So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2) (29 page)

Flanagan noticed the printouts spread across the two desks. ‘What’s happening?’

‘DCI Conn didn’t want you to be told anything, but I thought I should let you know. I’m aware I’ve gone against his instruction.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said, walking to the other side of Conn’s desk. ‘What’ve you got?’

Murray came to her side, sorted two pages from the rest. ‘The Isle of Man account has money moving out as soon as it goes
in, same as both the Garrick accounts. It only goes out to one account.’

He pointed to eight digits that appeared several times, months apart. Then he reached for another set of pages.

‘The account belongs to a Hannah Mackenzie. I’ve got the info from the credit reference company. Date of birth is 29th of April 1978. Two years older than Roberta Garrick. The address is in Ballinroy, an estate off the Airport Road, between Glenavy and Nutt’s Corner. She’s had that house at least six years, as far back as the credit report will show. I’d guess it’s a private rental, not social housing, or maybe she owns it, given the money she has access to. There’s another bank account attached to that name, and a credit card. The card hasn’t ever been used. I’m waiting for more coming through on the financial side. I checked with the DVA, and there’s a driving licence under that name and address, but no insurance. The licence was last renewed five years ago. There’s a British passport, renewed three years ago, and I’m waiting to hear about an Irish passport.’

‘Okay,’ Flanagan said. ‘So you reckon this is her?’

‘Ma’am, there’s more.’

He reached for the computer mouse, moved it to wake up the machine. The monitor flickered and an image of a young woman appeared, red-haired, bright-eyed. A mug shot, the flat lighting, the blank background. But it was her, no question.

‘Tell me,’ Flanagan said.

‘Hannah Mackenzie was convicted in 1997, when she was nineteen, of the manslaughter of another young woman, a friend of hers. She was sentenced to seven years in Hydebank, served five, got out in 2002.’

‘Jesus,’ Flanagan said. ‘And Conn knows all this?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘That bastard was supposed to let me know as soon as he had anything.’

‘Ma’am, can I speak freely?’

‘Yes,’ Flanagan said.

‘DCI Conn is a complete prick,’ Murray said. ‘I wanted to call you as soon as the Isle of Man account came in, but he wouldn’t let me. He’d kill me if knew I’d gone behind his back.’

‘You did the right thing.’ She put a hand on his shoulder for reassurance. ‘Where is he now?’

‘He’s with DSI Purdy,’ Murray said. ‘He wants to mount an arrest operation this afternoon, but he doesn’t want you involved. I tried to argue, but he wouldn’t have it.’

He had barely finished the sentence when Flanagan ran out of the room and into the corridor. One floor up to Purdy’s office, she was breathless when she hammered the door with her fist, then shouldered it open.

Purdy and Conn looked up from either side of the desk. Sergeant Beattie from E Department, Special Operations Branch, kitted out in tactical gear, stood over both of them.

‘Flanagan,’ Purdy began.

She cut him off. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Sit down,’ Purdy said.

‘I’d rather stand, sir. What’s happening?’

‘Sit down,’ he repeated, his voice hardening.

Flanagan moved the free chair a few inches further away from Conn and did as she was told. ‘Sir, please tell me what’s going on.’

‘I was going to call you when things were a bit more solid,’ Purdy said, ‘but now you’re here, I might as well fill you in. We’re planning an arrest operation for this afternoon. Four-thirty, to be exact. DCI Conn and I will make the arrest with the support of Sergeant Beattie’s team.’

Fury, fury, white hot inside her. Keep it inside, bury it.

‘What about me?’ she said.

‘You won’t be involved.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s the ACC’s shout. He reckons you’ve been too personally involved in this case, that your judgement is clouded.’

‘Bullshit. I’m not—’

‘I agree with him,’ Purdy said. ‘You’re out, that’s all.’

‘Sir, I—’

‘I’m not arguing with you, Flanagan. The decision’s been made.’

Purdy stared her down, dared her to speak. Instead, she closed her eyes and nodded as she fought to steady her breathing. Grinding pain in her teeth from clenching her jaw. She forced her teeth apart, bit her tongue until the sting pierced her mind, bringing clarity with it.

Purdy’s features softened. ‘If it makes any odds, I’ll personally make sure that everyone, right up to the Chief Constable, the press, everyone, knows you drove the case this far, that DCI Conn here only came in to finish the job.’

Conn spoke up. ‘That’s hardly fair, sir.’

‘Tough shit,’ Purdy said. ‘When it’s all over and you’re speaking to the press, you’ll give DCI Flanagan due credit for her part in the investigation. Understood?’

Conn’s lips thinned. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’ Purdy turned back to Flanagan. ‘If you want to make yourself useful, you and Murray head over to this house in Ballinroy. I’ll make sure you’re cleared to force entry if need be. See if there’s anything there to back up the identity fraud. I’ll call when I’ve got the RIPA forms back. Good enough?’

Flanagan exhaled, slumped in the chair. ‘No, sir, but it’ll have to do.’

‘All right. Now go and get Murray, get yourselves ready to roll.’

‘Sir,’ she said as she stood.

In the corridor, after she’d closed the door between her and the officers, Flanagan bit her knuckle to stifle the anger.

49

Once more, Roberta Garrick was woken from sleep by crying. She sat upright on the bed, the cardigan she’d draped over herself falling away. Her heart thudded heavy in her chest, her breath coming in sharp swallows. While she napped she had dreamed of the child dragging her down with it, its small hands clinging and clawing. Under the salt water, waves washing over both of them, it still cried, the shrieks cutting like blades.

Awake now, she said, ‘Shut up.’

But the crying went on.

‘Shut up.’ Louder this time, the edge of her voice sharpened.

And still it cried.

Cold, suddenly, Roberta reached for her cardigan and slipped off the bed. She walked towards the chest of drawers.

‘All right,’ she said, ‘just be quiet.’

She opened the drawer, lifted the framed photograph out. As she reached up to the hook on the wall, a movement caught her eye, a white flash reflected on the glass. She turned to the window, saw it again, a brilliant white form racing along the lane that flanked her property. Then it was gone behind the small wood that bordered the rear of the garden.

A clamour in her head, like a bell ringing, beware, beware.

Then another white shape moved along the lane, not so quick, and this time she knew what it was: a police Land Rover, painted white with garish blue and yellow stripes on its side. Again, she lost it behind the trees, but she could see that it had been slowing.

The baby had ceased its wailing. Now there was only the hammering of her heart, the thunder of blood in her ears.

Roberta slipped out of her bedroom, the photograph still in her hand, and crossed the landing to the guest room with a window overlooking the front lawn. She kept to the wall as she moved to the glass, the voile curtain misting everything beyond. The sheer material brushed her cheeks. She parted the curtains with one finger, nothing more than a sliver for her eye to peer through.

Nothing. She could see nothing.

Look, look, look. Are they coming?

Are they coming for me?

There. Adrenalin hit her system the moment she saw it. The bright white and yellow and blue of another marked police Land Rover, this one not moving. Flashes of paintwork visible through the hedgerow. Barely a glimpse, but it was there.

Yes, they have come for me.

Now the baby’s wailing cut through the noise in her head and she threw the photograph against the far wall, glass shattering, and then silence.

Run, she thought. Run now.

Her bare feet slapped on the floor as she sprinted to the master bedroom, dug in the drawers for socks, then in the wardrobe for trainers. She had minutes at most, maybe seconds. She pulled a sliver of glass from her heel, ignored the sting. The
socks on, then the shoes. Out of the room, down the stairs, to the kitchen. Harry’s old coat hung in the utility room, dark green, a hood. She grabbed it, pulled it on, put her hand in the pocket, felt the padlock keys she kept there. Unlocked the back door, threw the house keys to the floor, she’d never need them again.

Fast across the landscaped garden to the cluster of trees that bordered it and the fields beyond. In the shadows of the balding branches, the chest-high fence that marked the edge of the property. Up and over, she fell on the other side, landed hard on her shoulder. In a crouching run, she went to the far edge of the small wood, looked up, over to the lane that cut down to the far side of the house. Through the hedgerow and branches she saw another Land Rover, saw its passenger door open.

The gate into the next field only ten yards away, to her left. Up on her feet, another crouching run, and she was over it. Cows watched as she moved along the line of trees and barbed wire, peering through the gaps as four – no, five – policemen entered the other field and trudged towards the trees at the rear of her house. She paused and watched them enter the wood she had left moments before.

What had happened? What had they discovered? It didn’t matter now. All she could do was run. She got moving, keeping to the treeline, towards the church steeple in the distance.

Roberta arrived at the rear of the dealership half an hour later, her feet heavy with mud, scratches on her cheeks from the low branches and thorns. She looked both ways as she crossed the narrow lane to the gate. Reaching inside the hole in the gate, she
found the padlock undone, as she’d expected. She pulled back the bar and pushed the gate open, latched it to the wall.

Young Tommy McCready stood at the door of the back shed, watching her, his hands in the pockets of his oil-stained overalls. Concern sharpened his features.

‘You all right, Mrs Garrick?’ he called.

She marched towards him. ‘I’m fine. I need one of the cars.’ She scanned the line of vehicles. The Citroën she’d taken two nights ago still sat closest to the gate. ‘That one,’ she said, pointing.

Tommy stepped aside as she reached the shed, allowed her to enter.

‘I don’t know if you can just take it,’ he said. ‘You don’t have trade insurance, do you?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said.

‘If the peelers stop you, you’ll get points,’ he said.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said as she lifted the plastic tub of loose car keys and emptied them onto the desk. She spread them out with her fingers, looking for the Citroën logo.

Tommy shifted his weight from foot to foot, scratching at his head with oily fingers.

‘Here, I’ll go and get John-Joe.’

John-Joe Malone, the grubby workshop manager who picked his nose with oily fingers while he eyed her up every time she visited the dealership.

‘You don’t need to,’ she said. ‘Where’s the key to the fucking Citroën?’

‘It’s going to be scrapped tomorrow,’ Tommy said. ‘Look, hang on, I’m going to get John-Joe.’

He turned to go, but she grabbed his arm with her left hand. ‘Just tell me where the key to the Citroën is.’

‘It’s there,’ he said, pointing to the wall, a row of hooks with the words
FOR SCRAP
in a childish hand above them. There, on its own, the key.

He pulled his arm from her grasp, said, ‘I’m getting John-Joe.’

‘Yes, go and get him,’ she said. ‘Go now.’

He kept her in sight as he backed towards the workshop door.

She heard him calling his boss as she grabbed the key. She saw John-Joe and Tommy in the rear-view mirror as she pulled out of the yard, staring after her.

50

As Murray steered his 1-Series BMW around the Moira roundabout, Flanagan noted the distance from there to the Ballinroy estate. Roberta Garrick – Hannah Mackenzie – lived only a few minutes from the junction, and another twenty would bring her to Ballinroy. Fifteen from Ballinroy to the International Airport.

‘Perfect,’ Flanagan said.

‘Ma’am?’ Murray asked as he exited the roundabout onto the Glenavy Road, the filling station and café of Glenavy Services half a mile ahead.

‘Ballinroy,’ she said. ‘It’s perfect for her. She can get there in less than half an hour when she has to pick up mail or whatever, and it’s only a few miles more to the airport if she needs to get out in a hurry.’

‘It’s a rough estate,’ Murray said. ‘Old Housing Executive houses, most of them bought up by investors and rented out to migrant workers. After the property crash, a lot of them were left to rot. There’s been problems with over-occupation, the landlords shoving in as many people as can sleep in shifts.’

Flanagan had heard and seen similar around the country. Young men and women from all over Europe, and further afield, desperate for a better existence, exploited by landlords and gangmasters.

‘One part of the estate – the side furthest from the airport road – is still local people, loyalists, and they don’t like the new arrivals. I spoke to an old mate of mine who’s stationed near there. He’s been called out more times than he can remember. One side always fighting with the other or between themselves.’

‘She doesn’t have to live there,’ Flanagan said. ‘If there are a lot of people coming and going, that’d suit her better. Easier to slip in and out without anyone paying attention.’

The road stretched ahead, long straights, sweeping bends, few roadside houses. Twice they were caught behind tractors, unable to pass until the tractor pulled off into a side road. Before long, Flanagan saw a cluster of homes to the left, a quarter mile ahead. She had driven past this estate dozens of times on her way to the airport but had never given a thought to the condition of the houses or who lived here.

Murray flicked the indicator stalk and slowed the car as he approached the turn. He pulled in, reducing the speed to a walking pace, and glanced at the map on the BMW’s touchscreen. An arrow showed their direction of travel, a chequered flag their destination.