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

like this so rooted in the bones of her that deep down she believed this nonsense, even if her higher mind disagreed?
    McKay’s voice dragged her back to herself, the words, ‘Our Father, who art in heaven.’
    With no conscious decision or effort, Flanagan recited the Lord’s Prayer along with the rest, every word floating up from her memories of school assembly halls and windswept gravesides. As the syllables slipped from her tongue she weighed the meaning of each.
    And she thought of her daughter, and the question she’d asked last night: was their marriage over? She had denied it, but truthfully, she didn’t know. And she thought of the cold distance between her and her husband, his anger stoking hers. If it really happened, if they really split, she knew Alistair would fight for thechildren. And he might win. With a job like hers, with the hours she kept, she couldn’t be sure the court would favour her. There was a real risk she would lose her children because of her job. A job that had once given her days meaning, now a daily mire of futility.
    McKay had asked: without faith, what do we have left?
    Without the job, Flanagan thought, what do I have left?
    Her family should have been the answer. But even that seemed to be slipping beyond her reach.
    The service over, the small congregation left their seats and drifted towards the exit. Flanagan felt the cool draught on the back of her neck as the door opened. McKay did not look at her as he joined his people in the late morning light. She heard snatches of hushed conversation between him and the parishioners.
    Yes, a tragedy. She’s bearing up. Keep her in our prayers.
    The church empty now, Flanagan alone, her thoughts seeming to echo in the hollow space around her. She closed her eyes, leaned forward, her hands on the back of the empty pew in front of her, her forehead resting on them.
    Oh God, what do I have left?
    I am my job. I am my children. What am I without them?
    Flanagan turned her mind away from the question, because she knew the answer was there, waiting to snare her and drag her further down. She opened her eyes, lifted her head, and saw Reverend Peter McKay standing over her, his hands in his pockets, his cassock and white gown draped over the back of another pew. Reflexively, her palm went to her cheek, wiped away a tear that wasn’t there.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt your prayer. Please go on.’
    ‘I wasn’t praying,’ Flanagan said, and immediately wondered why she would lie about such a thing in this of all places. ‘Not really. Just thinking.’
    ‘It’s a good place to think,’ he said, his expression warmed by a soft smile. ‘And to pray. Sometimes they’re the same thing. Anyway, I quite often come here to do both. At night especially, when it’s quiet, when there’s no traffic outside, just silence. We all need a peaceful place to hide in now and then.’
    Flanagan returned his smile, was about to speak, but he took a breath.
    ‘Listen, I’d like to apologise if I was curt yesterday evening when you dropped the keys off. It’d been a stressful day.’
    ‘No need to apologise,’ Flanagan said. ‘I understand.’
    ‘So what can I do for you?’
    Flanagan stared up at him for a moment before she recalled why she had come here. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, reaching for her bag beside her on the pew, and the pen and notebook within. ‘Just a few follow-up questions. All right to do it here?’
    ‘Of course,’ McKay said, lowering himself into the pew in front. ‘Has the post-mortem been done?’
    ‘This morning,’ Flanagan said. ‘I’ve just come from the Royal. Dr McCreesh, the pathologist, is going to report suicide to the coroner, who’ll probably issue an interim death certificate in the next day or two. Then the remains will be released to Mrs Garrick.’
    ‘And the inquest?’ McKay asked.
    He clearly knew the procedures, Flanagan thought; this wasn’t the first suicide in his parish,