So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2) by Stuart Neville Page A
Authors: Stuart Neville
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said.
‘You’ll have to talk to her some time,’ McKay said. ‘You can’t put her off much longer.’
‘I need a shower,’ she said, and walked past him out of the room.
McKay watched her climb the stairs, heard her enter the bathroom, then running water. Then he went to the table and opened the laptop. The web browser still showed the BBC news article he’d read last night. He clicked on the History tab. Only the last few pages he’d browsed. She’d used the private browser window, the computer recording no traces, no history, no cookies.
She’d been covering her tracks, hiding from him.
Hiding what?
That sick feeling again, deep in his stomach. Like the ground shifting beneath his feet.
I will suffer for this, he thought. I will suffer and I don’t care.
17
Flanagan entered the darkened utility room, closed the back door behind her. She passed through the dim kitchen, then out into the hallway. The sound of her footsteps on the wooden floor reverberated in the grand space, rippling through the still air. She froze and listened for a few moments, trapped by the quiet of the house, as if it held its breath, waiting for her to speak.
Intruder, it would say. Get out. Leave us in peace.
But I need to know her better, Flanagan would reply, I need to know her secrets.
She had toured this house the day before, room to room, and saw nothing to shed light on Roberta Garrick. Only the same tasteful shows of wealth Flanagan had already seen and desired for herself.
The bedroom. If the truth lay anywhere in this house, it would be there. Flanagan climbed the stairs to the double doors, opened them, stepped through. Light in here. Someone had opened the blinds. Either Mrs Garrick or the rector. A few items of clothing lay on the bed, considered for wearing and then discarded.
Flanagan’s gaze went to the wall above the dresser, the space where the missing picture had been. She walked to the dresser and opened the top drawer. The same portrait of the child, hidden here among the papers and letters. Flanagan lifted abundle of envelopes and leafed through them. Bank and credit card statements. A car insurance renewal notification. Passports in Mr and Mrs Garrick’s names, both with several years left on them. Medical cards. Reissued birth certificates for both of them, a marriage certificate. And here, kept together, the birth and death certificates for the child, the latter issued in Spain.
‘Can I help you?’
A cry escaped Flanagan’s throat before she could stop it. She turned towards the voice.
Roberta Garrick stared at her from the threshold, her face blank.
‘Mrs Garrick,’ Flanagan said. She swallowed, searched for something to say. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘What are you looking for?’ Mrs Garrick asked, stepping into the room.
‘Nothing specific,’ Flanagan said.
‘It’s hard to find something if you don’t know what it is,’ Mrs Garrick said. ‘I’ll give you anything you need, but I’d consider it a courtesy if you’d ask before you go rummaging through my personal items.’
Flanagan held Mrs Garrick’s stare. ‘I would have asked if I’d been able to speak with you. But Reverend McKay wouldn’t allow it.’
Mrs Garrick put her hand to the drawer, began to push it closed.
‘Why do you keep your daughter’s photograph in there?’ Flanagan asked.
Mrs Garrick’s hand paused, the drawer still half open. ‘Because sometimes it’s too hard to look at her. Sometimes I can’t bearit, other times I want to see her, then I take the picture out and hang it up.’ She pushed the drawer the rest of the way, sealing the framed photograph inside. ‘You wanted to talk with me. Let’s get it out of the way.’
They sat opposite each other in the living room, the blinds open, sunlight reflecting off the polished surfaces. Flanagan, pen in hand, set her notepad open on her lap.
‘Reverend McKay tells me you met your husband online,’ Flanagan said.
Mrs Garrick nodded.
‘You’ll have to talk to her some time,’ McKay said. ‘You can’t put her off much longer.’
‘I need a shower,’ she said, and walked past him out of the room.
McKay watched her climb the stairs, heard her enter the bathroom, then running water. Then he went to the table and opened the laptop. The web browser still showed the BBC news article he’d read last night. He clicked on the History tab. Only the last few pages he’d browsed. She’d used the private browser window, the computer recording no traces, no history, no cookies.
She’d been covering her tracks, hiding from him.
Hiding what?
That sick feeling again, deep in his stomach. Like the ground shifting beneath his feet.
I will suffer for this, he thought. I will suffer and I don’t care.
17
Flanagan entered the darkened utility room, closed the back door behind her. She passed through the dim kitchen, then out into the hallway. The sound of her footsteps on the wooden floor reverberated in the grand space, rippling through the still air. She froze and listened for a few moments, trapped by the quiet of the house, as if it held its breath, waiting for her to speak.
Intruder, it would say. Get out. Leave us in peace.
But I need to know her better, Flanagan would reply, I need to know her secrets.
She had toured this house the day before, room to room, and saw nothing to shed light on Roberta Garrick. Only the same tasteful shows of wealth Flanagan had already seen and desired for herself.
The bedroom. If the truth lay anywhere in this house, it would be there. Flanagan climbed the stairs to the double doors, opened them, stepped through. Light in here. Someone had opened the blinds. Either Mrs Garrick or the rector. A few items of clothing lay on the bed, considered for wearing and then discarded.
Flanagan’s gaze went to the wall above the dresser, the space where the missing picture had been. She walked to the dresser and opened the top drawer. The same portrait of the child, hidden here among the papers and letters. Flanagan lifted abundle of envelopes and leafed through them. Bank and credit card statements. A car insurance renewal notification. Passports in Mr and Mrs Garrick’s names, both with several years left on them. Medical cards. Reissued birth certificates for both of them, a marriage certificate. And here, kept together, the birth and death certificates for the child, the latter issued in Spain.
‘Can I help you?’
A cry escaped Flanagan’s throat before she could stop it. She turned towards the voice.
Roberta Garrick stared at her from the threshold, her face blank.
‘Mrs Garrick,’ Flanagan said. She swallowed, searched for something to say. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘What are you looking for?’ Mrs Garrick asked, stepping into the room.
‘Nothing specific,’ Flanagan said.
‘It’s hard to find something if you don’t know what it is,’ Mrs Garrick said. ‘I’ll give you anything you need, but I’d consider it a courtesy if you’d ask before you go rummaging through my personal items.’
Flanagan held Mrs Garrick’s stare. ‘I would have asked if I’d been able to speak with you. But Reverend McKay wouldn’t allow it.’
Mrs Garrick put her hand to the drawer, began to push it closed.
‘Why do you keep your daughter’s photograph in there?’ Flanagan asked.
Mrs Garrick’s hand paused, the drawer still half open. ‘Because sometimes it’s too hard to look at her. Sometimes I can’t bearit, other times I want to see her, then I take the picture out and hang it up.’ She pushed the drawer the rest of the way, sealing the framed photograph inside. ‘You wanted to talk with me. Let’s get it out of the way.’
They sat opposite each other in the living room, the blinds open, sunlight reflecting off the polished surfaces. Flanagan, pen in hand, set her notepad open on her lap.
‘Reverend McKay tells me you met your husband online,’ Flanagan said.
Mrs Garrick nodded.
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