Unti Lucy Black Novel #3

by Brian McGilloway

  Nash studied the picture. “No. I don’t remember him,” he said. “I kind of remember the other guy. Foreigner?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He was a good worker. I might have used him twice so, if that was the case.”

  “He was with you on the Bready job,” Lucy said. “Mrs. Jeffries remembers him. We found his fingerprints all over the jewelry boxes in her bedroom after her house was broken into while she was on holidays.”

  Nash pointed at the picture. “He broke into her house? I’ll not be hiring him again, so.”

  “You’ll not be, all right,” Mickey said. “We found him crushed to death in a bin lorry.”

  “Was this him?” Nash asked. “I heard about that.” He pantomimed a wince. “That’s a nasty way to go. He was sleeping in the bins or something, is that right?”

  “He was beaten up,” Mickey said. “In the old bank building in Waterloo Place. Where we think a construction gang was stealing copper piping. You wouldn’t know anything about that?”

  Nash shook his head, holding Mickey’s stare. “Nothing.”

  “That might be another way to cut corners. Steal building supplies from the empty buildings in the city center and use them in your own jobs? Capitalism in action.”

  “Are you accusing me of stealing?” Nash snapped.

  “We’re only making inquiries,” Mickey said. “No need to get aggressive.”

  “Trust me, I’m not,” Nash said, his hands joining on the desk in front of him. “Maybe these two guys were stealing the piping and that themselves. If they were both builders, they’d be well able for it.”

  “We didn’t say that this man was a builder,” Lucy said, tapping on the picture of Haynes.

  Nash stared at her a moment, his mouth slightly open, as if mentally rewinding the conversation to confirm this for himself. “Well, if you think I hired him, he’d hardly be a brain surgeon, would he?”

  Lucy nodded. “So you know nothing about the burglary?”

  Nash shook his head. “I’m just trying to run a business and make a few pound.”

  “By the size of your house, you’re making more than a few pound,” Lucy commented. “I thought the building bubble had burst.”

  “It has. But the work’s there if you’re willing to go out and chase it down,” Nash said. “Are we done here?”

  Lucy glanced at Mickey who shrugged.

  “For now,” Lucy said. “But we might be in touch again. Where are you working at the moment?”

  “Out at Claudy,” Nash said. “We’re doing some resurfacing works. I need to be getting back to finish them up for the day,” he added, standing. “And I’ll be needing the keys to my van, too.”

  Lucy accompanied Nash to the front desk. Mickey was waiting for her as she came back upstairs.

  “Well, what do you reckon?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “It’s hard to tell. Maybe the son was worried that what they were doing, hiring the men, was illegal. Maybe it was just that he’s been doing the double, claiming benefits while he earns.”

  “Or he could be elbow deep in all the killings.”

  Lucy nodded. “The only person who can really tell us is Aaron Moore. Until we find him, we’re going to be stuck in the dark.”

  Chapter Fifty-­One

  BEFORE GOING HOME for the evening, Lucy drove once more down to Gransha to see her father. Her mother’s warning about his condition had served both to make her want to see him, and to simultaneously dread to do so, lest he be so far gone from her that he wouldn’t know her any more.

  She was relieved then, when she arrived, to find him sitting up in the chair in his room. The bruising on his face had begun to heal, the weals darkened in color in the folds of skin beneath his eye.

  The television was playing in the corner, You’ve Been Framed parading a series of home videos of ­people falling into paddling pools. Lucy could tell that, though he was looking at it, the images flickering on the screen were not registering with him. He laughed along with the canned laughter of the show, but without seeming recognition of the source.

  “Dad?” Lucy asked, as she came in.

  He turned and smiled at her, mildly. “Hi, love,” he said. “Good to see you.”

  She moved across and kissed him on the forehead, his skin clammy to the touch, his breath stale and warm.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Good,” he said, vacantly, then turned once more to the screen, already smiling in expectation of the next pratfall.

  “Your face looks better,” Lucy said.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I fell.”

  “Has Mum been with you?”

  He stared at the screen a moment, his brow furrowed with concentration. “No, but Lucy was here the other day.”

  “I am Lucy, Dad.”

  “I know,” he said, waving away her comment with his hand. “The other one.”

  “Which other one?”

  “Our Lucy.”

  “I am Lucy,” she repeated, leaning down, positioning herself between him and the television, forcing him to focus on her. “I’m Lucy.” She could feel her eyes filling as he shifted in his seat in order to see past her. Despite momentary lapses in the past, when he’d confused her for a girl named Janet he had once known, and indeed despite her mother’s words of warning, she had not been prepared for this moment when he seemed to no longer know her. He was moving further away from her, she realized.

  He nodded. “She said to say hello. She was looking well.”

  Lucy bowed her head, her hands still lightly gripping his shoulders. “Dad, I am Lucy. Me. Your daughter. Do you not know me?”

  She felt him move, felt his hand cup her face. He raised her chin so that she was looking at him.

  “I worry about her,” he said, his eyes red and rheumy with tears. “I don’t think she’s happy.”

  “I’m fine, Dad,” Lucy said, feeling her own eyes flush. “I am happy.”

  “I told her,” he said. “I told her, look at your mother. Look how she’s doing now. Happy.”

  “I am Lucy,” she snapped, hoping it might bring him back.

  She looked at him as he studied her face, smiling mildly, his eyes alight. But as with the program he had been watching, she knew that the smile covered his inability to recognize her any more.

  “Jesus, please know me,” she pleaded. “Please try, Dad. Try to remember me.”

  Lucy stared in his eyes, at the flecks of red which peppered the whites, the shard of blood which had leaked into the eyeball as a result of the fall he had suffered, as if by studying him closely enough, she might be able to find him once more.

  “I still love you, you know,” he said.

  Then he leaned gently forward and kissed her on her open mouth.

  The door opened just as Lucy pulled back from her father in shock. The orderly who had helped her pull the man from the mudbanks days earlier stood, a tray in his hand bearing a plate of stew and a glass of milk.

  “Sorry! I didn’t know you were here. It’s dinnertime,” he explained, raising the tray as proof. “Have you recovered from the rescue mission?” He laughed then, when no one spoke, he added, “Is everything okay?”

  Lucy could not speak, staring at her father as if it was she who no longer recognized him.

  Chapter Fifty-­Two

  LUCY SHOWERED AS soon she got home around 9 p.m., turning the heat down low and standing beneath the stream until her skin began to numb. She could not easily dismiss the memory of her father’s mouth against hers, the sensuality of the kiss.

  Pulling on her bathrobe, she went down to the kitchen and lifted a roll of black bin bags, then went up to the room which had been her father’s bedroom and which she had not changed since his committal to hospital. She opened one of the bags and began gathering up the s
mall ornaments that decorated the tops of the bookcase and chest of drawers in the room and, one by one, dropped them into the bag. That done, she began clearing the bookcase itself, keeping only a few novels which she had promised herself she would get around to reading at some stage. She continued working until the room was cleared and five bulging bags sat against the far wall. The wallpaper, a fine striped print, would have to come down, too, she reasoned. And the carpet would need to be lifted. She would need to get someone to do both for her, she decided.

  It was only afterwards, as she padded into her room to get changed, that she realized that in all that she had just done, she had given no thought to Robbie’s proposal that they move in together. Regardless, she decided, whether she was staying here or selling up, the house needed to be changed, the decor updated to something more reflective of her tastes.

  As she pulled on a T-­shirt, she noticed that the screen of her phone, lying on the bedside cabinet, was alight and, picking it up, she saw she’d missed a call from Grace. She rang back, but there was no response, nor had she left a message. Perhaps, Lucy reasoned, she was hoping to stay another night. Or, perhaps, she had called the number by accident. Perhaps it was Lucy, not the girl, who had enjoyed the thought of having another person in the house with her, a break from the routine of her loneliness.

  She made a dinner for herself of oven chips and curry sauce, then carried the plate and a can of Diet Coke from the fridge into the living room. When she’d finished eating, she tried Grace’s number again, but without reply.

  She was just hanging up when she heard knocking at the door and, for an absurd second, believed it to be Grace. Perhaps the girl had somehow managed to make her way out to Prehen. She was a little disconcerted then when she opened the door and Dermot, her neighbor, stood on the step.

  “It’s Fiona,” he said. “She’s across in ours again. She’s left him.”

  FIONA AND JENNY sat on the sofa, again in their respective spots, just as the night Lucy had first called. The damage to Fiona’s face, though, was much more pronounced than on the previous occasion. The old cut on her lip had reopened with the force of the blow, which had left one eye shutting, as if winking against the light, swollen and red and running tears.

  When Fiona saw Lucy, she began to cry again, noisily, into the tissue she had balled in her fist.

  “How are you?” Lucy asked, unnecessarily, glancing across at Jenny whose expression shifted from concern to anger and back.

  “I’ve been better,” Fiona managed. “I’ve left him.”

  “Good for you,” Lucy said. “Is that your stuff?” she added, gesturing toward the small overnight bag that lay on the ground at Fiona’s feet.

  Fiona nodded. “I don’t even know what’s in there,” she managed, the words bubbling out in a half laugh that dissolved again to tears.

  “What happened?” Lucy asked.

  “He came home in a mood. He’d had to work today, even though it’s a Saturday, because of this audit that’s being done, so he’d not been happy with that, anyway. Then something happened at work, one of the jobs wasn’t right. And the police had been with him about something this morning, too.”

  Lucy nodded, watching Fiona carefully for any sign that she realized that Lucy had been the one who had visited him. Dermot, Jenny’s husband, appeared, having put the children to bed.

  “I said I wanted to go shopping tomorrow. I wanted my bank card back,” Fiona said.

  “Did he give it back?” Jenny asked.

  Fiona shook her head. “He lost his temper and went off on one. We rowed and he . . . he hit me again.”

  Dermot gathered himself. “I’m going to call over there,” he said.

  “No!” Fiona pleaded. “It’ll only make things worse. Leave it.”

  “Maybe you should get the police involved now,” Lucy said. “There are officers trained to handle these types of cases. I know one who’s very—­”

  Fiona shook her head, straightening her back as she did so. She rubbed at her nose with the wad of tissue, then sniffed. “No. I left him. I’ve taken control of things.”

  “You need to get your card back,” Jenny said. “You need to have access to your money.”

  “I’m not asking him for anything. I’ll go to the bank myself on Monday morning and close that account. I’ll get a new card for a new account.”

  “You need—­” Jenny protested, but Fiona raised her hand.

  “No. I’m not asking him for anything.”

  DERMOT HAD JUST brought in tea and biscuits when the doorbell rang, twice, in quick succession. At the sound, Fiona stiffened where she sat, instinctively grabbing for her sister’s hand.

  “I’ll get it,” Dermot said, laying down the tray and going out, closing the living room door behind him.

  They sat in silence, listening as the door latch clicked open and they heard the low rumble of a man’s voice. Fiona was gripping her sister’s hand now, her knuckles whitening in the grasp.

  Dermot’s voice was louder, raised. “You’re not wanted here,” he said. “Piss off, now.”

  Then they heard Boyd’s voice. Angry, demanding. “I want to see her.”

  “You’d better leave, John. If she wants to see you, she’ll call you,” Dermot said, his voice unsteady, as if with the effort of controlling himself.

  “She’ll fucking see me if I—­”

  They heard a thud then, as the two men in the doorway slammed against the wall separating the living room from the corridor. They could hear the sounds of scuffling, the guttural swearing of both men.

  Fiona made to stand, but her sister pulled her back to her seat. “Leave it,” she said.

  Another sound now, almost a screech of pain, though Lucy could not tell from which of the men it had come. Unable to control herself, she stood and moved quickly into the hallway. Dermot and Boyd were scuffling in the doorway as Boyd tried vainly to force his way in past the bigger man. On Boyd’s final attempt, Dermot grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hoisted him out through the doorway, where he fell onto the path outside. Boyd’s face was flushed, the blood from his nose dripping onto the “Welcome” mat on the front step as he looked up.

  “You!” he spat when he saw Lucy. “You!”

  Lucy turned and realized that Fiona and Jenny had joined her now in the hall, both crying out at the sight of their respective partners.

  “Fee, I’m sorry,” Boyd said, trying to gather himself from the ground. Dermot motioned as if to go for him again, gaining a pat of approbation on the back from his wife, but Fiona held out a hand to stop him.

  “Go home,” Fiona said. “You’re embarrassing yourself. And me.”

  Boyd staggered to his feet. “I’m sorry, Fee. Let’s talk about it. Somewhere else. Not here. Not with them here.”

  “You need to leave,” Fiona said, stepping forward. She gripped the door and began to close it.

  “It was her, wasn’t it? Turned you against me. The cop!” Boyd shouted.

  The movement of the door stopped as Fiona turned to look at the three figures standing behind her, then back to where Boyd stood.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Her!” Boyd said, pointing past Fiona to Lucy. “Black. Did she make you do it?”

  “Lucy’s not a cop,” Fiona said, half laughing though without humor.

  “Is she not?” Boyd laughed. “Is that what she told you? And you believed her?”

  Fiona stared at Lucy, willing her to deny it. Lucy lowered her head, unable to meet her gaze.

  Boyd sensed victory in the gesture, for he said, “Ask her. Ask her now. Go on. Tell her,” he added, calling to Lucy. “Tell her the truth. That you’re a cop.”

  Fiona turned now, her hand still on the door. “Lucy, what’s he talking about? You’re not in the police, are you?”

  “It’s not
. . .” Lucy began, before finally simply nodding.

  “You lied to me, too,” Fiona said.

  “It’s not like that, Fiona . . .” Lucy began.

  “I want you to leave.”

  Lucy looked to Jenny and Dermot, both of whom stared at the carpet beneath them.

  Lucy passed them, stopping abreast Fiona, laying her hand on her arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Take your hand off me,” Fiona hissed. “Just leave, please.”

  Lucy stepped out onto the driveway. She could see, in the house opposite, one of the neighbors standing looking across, openly watching proceedings.

  Boyd stared at her as she passed, his teeth bloody from his bust nose.

  “You’ll answer for hitting her,” Lucy said. “Don’t think this changes anything.”

  “We’ll see,” Boyd managed, spitting blood from his mouth onto the ground. “Don’t count on it.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Mr. Boyd,” Lucy said.

  Chapter Fifty-­Three

  SHE REALIZED, AS she crossed the road toward her own house that, if she went inside, Boyd would know where she lived. Though she had no reason to fear him, she likewise knew that he had cause to bear her a grudge. She’d parked her car on the street, her own driveway prohibitively steep for her to park on. She’d brought her car key with her, the house key being on the same ring.

  Consequently, she walked across to her car, climbed in and drove off. She figured that she’d circle for so long as it would take for Boyd to leave now that it was clear he wouldn’t be seeing Fiona. If Lucy could take any comfort from what had happened, it was that at least Fiona hadn’t walked out and gone back home with Boyd. She’d chosen to take control but, more importantly, she’d chosen to stay with her sister. That resolve might not last too long, but it would, at least, keep her safe for the night. In the morning, Lucy would call with her and try to explain why she hadn’t wanted to tell her that she was with the police. Perhaps she might even be able to encourage her to press charges against Boyd.