Unti Lucy Black Novel #3

by Brian McGilloway

  He hung up before Lucy had a chance to give him her contact details, necessitating a return call to do so. As she waited to be transferred, her mobile emitted a text alert: “Hi. Fiona Walsh here. Do you fancy meeting for a coffee later?”

  It took her a few seconds to work out who Fiona was. She wondered whether her looking to meet was connected in some way with Lucy’s meeting with Boyd that afternoon, but she thought it unlikely her mother would have told Boyd who Lucy was, or that he could have made the connection between a name and the woman he saw swimming with his partner a few nights earlier.

  “Great. Where and when? Working till 6,” she replied.

  Within a moment, Fiona replied, suggesting the Everglades, the hotel at the foot of Prehen, at 8:30.

  After she’d left her details with Horan’s secretary, she went downstairs. Fleming had a mug of tea waiting for her, milk and sugar already added.

  “So, you’re off to meet some VIP at the behest of your mother?” Fleming said, smiling wryly. “While I, your superior officer, get to do a stake out on a bank?”

  “My superior officer or line manager?” Lucy asked.

  “Both,” Fleming agreed. “You know, I think that’s where I’ve been going wrong all these years. I’ve been giving myself the wrong title.”

  “Anyone who needs to give themselves a title doesn’t deserve it,” Lucy said.

  Fleming looked across at her, his mug inches from his mouth. “That’s incredibly philosophical of you, DS Black,” he joked. “So who’s Boyd?”

  “John Boyd,” Lucy explained. “His partner’s sister is a neighbor of mine. The partner arrived at their house the other night, out of the blue, with a split lip. Since she started dating Boyd, the family has barely seen her. We went swimming the night before last and Boyd was sitting by the pool, watching.”

  “So, controlling or abusive?”

  “Both, I think,” Lucy said. “She had bruises on her chest which looked like finger marks, like he’d grabbed her breast too hard.”

  “It couldn’t have been accidental? A bit of horseplay during sex?”

  “Not unless that included punching her in the mouth, too,” Lucy said sharply.

  Fleming raised his free hand. “I’m playing devil’s advocate,” he said. “You know that’s what he’ll claim. Is the partner prepared to make a statement?”

  Lucy shook her head. “Not yet. Though she texted me to ask to meet for coffee later. She thinks he’s trying to control her from one side and her family is from the other. She sees me as a neutral space, I think.”

  “Neutral?” Fleming asked, skeptically.

  “She doesn’t know I’m a cop,” Lucy admitted.

  “Really! Well, good luck with that,” he said. “Of course, if she finds out, and thinks you lied to her, she’ll not trust anyone again.”

  Chapter Thirty-­Four

  BURNS INSISTED ON driving to the council meeting, despite the fact that the offices were only a few hundred yards down the road from the Strand Road police station. The council building, a large gray affair, backed onto the river, having managed to snag one of the most picturesque spots along the river, providing a vista across the Foyle to the dark mass of greenery that demarcated the boundary of St. Columb’s Park.

  As he pulled into the council car park, waiting for the barrier to rise, he looked across at Lucy.

  “How do you find working with Tom Fleming?” he asked. “Everything okay?”

  “Great,” Lucy said. “He’s an excellent superior officer,” she added, stopping herself from using the other sobriquet they had recently discussed.

  “How would you feel about a transfer into CID?” Burns said, suddenly. “We need good ­people, ­people who can think on their feet.”

  “I started in CID,” Lucy said. “The ACC moved me.”

  Burns nodded, suggesting that this was not news to him. “That’s not a problem. I’m sure I can persuade her around fairly easily. Put it this way, I wouldn’t be mentioning it if she hadn’t already indicated she’d be supportive of the move if you wanted it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Lucy said. “I’ll certainly consider it.”

  Burns glanced across again, as if teasing out the implications of her response. “Your opportunities for movement in PPU are limited,” he said. “And I’d imagine working abuse and domestic cases every day would do your head in after a while.”

  Lucy laughed uncomfortably. “That’s true,” she said, feeling a peculiar disloyalty to Tom Fleming and thus keen to change the subject. “Has the ACC given any indication why she wants me here today?”

  “I’m guessing to give us a chance to have this little chat,” Burns said, smiling. “Shall we go?”

  THEY STOOD IN the foyer of the council buildings for a few moments before Boyd appeared on the staircase. He wore a black suit with a wide pinstripe over a light pink shirt and no tie. As he approached he ran his hand through his hair, then extended it in greeting.

  “Chief Superintendent,” he said, addressing Burns first. “Good to see you.”

  “Please, call me Mark,” Burns replied.

  “John,” Boyd agreed. He turned to Lucy, hand extended, maintaining eye contact. Lucy watched him for any flicker of recognition from the swimming pool, but none was obvious. “John Boyd,” he said.

  “DS Black,” Lucy said, deliberately.

  “Tea? Coffee?” Burns asked. “A pot of each maybe?” He addressed this to the girl sitting behind the reception desk. “Would you send some up, Linda?” he asked, then turned to Burns without waiting for a response.

  They moved up the stairs, Boyd walking with Burns, speaking to him, while Lucy followed behind. Occasionally he would glance back, as if to include her in the conversation.

  “It’s been a wonderful few weeks’ weather, eh?” Boyd asked. “Though it’s to break this afternoon, apparently.”

  The river, visible through the windows beyond, already carried a dull gray sheen reflected from the cloud-­heavy sky above.

  “It’ll do no harm. Clear the air,” Burns agreed.

  Boyd’s office was set to the rear of the building, giving him a view over the river in both directions, to the twisting Peace Bridge to the left and further north, in the other direction, the high arch of the Foyle Bridge.

  “Sensational view, isn’t it?” he said, taking off his jacket and hanging it over the back of his chair. “So, what can I do?”

  “We wanted to have a word about the buildings with the false fronts on them in the city center. Particularly the old bank building in Waterloo Place.”

  “Right,” Boyd said, a little uncertainly.

  “We believe you’re responsible for them. Is that right?” Lucy asked, causing both men to look in her direction.

  “I wouldn’t say that entirely,” Boyd said. “The Department of the Environment put them up. I led the task force that recommended it be done and identified the buildings most in need of being cleaned up. We applied to the DOE and they had the work carried out. Why? Is this about the killing in the old bank building?”

  “Tangentially,” Burns said. “When we uncovered the site, we discovered evidence of what we believe to be copper theft inside the building.”

  “Right,” Boyd repeated.

  “We believe in fact that the man who was killed was a member of the gang that was cleaning out the inside of the building.”

  “I see,” Boyd said. “What was it? A disagreement among thieves kind of thing?”

  “Kind of,” Burns said. “The thing is, if they targeted the bank building, we have to work on the assumption that they may have been stealing from some of the other buildings which have been boarded up in town, too.”

  “Of course,” Boyd said. “Do you need a list of them?”

  “We actually need a little help,” Burns said, with some embarrassment.
“All this rioting business in Belfast has us stretched to snapping point in terms of manpower. We’ve no spare hands. Would there be any chance you might have a team who could do a quick check on the sites to see if any more of them were targeted?”

  Boyd pantomimed a wince. “You’ve no men; we’ve no budget,” he said. “We contract out all the work like that.”

  “I see,” Burns said. “Is there no way that the contract company could check?”

  Boyd took a moment, then inclined his head, as if he had considered an alternative approach.

  “Look, I’ve very little authority in these things,” he said. “But I am authorized to process payments to the one contract company who handles minor repairs for us: a crowd from Lisburn called Dynamic. Anything under £5,000 doesn’t need an individual tender, you see. I could process a small payment to them to do a very quick check in each place.”

  “That would be great,” Burns said.

  “Do you not need to clear it with someone?” Lucy asked. “Someone with more authority?” she added.

  “Well, my boss countersigns the cheques,” Boyd said. “But I’m sure it will be fine; we process payments to them all the time. We’ve an audit going on at the moment, and I’m going to be in working all weekend, by the looks of things, so I’ll get it actioned as quickly as I can.”

  BY THE TIME tea and coffee arrived, they were ready to leave, so it remained untouched. The first fat drops of rain had splattered against the plate glass window of Boyd’s office some minutes earlier. He and Burns shook hands on the stairs. As Boyd turned to offer Lucy his hand, she struggled to overcome her aversion to touching the man again. This same hand, she reflected, had left bruises on Fiona’s body, had split her lip. The manner in which he had underplayed his authority, his deliberate self-­deprecation, served only to make her dislike him even more.

  “He’s a nice chap,” Burns said, after they had handed in their visitors’ badges. Lucy managed a noncommittal grunt.

  As they stepped outside, they could feel the drop in temperature, the chill of the rising wind on their faces after the heat of indoors. The air smelt of electricity, a scent which brought unbidden to Lucy’s mind the smell of fairground rides and thoughts of her father. The raindrops fell heavy and felt warm to the touch.

  “There’s something nice about the rain,” Lucy commented.

  Burns looked at her quizzically, then fumbled in his pocket as his phone began vibrating. He answered it with a simple “Yes?”

  He regarded Lucy as he listened. “We’ll be there in a few minutes,” he said. He hung up. “They’ve found Terry Haynes’s car. It’s on fire on Sheriff’s Mountain.”

  Chapter Thirty-­Five

  IT TOOK CLOSER to three-­quarters of an hour to get to the mountain, which overlooked the city to the west. The sudden deluge, on top of long dried roads, had left the journey treacherous and one fender bender had blocked the Northland Road for twenty minutes until they’d managed to get the two cars maneuvered down the side road of Clarence Hill.

  Sheriff’s Mountain was the site of the city’s television transmitter mast, which towered above them now, where they parked, its upper tip piercing the side of low-­hanging cloud. The rain had settled into a rhythmic tattoo on the roof and bonnet of the car, which Burns mimicked with his fingers on the knob of the gear stick as they waited for the heavier shower to pass. A number of other squad cars were parked haphazardly, their occupants waiting out the rain in cars whose windows were thick with condensation.

  This latter detail, Burns pointed out to Lucy, before adding, “It’s like a dogging convention out there.” He laughed at his own comment, then added quickly, “Not that I’d know what one looks like.”

  “Of course not, sir,” Lucy said. “The rain’s easing,” she remarked.

  THE SITE OF the car had already been marked out by the first team on the scene, one of whom stood now at the tape, signing through those who were passing. His hair was slick to his skull, his face washed with drips of rainwater falling from the peak of his cap.

  “No fire brigade?” Burns asked, as the man signed him in without seeking identification.

  “They’re on their way. There’s no need for them. The rain had put it out for us,” the officer replied. “It was already dead by the time we got here.”

  The car, a silver Toyota Avensis, sat parked on a thin dirt path, which appeared more obviously used by walkers than drivers, the central line running down it high with grass, along which, on either side, streams of rainwater ran. Burns and Lucy stood a few feet back from it so as not to touch anything.

  With the exception of scorching around the window frames, and the shattered windscreen, the body of the car was fairly clean, considering someone had tried to burn it. The inside was a different matter. The seats had burned through, the blackened springs beneath the cushioning now visible. The interior molding above the steering wheel had warped with the heat and melted through in places.

  “No body in it,” Burns said. “So Haynes is still in the wind.”

  The sight of the Chief Super standing at the car had forced the other officers parked below to get out of their own vehicles and start working the scene, despite the fact that the wind had risen again and, with it, the rain.

  Three forensics officers appeared, in the white suits of their trade, carrying between them the light expandable cover, which they would set up over the car to shield both it and themselves from the elements.

  “Good of you to join us,” Burns called.

  “We took a quick recce when we arrived, sir,” one commented. “The car is clean, inside and out. Literally, cleaned.”

  “As in valeted?”

  “As in valeted,” the man agreed. “Before it was set alight. The wind and rain got so heavy the tent couldn’t be put up. We had to wait for it to ease.”

  Burns stepped back, his hands in his pockets, to give the men space to work. Lucy felt her mobile vibrate in her pocket and, pulling it out, saw Fleming’s name.

  “Tom?” Lucy asked quickly, assuming he’d spotted Ciaran Duffy.

  “How’d your meeting go?” Fleming asked.

  “Fine. Have you got Duffy?” she asked, glancing at her watch. It was pushing 3:30, half an hour after he was to collect his money.

  “Neither hide nor hair of him,” Fleming said. “I’m bored out of my mind sitting here. I’m an Inspector for God’s sake!” he snapped. “Where are you?”

  Lucy swallowed. “I’m up on Sheriff’s Mountain. Burns got a call that Haynes’s car had been found. Someone tried to set it alight, but the rain put it out.”

  Fleming did not speak for a moment and Lucy assumed he was angry at having been left watching the bank while other teams had been called to the site. She knew, too, that it was deliberate; Burns had taken the case from PPU. She was only there by accident. Or because Burns wanted her in CID.

  When he spoke, though, she realized that his concern was of a different kind.

  “Is Terry in the car?” he asked.

  “No one is. It was valeted before whoever torched it did so.”

  “Sir!”

  Lucy glanced up to where one of the forensics officers, having just opened the boot of the car, was standing calling to Burns.

  “I’ll call you right back,” Lucy said, hanging up before Fleming could speak. She followed Burns up the final few feet of the incline.

  “Oh Jesus,” she heard him mutter. Looking into the boot, she understood why. A body had been forced into the rear of the vehicle, curled foetally, the arms raised protectively over the face and head. It was a futile gesture, for the five-­inch impact wound to the skull was visible even from where Lucy stood.

  “Get some pictures,” Burns said. “Is it Haynes?”

  The officer shrugged.

  “DS Black. You know him. Is that Haynes?”

  Lucy ap
proached the rear of the vehicle, stepping on the metal plates the forensics officers had set out around the car to preserve the scene. Leaning in, she angled her head, trying to focus on the face rather than the wound to the back of the skull. The fact that the body was slim and carried a full head of hair made it unlikely to be Haynes, but she wanted to see the face to be sure. Fleming would want to know for certain that it wasn’t his friend.

  The forensics officer lifted the arm of the body away from the head, cautiously, allowing Lucy just enough time to see the face clearly.

  Lucy felt her stomach lurch as she recognized the face. She stepped back. “That’s not Terry Haynes. It’s Ciaran Duffy.”

  Chapter Thirty-­Six

  “A HATCHET, APPARENTLY,” Tony Clarke announced to those assembled in the incident room in Strand Road, an hour later. The pathologist, Martin Kerrigan, had been called to the site at Sheriff’s Mountain and, while still working on the body there, had suggested a hatchet to be the most likely implement responsible for the blow to Duffy’s head.

  “A hatchet?” Burns repeated. “Who the hell kills with a hatchet?”

  “Whoever killed the cremated body in our coffin,” Fleming said. “Kerrigan figured the nick on the metal skull plate may have been made by a hatchet, too. Again to the head, obviously.”

  “Where are you on that?” Burns asked.

  “No further,” Fleming said. “DS Black was with you all day and I was staking out a bank waiting for Ciaran Duffy to appear. As you told me to.”

  Lucy was aware that all eyes in the room had turned toward her, not least Tara’s. All eyes but one, she realized. Her mother stared fixedly at Burns in a way that suggested she had not been as fully aware of the afternoon’s division of labor as Burns had claimed.

  “Beaumont are filtering the patient list for us,” Lucy said. “We know the victim had both skull and leg injuries. They’re trying to match both as a starting point. There are a thousand patients to go through otherwise, and we’ve not the bodies to work through a list that length.”