The Exile Read online

  O’Grady smiled. “You haven’t read the old ones,” he said.

  “Well”—she got to her feet—“DI Fallon says you’re free to go. On condition that you stay at the address noted here. Given that you’ve killed two men and injured another. Talking of which, do you want to know how Hawthorne is?”

  “Not particularly,” O’Grady said.

  “He’s upstairs,” the male officer said.

  “He’s what?” O’Grady was on his feet.

  “Packing boxes,” the man said. “He’s been sacked, awaiting an investigation into irregularities. The hospital said he wasn’t well enough to be discharged, but he checked himself out, insisted on packing the crates in person. Took two of the guys to help him into his office.”

  O’Grady was by the door, rattling at the locks.

  “Where are you going?” The woman officer clicked the door open.

  “I still have work to do,” O’Grady said.

  May Riley on reception greeted him with her sweet smile.

  “Aren’t you going to try to stop me?” he said. “I’d got rather used to it.”

  “Me?” She gave a shrug, her pretty head on one side. “I don’t care. He’s nothing to me now. Security are making him pack his bags. Not a moment too soon.”

  O’Grady pushed at the door.

  Hawthorne was slumped in his chair, surrounded by packing cases. His leg was bandaged. He was wheezing, pasty-faced. He looked up.

  “You? What the fuck are you doing here? I can have you arrested for murder.”

  O’Grady stood in the doorway and laughed. “Kiley MacAteer has gone. O’Connor has gone. Who’s going to believe you? Who’s going to care?”

  Hawthorne’s face grew red. He rose from his desk, pushing himself upwards on his hands, tried to step forwards, stumbled and fell. He lay there, helpless, his sparse gray hair in lank threads against the carpet.

  O’Grady looked down at him. “Look at you,” he said.

  “You won’t get away with this, O’Grady.”

  “I’ve given my statement. About your cover-up, about how you were there when Maura Salter died at the hands of Kiley MacAteer. About your silencing of Gregson Elliott. I’ve told them where to find the DNA evidence. Ryan Fallon is back.”

  “Fallon—no one will believe him.”

  “Really? He has the files, the evidence. It’s over, Hawthorne. No one will do your bidding anymore. The Devlin twins have legged it, last seen on their way to Dublin in a stolen Merc.”

  Hawthorne rocked to and fro, attempting to get up, spitting with rage.

  O’Grady went to him, put his arms under the man’s heavy form, lifted him up, helped him into his chair.

  “There you are.” He stepped back and surveyed him. “Do you want to know why I didn’t kill you, Hawthorne? The others met their fate. But you—I aimed to maim you, just there.” He pointed at the bandaged leg. “You see, I knew this would be worse for you.”

  Hawthorne wriggled and panted, helpless in his seat.

  “You’ll be tried, Hawthorne. They’ll find you guilty. A long sentence awaits you.” O’Grady took another step back, stood in the doorway. “It’s your turn now, Brian. All those years to contemplate your sins. As we were taught by the holy sisters.”

  Chapter 30

  Fallon drove him back. “Your car’s still at the weir—I’ll drop you there.”

  The afternoon had clouded, and a chill wind rippled the trees.

  “It’s good to see you again, Ryan.”

  “It’s good to be back. My days of exile are over, it seems. They’ve asked me to take Hawthorne’s job. There’ll be a bit of politics first, making sure I’m supported by an honest crew, a new team. But everyone seems glad to see the back of him. He’ll do time, there’s no doubt of that. Years and years, if I have my way.”

  The river had quietened. It had come on to rain. O’Grady and Fallon stood by the weir, staring at the rush of water.

  “We’ve had the boys out looking, but it’s a fruitless task. I know these waterways.” Fallon sighed. “She’ll come to light in her own time. In days. Weeks, maybe. Body found, miles downstream, caught in some weeds. Maybe still recognizable, with any luck.” He turned away, and O’Grady followed him.

  At the car, Fallon shook his hand. “I owe you a debt,” he said. “A massive debt. You never gave up. As you used to say. Justice. Always worth fighting for.”

  O’Grady opened the door of his car.

  “By the way,” Fallon said. “Don’t worry about bail conditions. As far as I’m concerned, you’re free to go. Although”—he watched as O’Grady got into his car—“looks to me like you’re not planning on going anywhere at all.”

  O’Grady parked his car at the farmhouse. He opened the door quietly.

  The first thing he saw was Bobby, sitting in the corner, pushing a toy police car to and fro, making siren noises.

  Then Bridie was there in the doorway. She took him in her arms, led him into the warm back room, sat next to him on the sofa. The weariness had left her. Her cheeks were pink, the sparkle had returned to her eyes.

  He explained the whole story, the return of Ryan Fallon, the end of Hawthorne. “He’s probably still stuck in that chair, raging,” he said.

  She laughed, shook her head. “They’ll have locked him up by now if they’ve got any sense.” She leaned towards him, her hand on his. “And you, love,” she said. “No more charges hanging over you.”

  He gave a nod.

  “You could stay,” she said. “They could give you your job back.”

  He met her eyes, and saw in their deep yearning a future for them both.

  He was silent.

  She wrapped her fingers in his. “We Salters,” she said. “We make the same mistakes. My father, bless him, shut himself away, failing to hear the facts beyond his stories. And it turns out, I was just the same. It took you to come here, to open my eyes to the reality. Finn, you saved my child. I owe you everything.”

  He lifted her fingers to his lips.

  “You are a hero,” she said. “And you have come home.”

  They had supper—chicken pie, apple cake—sitting round the table as a family of three. Bobby, subdued, wanted to know when he’d see Nana Vee again, and Teddy Peter, talking in his Ulster voice, had to explain that she’d gone to heaven and was happy there with all the angels. Bobby held his teddy tight and managed a smile.

  O’Grady watched the evening pass, aware that he was seeing it as if from the outside. This was once the life I wanted, he thought. Still to be a police officer, with a wife and family. In this warm room is all that I once thought was denied to me.

  At last Bridie persuaded Bobby that it was time to go to bed.

  O’Grady went outside, stood in the garden. Three years ago, he thought, if you’d told me that I could once again be an officer in the Garda, with Bridie as my wife, with a little boy too…I’d have thought I’d got it made. But something has happened to me in these years of exile.

  He looked across the valley. He thought about his mother’s house, over the hill. He remembered the little yard where he’d once played, brandishing his sword, fighting imaginary knights.

  “Finn.” Bridie’s voice interrupted his thoughts. She came and stood beside him. She took hold of his hand. “One more night,” she said. “Perhaps two. And then goodbye.”

  “But—”

  She looked up at him. “Once I broke your heart,” she said. “But this time—this time I’m setting you free.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Will passengers intending to board flight six zero three to London Heathrow, please go to gate number eleven.”

  O’Grady joined the queue. Dublin airport was noisy, busy, bright with horizontal sunlight.

  Two days had passed. Now it was Wednesday. He’d left the town that morning. Driven his Audi to the airport and parked it at the car-hire drop-off point.

  He’d looked at the car, holding the keys tightly in his hand. He’d survey
ed the mud-spattered wheels, the leaves gathered at the base of the windscreen.

  Ten days since he’d picked it up. And in that time, a whole story. Like a fairy tale, the policewoman had said.

  But with no fairy-tale ending.

  He’d left Bridie that morning. They’d held each other tight, each holding in their thoughts the memories of their time together, their laughter, their lovemaking.

  The queue to board shuffled forward.

  And then they’d said goodbye.

  “You’ll be back,” she’d said, smiling through tears. “You’ll be an Irishman once more.”

  He’d kissed her, murmured that he’d always be an Irishman, kissed her again.

  And now here he was, queueing for the London flight.

  After Heathrow, what next? There’d been emails. A job offer from a company in Manhattan providing bodyguards to the wealthy. A private investigation team in Honolulu trying to put a stop to a very lucrative multinational cocaine ring. There was one from an old friend from the Garda who’d spent the last three years in the Middle East, tracking down a key link in the illegal armaments trade. He pulled out his phone, looked at the message again. “The lads are good craic. And the desert’s nice and warm. Not much rain. Makes a change from Connemara…”

  The ping of a text arriving. From Ryan Fallon:

  Good luck, fella. You know there’s a job here for you whenever you want.

  It was time to board the plane.

  Once more the bright blue sky, the crystalline daylight. O’Grady leaned back in his airplane seat and looked down at the sunlit clouds.

  He remembered his mother’s words. “You’re a restless spirit, Finn. A nomad.”

  He sipped his plastic cup of Irish whiskey.

  There are worse things, he thought.

  About the Authors

  James Patterson has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.

  Alison Joseph is a London-based crime writer and award-winning radio dramatist. After a career in television documentaries, she began writing full-time with the Sister Agnes series of crime novels. Alison also writes a police series featuring Detective Inspector Berenice Killick.

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  Michael Bennett, be grateful you’re alive.

  Someone attacked the Thanksgiving Day Parade directly in front of Michael Bennett and his family. The television news called it “holiday terror”—Michael Bennett calls it personal. The hunt is on.…

  Michael Bennett is back. Read on for a special excerpt from the newest addition to the Bennett series, Manhunt, available only from

  Chapter 1

  My entire brood, plus Mary Catherine and my grandfather, gathered in the living room. We’d been told to expect a call from Brian between eight and eight fifteen. That gave us enough time to eat, clean up, and at least start the mountain of homework that nine kids get from one of the better Catholic schools in New York City.

  We had the phone set on speaker and placed it in the middle of the group, which was getting a little antsy waiting for the call.

  At exactly ten minutes after eight, the phone rang and some dull-voiced New York Department of Corrections bureaucrat told us that the call would last approximately ten minutes and that it would be monitored. Great.

  My oldest son, Brian, had made a mistake. A big mistake—selling drugs. Now he was paying for that mistake, and so were we.

  Tonight was Thanksgiving eve. Tomorrow we would embark on our annual tradition of viewing the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and it would hurt not having Brian with us.

  My late wife and I had begun this tradition even before we started adopting kids. She’d get off her shift at the hospital and I’d meet her near Rockefeller Center. When the kids were little, she loved the parade more than they did. It was one of many traditions I kept alive to honor her memory.

  She even made the parade after chemo had wrecked her body, with a scarf wrapped around her head. The beauty still managed an excited smile at the sight of Bart Simpson or Snoopy floating by.

  As soon as Brian came on the line, there was a ripple in our crowd. The last time I’d seen him, he was still recovering from a knife attack that was meant to send me a message.

  Tonight, he sounded good. His voice was clear and still had that element of the kid to it. No parent can ever think of their child as a convicted felon, even if he’s sitting in a prison. Currently, Brian was temporarily housed at Bear Hill Correctional, in the town of Malone, in northern New York. It was considered safe. For now. Mary Catherine and I talked over each other while we asked him about the dorm and classes.

  Brian said, “Well, I can’t start classes because I haven’t been officially designated at a specific prison. That will happen soon.”

  All three of the boys spoke as a group. As usual, they took a few minutes to catch Brian up on sports. Football always seemed to be the same—the Jets look bad, the Patriots look good.

  Then an interruption in the programming.

  Chrissy, my youngest, started to cry. Wail is probably more accurate.

  Mary Catherine immediately dropped to one knee and slipped an arm around the little girl’s shoulder.

  Chrissy moaned, “I miss Brian.” She turned to the phone like there was a video feed and repeated, “I miss you, Brian. I want you to come home.”

  There was a pause on the phone, then Brian’s voice came through a little shakier. I could tell he was holding back tears by the way he spoke, haltingly. “I can’t come home right now, Chrissy, but you can do something for me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Go to the parade tomorrow and have fun. I mean, so much fun you can’t stand it. Then I want you to write me a letter about it and send it to me. Can you do that?”

  Chrissy sniffled. “Yes. Yes, I can.”

  I felt a tear run down my cheek. I had some great kids. I don’t care what kind of mistakes they might’ve made.

  We were ready for our adventure tomorrow.

  Chapter 2

  It was a bright, cloudless day and Mary Catherine had bundled the kids up like we lived at the North Pole. It was cold, with a decent breeze, but not what most New Yorkers would consider brutal. My grandfather, Seamus, would call it “crisp.” It was too crisp for the old priest. He was snuggled comfortably in his quarters at Holy Name.

  I wore an insulated Giants windbreaker and jeans. I admit, I looked at the kids occasionally and wished Mary Catherine had dressed me, as well, but it wasn’t that bad.

  I herded the whole group to our usual spot, across from Rockefeller Center at 49th Street and Sixth Avenue. It was a good spot, where we could see all the floats and make our escape afterward with relatively little hassle.

  I was afraid this might be the year that some of the older kids decided they’d rather sleep in than get up before dawn to make our way to Midtown. Maybe it was due to Chrissy’s tearful conversation with Brian, but everyone was up and appeared excited despite the early hour.

  Now we had staked out our spot for the parade, and were waiting for the floats. It was perfect outside and I gave in to the overwhelming urge to lean over and kiss Mary Catherine.

  Chrissy and Shawna crouched in close to us as Jane flirted with a couple of boys from Nebraska—after I’d spoken to them, of course. They were nice young men, in their first year at UN Kearney.

  We could tell by the reaction of the crowd that the parade was coming our way. We sat through the first couple of marching bands and earthbound floats before we saw one of the stars of the parade: Snoopy, in his red scarf, ready for the Red Baron.

  Of course, Eddie had the facts on the real Red Baron. He said, “You know, he was an ace in World War I for Germany. His name was Manfred von Richthofen. He had over eighty kills in dogfights.”

  The kids tended to tune out some of Eddie’s trivia, bu
t Mary Catherine and I showed interest in what he said. It was important to keep a brain like that fully engaged.

  Like any NYPD officer, on or off duty, I keep my eyes open and always know where the nearest uniformed patrol officer is. Today I noticed a tall, young, African-American officer trying to politely corral people in our area, who ignored him and crept onto the street for a better photo.

  I smiled, knowing how hard it is to get people to follow any kind of rules unless there is an immediate threat of arrest.

  Then I heard it.

  At first, I thought it was a garbage truck banging a Dumpster as it emptied it. Then an engine revved down 49th Street, and I turned to look.

  I barely had any time to react. A white Ford step-van truck barreled down the street directly toward us. It was gaining speed, though it must have had to slow down to get by the dump truck parked at the intersection of 49th and Sixth as a blockade.

  Shawna was ten feet to my right, focused on Snoopy. She was directly in the path of the truck.

  It was like I’d been shocked with electricity. I jumped from my spot and scooped up Shawna a split second before the truck rolled past us. I heard Mary Catherine shriek as I tumbled, with Shawna, on the far side of the truck.

  The truck slammed into spectators just in front of us. One of the boys from Nebraska bounced off the hood with a sickening thud. He lay in a twisted heap on the rough asphalt. His University of Nebraska jacket was sprayed with a darker shade of red as blood poured from his mouth and ears.

  The truck rolled onto the parade route until it collided with a sponsor vehicle splattered with a Kellogg’s logo. The impact sent a young woman in a purple pageant dress flying from the car and under the wheels of a float.