Half a mile away, as the boy was telling his mother what he’d found, Colm Healy pulled his Vauxhall up alongside a cottage he’d been staying at for the last four months. On the passenger seat were two shopping bags. He grabbed them, got out and headed inside.
After putting the food away and making himself a coffee, he sat at the window and smoked a cigarette. The view, even in late autumn, was beautiful: the gentle curve of the shingle beach; a long line of pastel-colored fishermen’s cottages; the high sea wall and the masts rising up from behind it. Sea spray dotted the glass and wind cut in from the water, swirling and buffeting the cottage—yet, to Healy, after twenty-six years in the Met, and even longer in the city, this was as close to silence as he had ever known.
A minute later, the silence broke.
On the table in front of him, his phone started buzzing, quietly turning circles. He didn’t have a ring tone these days, which he preferred because it meant he missed a lot of calls. His ex-wife. The people he’d worked with. Men and women from his old life he’d happily never see again. But there was always a risk he might miss the one call he cared about: the call from his boys. So he brought the phone toward him and turned it over.
Liz Feeny.
He thought about letting it go to voice mail. Any conversation with Feeny was a conversation without a conclusion. She’d been phoning him constantly for the past couple of months, looking for any kind of closure, any kind of answer. But there wasn’t one.
There was no happy ending.
He pushed Answer and flicked to speakerphone. “Liz.”
“Colm.”
Her voice was soft. It sounded like she’d already been crying. “This isn’t really a good time,” he said, lying. He looked around the kitchen. Dishes stacked up in the sink. Cereal boxes left on the counters. “I’m right in the middle of something here.”
“Why do you still answer my calls?”
“What do you mean?”
“When David described you, he always said you were difficult to break down. Angry. Aloof. When I first started calling you, that was the man I expected to find.”
Healy didn’t say anything.
“But I’ve never found that man.” She paused. “You’ve never been like that. I know you hate talking to me, but you still answer my calls.” Another pause, this time for longer. She sniffed, stopped, sniffed again. “Why do you answer my calls, Colm?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Do you feel sorry for me—is that it?”
There was nothing in the question, no malice, but there was no right answer: yes, and she would cling on to it and use it as some kind of excuse to call him more often; no, and he would be telling her never to call again. So? If you hate her calling so much, just tell her. Except he couldn’t do that. Because, deep down, he wasn’t sure he did hate her calling.
Reaching across the table, he lit another cigarette and opened the window. Smoke drifted out through the gap, vanishing into the rain. For a moment his thoughts turned to David Raker. Everything Raker had told Liz was right. And maybe when the pressure was turned up, Healy would become that man again. But here, in this place, miles away from the life he’d once known, Healy felt like a different man. She may only have been using him, may only have been calling him because he was a vessel for something else—some sort of connection to Raker—but, in her own way, she needed him. And that was the first time anyone had needed Healy, for whatever reason, for a very long time.
“Colm?”
“It’s hard to understand,” he said.
“What is?”
“Why what happened, happened.”
“Is it hard for you to understand?”
He looked out through the window. “Yes.”
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t sound like she believed him.
“Listen, Liz, I know this is tough to hear, but—”
“I know what you’re going to say,” she cut in, her voice quiet. “I know what you’re going to tell me to do. Accept it. Move on. Try to forget about what happened to him.”
He didn’t respond. She’d second-guessed him.
“Right.”
“Well, it’s not so easy for me,” she said. “I’m still here in London with all the memories, living next door to his empty house. I haven’t got myself a nice little holiday cottage in Devon to disappear to and forget about everything that happened.”
“I haven’t forgotten about what happened.”
“Haven’t you?”
“No.”
Outside, the wind came again—harder and more forceful than before. The house seemed to wheeze, like the foundations had shifted.
“He was so similar to you,” she said.
“Yeah, you said that before.”
“He was chasing after ghosts, just like you.”
“Look,” Healy said, trying to maintain the composure in his voice, “I know what it’s like to lose someone. Remember that. I’ve been where you are—I’ve been through worse than you—so I know how it is.”
She cleared her throat, but didn’t say anything.
“You can’t forget about it. I understand that. But you need to try. You need to start processing what happened. Sooner or later, you need to start facing it down.”
Silence on the line.
“Because Raker’s gone, Liz. And he’s never coming back.”