Unti Lucy Black Novel #3 (12 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-­Six

L
UCY WENT HOME
to get a change of clothes, picked up a Chinese meal for them both, then drove to Robbie's place to meet him once his shift had finished.

She let herself in and unpacked the food in the kitchen. She could hear the shower running in the bathroom. He'd had to get a wide shower installed downstairs after his injury to save him having to go up and down stairs unnecessarily. After putting the food in the oven to keep it warm, she moved through into the bathroom herself, stripped off her clothes, and climbed into the shower with him.

The skin on his leg had not healed well, the scarring puckered along its length from his ankle to his thigh. She washed the wound gently, massaging the muscles, her hands moving higher as she stood again and kissed him.

T
HEY ATE IN
bed, the tinfoil cartons of rice and noodles resting in the space between them.

“I've not seen you in a week, you know,” Robbie said, angling his head to eat a fork-­load of chow mein.

“Things have been busy,” Lucy said. “We pulled someone from the river the other night.”

“I heard about that.”

“He was already dead and embalmed. Someone else was cremated in his coffin.”

Robbie nodded, though his interest had already waned. Lucy realized that she had shifted straight into her default conversation with him: work.

“I hardly see you at all, what with work and that. For you and me.”

“We've both been busy,” Lucy agreed. “Things'll get better.”

Robbie nodded. “Well, I thought one way that might happen, that we'd see one another more often, would be if . . . if you moved in here. Permanently.”

Lucy felt her stomach twist. “You mean live together?”

“Yes.”

“I thought we were doing okay as things are,” she said, deliberately picking through her sweet and sour chicken, not looking at Robbie.

“We see one another once a fortnight sometimes,” Robbie said. “I'd like to see you more often than that.”

“I've my own house to think about, too,” Lucy said. “What would I do with that?”

“You've done nothing with it anyway,” Robbie said. “It's been the exact same since your dad . . . since that all happened. It's your father's house, not yours.”

The comment riled Lucy, not least because she knew it to be true. She'd not redecorated her father's house because she still saw it as his house. Part of her, she reasoned, still believed that at some stage he'd return to it and would expect it to be as he'd left it, even as her rational side knew that this would never happen.

“It's a big change, Robbie,” Lucy said. “Let me think on it.”

“It doesn't need to be a big thing. You already have a key. Just see it as moving your stuff in here. You must get lonely sitting in that house every night on your own.”

“I'm not lonely,” Lucy said.

“Well I am,” Robbie countered, putting his dishes to one side. “If we're together, we should be together. And if you don't want that, then you need to say so.”

“That's not what I'm saying,” Lucy snapped. “I don't want to be rushed into something. I said I'll think about it and I will. Okay?”

“Fine,” Robbie muttered, throwing back the covers and climbing out of bed. Lucy watched him limping toward the bathroom, the food suddenly tasteless in her mouth.

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
she'd showered again and, once dressed, sat at the breakfast bar in his small kitchen with him while they had coffee and toast. Despite being barely 8 a.m., the heat was oppressive, even with the window open, the air heavy. Lucy pulled at her polo shirt, tugging it away from her skin, which had remained damp from the shower. The discussion about her moving in had set the tone for the night and, though they had slept together, the distance between them was palpable.

“What kind of a day have you today?” she asked.

Robbie sipped at his coffee, his toast lying uneaten on the plate in front of him. “Okay. Helen will be in a mood after last night. I'll have that to deal with.”

Lucy nodded. “How's your leg since?”

“Sore,” he replied tersely.

Lucy ate her toast, watching him. “I know you're angry at me—­” she began.

“Not everything's about you,” he snapped, then raised a hand, almost as if to stop the words being heard. “My fucking leg is killing me. That's what's wrong.”

“Why didn't you say something?”

“So you can blame yourself? Make it all your fault?”

“Robbie, it was my fault. It was my car—­”

“You see? I can't even be sore without it becoming about you, Lucy.”

Lucy put down her cup, tapped his hand lightly with her own. “I'm sorry you're sore,” she said. “Do you need your painkillers?”

“For all the good they do,” Robbie said, pushing back his stool and moving across to the cupboard to get them.

He walked her to the door as she was leaving. Outside, the sky seemed to carry the sheen and hardness of ceramic, a few wisps of cloud overhead. To the east, though, the upper edge of a thick thunderhead bruised the sky just above the horizon. The air was moist, as if intensifying the heat in the expectation of the impending rain.

“I promise I'll think about what you asked,” Lucy said, but Robbie was staring above her, at the clouds gathering.

“A change is coming,” he remarked.

 

Friday, 20 July

 

Chapter Twenty-­Seven

S
HE WAS ONE
of the first in the incident room for Burns's 9 a.m. briefing. The station was quiet, most of the Tactical Support Units having been diverted to Belfast where the rioting had continued through the night. Since Belfast City Council had voted not to fly the Union Jack above the City Hall every day of the year, in recognition of the conflicting national loyalties of the city's inhabitants, it had been building to this. The Peace Process may have proved a salve to the wounds of the Troubles, but it had not proved as purgative as ­people had perhaps supposed, and many of the old animosities remained, just below the surface. In the wrong hands, or with the wrong words, any one of the issues was enough to bring ­people out to the streets, not to protest about the specific issue necessarily, but more to vent their frustrations at enforced compromises.

As the team began to arrive, Mickey made coffee, complaining loudly enough for her to hear that Lucy had not done so despite being first in. Tony Clarke arrived not long after to bring the team up to speed on the findings in the old bank building.

He came across to where Lucy stood. “I called with that old doll,” he said. “Took prints. I've not checked them yet because I had to do this for Burns. It looks like three distinct sets, though. Two sets all over the jewelry box, one very clean.”

Lucy took the glass from her bag, still wrapped in plastic. “Can you check against these?”

“If they're the old doll's, I don't need them. I took an elimination set already,” Clarke said, sounding a little offended at the implication in Lucy's actions. “I'm not stupid.”

“They belong to a girl who does work for Doreen,” Lucy explained. “She was a key holder. I need to know if those are her prints on the box.” Their presence wouldn't prove that she had stolen the jewelry, but she would have to explain why she'd been handling it if she was simply employed to do some light cleaning. More importantly, Lucy was hoping that the prints wouldn't be hers at all and she could set both her own and Doreen's minds at rest that Helen Dexter had not duped them a second time.

“Right, folks,” Burns said, calling the room to attention. “Shall we begin? Tony?”

The door to his left opened, causing everyone to turn to see who was arriving late. Lucy's mother, Assistant Chief Constable Wilson stepped into the room, nodding to the assembly in general, but holding Lucy's stare.

“The blood we've taken from the scene is the same type as Krawiec's,” Clarke explained, once the ACC had taken her seat. “We have taken DNA for comparison, but it will take some time. Based on our analysis though, the splatters are consistent with the injuries on the victim's body. I would say with a fair degree of confidence that it is the locus for the man's killing.”

“We also have the car spotted by the barman, is that right?” Burns asked.

Fleming nodded. “Terry Haynes's car.”

Burns pointed to an image of Terry Haynes, which had been pinned up on the board to his rear. Haynes was a heavyset man, with a head the size and shape of a cannonball. One of his ears carried injuries Lucy had only previously associated with rugby players.

“Tara, you were to look into Haynes for me. Anything useful?”

“He served time in the South for assault years back. He and another man beat up a bouncer who had thrown them out of a bar. They'd sat waiting for him to finish work and jumped him on the way home.”

“They beat up a bouncer? That's a turn-­up for the books,” Mickey asked, raising a ripple of laughter.

“They attacked him with a bottle and a broken brick,” Tara said, trying hard to hide her annoyance at Mickey's comment. “He ended up in hospital for a fortnight.”

The laughter died down. “Haynes served eight months,” she said. “When he got out he was involved in a RTA a year after.”

“Anyone injured?”

“Just himself. He was drunk on a motorbike. He tried to go straight through a roundabout. The central reservation prevented him.”

“Did he do time for it?”

“The guards figured his injuries were enough of a lesson for him. He agreed to dry out.”

“Which he did,” Fleming said, suddenly. Throughout the previous discussion he had been tapping his foot impatiently. “Terry Haynes has been working with the alcoholics in the city for years now. He turned himself around completely. He sponsors in the AA; he works in the late-­night soup kitchens. I've seen him going around in the winter handing out coats to the street drinkers that he bought for them in the charity shops in the city. He's a good man.”

Burns raised his hand. “I'm sure he is, Tom. And no one would know the work he'd done there better than you.” Lucy sensed Fleming tense almost imperceptibly beside her. She wondered herself whether Burns was referring to Fleming's own work with the city's alcoholics, or his spell as one himself. Her experience of the man suggested the former, but his comments had obviously annoyed Fleming.

“Can someone open a window, please?” ACC Wilson said suddenly. “Let some air in.”

The comment was enough to relieve the increasing fractiousness, as if the burgeoning heat had been contributing to the tensions in the room.

“But, all his good work notwithstanding, we do know that he has a record for assault and that his car was spotted at the bins where we believe the deceased was dumped.
And
Haynes himself has been in the wind for a few days, is that right?”

Fleming nodded. “I called around his friends last night, but no one has seen him recently. I don't have a number for his neighbor; I'm going to call out there today.”

“Physical description, Tara?”

“Haynes is five foot eleven, and weighs eighteen stone, three pounds,” Tara said.

“That would work,” Tony Clarke said. “The injuries on the vic suggested they were made by someone big, with a bit of weight behind him. Some of the splatter hit the wall five feet from where the body would have been lying, suggesting a fairly powerful follow through on the swing, considering the size of the weapon used on him.”

“A ball-­peen hammer?” Lucy asked.

Clarke nodded. “The other thing is, based on the splatter direction, I'd guess that there were probably two assailants. If one of our killers is Terry Haynes, he had help.”

Burns nodded. “Terry Haynes is our priority. Locate the car, find out where he was last seen, any known associates. Tom and Lucy, I'd appreciate your help with that; we're drifting into your territory here. Any further news on the body in the coffin, by the way?”

“Ciaran Duffy has done a runner,” Lucy said. “The son of the undertaker. He lied about the times of his journey to Belfast. We believe he stopped somewhere and swapped the body.”

“Any motive?”

“Not yet. We're watching his bank account and credit cards.”

“Any luck with an ID on the cremated remains?”

“None,” Lucy conceded. “We believe the plate in his skull came from Beaumont Hospital. I've asked for them to send me through a list of names of those who received implants from the period they got the batch, but I've not been back in the office yet to see if it came through.”

“Very good,” Burns said. “Keep at it. That's all, folks. Keep me updated.”

As they gathered themselves to leave, Wilson approached Lucy and Fleming. “Tom, are you okay with where this is going?” she asked, without preamble.

“Fine, ma'am,” Fleming said.

“I understand your feelings may be quite mixed. Would you rather not work the case?”

“Quite the opposite, ma'am,” Fleming said. “I think it's important that at least one person investigating Haynes should be working from a presumption of his innocence rather than guilt.”

“Very good,” Wilson said. “Lucy, a quick word?”

 

Chapter Twenty-­Eight

S
HE WAITED UNTIL
the rest of the officers had filed out of the room, Tara staring back interrogatively at Lucy as she let the door swing closed behind her.

“I visited your father last night,” her mother said.

Wilson had left Lucy with her father when she was still a child. At the time, Lucy had believed that it was simply to allow her to focus on her burgeoning career in the police. More recently, she had discovered some things about her father that, while explaining her mother's decision to leave, did not, to Lucy's mind, vindicate her leaving Lucy with the man. Consequently, when Lucy had joined the PSNI, she had done so under her father's name of Black rather than her mother's name, Wilson, and none of her peers had made the connection between the two women. At one stage Lucy had seen her mother's assigning her to the Public Protection Unit as an attempt to stymie Lucy's career. Lately, she had come to appreciate having Tom Fleming, the only officer who knew of their maternal relationship, as her mentor and boss.

However, none of these changes in her perception of past events had allowed her to forgive the woman for walking off and leaving her when she was eight.

“And?”

“Have you seen him recently?”

Lucy nodded. “His face?”

“And the rest. They said they had to restrain him from attacking another patient.”

“So I believe,” Lucy said.

“And are you okay about it all?”

“He didn't attack me,” Lucy retorted.

Wilson sighed. “You know what I mean. He didn't know me at all when I was there.”

Lucy stopped herself making a comment and felt unusually pleased with her restraint. Despite her acrimony with her mother, she knew it must have been painful for the woman to realize that her husband had forgotten who she was. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

Her mother's expression softened, the tight line of her mouth relaxing momentarily, almost as if she, too, had been expecting a very different response.

“I know he's not seen me much,” she admitted. “But we did have fifteen years together. He had no idea who I was.”

Lucy shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to give any more sympathy than she already had.

“I just wanted you to be ready,” she said, motioning as if to put her hand on Lucy's arm, then controlling herself by folding her arms.

“For what?” Lucy asked. “I know what he's like. I visit him every week.”

“I'm not saying that, Lucy. But he'll forget you at some stage, too. I just want you to be prepared.”

“He'll be fine,” Lucy protested, knowing how ridiculous it sounded even as she spoke. She'd found that her feelings about her father, both for what he had done when she was a child and what had happened to him since, were more easily managed by pushing them to the back of her mind. It was like Robbie's raising of the issue of their moving in together. At some level, she'd been aware that something needed to happen in their relationship. But, to Lucy's mind, things were fine so long as she wasn't forced into having to think about them.

“He's not coming back, Lucy,” her mother said softly. “Once he disappears into that, he'll not come back again. I know you don't want to face that, but it's going to happen sooner than you think.”

Lucy felt her eyes fill, swallowed back. “I'm ready. I know what's coming.”

“If you need any—­”

“I was thinking about the bank building,” Lucy said suddenly. “If there was someone in cleaning out that building, I wouldn't be surprised if more of those buildings with the false fronts up have been similarly emptied.”

He mother nodded lightly, taking the message. She smiled. “That's a very good point, Lucy. I'll have someone look into it.”

“You'd already thought of it, hadn't you?” Lucy challenged, wondering if the woman would patronize her by lying.

“Yes. We've not got the bodies to do searches yet. When things settle down in Belfast and we get officers back, we'll do a sweep. I've contacted the guy in the council who organized the fronts to see if they can get someone out for us.”

“Was that John Boyd?”

“You know him?” Wilson asked, surprised.

“I've come across him. I've met his partner, Fiona. I think he's abusive toward her.”

“John Boyd?” her mother said, incredulously.

“What? Is he a friend?”

“Not at all. I've met the two of them out at dinner dances and that. They seemed very . . . normal.”

“They always do,” Lucy said.

Wilson accepted the comment. “Has she made a complaint against him?”

Lucy shook her head. “She's not even admitted he did it.”

“Let me know how it pans out,” Wilson said. “You better go before someone thinks we're getting on too well,” she added, her expression pained in a manner that caused Lucy's breath to catch.