Unti Lucy Black Novel #3 (26 page)

 

Chapter Sixty-­Six

T
HE BRUISING EXTENDED
all the way down to Sammy's shoulder, though was partially obscured by the bandage that had been applied to his arm and shoulder which, the nurse said, had been dislocated. The drip standing next to his bed was an effort to rebalance his blood sugars.

As Lucy stared in at him, through the window of the hospital ward, she couldn't help but think of her father the night she had helped pull Stuart Carlisle from the River Foyle. She glanced across to where Fiona stood, arms wrapped around her, staring in at the man.

Fiona had initially refused to come with Lucy, especially as Lucy hadn't told her where they were going, just that she wanted her to see the consequence of John Boyd's fraud. In the end, she'd agreed. Lucy suspected she was now regretting that decision.

“There were almost twenty of them,” Lucy said. “Most escaped, probably thinking
they
were in trouble. The ones that didn't escape were, to a man, too ill to do so. They were sleeping on the ground in an abandoned bleach works, being fed Pot Noodles. The ­people controlling them convinced them that they were the only ones who cared about them, then took their money, their bank cards, anything which might give them the sense of being in control of their own lives.”

“That's not fair,” Fiona said, blinking away the tears gathering in her eyes. Lucy knew that her complaint was more about her telling Fiona this, drawing attention to the parallels between them, rather than the act itself that she had described.

“Five of the men were malnourished,” Lucy said. “We think they were there the longest. This man was sleeping in his own feces as he'd grown too weak, presumably, to make it to the slop bucket they used as a toilet.”

“Why are you showing me this?” Fiona said, turning from the window into the room now, as she gathered her fist in front of her face.

“We know John contacted you,” Lucy said.

“You're watching my phone?” Fiona cried.

“No. We're watching his, to make sure he's still alive. We know he called your number and that the call lasted for over ten minutes.”

Fiona nodded. “I told him I didn't want to speak to him.”

“I don't doubt that,” Lucy said. “Did he ask you to go with him?”

Fiona nodded but did not speak.

“Did he say where he was going?”

She shook her head. “He sounded wild, like he couldn't get his thoughts straight. He was jumbling everything up, speaking so quickly.”

“Did he tell you where he was?”

Fiona shook her head again, though this time her gaze dropped to the hand in front of her.

“Fiona. The man who kept them ­people in these conditions? We think he killed two other ­people, with a hatchet. That's the type of person John has got involved with. The man in question has abandoned his own son after we arrested the boy this morning. If he decides to go after John, to prevent John talking to us, he's not going to ask nicely. If you still feel anything for John, any small thing at all, you're doing him no favors protecting him. He'll be safer now if we can bring him in; if we can protect him from his own business partner.”

Fiona stared at her. Her jaw shifting as she chewed on her thumbnail now, her eyes flushed.

“Someone has to answer for what happened to the man in that bed,” Lucy said. “Someone has to pay.”

Fiona shifted her gaze to the ward window once more, to where Sammy lay, but Lucy could tell that her eyes were not focused on him at all.

“He has a house he's having built out at Claudy, out near the park there, by the river. On the Donemana side.”

“Thank you,” Lucy said. “We can take you back to Jenny's.”

Fiona shook her head. “I'm okay. I'll go in a bit myself.”

Lucy stared at her quizzically. “I can drop you back.”

Fiona held her gaze a moment. “I'd rather get a taxi,” she said. “Honestly? I curse the day I ever met you.”

Lucy watched her walk away, her face reddening as if she had just been struck.

 

Chapter Sixty-­Seven

“W
HERE IS SHE?”
Fleming asked, when Lucy came back out to the car. He'd agreed to leave the two of them alone in the hospital, thinking that Lucy would have a better chance getting through to Fiona alone.

“She's finding her own way home.”

“Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

Lucy shook her head. “I think I screwed up her life.”

Fleming tapped her on the leg. “None of that. You helped her start living her life. Without you, she'd have ended up as a statistic on a domestic violence report someday.”

“Her, Robbie, Tara. Everyone I meet gets hurt.” She did not mention Grace, who had been left in hospital as a result of Lucy's involvement in her life, too.

“Everyone gets hurt,” Fleming said. “Stop taking the blame for the world's problems. You can't change anyone but yourself.”

Lucy nodded, unconvinced.

“Do you know who told me that? Terry Haynes,” Fleming said. “Now I'm passing it on to you. Do something with it.”

Lucy nodded. “Thanks, Tom.”

“So, did she tell you
anything
useful or did she just insult you?”

“She says Boyd has a house in Claudy, near the river and the park?”

“I know where the park is,” Fleming said. “I'll call it in while you drive.”

T
HEY REACHED
C
LAUDY
within fifteen minutes, cutting down through the village, past the statue of the weeping child erected to commemorate the nine victims of the IRA car bombs, which exploded without warning one Monday morning in the village in July 1972.

They crossed the Faughan again over the stone bridge at the bottom of Church Road, which led out of the village itself. Fleming pointed to their right, to the road signposted for Donemana.

“The park is in there,” he said. “Where's Boyd's house?”

Lucy turned right, driving more slowly now, scanning both sides of the road for a driveway, which might indicate where Boyd's house was. Sure enough, just over the brow of the incline on which they were driving, she saw an entranceway to the right. The road up from it was untarred, its surface pockmarked with potholes.

“Are you sure this is it?” Fleming asked, one hand held out to grip the dashboard in front of him.

“Fiona said the house was being built,” Lucy offered. “It's worth checking.”

At first glance, the house looked deserted. The gloom of the thickening twilight was deepened by the ring of high leafy trees that surrounded the perimeter of the grounds on which the house stood, meaning that Lucy had to turn on the car lights. In doing so, she spotted the reflective red strip on the rear bumper of a car, parked around the side of the house.

“Someone's here,” she said.

They pulled up outside the house.

“Should we wait for backup?” Lucy asked.

“If Boyd's there on his own, there's no need,” Fleming reasoned. “If Nash is there with him, the longer we leave it, the less chance there is that Boyd is still alive.”

Lucy unclicked her seat belt. “That's what I thought,” she said, opening her door.

As they approached the front of the house, they saw someone moving quickly inside, just behind the door. Although the figure appeared large-­framed, Lucy didn't think it was Rory Nash.

Fleming thumped on the front door three times. “Open up!”

The door clicked and opened ajar a fraction, just enough for them to see Nash's wife standing inside and enough time for her to recognize them, too. She tried, in vain, to shut the door again quickly, but Lucy was already wedging her foot in the gap, both she and Fleming pushing against her to swing the door back. Eventually it gave as she moved away from it. They had barely crossed the threshold, though, than she was on them, grappling at Lucy's face. Lucy felt the tear, as one of the woman's nails caught her just below the eye, felt the woman's hand grip her hair and pull.

The next minute, with a tug, the woman's grip released and Lucy turned to see that Tom Fleming had managed to subdue her, twisting one of her arms behind her back. Lucy grabbed at the free arm, flaying now at Tom, likewise twisting it backwards and pulling out a plastic tie with which to cuff her.

They heard the shuddering of the van engine outside coming to life all at the same time. While Fleming continued his hold on the woman, Lucy stood and moved to the door, in time to see Nash's blue van emerge from around the side of the house.

The woman realized that her husband was running without her, leaving her to the police in the same way they had abandoned their son hours earlier. She tried to raise herself from the ground, almost unbalancing Fleming in so doing, and bellowed, “Rory! Rory!”

If Nash heard her, he had no intention of stopping, for they heard the revving of the engine and the grinding of gears as he tried to build speed. Lucy instinctively knew why; she had parked at the top of the driveway, essentially blocking the pathway for the van. Nash was planning on ramming her car.

She sprinted out through the doorway, the action accompanied by Fleming's call for her to come back and the woman's cries of anger and resentment aimed at her husband.

Nash was planning to hit the car at an angle, to push it to one side, but he misaimed and hit the bumper straight on. The car shifted forwards several feet, but the action did nothing to clear the path for his escape. She heard the gears grind as he tried to reverse and attempt the maneuver again.

She was almost on him when the van smashed into her car for a second time. This time it did shift across a foot or two, but Nash hadn't built sufficient speed to move it enough to get past it. He was struggling to shift the van into reverse again when Lucy pulled the door open.

The van jolted as he took his foot off the clutch, the action knocking Lucy unexpectedly. Her grip on him released, Nash tore off his seat belt and came at her, bringing his full weight to bear as he threw himself from the cab of the van.

Lucy fell backwards, the back of her head striking the rough stonework of the driveway. As she looked up, Nash loomed above her. She saw him tug at something on his tool belt, saw his thick hand clamped around a small hatchet as he pulled it free and raised it above him, ready to strike.

Absurdly Lucy raised her hand to protect herself, just as she heard the first loud pop. She felt the skin of that hand suddenly slicken. She looked up at Nash now as a gash of blood unfurled itself on his chest. A second pop and Nash dropped sideways to the ground next to her.

She twisted to see Fleming walk toward where she lay, his gun raised. He approached, as Lucy kicked the weight of Nash from her legs, scrambling to get away from him. Fleming stood above her, his gun bucking in his grip as the air filled with the sound of the gun firing for the third time and, behind them, the wailing of the dead man's wife.

 

Thursday, 26 July

 

Chapter Sixty-­Eight

F
LEMING WAS SUSPENDED
while the Ombudsman investigated the shooting of Rory Nash. Nash's wife claimed that she heard gaps between the shots being fired and that she believed Fleming had used unnecessary force on her husband. In her interview, Lucy simply said that her life had been at risk and that, in shooting Rory Nash, Fleming had saved her.

Despite her complaints regarding the shooting, both Nash's wife and son began to talk when they were interviewed again after his shooting. Padraig had clearly been given the same advice as his mother by the family lawyer, for both laid full responsibility for all that happened at Rory Nash's feet, including the killing of Terry Haynes, Kamil Krawiec, and Ciaran Duffy, who had gone to Nash to tell him that the police had started investigating the identity of the body in the coffin. It had been Rory Nash's idea, too, they claimed, to use Terry Haynes's car both to dump Kamil's body and in which to burn Duffy's, as a way of implicating Haynes in their murders. John Boyd had arrived out to inspect one of the work sites and he had recognized Haynes somehow. Haynes had challenged Boyd over the treatment of the men and the killing of the man Moore said they had dumped in the river. Having begun to piece together Boyd's involvement in the scam, Haynes threatened to report him to the police so Nash attacked him. Padraig claimed to be terrified of his father, having suffered beatings at his hands since he was a child. Upon medical examination, there was no doubt he bore the scars of historical injuries. His mother likewise claimed to have been controlled by Nash, afraid to leave him in case he harmed their son.

Her mother relayed all of this to Lucy as they sat in her office with Chief Superintendent Marshall.

“What about Boyd now?” Lucy asked. “Any sign of him?”

“Actually,” Marshall said, “he tried accessing one of his accounts in Lincoln on Monday morning. We'd managed to get every account he set up frozen over the weekend; he left empty-­handed before the local police arrived.”

“How much did you recover?” Lucy asked.

“Over £300,000,” Marshall said. “We know the Nashes took some as well, though they're not admitting to it. There's still quite a chunk missing. But Boyd won't have it as easy as he thought he might. We'll get him at some stage.”

Wilson asked Lucy to remain behind as she walked Marshall out to the car park. She helped herself to tea and a biscuit while she waited, deciding, as she did so, to pour out a second cup for her mother. She set the remaining pink wafer on the saucer next to the cup.

Wilson came back into the office, glanced at the cup on her desk. “Is there sugar in that?” she asked.

“One,” Lucy said.

Wilson nodded her thanks and lifted the wafer. She snapped it in half, offering a piece to Lucy, who took it with a brief smile.

“I had an interesting phone call from a woman called Bernadette Thompson earlier,” her mother said. “She knew my name, but seemed surprised to learn that I was ACC.”

Lucy struggled to swallow the crumb of wafer that seemed stuck in her throat.

“She claimed I had called her the other day about her husband.”

She stared at Lucy, willing her to react.

“And?”

“She wanted to report him. She said she'd asked him about the claims I had made in
my
call to her and he'd denied it. But he went out that night. She found blood on his clothes yesterday. She challenged him about it and, eventually, he admitted that he had been using the girl. He said he lost it after his wife questioned him the first time. He thought the prostitute had made the call to her. He went to ask the girl and, when she denied reporting him, he lost it and gave her a beating. Is that true?”

Lucy nodded her head. “She had to be hospitalized,” she said. “She's being discharged today.”

“Will she make a statement?” Wilson asked.

“She might not want to,” Lucy said.

Her mother nodded. “She might not have to. He confessed to his wife to save their marriage. If he talked that easily with her, I suspect it'll not be too difficult to get the truth out of him. I'll leave that in your capable hands, shall I?”

Lucy nodded, briefly. “I'm sorry about using your name. It was the first one that came to mind,” she added.

“Well, there's some comfort in that, Lu,” her mother said.

Lucy couldn't help herself but smile. “Thank you,” she said, then added, “Mum.”

L
ATER THAT MORNING,
Lucy went with Tom Fleming to a second funeral in so many days. Having attended Ciaran Duffy's the day before, they now sat at the memorial ser­vice for Terry Haynes. The congregation who had gathered in front of the small plastic urn of his ashes, to pay their respects to the man, was one of the most varied Lucy had ever seen, ranging from those clearly affluent to some of the street drinkers she'd seen at the Railway Museum platform.

At the end of the ser­vice, Lily Hamilton, Haynes's neighbor, approached Fleming with a small photograph album. “I thought you might want something,” she said. She handed him a photograph of himself and Terry Haynes standing side by side, smiling.

“The leaving picture,” Fleming said, smiling sadly. “Terry took a picture with each of the ­people he helped on the day they left him, just for himself. It was part of
his
recovery.”

“He kept it as a reminder of all the lives he'd touched and those who'd touched his as a result of his staying sober,” Lily explained. “Anytime he felt like drinking, he could look at the pictures and see how far he'd come. How much he'd done for others. That's mine.”

Lucy looked at the first page of the album at the picture of a much younger Lily, standing next to Haynes.

“I was his first,” the woman explained, her eyes brimming despite her smile. “I'm trying to give them out to anyone here who was with him,” she explained. “I thought ­people would like to have them back, to remember Terry. There's still a few faces I don't recognize. Do you know any of them?”

She handed the book to Fleming alone and Lucy understood that, having not been one of the Haynes's guests, the album was not for her viewing.

Fleming flicked through the pages, then stopped. “Lucy,” he said, nudging her. She looked at the proffered page, and saw a picture of Terry Haynes standing smiling next to a younger-­looking John Boyd.

“John Boyd was helped by Haynes?” Lucy asked.

“Must have been a few years back, judging by the position of the picture in the album,” Fleming said, sadly. “That's how Boyd recognized Terry. Terry would have known Boyd's position in the council, would have guessed that he was using slave labor for public contracts.” He took the picture from the album and handed the book back to Lily.

“This one doesn't deserve to be in there,” he said, tearing the picture in two.

L
UCY WAS LEAVING
her house just before 4 p.m. when she recognized a figure appearing from across the street and coming over to her.

“I wanted to catch you before you left,” Fiona said. “I wanted to say sorry. About what I said in the hospital.”

Lucy waved the comment away. “No need,” she said.

“I shouldn't have blamed you. What I said, it wasn't true. I'm sorry.”

Lucy nodded. “Thank you.”

Fiona stood a moment, as if she had something further to say.

“Do you want to come in?” Lucy asked. “I was just going out, but—­”

“No, I need to . . . I'm staying over with Jenny and Dermot until things . . .” The sentence trailed off. She straightened suddenly. “I went to the bank first thing on Monday to change the details on my account, before John was able to do it,” she said, her words spilling now as she finally said what she had wanted to all along. “They sorted it for me. They told me there was £20,000 in it. John must have put it in there a few months back.”

Lucy stared at her, Fiona pale and fearful. “The Fraud Unit have frozen all the accounts John Boyd set up,” Lucy said. “I take it
you
set up your own account initially.”

Fiona nodded. “Years ago, when I was a student. He had nothing to do with it until we started dating. The account wasn't connected to him at all. He just took my bank card. What do I do about it?”

Lucy considered the question a moment. “You should keep it,” she said, finally.

“But, that money, it's not mine.”

“Well, it is now,” Lucy said. “Use it to get yourself back on your feet.”

O
N HER WAY
to the hospital, Lucy stopped at Robbie's. He was working in the garden, trying to clear weeds from the flowerbed close to the road. The soil was baked hard with the heat, his trowel making little impact on its surface.

“Hey, stranger,” he said, standing as she approached, his hands fitting instinctively into the back pockets of his jeans.

“It's looking good.”

They both glanced at the bed, thick with dandelions and dock leaves.

“So, how have you been?”

Lucy nodded. “Okay. Busy.”

“I thought you were,” Robbie said. “Ever since I asked you to move in. Or I hoped you were. That you weren't just ignoring me. Not calling.”

“You didn't call me,” Lucy protested.

“I was giving you space,” he said. “I didn't want to be pressurizing you.”

Lucy knew her comment had been an unfair one. Even had he called, she wasn't sure she'd have answered. Not until she'd made her mind up.

“I've had the house redecorated,” she said. “My dad's house.”

“Really?” Robbie's face brightened. “To sell it?”

Lucy shook her head. “No. I just felt it was time. He's not coming back.”

“You're staying where you are then?”

“I'm sorry,” Lucy said. “It's not that I don't want to be with you. I just . . . I'm just not ready to move in. I like things the way they are at the moment.”

“I don't,” Robbie said simply. “I want you here, with me, every day.”

Lucy smiled sadly. “I appreciate that, Robbie. But I'm not ready for it just yet.”

“What are you afraid of? What do you think might happen?”

“Nothing.”

“You think we'll fight?”

“No.”

“You don't want to be with me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why not move in with me?”

“I can't be responsible for you, Robbie!” she said finally.

“You're not responsible for me,” he said, moving toward her.

“I feel like shit every time I see your leg, every time I see you limp. I feel constantly guilty. And do you know why? Because I
am
guilty. I'm sorry for what happened to you. I wish it had been me. But I don't want to confuse guilt with love. And when I move in with you, Robbie, it will because I know for certain that it's because I love you, not because I feel sorry for you.”

“Sorry for me? I don't want your pity, Lucy,” Robbie snapped.

“That's not what I meant,” Lucy protested, moving toward him.

Robbie stepped back from her, his hands raised. “Don't! You know what, I think you're right. Moving in would be a terrible idea. I don't think I could stand the looks of sympathy every day,” he snapped.

“I'm sorry, Robbie,” Lucy said.

“That's all I hear from you, Lucy. How sorry you are. Maybe it's time you changed the tune. Start living.”

He turned from her and went inside the house, closing the door behind him. Lucy stood in the garden, feeling suddenly alone.

G
RACE WAS ALREADY
coming through the foyer by the time Lucy made it to the hospital. She looked younger than her age, her frame narrow, her hair tied back from her face which still bore the marks of the beating Thompson had given her.

She smiled lightly when she saw Lucy. “Are you in visiting someone?” she asked.

“I'm here to see you,” Lucy explained, causing the girl to blush. “I thought you'd want a leaving party for getting out.”

“Are you my armed protection?”

“You don't need one,” Lucy said. “The guy who did this? His wife reported him. He's been arrested.”

She could see the girl's shoulders slump slightly in relief, though she said nothing.

“So? What do you fancy for your party?” Lucy asked.

“I'd murder a burger,” Grace admitted.

“I think we can manage that,” Lucy said, taking her bag from her.

“Are you all right?” Grace asked. “You look like you've been crying.”

Lucy shook her head. “I'm okay,” she lied.

Grace stayed where she stood a moment, even after Lucy had started moving toward the main doors.

“And what then?” Grace asked, as if afraid to step out through the doors, into the sunlight beyond. “After we eat?”

“Then?” Lucy repeated, moving back and linking arms with her. “Then we're going home.”