Free The Final Silence by Stuart Neville Page A

‘He was no more a brother to me than the man in the moon.’
    ‘Then why not report it?’
    ‘Because we can’t. Your father won’t allow it.’
    ‘I really don’t think it’s up to him.’ Rea leaned on the table, closer to the book than she cared to be. ‘I asked you how to go about it to make this easier on the two of you. But I can’t keep this secret. It’s not just that girl’s parents who are suffering. Look through those pages. How many more of them are there? Women and men, names, places, the things he kept.’
    Ida stood up and moved away from the table. ‘I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I need to call your father.’
    She took the mobile phone from her handbag, the one Rea had bought her for Christmas, and fumbled at the buttons until she found the number she needed. She closed her eyes as she held it to her ear and waited.
    ‘Hello? I know . . . I know you’re busy, but . . . Stop . . . Stop and bloody listen.’
    Ida glanced at Rea, blushing at the vulgarity that had passed her lips.
    ‘It’s important. You have to come to Raymond’s house straight away . . . No . . . No, not later. Right now . . . You’ll see when you get here . . . You’ll see . . . Tell them whatever you like, just get here . . . All right . . . Don’t be long.’
    She hung up.
    Rea said, ‘He’ll say the same as you, won’t he? Not to call the police.’
    Ida nodded. ‘You know he will.’
    Rea had an answer for that hidden in her pocket.
     
    Graham Carlisle paced the room, hands clasped at the small of his back. He had worn one of his best suits to the committee meeting, charcoal grey with a pale pinstripe, a well-pressed shirt with French cuffs and a stiff collar. Rea pictured her mother ironing it that morning, feeling like the great woman behind the great man.
    He’d kept in decent shape for a man his age – even a reasonable amount of hair remained on his head – and Rea vaguely remembered that his hard features had once been handsome. Graham had been a lawyer specialising in conveyancing for most of his career. He’d come from as rough a background as Belfast could offer, but he’d clawed his way to a grammar school and university education, unusual for a boy with his upbringing when such opportunities were the preserve of the middle classes.
    His journey into politics began at the time when Rea moved from primary to grammar school. Somehow, Rea had sensed that his standing for election to Belfast City Council had been dependent on her passing her Eleven-Plus exams and getting into the right school. She often told herself that was a foolish idea, but she remembered the morning the results arrived in the post bringing to a climax the months of crushing pressure and tension, the after-school sessions with private maths and English tutors, one mock test after another.
    When her mother opened the envelope she had sat quiet for a few moments, then burst into tears. Rea had stood there watching, waiting, an eleven-year-old child in pyjamas, the future course of her life having been decided by the piece of A4 paper in her mother’s hands. She remembered needing the toilet badly, afraid she might not be able to hold it but terrified of walking away before her mother revealed the result. The tears meant she’d failed, surely. She felt heat in her own eyes, her lip beginning to tremble. There was nothing worse in the world than to fail.
    The first fat, hot drop of salt water had rolled down her cheek when her mother said, ‘You got an A, love. You passed.’
    Rea’s tears flowed freely then, but good tears, tears of relief. Ida came over and embraced her. Yet Rea could not stop crying.
    Graham had come in from the other room where he had been hiding until he knew it was good news. He patted Rea’s head and took a twenty-pound note from his wallet. Rea accepted it, thanked him, understanding this was as much of himself as he would give.
    The following Monday, her