So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2) by Stuart Neville Page B

‘That’s right. Lots of people meet like that these days.’
    ‘True,’ Flanagan said. ‘And how long after that did you marry?’
    ‘A bit less than a year.’
    ‘That was quick,’ Flanagan said.
    ‘We knew we were right for each other,’ Mrs Garrick said. ‘Why wait?’
    ‘And you had your little girl within a year. Was she planned?’
    ‘Not really. Harry was a bit older than me. He wasn’t sure about having a baby at his age. But when I realised I was expecting, then we accepted the Lord’s blessing.’
    ‘How did he take your child’s death?’
    Mrs Garrick’s features hardened, her lips thinned. ‘That’s a ridiculous question,’ she said. ‘How do you think he took it?’
    ‘Well, I’m told he coped well with the consequences of his car accident, under the circumstances. Was he able to deal with your child’s death in the same way?’
    ‘No. No, he wasn’t. It almost destroyed him. It almost destroyed us both. We put a brave face on it, but we barely heldour marriage together. It took a year to come back to anything resembling a normal life. Even then, it was still difficult. But the Lord got us through it eventually.’
    ‘And Reverend McKay helped.’
    ‘He’s been very good to us. I don’t think we could have coped without him.’
    ‘You and he are particularly close,’ Flanagan said.
    Mrs Garrick nodded. ‘He’s a good friend.’
    An idea flitted across Flanagan’s mind, a question. Too much? Too hard? She asked anyway. ‘More than that?’
    Mrs Garrick stared, her eyes burning. ‘How dare you?’
    Yes, it had been too much, but Flanagan kept her face impassive, would not take it back. ‘It’s just a question.’
    Mrs Garrick stood. ‘We’ll have to do this another time.’
    Flanagan remained seated. ‘Can’t we just keep—’
    ‘Another time,’ Mrs Garrick repeated, a tremor in her voice now. ‘Please.’
    ‘Mrs Garrick, if we can—’
    ‘Isn’t it enough?’ she asked, her voice rising, breaking. Her hands shaking. ‘When is it enough? I have nothing left to give.’
    Now Flanagan stared. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
    Mrs Garrick blinked, seemed to return from somewhere. ‘First my little girl,’ she said, her voice thinner, softer. ‘Now my husband. Just when I think God might let me breathe, let me live, He burns it all down again. I don’t know if I can take any more.’
    Mrs Garrick collapsed back onto the couch, her body limp. Tears spilled.
    Flanagan sat frozen, caught between her instinct to comfort this bereaved woman and the need to follow her suspicion.
    Mrs Garrick shook her head as she spoke, her face contorting as she turned it up to the ceiling, her voice aimed beyond. ‘I can’t, I can’t take any more. If you want to kill me, then kill me. Don’t make me suffer this, please, I’ve had enough. No more, please, no more.’
    Flanagan thought of the white coffin, the devastated car, the body she’d watched being taken apart that morning.
    ‘Christ,’ she whispered. She set her pen and notebook aside, then crossed to the couch, beside Mrs Garrick. She slipped her arm around the other woman’s quivering shoulders, gathered her in.
    Mrs Garrick curled into Flanagan’s lap, muttering, ‘No more, no more, no more . . .’
    Back in her car, Flanagan called DS Murray’s mobile.
    ‘Are you at the station?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes, ma’am. Just got the last of the info back from the computer searches.’
    ‘Anything to trouble us?’
    ‘No, ma’am, not that I can see.’
    ‘All right,’ Flanagan said.
    She closed her eyes, placed her free hand on the dashboard, concentrated on the sensation of the soft plastic on her skin, the coolness of it, allowed it to settle her mind.
    ‘Ma’am?’
    Flanagan opened her eyes again. ‘Gather up all the paperwork, all the reports, get everything in order for me to sign off on.’
    ‘You’re going with suicide?’
    ‘Yes,’ Flanagan said. ‘Yes I am.’

18
    McKay waited for her in the