauled upwards, sent the mug of hot tea to shatter and spill on the floor along with the plate of uneaten toast. The table refused to tip over until he gave it another shove, a hoarse sob of anger in his throat.

Flanagan stepped away, pressed her back against the fridge.

Carlisle barked at his wife. ‘Clear that up.’

Ida obeyed, her face blank, picking fragments from the floor and taking them to the sink.

‘Mr Carlisle, we have the book.’

He turned to look at Flanagan. She expected shock and fear on his face. Instead, she saw hate.

‘So what?’

‘You lied to me. You made your wife lie too.’

He lurched forward, skidded on the spilled tea, regained his balance. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me,’ he said, indignant.

‘And the photograph.’ She held his reddened gaze. ‘You stopped your daughter from coming forward with that book. You made her keep it secret to protect your career, and now she’s dead.’

He pointed at the door. ‘Get out.’

‘I know who killed Rea,’ Flanagan said.

‘Get out now.’

‘Howard Monaghan,’ she said. ‘He was in the photograph with you and Raymond Drew. He killed your daughter.’

Not a hint of shock or surprise on his face, only drunken fury.

He knew, Flanagan thought. The idea formed bright and hard and clear in her mind. Carlisle had known who had killed his daughter all along and had said nothing. And he knew that she knew it too.

He knew.

Carlisle shambled towards her, made a grab for her coat. She slapped his hand away.

‘Mr Carlisle, have you spoken with Howard Monaghan today?’

‘Graham,’ Ida called from the other side of the room.

‘Get out!’

Flanagan felt his breath hot on her skin. ‘Answer the question, Mr Carlisle, have you had contact with Howard Monaghan?’

Ida moved closer, called again, ‘Graham.’