The Final Silence (29 page)

Flanagan continued. ‘Anyone spots someone they think is Howard Monaghan, radio his exact location. Don’t approach him yourself. DI Lennon and I will move as close as possible without spooking him. Once he’s identified, each pair of officers will move to cover the nearest exit. DS Calvin and I will carry out the arrest. We need to do this as quietly as possible, surprise him, don’t give him the chance to run. Any questions?’

No one raised a hand.

‘Good,’ Flanagan said. ‘Let’s try not to fuck this up.’

THE UNMARKED CARS
moved in convoy towards the city centre. Flanagan sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, Calvin driving, Lennon in the back. The early morning grey had burned away, leaving swatches of blue over Belfast and its good citizens. Mothers on school runs, commuters on buses.

‘I meant what I said.’ She looked back over her shoulder at Lennon. ‘You identify him, then you back off.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Lennon said. ‘I’ve no desire to get into it with this piece of shit.’

‘Even though you’ve a personal interest? He’ll answer for what he did to Rea. You’ve no call to get involved.’

‘I said, I’ll stay out of it.’

Lennon returned his gaze to the window as the car crossed the Albert Bridge, the River Lagan glowering muddy brown below.

The crowds thickened as the hours passed. Flanagan’s calves ached from pacing the upper floor and walkways, Lennon limping alongside her. They said little as they paused at restaurants to study menus, posing as hungry shoppers looking for a meal.

Clusters of young preschool children and their parents drifted towards the cinema, off to see whatever computer game was passing for a movie these days. Flanagan had taken her own children here many times, always feeling their excitement by proxy, the child that remained inside her filled with delight.

A place like Victoria Square couldn’t have existed when she was their age, and that caused an odd resentment in her. Even twenty years ago, this place would have been irresistible for the paramilitaries. They would have called it an economic target when they claimed responsibility for whatever bomb destroyed the place. In truth, the men in balaclavas simply couldn’t abide the people of Belfast having anything good. A decent cinema, a handful of good restaurants, glittering shops full of pretty things. Such indulgences could not be tolerated by those who dealt in death and fear, and they would have burned it to the ground.

These children have no idea, she thought, watching them stream up and down the escalators.

A voice crackled in her earpiece.

‘What about this one? Ann Street entrance, tan trousers, dark jacket.’

Lennon heard it too. Flanagan followed him to the railing edge of the gondola-like platform. She scanned the tides of people until she saw him, as described, a small trim man with white hair.

‘There,’ she said, pointing.

Lennon stared for a few seconds, then said, ‘No.’

‘All right,’ Flanagan said, walking back towards the nearest walkway. ‘Keep looking.’

Three and a half hours.

Flanagan had allowed the pairs to split, letting them take turns so that one could have a break while the other kept patrolling. The last of them had radioed in that they were rejoining their partners. She could hear the fatigue and boredom in their voices.

She lifted her wrist to her mouth and spoke into the microphone. ‘Calvin, do you see anything?’

‘No one that looks the part,’ Calvin said, his voice thin in her ear.

Lennon rested his forearms on the rail overlooking the Victoria Street entrance, the restored Jaffe Fountain visible through the glass, its yellow dome glaring in the sunlight. Flanagan remembered reading about its restoration when the shopping mall was built. The fountain had originally been located in Victoria Square in the 1870s, but was later moved to Botanic Gardens in the south of the city, where it stood neglected and graffiti-strewn for decades. Much like Belfast itself, it had now been cleaned up and made respectable again.

‘How much longer are you going to give it?’ Lennon asked, his hand over the microphone inside his lapel.

‘All day, if I have to.’

Lennon reached inside his jacket, switched the microphone off. ‘You look tired,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ Flanagan said, doing the same. ‘You don’t look so sprightly yourself.’

Lennon shrugged. ‘I’ve felt like shit for more than a year now. Same old, same old.’

‘Do you think you’ll ever be back on the job?’

He shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Even if I was fit. As soon as they figure out how to get shot of me, they’ll do it.’

‘When we searched your girlfriend’s flat—’

Lennon gave her a hard look. ‘She’s not my girlfriend.’

‘Well, the flat where you were living, I found the safe. I had a look inside it.’

‘And?’

‘I think if you brought that information to the ACC, or maybe the Police Ombudsman, Dan Hewitt would have some explaining to do. I didn’t log the file with the rest of the evidence. It’s in my office. You can have it back when this is done.’

He turned his gaze to the crowds below. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘I understand your anger at him,’ Flanagan said. ‘But there’s a right way and a wrong way to tackle this. Whenever you make your move, I hope you choose the right way.’

‘I’ll do what needs doing. But not until I’m ready.’

‘Or maybe you just like wallowing in your hate. Maybe you enjoy being angry at him. Gives you a way to avoid looking too closely at yourself.’

Lennon snorted. ‘Christ, you sound like Susan.’

‘She seems like a decent woman.’

‘Yeah, I thought that too,’ he said.

Flanagan studied the lines on Lennon’s face, the way he tried to disguise his lopsided stance. ‘I heard you were a good police officer, at one time.’

‘Not any more,’ Lennon said.

He switched his microphone back on and walked away.

THE SPARKLE STEPPED
off the bus and onto the pavement. The high buildings of Chichester Street trapped the traffic’s rumble and screech, made it feel as if he had waded into a pool of jagged noise. He hitched his bag over his shoulder and walked east, the modern enclave of the Laganside Court complex ahead, all white stone and glass, the Waterfront Hall beyond that. Pedestrians streamed past him, some heading back towards the City Hall, others following his path, to the shopping centre.

He felt a strange sense of calm. Being so close to other people usually made him uneasy. He hated when their shoulders brushed against his, or they did that stupid foot-to-foot dance as they tried to avoid slamming into him. Their voices grated on his nerves.

But not today. Today, he felt at peace here. He had the sense of an ending, something final. Beyond that, he didn’t know. A new life or none at all. He would take either.

Whichever, it would be glorious.

In his heart, he knew that Raymond’s death was not the cause of his sickness. If he was truthful with himself, he had been unwell for some time. In his mind. The illness came and went. For weeks at a time, he could feel almost like a real human being. Reasonable. Calm. And then his hold on himself would slip, the wiser part of his mind unable to assert itself. And he became dangerous, more to himself than to anyone else.

But now, today, his mind was under his control.

The Sparkle checked his watch. Eleven fifty-four. He would have liked to have arrived earlier, but the bus was delayed by roadworks. He quickened his pace.

Less than a minute took him to the south-eastern corner of Victoria Square. The doors of a department store opened onto the street. The rest of the centre could be reached through the other side. He slipped in, up a short flight of stairs, into a maze of crystalline displays selling handbags, gloves, scarves. Young women with too much make-up prowled the aisles, looking for sales. He avoided them, made his way past the banks of escalators that led to the department store’s upper levels, signs for menswear and home furnishings.

At the back of the store, the row of glass doors leading onto the shopping centre’s atrium. The Sparkle pushed one open, noted the change in sound, the soft chatter of shoppers, sales girls and piped music replaced by the voices of children and parents echoing up to the glass dome that towered above.

Rising up through the middle of the atrium was the series of boat-shaped platforms connected by escalators and walkways, and the observation deck at the top. People swarmed up and over them, an army of ants desperate to throw away their money.

Money, the only thing he needed now.

The Sparkle crossed to the foot of the spiralling staircase that rose up the side of the platforms. He ascended, checking his watch as he climbed.

Two minutes to spare. He slowed, lingered there in the stairway, waiting, watching.

‘THERE,’ CALVIN SAID.
‘Upper ground level. On the platform. Beattie and me are up at the cinema, so I only got a quick look, but I think it might be him.’

Lennon spoke into the microphone on his lapel. ‘We’re across from you. I can’t see without going down there. What’s he wearing?’

He headed for the escalator, Flanagan at his heels.

‘Black or navy baseball cap, dark jeans, grey jacket. A red and black backpack over his shoulder, Adidas, I think.’

‘We’re on our way down,’ Lennon said as he reached the second level, fighting against the crowd.

Flanagan called from behind. ‘Go easy, Jack. Remember what we said.’

‘I won’t touch him,’ Lennon said.

Calvin’s voice in his ear again. ‘I recommend everyone keeps their positions until we’ve confirmed it’s him. Do you want me down there, ma’am?’

‘Not yet,’ Flanagan said, ‘but be ready.’

A gang of young boys who should have been in school clogged the escalator down to the first level. Lennon shoved them aside, ignoring their curses. Flanagan did the same, followed him to the next escalator.

She skidded into Lennon’s back as he stopped on the upper ground level platform. Clusters of people, all ages, jostled between the lifts and the stairs. He looked for the baseball cap.

‘I don’t see him,’ Lennon said into the radio.

‘By the elevator bank,’ Calvin said, ‘right hand side, against the railing.’

Lennon saw him. A thin man, his back to them, white hair showing beneath the cap.

‘Is it him?’ Flanagan asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Lennon said, walking towards the man. ‘I can’t see his face. It might be him. I need a closer look.’

Flanagan grabbed his arm. ‘We can’t afford to spook him. We can’t give him a chance to run.’

They went to the railing, twenty feet along from the white-haired man. Lennon edged towards him, Flanagan at his side.

‘Is it?’ she asked, her voice barely audible above the crowd.

‘I don’t know,’ Lennon said, leaning out over the railing, trying to see more of the man’s profile. ‘I think . . . I don’t know.’

‘Shit,’ Flanagan said. ‘Hold on.’

She took Lennon’s arm again, spoke into her microphone. ‘Calvin, make your way down to us.’

‘Have you ID’d him?’ Calvin asked.

‘Not yet, not positively, but I want you close when we do.’

‘Yes ma’am,’ Calvin said.

THE SPARKLE CHECKED
his watch one last time.

A minute past the hour.

Graham Carlisle had not come. He would not come.

The Sparkle felt a small ache of sadness for himself. A grieving, almost.

This emotion surprised him. He had always thought, as he had written, that he would welcome the end with a joyous heart. That the final eruption of his light would be his own personal rapture. Maybe he had been wrong. Too late to think of that now.

With no money, he could not run. He didn’t want to end things like this, but that was Graham’s choice, not his. He couldn’t have made things clearer. The money here at noon, or he would do a terrible thing.

He sighed, a long expulsion of air that left him empty of more than his breath. He thought of Raymond and all the dark and secret pleasures they had shared. Raymond, alone amongst all humans, had some understanding of him. Had the Sparkle believed in God, in places above or below this one, he might have hoped to see Raymond again. They could find some corner of hell to lie together and whisper to each other through the eternal night.

But he did not believe in those things. He did, however, believe in keeping his promises. The bag slid to the ground, between him and the railing. He hunkered down, unzipped it, reached inside. The pistol felt good between his fingers. Like a promise in his hand.

The Sparkle stood and looked around.

Who?

In this final sin, who would he silence?

Then he saw.

FLANAGAN UNHOLSTERED HER
Glock, held it by her side, muzzle pointed at the floor.

Now, she thought. It has to be now.

‘Howard Monaghan,’ she called.

The man did not respond.

‘What happened to waiting?’ Lennon asked.

‘Just stay back,’ she said.

She called his name again. No answer.

Flanagan advanced towards him, Lennon moving to the other side, ready to flank him if he moved.

She lifted the pistol, held it in both hands, aimed at the man’s back. Ignored the gasps around her, the rising murmur of frightened people.

‘Howard Monaghan,’ she called once more, loud enough to grate in her throat.

Now the man reacted. He turned towards her voice, slow as a cobra studying its prey, and saw the pistol.

‘Fuck me!’

He threw his hands up.

‘Jesus, don’t shoot, don’t shoot, don’t . . .’

Above his pleading, Flanagan heard Lennon say, ‘It’s not him.’

She did not take her gaze from the man, kept her sight aligned with his forehead. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure,’ Lennon said.

She lowered the pistol. ‘Bollocks,’ she said.

The man kept his shaking hands up. He looked from Flanagan to Lennon and back again. ‘What’s going—’