Fragile Lives (5 page)

‘You're still doing the odd bit for the local paper then?'

‘Oh, this was a thing on private pension schemes versus property development. Speaking of which, have you heard? Someone's finally bought the old airfield.'

‘No? Really? I'd heard a few rumours but never gave them a second thought.'

‘Some local businessman, come back to his roots.' Andrew frowned. ‘Mitchum. That's it. David Mitchum. He and his wife own some kind of software company, but they've recently expanded their hardware Research and Development and were looking for a base. They're planning on building some kind of small industrial unit at the back of the tin huts and reopening the airfield as a going concern.'

‘Must have more money than sense.' Rina was not impressed. ‘Though I suppose if they've bought the land behind the tin huts it'll stop the flipping supermarket moving in. Ruination to our local shops that would have been and I can't see a supermarket wanting to keep the tin huts there either,' she added, referring to the ramshackle mix of tiny workshops set up on what had once been part of the wartime air force base just beyond the town limits. ‘Another company might be a bit more tolerant of the little local business. After all, they're not likely to be competition, are they?'

‘Right,' Andrew said. ‘I'd better be off. Tell Tim to give that hotel a ring. They'll be in a bit of rush to get set up ready before the season starts. They've not left themselves much time.'

‘I will,' Rina said. ‘Thank you, Andrew.' She watched him stride away. Good looking chap, she thought with his height and his blond good looks. Should have been snapped up by now, married to a pretty wife and with a couple of kids in tow, but she knew Simeon would never cope with that. Or, if he could, that it would be an exceptional woman willing to take on both brothers, one as husband and one as eternal child.

She shook her head. Whoever it had been, driving the car that knocked Simeon down, had ruined not just one life but a whole family of lives. They deserved …

She clamped down on the thought reminding herself that it was that kind of impulse for revenge that had led young Karen Parker to kill Mark Dowling. Deserved, it might be, but that didn't make it right. Did it?

Rina tightened her twin scarves and tugged her soft red hat further down over her ears, then, with a little tug at the wicker shopping trolley, she headed for home.

The sense of dread that had been building since break had reached dam-bursting proportions by lunchtime. Paul and George joined the lunch queue, doing their joint and level best to appear nonchalant and unconcerned, but painfully aware of the curious glances and whispered conversations. And it wasn't just their classmates this time; the entire school seemed to know who they were and that they were somehow tied up with two murders and, in George's case, a suicide.

‘You want chips or mash with that?'

The dinner lady shoved chips on his plate without waiting for a definitive reply. At least the catering staff seemed oblivious, George thought, relieved. Rushed off their feet and focused purely on getting as many kids through in the shortest time, they didn't have time to listen to the rumour mill or, at least, didn't have leisure to discuss it in the lunchtime rush. He spotted empty seats at the table closest to the door. Always the last table to be filled because the constant opening and closing of the double doors meant it was a chilled and drafty spot, it suddenly looked ideal to George and he steered a silent Paul in that direction.

‘Hey, George, come and sit over here.'

Ursula's voice rose over the general hubbub of voices in the dining hall. George felt himself go red as the noise level dropped for an instant and George felt that every eye was upon them.

He glanced around, searching for where the voice had come from. Ursula sat at a much better table, close to the window and facing the doors. She held solitary court at a table set for four, and it was clear to George that she had been waiting for them. How, he wondered, could such a tiny, insignificant-looking person have kept everyone at bay for –the evidence of her half-finished lunch told him – five minutes at least?

Grateful anyway he sat down and, when Paul seemed at a loss as to what to do, told him to do the same.

‘Sit down. Eat something. This is Ursula, she lives at that place too. This is Paul.'

‘Hello.' Ursula said.

Paul didn't speak. He stared for a second or two and then, as though it represented the lesser of two evils – conversation being the greater one – he set to work on his lunch.

‘He normally talks,' George said. ‘It's his first day back too.' He looked from his new friend to his old and wondered if the two of them would get along or if this was just going to pose yet one more problem in the life of George Parker.

‘OK,' Ursula said at last. She examined Paul curiously but added nothing more and for several minutes they ate in silence while all around them several hundred pairs of eyes watched and dozens of conversations speculated.

‘You'll get talked about,' Paul said unexpectedly before cramming another chip into his mouth.

Ursula shrugged. ‘So,' she said.

And George relaxed. Somehow, he thought, it was going to be all right though there was a frisson of fear in his next thought. Ursula was a lot like his sister Karen.

M
iriam Hastings phoned Mac early on the Tuesday afternoon with the news that they had identified the body.

Mac was oddly glad that she had been the one to phone him. ‘That was fast.'

‘That was luck. Our man had an unusual injury, a particularly bad break to his right leg. The tibia and fibula had both been smashed, fragmented in places. Whoever did the work was bloody good; most surgeons would have gone for amputation. Anyway, he'd been pinned and plated and some of the scaffolding left permanently in place. And—'

‘And each part has its own serial number,' Mac finished for her.

‘Quite right. Ten out of ten, Mr Detective.' He heard the smile in her voice and was quite embarrassed to find that he wanted more.

‘So, you want to know who it is then?'

‘I would like that, yes.'

She laughed. She had a nice laugh; warm and light. Like champagne, Mac thought. Hastily, he packed the thought away.

‘Well,' Miriam continued, ‘our man's name is Patrick Duggan, age twenty-four, son of James Duggan. Comes from Manchester … Oh, and both father and son have quite a record sheet.'

‘
That
James Duggan? Jimmy Duggan? Are you sure?'

‘Well, unless he swapped his rebuilt leg with someone else. No missing person report filed so far as I can see. I've only got basic access though. Unfortunately we can't make like the CSI on TV and do all the rest of your work for you.'

‘Oh, pity about that,' Mac told her. ‘Can you get everything over to me as soon as?'

‘Consider it done. Old-fashioned fax machines still have their uses as both my boss and yours keep telling everyone.'

Mac thanked her and, reluctantly, rang off. The fax machine was in Eden's office, set in splendour atop one of the filing cabinets. He brought Eden up to speed as they watched the reports arrive. Results of the preliminary examination, identification, next of kin. No tox report as yet.

‘I'll get the locals up north to inform the family,' Eden said. ‘But what the hell was he doing all the way down here?'

Mac frowned. ‘Didn't Edward Parker have some connection with Manchester? I'll have a root through the file.'

‘Not everything that happens here is linked to Edward Parker,' Eden reminded him. ‘But you're right. Too many coincidences.' He flicked through the autopsy report, past the scientific minutiae and on to the conclusion. ‘Preliminary report has cause of death as a bullet to the back of the head,' he confirmed. ‘And no missing persons report? Follow that up, Mac. It might just not be appearing on our system.' He sighed, dropped the sheaf of papers back on the desk. ‘And get everything you can on the son and his more famous daddy. Let's see what we're going to have to deal with here. I imagine that whether we like it or not Jimmy Duggan will be paying a visit to our fair county.'

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in making phone calls and calling up reports. Duggan senior was in deep. His links to organized crime were well known but hard to pin down. He ran three nightclubs and was rumoured to be into drugs and women, both legal and illegal. Mac was amused and bemused to find that he also owned a perfectly legitimate corner chemist shop and that he had defended it from financial difficulties, developers and loss of local trade; a move which had led him to found an apparently equally legitimate property development company, which had quite literally bought up streets of local houses, had them renovated and then sold them on to a local housing association at a rate which could never have brought a profit. A new-build health centre followed; attempts to move a larger, franchised chain of pharmacies into the area emphatically quashed.

‘Why?' Mac asked.

Andy, who had been sharing the task of collating, grinned at him. ‘It was his grandad's shop, his great grandad's too. Got a sentimental streak?'

‘Wouldn't be the first.' Mac was puzzled though. ‘That would indicate that family is important. We know that Patrick Duggan still lived at home so why no missing person report? It doesn't make any sense.'

‘Unless the family had been told to keep quiet about it.'

‘Kidnapping? Ransom? Sure you haven't been watching too much TV?'

‘I might well have been but that doesn't mean it couldn't happen.'

Mac nodded. ‘We need to talk to the family,' he said. ‘Or get our colleagues up north to do so.'

‘Never fancied being a city copper then? You've always gone to the small towns?'

‘Pinsent was big enough for me,' Mac said. ‘And while Frantham might be small compared to Pinsent, you've got to admit it's been interesting lately.'

‘Very interesting since you got here. Reckon you thought we needed livening up.'

Mac laughed but it was the second such comment he'd had in as many days and he was indeed beginning to feel oddly responsible. He glanced at his watch. ‘What time do the schools get out?'

‘Half three-ish.'

‘So George should be back at Hill House by now.' He eased himself out of the uncomfortable office chair, promising himself that when he took over properly, he'd be replacing the furniture. He stretched, uncricking his back. ‘Collate everything and be ready to brief us in the morning,' he said.

‘Me? You want me to do it?'

‘Why not? You're more than capable and I've got a post-mortem to attend first thing and right now I'm off to see young George. I've got a little something for him.'

Haines was curious. ‘So, Duggan went to see the body?'

‘I suppose he wanted to be sure,' Coran said with a shrug. ‘Maybe your word wasn't enough.'

‘Well, let's hope it is now. He still has two other kids, doesn't he? I'm sure he wouldn't want anything to happen to them. You'd think one murdered kid would be enough for any family.'

Coran didn't reply.

‘All set for the other business?'

Coran nodded. ‘We're just waiting for you to give the go-ahead.'

‘Patience,' Haines said. ‘Just be ready. I won't want any last minute hanging around.'

George was trying to do his homework but his mind really wasn't on it. He and Ursula had taken up residence in the conservatory, now a rather ramshackle affair and badly in need of a coat of paint; George could see that it had once been nice. It ran the length of the back of the house and had steps that led down from the double doors and on to a wide lawn. A cast-iron radiator kept it warm, at least at the end with the table that Ursula had chosen for them to work at. There were also a couple of sofas and some battered easy chairs but, from the lack of clutter, magazines and general debris, George got the impression that the other kids didn't use it much, preferring the television lounge or the games room. That was a major fact in its favour and best of all, it overlooked the sea.

‘This must have been a posh place once,' he commented.

Ursula nodded. ‘I found some old photos. They even had servants. Cheryl says the council is going to put it up for sale and move everyone to some modern place that can take more kids. She says this is wasteful. It can only take ten kids at most. She says the council think we should be part of a “bigger community”.'

‘Oh.' George could not think of an appropriate response.

‘Mind you,' Ursula continued, ‘Cheryl says the council have been talking about closing this place for years so I don't think we need to start packing yet.'

He turned back to his work but somehow could not settle down to concentrate on the causes and conditions that had led to the Second World War. Both he and Paul had been inundated with handouts and extra reading and instructions to ‘find someone reliable to copy up from'. He had thought of asking Ursula but not quite summoned the courage yet. He wished Paul was here with them or that he was still at Paul's house. They could at least have had a moan at one another then. Ursula, writing with frightening rapidity and with half a dozen books spread on the table in front of her, was just too bloody efficient to be a comfort.

She looked up. ‘You OK?'

George nodded. ‘Guess so.'

She put her pen down. ‘It took me six days,' she said.

‘What did?'

‘Before I could get any work done. And, I mean,
I like
school work. It's about the only thing I'm good at.'

George studied her with renewed interest. He hadn't thought of Ursula as having any weaknesses never mind admitting to doubt. ‘What else do you like to do?' he asked. ‘I mean, you got any hobbies?'