“Orla… What are you doing?”
She tenses, but doesn’t answer him. After grabbing a handful of underwear from her top drawer and shoving them in the same bag, she hitches it up and pushes past him.
“I’ll get the rest later,” she groans as she picks up the second bag by the door.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“I don’t know… I’ll stay at a friend’s… I’ll figure something out.”
“Orla, don’t leave. You don’t have t-“
“No, I do, Cathal,” she finally turns to him, eyes glistening, her body in the plastic archway as she opens the door, “I’m not staying here a moment longer whilst you shut me out. When you finally feel like you can tell me what’s been bothering you for the past few years, then call me. But until then, I’m sick of being trapped in this house, with his ghost around every corner.”
She stops and observes him, but he just continues to stare at the skirting board to her left.
“Have a nice life,” she tuts, before turning and closing the door with a click behind her, leaving him in complete silence.
Chapter Eighty-Seven:
“It’s over.”
Michelle and Nuala gasp, almost squealing aloud, as they turn to hug each other, fresh tears streaming down their eyes. Danielle and Ritchie, however, stare straight in front. Towards their father’s coffin. Deep in thought. Finally, Ritchie turns towards his sisters, as his mother makes a big performance of going to fetch tea for DI McNally and DS Ferguson, but neither of them will even glance his way. Danielle coughs and thanks the detectives, wiping a crocodile tear from her right eye. That’s when McNally’s phone goes. Excusing himself, he steps out into the front garden, a triumphant smile creeping over his face when he sees it’s Dawson.
“Sorry it took me so long to get back to you, son. We were at the beach all day and my phone was back in the flat.”
McNally shakes his head and chuckles. Oh, how the other half live.
“No problem, sir… I mean, Donald… Dawson? Where in the world have you ended up now?”
“We still have to agree on what to call one another by the sounds of things,” Dawson chuckles, “we’ve ended up in Torremolinos, you’re bound to have heard of there.”
“That one I have heard of,” he smirks, “but what happened to ‘off the beaten track?’”
“Oh, give us a break, McNally, we’re taking a holiday from all that,” he can hear the smile in his former DI’s voice.
“Your life’s a holiday, sir.”
They share a laugh once more before Dawson asks to be caught up in McNally’s investigation. Like Quigley earlier, he sits and listens attentively as McNally does laps of the front yard.
“And what’s going to happen to Quigley?” Dawson asks once McNally has finished.
“I don’t know,” McNally physically shrugs, “I can’t imagine anything good.”
“Might be different to English policing over there,” Dawson’s tinny voice rings out over the handset, “but I’d say he might get a hefty fine. And disgraced internally within the police. And that’s a best-case scenario. The worst is being dragged through the courts and prison on obstruction charges.”
McNally nods, staring out onto the quiet main road, wishing he could’ve saved Quigley from himself.
“And Sargent?”
“What about him, sir?”
“Do you believe him?”
“I have no reason not to, sir. He’s given sufficient evidence, evidence that wasn’t available for the general public. How else would he know how he was killed, and by what weapon?”
“Hmmm,” Dawson moves the phone around.
“Sir?”
“So you don’t think he’s maybe doing this just to get the underground organisation off his back?”
“Well… In a way, yes, but not in the way you think… He’s obviously guilty, and that’s why the Jacks tried to go after him. They didn’t want Taylor taking the blame for his crime.”
Dawson doesn’t sound convinced.
“Well, I’m sure time will tell… Until then, let’s see if he pleads guilty in court.”
“Yes, sir.”
McNally frowns. Is he doubting him?
“And anyway, what about the woman?”
McNally’s initial annoyance is lifted as he smiles, remembering the text he’d sent Niamh just a half hour ago.
“We’re going out for dinner on Wednesday night.”
Dawson whistles down the phone.
“Romeo, Romeo.”
“Fuck off,” McNally laughs, before turning and seeing the family through the living room window, looking at each other defeatedly. “Look, sir, I have to go. The investigation may be over, but there’s still a few pieces to be picked up.”
“Of course, stay in touch, son. And good job, you’re making a great asset over there.”
Chapter Eighty-Eight:
Pulling at the wrinkled white shirt, trying to tuck it into his straining trousers, Ritchie looks at himself in the mirror. The muffin top leaking over his belt. The black tie he’d picked from Primark only days ago. The dark rings under his eyes. Today’s the day. The day they bury his father. He never thought he’d see it. He believed if there was a day that he’d be behind bars. Unable to attend.
But when the two detectives arrived last night, giving them the news that Victor Sargent had confessed to their father’s murder, everything seemed to stop. Go in slow motion. Is it possible… They did it? Got away with killing someone? With hiding and obstructing evidence? You’d think he’d be happy, but somehow… He feels worse. The thought of hard single mattresses and iron locks dispersed. Instead, replaced with freedom. But at a cost. Freedom, but feeling like this forever. Feeling this way… Will he ever feel better? He always thought confessing would lift the weight, but, if anything, he feels hollower.
“Ritchie, c’mon, we’re going to be late.”
He nods towards his reflection, trying not to look himself in the eyes, before crossing the landing and descending the stairs. He’s met with
