Someone You Know

by Brian McGilloway

  ‘Climb in,’ the man said, offering her a hand.

  She steadied herself. ‘I’d best wait here. They’ll want to know what happened,’ she said. ‘I’ll be straight up then.’

  In fact, it was almost an hour before Lucy was even able to leave the scene. Soon after the first patrol cars arrived, her mother appeared, her face drawn, her mouth a pale line.

  ‘What happened?’

  Lucy nodded towards the wreckage of the car. ‘A bomb by the looks of it. Robbie went out to defrost it and it went off.’

  ‘Your car was here all night then?’ her mother asked.

  Absurdly, Lucy could not discern if she was asking in a maternal or professional capacity. ‘Yes. It was here all night. As was I.’

  ‘Who would have known that?’

  ‘Gavin Duffy,’ Lucy said. ‘The kid in the unit. Gary Duffy’s boy. I came up last night to see him, to see if he recognized the man from the Foyleside CCTV image. He’d told me before that he saw someone with Karen Hughes matching the description Sarah Finn gave me.’

  ‘Did he recognize him?’

  ‘He said he didn’t,’ Lucy replied. ‘But he’s done a runner.’

  Her mother pantomimed bewilderment.

  ‘I think Gavin was part of the gang that torched Kay’s house. I think when he found out that Kay might not have been responsible for Karen’s death, it pushed him over the edge. He helped kill the wrong man.’

  ‘You think he knows who the man in the picture is?’

  Lucy nodded.

  ‘And Duffy told him that you were here?’

  Again Lucy nodded.

  ‘How’s Robbie?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m not —’

  She felt her eyes fill, felt the tears brimming. Her mother stood, looking at her a moment, then leaned in towards her and put her arms around her, hugging her lightly, shushing in her ear. Lucy accepted the embrace.

  ‘You can say I told you so,’ Lucy managed. ‘It’s my fault he was hurt.’

  Her mother shook her head sadly. ‘You know that’s not what I meant,’ she said.

  ‘But it is my fault,’ Lucy said.

  One of the technical officers who had been examining the now smouldering car came across to them. They moved apart. Lucy daubed her eyes dry with the sleeve of her top. Her mother held her other hand, clasped tightly.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said, nodding lightly to the ACC. ‘Sergeant.’

  ‘Did you find anything?’ Wilson asked, glancing quickly at the wreckage.

  ‘He was very lucky,’ the man began.

  ‘Lucky?’ Wilson repeated, incredulously.

  The man blushed, aware of the insensitivity in the statement. ‘It was a rushed job, ma’am. They placed it under the engine block, which absorbed most of the blast. If they’d had it a foot to the other side of the wheel bay, it would have taken a fair chunk out of the whole side of the car. They’d not have stretchered him away from it.’

  Robbie was still in surgery when Lucy reached the hospital. Her own hands having been scorched while she’d tried to open the driver’s door, she was sent to A & E where they applied salve to the already blistered skin and dressed it with light gauze. She returned again to the theatre ward to see how Robbie was, but was told instead to wait at the café for word.

  She sat alone, drinking a cup of hot chocolate from the vending machine, so tepid and watery that neither part of its name seemed wholly accurate. The foyer was in semi-darkness, the only illumination coming from the padlocked fridge which, during the day, would hold sandwiches and plastic dishes of salad. In the half-light, she stared at her reflection in the windows. The sky beyond was still dark.

  She reflected back on all that had happened. On Kay. Carlin. Louisa Gant. Karen Hughes. Sarah Finn. All of them featuring in Kay’s collection. A collection that, she believed, had been planted by whoever was actually responsible.

  Louisa Gant. She had planned to go back to the start, to see where the groomer had crossed paths with Karen and Sarah. She remembered that the information she had requested from the schools would be in her office in the Public Protection Unit in Maydown. However, perhaps she needed to go back further, she reasoned. Louisa Gant was actually where it started; she was, in reality, the first victim who had found their way to Carlin’s house.

  She took out her mobile and called Tara. The phone rang out three times before she eventually answered, her voice little more than a whisper.

  ‘Lucy, is everything all right?’ she managed.

  ‘Did I wake you?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘It’s fine. Is everything all right?’

  ‘The Louisa Gant murder. Has anyone been looking back at the files?’

  ‘We all have,’ Tara said. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ She sounded a little angrier now and Lucy realized that she had woken her without explanation.

  ‘Someone put a bomb under my car this morning,’ she said.

  ‘Jesus. Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ Lucy said, her mouth dry. ‘Robbie was the one in the car. He’s in surgery.’

  ‘Is he ... ? Will he be ...?’

  ‘He was alive when I pulled him from the car. I think his leg is injured. They’ve not told me.’

  ‘Do you want me to come up to you? Are you in the hospital?’

  Lucy was touched by the offer. Her own mother had asked an officer to bring her across while she went back to the station. While Lucy could understand that, had the ACC accompanied her, it might have drawn attention to the fact that she was taking a personal interest in Lucy, at the same time she couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed that she’d been left on her own.

  ‘I’m OK, thanks,’ Lucy said. ‘I wanted to know about the Gant killing though. Was it definitely Gary Duffy? Was there any suggestion that someone else might have been involved?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Louisa Gant’s body was buried at Carlin’s farm, supposedly by Gary Duffy. Except Duffy’s dead now and yet the house is still being used, by Karen’s abductor for his house parties. Maybe Duffy didn’t kill Louisa Gant. Or maybe he had help and the person who helped him then is the one grooming these girls now. Was there any suggestion of other people being involved in Duffy’s file?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tara said. ‘The file was full of gaps.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Duffy was who he was. His being connected with the paramilitaries, it seems that Special Branch took over the case. A lot of the files contained intelligence material apparently. Names of informants that couldn’t be revealed.’

  ‘Said who?’

  ‘Burns. He said the ACC told him herself.’

  ‘Mr Gant lives locally, doesn’t he?’ Lucy asked. If the files couldn’t offer new light on the girl’s killing, perhaps her father might still recall something from that time. Whether he’d thank Lucy for reopening old scars was a different matter. Though, Lucy reflected, if her feelings over Mary Quigg’s death were any indicator, those old scars might not have healed anyway.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure,’ Tara said. ‘Look, maybe you should take—’

  ‘He does,’ Lucy said. ‘Thanks.’ She hung up. Leaving her cup, she crossed to the main desk where a night porter was playing Temple Run on his phone.

  ‘Can I borrow your phone book?’ Lucy asked.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Just after nine, a doctor came down to tell her that Robbie was out of surgery. He’d lost a significant amount of tissue and muscle from his right leg and had required stitching to his side and face. That said, he was, she argued, lucky to not have been more badly hurt.

  ‘Is he awake?’

  ‘He’s coming round,’ she said. ‘He’ll be on morphine for the day though, so he’ll be out of it. You can see him briefly if you want to.’

  She stood by his bedside, watching him drifting in and out of consciousness. At one stage she thought he recognized her, for he smiled lightly, his lips moving as if he were trying to say
something.

  Before she left, she leant over and kissed his cheek, wiping away the tears that dripped from hers onto his. She noticed, where he lay, that he had a small scar on his neck she’d never noticed before. She traced its outline with the tips of the fingers of her bandaged hand.

  She took a taxi to Gant’s house. The phone book had only listed one in the immediate area and Logue had told her the previous night that the man still lived in the vicinity, so she took a chance that it was the right address.

  The house was neat and clean looking from the front, the small lawn trim and tidy. Lucy knocked on the door and waited. The man who answered was in his fifties. He wore brown corduroy trousers and a loose-fitting white shirt, which did little to disguise the fact that he stooped slightly as he walked.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr Gant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Lucy Black from the PSNI’s Public Protection Unit.’

  The man attempted to straighten himself a little. ‘Yes?’ he repeated, more slowly this time.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about Louisa,’ she said.

  He raised his head, glancing up and down the street. Finally he nodded lightly and stepped back. ‘You may come in, so.’

  She followed him down the darkened hallway.

  ‘Do you want something?’ he asked. ‘I’m making breakfast.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Lucy said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’ll have an egg,’ he said, shuffling into the kitchen.

  He moved across to the fridge and removed two eggs from the shelf. A saucepan of water was already coming to the boil on the cooker. He placed the eggs in the water then, reaching up, opened a cupboard above his head and lifted down two egg cups. As he did so, Lucy saw a small plastic mug with the image of Ariel from The Little Mermaid on it. Beneath the image, the name ‘Louisa’ was written in multicoloured lettering.

  ‘You found her then?’ he asked suddenly, not facing her. ‘They told me they think they found her.’

  ‘It’s not confirmed yet,’ Lucy said. ‘I’m sure someone will be in touch as soon as they know for sure.’

  He nodded. ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lucy said. ‘I wondered if, maybe, the right man had been caught.’

  Gant nodded lightly. ‘I heard he died.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He nodded again. ‘I hope he suffered.’

  Lucy cleared her throat, beginning to regret having called with the man. She feared that, far from helping her, the visit would only serve to reopen old wounds for Louisa’s father.

  ‘She suffered,’ he said. ‘Louisa’s mother. ‘She suffered every day for eight months after Louisa went.’ He raised the spoon he held and pointed out through the window to where a single hawthorn tree stood in the centre of his back garden. ‘I found her hanging off that.’

  Lucy felt sudden shame for having intruded on the man’s grief.

  ‘Do you want to see Louisa? She was a beautiful child. I’ve pictures here.’

  He turned, leaving the saucepan bubbling, and led her into the front room. Against one wall stood a dark wooden bookcase. A range of pictures, each in small silver frames, sat on the shelves. With a pang, Lucy realized that the images were not photographs of Louisa as a child. They were the police mock-ups of how she might look, released each year after her disappearance in the vain hope than she might still be alive.

  ‘That’s how I watched her grow up,’ Gant said. ‘Just like that. In pretend photographs.’

  Lucy remembered vaguely some of the images being released. Despite Duffy being charged with her murder, in the absence of a body, the family had issued a picture each year, in hope. Lucy realized now that it was Mr Gant himself who had done it, for when Louisa had been taken from him, so too had the rest of his family. Only he had remained, to carry the hurt alone. It was no wonder, she reflected, that he had bent beneath its weight.

  ‘That was taken the day she went,’ he said, pointing to a picture sitting on the mantelpiece.

  Lucy moved across to lift it. ‘May I?’ she asked.

  ‘Please,’ he said.

  In the photograph Louisa Gant wore the same clothes in which Lucy had seen her remains pictured. The girl was not smiling in the picture, but looked past the camera, as if ignoring its presence. Around her neck, she wore a leather necklace on which hung a round, green decoration.

  ‘What is that?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘One of those hologram things that were all the rage back then,’ Gant said. ‘An eye. One of her friends bought it for her. She never took it off.’

  Lucy tried to remember if she had been wearing it in the images she had been shown at Carlin’s farm, but could not recall its presence.

  ‘You never thought of leaving here,’ Lucy asked, replacing the photograph exactly where it had been. Despite this, Gant moved past her and shifted it a fraction. Lucy suspected that he simply wanted to touch it, to maintain his connection with the child who never came home.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have done that. What if she’d made her way back and we were gone. What if she thought she’d been forgotten?’

  Lucy nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘Even if she had ... if she wasn’t coming back ... wherever she is, she needs to know that I have not forgotten her.’ He spoke so earnestly that, for a moment, Lucy could not reply.

  ‘That sounds stupid, perhaps,’ he said.

  Lucy shook her head. ‘I understand completely. While we remember, they are never truly lost.’

  Gant smiled at the comment and nodded, once, satisfied that Lucy shared his belief. ‘I’ll show you her room,’ he said. ‘I never changed it either. Whatever time they tell me for definite that it’s her, I’ll maybe need to redecorate then.’

  He moved up the stairs. Lucy could hear the sizzling as the pan spat water onto the cooker. She went into the kitchen and removed it from the hot ring before following the man up the stairs.

  As he had claimed, Louisa’s room remained unchanged since her disappearance. The walls were painted a shade of pink, but the girl had perhaps felt the colour too babyish for the bedclothes on her bed were a paisley pattern.

  On a chair next to the bed, a small black top had been placed. Lucy moved across, afraid to touch anything in the room, as if in the presence of relics. Gant followed her, lifting the garment from the chair, holding it to his face, breathing in.

  ‘You can still smell her off her clothes,’ he said. ‘Sometimes. Sometimes I can’t catch it any more.’

  Lucy nodded, not trusting herself to speak. On the bookcase, a small photo album sat, its spine decorated in pink feathers. ‘Can I—’ She cleared her throat, tried again. ‘Do you mind if I take a look?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ the man said, smiling gently. ‘We bought her a camera for Christmas that year. She loved taking pictures. She said she’d be a photographer when she grew up.’

  Lucy lifted the book and opened it gently, so as not to disturb its contents.

  ‘You look like her,’ the man said.

  Lucy felt a shiver wash through her. ‘Excuse me?’

  Gant smiled mildly in a manner that made Lucy wonder whether his survival technique all these years had been drug enhanced.

  ‘The first officer. When Louisa went. There was a woman officer too. She stood where you’re standing. Looked at that book too. You look like her. You remind me of her.’

  Lucy felt something tickle at the back of her throat, had to cough several times to clear it. The photographs in the book had been taped in. In some cases, the tape had dried, leaving a brown line on the page, the picture itself lying in the folds of the book at the spine. Most were of Louisa and her parents. Lucy was surprised to see how young Mr Gant appeared in them, how significantly he’d aged in the intervening years.

  One set of photographs, towards the end, was taken on a beach. Louisa was pictured sitting on the sand. Her head was bowed slightly, her eyes lo
wered, as if embarrassed by the picture.

  ‘She didn’t like getting her picture taken as she got older,’ Gant said, moving closer to Lucy to point to the photograph in question. Lucy could smell something, almost like infection, off his breath in such close proximity. His stomach rattled with wind.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. He moved away from her, rifting lightly to clear the wind from his gut. ‘Pardon me.’

  Lucy flicked through the album. Towards the end she saw a picture of a young boy, perhaps a year or two older than Louisa. He wore a black T-shirt, emblazoned with a Guns and Roses logo. His black hair hung over his eyes. His dress seemed out of place for a trip to the beach.

  ‘Was this your son?’ Lucy asked. There had been no other pictures in the house, so Lucy could not be sure if Gant even had a son.

  ‘God, no. He was a friend of Louisa’s,’ Gant said. ‘Peter. He was a bit old for her. Not age wise – I think he was only a year older than her – but in other ways. She insisted on him coming with us that day.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He moved away after she died. With his mother. I think the family broke up. He went to Belfast, I think.’

  Lucy nodded.

  ‘He was the one bought her that necklace you’d asked about. The eye. The eggs should be done,’ he added. ‘Will you come down?’

  Lucy nodded, placing the album back on the shelf where it had been, then followed him out of the room.

  ‘I’m sorry if my calling has been difficult for you —’ she began.

  Gant stopped on the steps and turned, snapping his fingers, his face alight with remembrance. ‘Bell,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to remember his name. It’s Peter Bell,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The boy at the beach. Peter Bell.’

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  A team was already at Bell’s house by the time Lucy managed to get a squad car to pick her up from Gant’s. A uniform was banging on the door, but without response from inside. Despite this, Lucy noticed that the curtains had now been pulled closed.