Unti Lucy Black Novel #3 (2 page)

 

Chapter Three

L
UCY TRUDGED BACK
up through the reed bed, following the group now, bearing the body she had pulled from the river up to the morgue in the hospital where the Medical Examiner would meet them. She took out her phone, wiping her hands clean on her trousers before calling Tom Fleming, her Inspector in the Public Protection Unit in which she was based.

“Lucy? Everything okay?”

“I'm down at Gransha,” she said. “Visiting my dad. We've just fished a body from the river. He looks like an older man. Well dressed.”

“How well?”

“Suit and tie. Gray-­haired. Is that ringing any bells? I can't think of anyone.”

DI Fleming was quiet for a moment. All Missing Person reports would go through the PPU first so, Lucy figured, if the victim was someone local who'd been reported missing, either she or Fleming would have come across the report. Most of the men she could think of on the list were younger than this one had appeared in the admittedly brief time that she had seen the corpse.

“How long has he been in?”

“Not long, I think. One of the doctors down here is on her way across so I can't say for certain, but there's little sign of bloating or discoloration.”

“I heard at my meeting this evening that one of our sponsors, a man called Terry Haynes, hasn't been seen in a while. He's Dublin born but has been living here for years. He's missing a few days now. He's a . . . he's a friend.”

Fleming was a recovered alcoholic who dried out after finding Jesus, but not before losing his driver's license and his family. As part of his outreach work with his church, and perhaps in penance for his own problems in the past, he worked with the local street drinkers, helping to man soup kitchens and delivering food to them which had been donated from local shops when it reached its sell-­by date. Lucy assumed by a “meeting” he meant his Alcoholics Anonymous group and that Haynes must be a recovered alcoholic who was now supporting new members.

“What's Haynes like?”

“Heavy, seventeen, eighteen stone maybe. He's gray-­haired. He's not the suit type, mind you. He works with the street drinkers quite a bit.”

“I don't think it's him,” Lucy said. “This guy doesn't look heavy, even allowing for bloating in the water. Has Haynes formally been reported missing?” she added, not recognizing the name.

“Not yet. I only just heard; a new group member was asking if he'd been seen around. She'd not heard from him in a few days. Called at his house and got no answer. He's her sponsor, which means that he's supposed to help her through the twelve steps. She'd been in contact with him every day. She had a slip and took a drink when she couldn't get in touch with him. That's not his fault, but it is out of character. Terry's helped a fair few of us; he knows the score.”

“Maybe he's had a slip himself?”

“Maybe,” Fleming agreed. “I hope not.”

“I'll take a closer look at the body with the ME and let you know,” Lucy said, before ending the call.

Ian, the orderly, had drawn level with her now, his uniform splattered with mud. “I'm sure you weren't expecting all this excitement when you came to see your dad,” he said, smiling.

Lucy returned the smile briefly. “Listen, the man in the river? Have you any patients reported missing?”

“A ­couple. No one recent. There must be a fair few in this city, mind you.”

Lucy thought of all those who had been reported as Missing Persons. There were almost a hundred in the Foyle district alone, never mind those that might have been reported missing in the rest of the North, or indeed the Republic.

“More than a few,” she agreed.

T
HOSE CARRYING THE
body laid it on the examination table in the morgue, then filed out, as a doctor from the hospital pushed in through to examine the corpse and confirm death.

Lucy likewise squeezed her way in past the exiting group then closed the doors to the room. The doctor, an older woman, who introduced herself as Elma, pulled on a pair of gloves, then handed Lucy a pair. She pressed her hand against the man's cheek.

“He's freezing,” she said. “He's not just after jumping in, then.”

“But there's very little damage,” Lucy observed. “To his face and that. You'd think he'd look worse if he'd been in the water a while. I wasn't even sure he was dead until I felt his hand.”

Elma frowned. “Yes. There's very little visible bloating, so you'd think he couldn't be dead
that
long. You know, he looks quite peaceful actually,” she added, stepping back a little and regarding the body.

The victim was an elderly man, his hair, though muddied and entangled with weeds from the water, was undoubtedly graying. His eyes remained closed, his mouth pursed. Lucy could see now that, rather than wearing a suit, as she had told DI Fleming, the victim wore gray trousers and a dark green blazer, over a cream shirt and a green tie.

“So what do you reckon?” Lucy asked. “Suicide?”

“Presumably,” Elma said. Suddenly, she leaned down close to the body, her attention caught by something just visible in the man's nose. “Wait a minute.”

She straightened and, moving across the room to one of the drawers, pulled out a pair of tweezers.

“What are you doing?” Lucy asked, edging in closer.

“He has something in his nose,” the woman said. She held the tweezers between finger and thumb and, using them, reached up into the nasal cavity, gripped the edge of the object protruding from it and pulled. As she did so, a roll of dirty material emerged.

“Jesus,” Lucy said, her stomach turning. “What is that?”

“Cotton wool, I think,” Elma said, angling her head as she examined the material under the light before setting it down in a metal kidney dish on the bench next to her. She moved across to the body again, leaned down and shone a small pen torch into the man's nostrils.

“Do you know what?” she said, straightening up. “Not only is this man dead, but I think he's already been embalmed, too.”

 

Chapter Four

“P
LANNING YOUR OWN
funeral is one thing, but going through with the thing
before
you throw yourself in the river? That's a remarkable feat,” the doctor commented a few minutes later.

The victim lay on his back on the table at the center of the room, stripped to his underwear. Several incision marks were evident on his trunk in addition to roughly stitched wounds inside his thighs.

Elma pointed to them with a gloved finger as they examined the body. “They must have used the femoral artery for the embalming drain,” she'd said. “See?”

Lucy nodded, not quite wanting to look too closely. Instead, she stared at the side of the man's head, the slightly sunken cheeks creating the impression of a waxy hollow above his jawline. For a moment, she was reminded of examining her father's damaged face only an hour earlier.

“So, not only was your victim already dead before he went in the water,” Elma said, peeling off the gloves now and dropping them in the waste bin by the table. “But he'd already been embalmed.”

“And judging by his clothes, possibly waked and boxed, too,” Lucy added.

It was traditional that, following death, the remains of the dead would be embalmed, then laid in an open coffin for a two-­day wake, before the funeral on the third day, so that mourners could pay their final respects before burial. Generally, the deceased would be well dressed. If that was the case here, Lucy reasoned, then the man had been dead for a few days at the very least.

“So, if he was waked, how the hell did he end up in the water?”

“That's one question,” the doctor noted. “The other is ‘Who is he?' ”

Lucy nodded. “I'll contact the local undertakers and see if anyone recognizes him. Any indications of how he actually died?”

Elma shook her head. “Natural causes, by the looks of it.”

“No PM stitching?” Lucy guessed. Had his death been suspicious, he would have been subject to a postmortem and his chest would have carried the telltale Y incision marks.

“And no signs of violence on the body,” the doctor added. “The wounds we can see are consistent with those made during the embalming process.”

Lucy moved across to where the man's clothes lay piled on a chair next to the table. She lifted his jacket and, opening it, patted through the pockets. She folded back the jacket, examining the label protruding from the inside pocket.

“Looking for his name? Is it not just schoolkids who have their names on their clothes?”

Lucy nodded. “He's old. My father is in here and they have his name written on all his labels so nothing gets lost or mixed up. I thought maybe it might've been the same with him, if he's been in a home or something.”

As she folded the jacket she noticed, for the first time, a small insignia on the breast pocket of a small golden castle, with, beneath it, two oak leaves. Under that were the letters “PC,” divided by a thin diagonal.

“City of Derry Golf Club,” Elma said, pointing to the logo. “He must have been a past captain. They give them a blazer when they finish their year. You see the PC?”

Lucy examined it more closely now, seeing that the thin diagonal was, in actual fact, a golf club.

“How did you know that?” she asked, bemused.

“I was a ladies' captain in Donegal,” she said. “I know the logo. They'll be able to tell you if any of their past captains have died recently. Being captain was clearly important to him, if he'd wanted to be buried in the club blazer.”

 

Chapter Five

L
UCY CONSIDERED DRIVING
up to the golf club on her way home; it lay just a few miles past Prehen Park on the road toward Strabane, but glancing at the clock on the dashboard display she realized it would probably already be closed for the evening. That, and the stench of the sediment mud still spattered on her clothes, drove her home for a shower instead. She reasoned that she would call in the morning, when she might have more luck in speaking to someone who would be able to help her. Then she would report it on to Mark Burns, the Chief Super of CID in the city. Let them deal with it then. Her curiosity needed only to know the dead man's name, having been involved, in a manner of speaking, in his recovery from the river.

The house smelt musty when she opened the door, a combination of the heat building inside all day and the aged furniture which had been bought by her father almost twenty years earlier, and which she had not replaced. She opened some of the windows downstairs to air the place out a little.

She stripped off and, after bundling her clothes into the washing machine, climbed into the shower. She was just drying herself when she heard someone knocking at her front door. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was already past eleven.

Pulling on her dressing gown, she padded downstairs and peered through the peephole installed in the door. Standing outside was one of her neighbors, a man called Dermot who lived in a house opposite hers. She'd met him a few times; once he'd removed graffiti off her gable wall for her. Beyond that, and the occasional wave and smile as they passed in their cars, she didn't really know him. She didn't even know his wife's name, or those of his children, of whom there seemed to be quite a number.

She opened the door the few inches allowed by the security chain. Dermot smiled, in preparation of greeting, then seemed to notice that she was wearing her dressing gown and blushed. He wore a sweat-­darkened gray T-­shirt and running shorts.

“Lucy. I'm really sorry for bothering you,” he said.

“It's fine,” Lucy said. “Is something wrong?”

Dermot glanced across furtively at his own house, then moved closer to her door again, the movement carrying with it the waft of sweat on the warm air.

“I . . . ah . . . look, I know it's late. It's the wife's sister. She's called with us. She's . . . she's in pretty bad shape. We think her partner's hit her.”

“I'll call someone for you. They can come out straight away,” Lucy said.

“No,” Dermot said, stepping closer. “No, please. She's not saying he did it, but . . . well, her lip's bust and that. The missus wanted her to call the cops—­to call you—­you know what I mean, but she's refused. She doesn't want the police involved.”

“That's pretty common,” Lucy said.

Dermot stood, expectantly. Finally, Lucy said, “Look, let me get changed and I'll call over.”

Dermot smiled briefly. “Would you mind? That would be great. I didn't say I was coming across for you; I told them I was going out for a jog. I'm sure she didn't want me sitting there anyway.”

“I'll be over in a few minutes,” Lucy said, moving to close the door.

“One thing,” Dermot said, arresting its movement with his hand. “Sorry,” he said, when he realized what he had done. “Look, would you maybe say you're a friend of the family rather than her thinking you're there as a police officer. Maybe just have a chat with her.”

T
EN MINUTES LATER,
Lucy was crossing the street. She'd tied her hair back in a short ponytail, and wore jeans and a light blue polo shirt. She knocked at the door and waited. A moment later, Dermot answered.

“Lucy. Come in,” he announced. To his rear, four small children peered down at her from the stairs, already dressed for bed, but obviously too excited by the drama below to sleep.

“Thanks very much for this,” Dermot muttered as he led her into the living room. On a wide sofa sat a woman Lucy recognized as his wife, her arm around the shoulder of a younger girl, in her late twenties perhaps, who bore little familial resemblance to her older sibling.

“Lucy's here,” Dermot announced again, pointing her toward one of the free armchairs.

The elder woman glanced at Dermot, then smiled toward Lucy. “Hi, Lucy. Good to see you. This is my sister, Fiona.”

Fiona glanced up at Lucy. Her upper lip was split and swollen around a livid bruise.

“Hi,” Lucy said.

“Who's she?” Fiona asked, nodding toward Lucy but clearly addressing her sister.

“Lucy's one of our neighbors. She's a . . . she's a friend.”

“Calling at eleven at night for a visit?”

“Sorry, I . . .” Lucy struggled to explain the timing of her visit. She touched at her wet hair. “I meant to call earlier, but I was swimming. I had to shower afterwards.”

It seemed to placate the girl enough for she made no comment.

Lucy smiled, encouragingly. “It's good to meet you,” she said, clasping her hands between her knees. “That's a nasty looking cut.”

“It's fine,” the girl said. She shook her sister's arm from around her shoulder and straightened a little. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“I'm going to grab a shower myself,” Dermot said, quickly, sensing perhaps that left alone with his wife, she might have something to say about Lucy's presence. “The downstairs loo will be free. Besides, the kids will torture you upstairs.”

The two left Lucy and the elder sister sitting in the living room.

“How is she?” Lucy asked. “Dermot explained what happened.”

“We don't
know
what happened,” the woman said. “She'll not tell us anything.”

“What's her partner like? Is he abusive?”

The woman shrugged. “I don't really know. They met two years ago. Whirlwind romance; he proposed a few months back, took her to Rome, swept her off her feet. I've barely seen them since they started dating, but they
seemed
happy. Cut themselves off from everyone, mind you. I was surprised she was able to remember where our house was this evening.”

Lucy nodded. “Look, anything I can do to help, I will. There's no point pushing things too hard. If Fiona thinks you're forcing her into siding against her partner, she'll clam up and head home.”

The woman nodded. “Don't let on you're police. You're a family friend.”

Lucy nodded agreement.

“And my name's Jenny, by the way.”

Fiona came back into the room a few moments later, a little more composed than previously. “Sorry,” she said to the room in general.

Lucy smiled at her. “So you're Jenny's sister?”

Fiona nodded. “And you're a friend of the family? I've not seen you before.”

“You've not been here in two years,” Jenny retorted, then seemed to regret having done so.

“What do you do for a living?” Lucy asked.

“Nothing,” the younger girl commented.

“Lucky you!”

“I used to work in HMV,” Fiona said, quickly. “I left it.”

“I was sorry to hear about that. When it closed. I used it a lot,” Lucy said.

“Yes. No, I left before that. My partner thought it wasn't really . . . I was a bit old for it.”

“You're younger than me,” Lucy said. “I'd love to work in a music shop. Just listen to stuff you want all day.”

“I don't really like music,” Fiona said.

“You
loved
music,” Jenny said quickly. “She had a CD collection that took up a whole bookcase.”

“Yeah, I . . . outgrew it,” the girl said, with little conviction. “What do you do?”

Lucy hesitated. “I'm . . . I was a fitness instructor,” she said, finally. It wasn't a lie as such, she reasoned.

“Really?” Jenny asked, with genuine surprise. “I didn't know that.”

Lucy nodded. “I used to be really fit.”

“You're still pretty fit,” Fiona commented.

Lucy smiled. “You're not so bad yourself,” she joked, causing Fiona to smile against her will. The girl winced at the gesture, then dabbed her thumb at the cut on her lip, which had reopened.

“Do you want me to take at look at that for you?” Lucy asked.

Fiona shook her head. “It's fine,” she said. “I banged into the cupboard door at home. I'm so clumsy sometimes,” she added.

“She might need a stitch,” Jenny said to Lucy. She turned to her sister. “I told you, I thought—­”

“It's fine,” Fiona said. “I don't need a stitch.”

Lucy understood the girl's reluctance. Going to the hospital would necessitate repeating her explanation for the injury to another group of ­people. Clearly, unconvinced by it herself, she'd decided the less scrutiny it was subjected to, the better.

“Have you a Chap Stick?” Lucy asked. “It'll sting a bit, but it'll seal it up.”

Fiona stared at her.

Lucy shrugged. “I've taken my fair share of knocks and bumps,” she said. “One of the tricks of the trade.”

“I might have one upstairs,” Jenny said, getting up to go and check.

Fiona smiled gratefully as her sister closed the living room door. “Thanks for that. She'd have been nagging at me all night, otherwise.”

“She's just worried,” Lucy said. “She means well.”

Fiona nodded.

“So what actually happened?”

The girl looked at her, her eyes wide with panic. “I told you, I banged it on the door. The cupboard. I'd left it open and . . .” The excuse faded into a mumble.

“It's okay,” Lucy said, just as the door opened again.

“Here we go,” Jenny said brightly, handing the stick to Lucy. “Anna had one for when she comes out of the pool. Her lips are always dry,” she added unnecessarily.

“Can I?” Lucy asked, kneeling in front of Fiona, who nodded as she leant forward a little.

“How's she getting on?” she asked her sister to offset her embarrassment.

“The best,” Jenny said, watching Lucy work.

“I love swimming,” Lucy said. “I've not been in ages.”

“I thought you were there tonight?” Fiona asked sharply.

Lucy stumbled on her answer. “That's what I meant,” she managed. “Until tonight.”

Jenny rushed to her aid. “We used to go swimming every day,” she said to Lucy. “Fiona and me. Then, you know . . .” She glanced at her sister.

“Then you had kids,” Fiona said. “It just became too difficult to arrange.”

“We should go for a swim someday,” Jenny said. “I could be doing with getting back into it again. Just us girls. It'd be nice.”

Fiona smiled tentatively, as if testing the sealed cut, nodded a little uncertainly. “That would be nice,” she echoed.

“Lucy?” Jenny said. “How about it?”

Lucy stared from one sister to the other. She assumed Jenny had included her out of politeness and that to decline might seem rude. Besides, paradoxically, Fiona might be more inclined to spend time with her sister if a stranger was also present to prevent the conversation becoming too probing.

“Maybe,” she managed. “I'll call you to arrange something at some stage.”