‘I will,’ George promised. ‘Cheryl, can I ring her later?’
‘Of course you can, love. Make sure you lock them in your room, won’t you?’ She departed happily, curiosity satisfied and George looked more closely at his prize. ‘I saw a pair in the old town,’ he said. ‘But they were nothing like as good as these.’ Almost reverently he slid them back into their case.
‘Are you interested in photography?’ Mac asked Ursula.
She shrugged.
‘I just wondered, as you recognized the lenses’
‘My dad was,’ she said reluctantly. ‘He was into all that stuff.’
Mac and George waited, but it was soon clear that she was about to volunteer nothing more, but it was, George thought, just about the first personal detail Ursula had let him have.
He sighed. ‘So, this man. This body.’
‘When you were with your dad, did he ever mention someone called Duggan? Jimmy Duggan?’
George thought about it, shook his head. ‘He didn’t say much at all,’ he confessed. ‘He yelled a lot and wanted to know a lot about Karen and our mam but he never let much slip otherwise. Is that the dead man then?’
‘No,’ Mac told him, ‘but we’re looking at a possible connection. George, I don’t have to tell you—’
‘To keep me mouth shut? You know you don’t and Ursula won’t tell no one neither.’
‘No,’ Mac said. ‘I’m sure she won’t.’
That earned him a second brief, shy smile from Ursula.
‘I don’t suppose …?’ George began tentatively.
‘I’ve heard anything about Karen? No, sorry, George.’
‘Well, I guess that’s a good thing in a way.’
Mac drank his tea. ‘Homework?’
‘Unfortunately. I’m waaay behind with everything. I’ll never catch up.’
‘You know what might be the best thing to do,’ Mac suggested.
‘What?’
‘Make sure you don’t get any further behind. I mean, do the stuff that the rest of your class is doing now, then catch up the rest just a little bit at a time. You’ll probably find that trying to get to grips with the current stuff will point out which other parts you really don’t know. Start by catching up with those. If you try to do the whole lot in one go, you’ll just feel like you’re drowning and get nowhere fast.’
George nodded slowly. That did make a kind of sense. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Is that what you do?’
‘It is. You know, before I came here I’d had six months off work. Off sick. I’m still figuring out how things work round here, but I found if I focused on the job in hand and then filled in the gaps that showed up … well, it helped.’
‘Why were you off sick?’ Ursula asked, surprising them both.
Mac hesitated. These were just kids, he thought. Then he reminded himself that George was a kid who’d already coped with more than most adults twice or three times his age and there was something about Ursula that told him she was in pretty much the same boat. Besides, all they had to do was Google his name to find out and Mac figured that was exactly the kind of thing that Ursula would think of.
‘I was working on a kidnap case,’ he said. ‘The little girl was six years old. Her abductor killed her and I was there but I could do nothing to stop him – and then I made a bad call. I went to her instead of chasing him. Back-up arrived only minutes later but he was gone and he’s still out there. I failed.’ Cold facts, pared down. No less painful for the lack of elaboration.
‘So you fell apart?’ Ursula said.
‘I did, yes.’
She turned her face away, staring out of the window at the chill, grey ocean.
The house was an ordinary one. Expensive, yes, but not unusual; one of the new ‘executive builds’ on what were meant to be exclusive developments but which Stan thought of as glorified estates.
At least they had laid off the mock Tudor.
It was set well back at the end of an elongated cul-de-sac. A large garden backed on to open fields and beyond the field lay a side road. They had pulled their vehicles into the field, drawing up behind the hedge and closing the gate. There was little risk of them being seen. It was a through road, leading only to another road and used only by the locals wanting to take a short cut. No one in their right senses would want to take a short cut along its winding length at the dead of night. Not when the straight and well-lit main road only added an extra couple of miles to anyone’s journey.
Coran spoke softly, aware of how far sound could travel at night and tonight was almost windless, the howling gale of the past days finally having dropped and the rain ceased. Stan looked up at the stars and wished himself elsewhere. To cut and run now would mean he didn’t get paid for the past two months’ work – quite aside from any other consequences that might come about – but he’d got by with nothing before and he could do so again. Only Coran’s assertion that he should just give it another week or two and let matters play out according to some design only Coran seemed privy to made him hesitate.
He trusted Coran – pretty much. In the ten years of knowing him, Coran had never once broken his word, though that didn’t mean he was immune to the odd misjudgement.
‘You all know what to do,’ Coran was saying. ‘We go in quiet, come out the same way. No one gets hurt, no one even knows we’ve been until the boss makes the call. This is a business deal, not a killing spree.’
Stan listened to the good-natured grumbling, the reassurance of men who knew the score and didn’t need further instruction. Coran eyed them all, double-checking equipment, readiness, attitude. His gaze fell upon Stan and he frowned, sensing the doubts.
They skirted the field, keeping to firmer ground but not needing to worry about any tracks. Their visit would go unreported, no one would be looking, no forensic examination that might identify their number or their boots or the additional weight they would carry back.
Access to the house was easy. A gate led to a footpath at the side of the garden. Stan took up his post just inside. Coran led the others on, pausing by the French doors. A faint thump as he bumped the lock, two men slipped inside, Coran waiting beside the door.
Looking up, Stan could make out the pink glow from the children’s night light, then the shadow crossing in front of the window. Moments later and the men were back down, unconscious bundles in their arms, the little girls had not even woken, would not wake until they were in the safe house.
Coran slid the door closed, Stan checked the path and then eased the gate wider.
Back to their vehicles and away. A half-hour drive.
He stood with Coran beside the vehicle as the kids were carried inside the remote farmhouse.
‘This isn’t right.’
‘They won’t be hurt.’
‘Like the Duggan boy wasn’t hurt?’
‘His dad was warned. He should have backed off, thanked God his son was safe and left it at that.’
‘And if their parents don’t play? You going to be the one to put a bullet in their heads?’
Coran shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘He likes to do all that himself. Gets a kick out of it.’ Then he moved closer to Stan, glancing towards the house to be sure they were not observed. ‘Look, I told you, there’s more to this than you know about. Haines will get his and we can all walk away with what we earned, free and clear and in full knowledge that the bastard’s dead.’
‘You hate him so much, why have you stayed so long? Why drag me into it?’
‘You needed the cash, don’t tell me you didn’t. Easy money so far, just like I told you it would be. Now, don’t go soft, not now, right?’
Stan nodded, accepting the implicit threat.
The other men returned to the vehicle and Coran drove, Stan taking careful note of the route.
Five
The autopsy on Patrick Duggan had been scheduled for nine thirty and by eleven Mac was ready to leave, disappointed that he’d not seen Miriam Hastings.
&nb
sp; There had been nothing new to report; tox results were expected later that day but, apart from the bullet hole in Duggan’s head and an inventory of the damage that could be attributed to tide and rock and hungry fish, Mac had learned little.
Patrick Duggan was in generally good health. The smashed leg had come courtesy of a motorbike crash in which he’d suffered broken ribs and other incidental damage. Unfortunately for Duggan, he’d not been thrown clear of the bike when he lost control and his leg had been trapped and dragged. Seeing the damage on X-rays sent through from the hospital and the repair exposed during the post-mortem, Mac shared Miriam’s admiration for the surgeon.
Pity it was now wasted, Mac thought as he took his leave, reminding himself that Patrick Duggan had been only twenty-four. Interesting too that Duggan had not followed his father straight into the family business but had taken a degree in sports medicine and gone on to start an MA.
Did Duggan senior approve? Or was this a source of friction between them. Mac was to get the opportunity to ask sooner than he thought.
The morgue was attached to the local teaching hospital, housed in a purpose-built, glass and concrete chunk of a structure set just a little apart. Behind that was the car park and beyond that a public footpath leading down to the river.
As Mac came out of the double doors at the rear of the building and headed towards his car someone called his name.
‘McGregor, is it?’
He turned, puzzled. Then recognized the tall, grey-haired man standing beside a red Range Rover. Mac had seen his picture on the reports he and Andy had been sifting through the previous afternoon.
‘Mr Duggan.’
A second man stood close by. As tall as Duggan but broader, heavier. He watched warily as Mac approached. Duggan held out his hand. Automatically, Mac shook it.
‘They cutting up my son in there? I went to make the identification last night. Not that there was much to recognize.’
‘We could have spared you that.’ Mac was surprised. ‘The ID number on his implant and his dental records would have been enough.’
‘Wanted to see, didn’t I. His mother would never have forgiven me if I hadn’t made sure.’
Mac nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘So. Are they?’
It took Mac a second or two to realize what the original question had been. ‘The post-mortem is complete,’ he said. ‘It confirmed cause of death but so far we don’t know a lot more. There are tests still to come back.’
‘When did he die?’
‘Best guess is seven to ten days, erring towards the shorter time.’
‘I see. Let’s walk.’ Taking Mac’s assent for granted Duggan moved towards the river path. Mac followed and the big man brought up the rear. The tarmac path laid beside the water was just wide enough for two abreast and Duggan waited for Mac to fall into step beside him.
‘Who’s your friend?’ Mac didn’t recognize him from anyone he’d seen in yesterday’s search.
‘Name’s Fitch. You won’t find nothing on him.’
Mac made no comment. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What do you want to talk about, Mr Duggan?’
‘Who killed my son? What else reason would there be for us to talk?’
Noted, Mac thought. ‘Who might want to kill your son? From what I’ve read, he’s not exactly high profile in his own right. Few convictions as a juvenile. Nothing since university. He seems to have travelled widely between his degree and starting his postgrad studies. Is that right, Mr Duggan?’
‘That’s right, Inspector McGregor. We can only raise our kids the best way we know how, we don’t control how they turn out and Pat, he wanted to study. Always stuck with his head in a book. His sister, well, if it doesn’t have Jordan on the cover, she don’t want to know and his older brother manages my clubs for me. But not Pat. You could see the lad tried to fit in, hence the spot of trouble he was in, but true nature will out as they say and we sat him down, told him what was what. His grandad was a man who loved books and his great grandad too.’
‘The pharmacy,’ Mac said.
‘The little chemist shop, that’s right. So, he stopped his mucking about and he got on with his school work after that. Made us proud. So what did they go after him for? I ask you that?’
Mac’s heart skipped. ‘Any particular “they”?’ he asked. ‘Mr Duggan, if you have any idea who might have killed your son …’
‘If I knew who the bastards were and where to find them, I wouldn’t be having this conversation, would I? I’d be out there doing something about it.’
Mac nodded. ‘I suppose you would,’ he agreed. He didn’t think it was the right time for any sort of ‘you have to leave that sort of thing to the police’ platitudes. ‘But, Mr Duggan, it sounds as though you might have some idea, some clue as to what led to your son’s death?’ He let the question hang and waited. Beside him, Jimmy Duggan paced on heavy feet, his hands thrust into his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the cold despite his coat. You can’t dress for that kind of cold, Mac thought. Not the kind that freezes you from the inside.
Abruptly, Duggan stopped. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe I know something. I need to think about things, find out a bit more first.’
‘Find out? Find out what?’
‘About the man I’m talking to for a start,’ Duggan said and Mac realized that Jimmy Duggan was referring to him.
‘Why should that matter?’
‘Because it does,’ Duggan said. ‘Are you a man I can trust? What are you in this for? Be one thing if it was just me that needed to know, but there are others too. Others I won’t be letting down by making the wrong judgements.’
‘In what for? The job? I’m a police officer, Mr Duggan, it isn’t a negotiable position. And who are these others?’
Duggan ignored his last question. ‘Not negotiable? Isn’t it? I could give you a list of people who think it might be. Anyway, I’ll find out what I need to know and then I’ll think about having another talk.’
A surge of impatience rose from Mac’s belly. ‘I’m not at anybody’s beck and call, Mr Duggan.’
‘Oh? Is that so? And what about the dead, Inspector McGregor? Where are you when they come to call?’
They turned then, as though by common consent, but Mac knew it was Duggan who had made the decision. Fitch stood aside and let them pass and then brought up the rear once more.
‘You’ve not had Parker’s body wash up yet then?’
‘Edward Parker? What do you know about him?’
Duggan shrugged. ‘He was a fist for hire, if you like. Did a bit of door work for me, but I soon let him go. Didn’t have the class for it.’
‘Class? Is that a prerequisite now?’
‘It is if you want to work for me. I hear the daughter might have taken after her old man.’
Mac tensed but replied as evenly as he could, ‘In what way would that be?’
‘I hear she got her own back on Parker. He reckoned she put the knife in, had him in intensive care.’
‘Apparently so.’ Mac was cautious.
‘No one can blame the girl for that,’ Duggan continued. ‘I’ve heard what he did to his family and at least the girl showed some spirit.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it.’
‘But I hear other things too. That the lad broke into an old woman’s house and the woman wound up dead.’
‘That had nothing to do with George.’ Mac defended perhaps a little too quickly and Duggan cast him a sly, interrogative look.
‘I also hear the one that killed her wound up dead too.’
Mac said nothing and Duggan did not immediately pursue the question though Mac had the feeling that it would be picked up again at some later date.
‘I want to speak to the boy,’ Duggan said unexpectedly after a long moment of silence.
‘George? I can’t allow that. Why would you want to speak to him anyway? George and his family spent years running from Parker. They know nothing.’
&
nbsp; ‘Because if I know boys he’d have kept his ears open and know more than you think. Because his dad left my employ not long before my son went missing and now my son’s turned up here. I don’t like the coincidence.’
Neither did Mac, but he wasn’t going to say so. Instead he asked, ‘But you had no reason to connect the events before?’
‘No, like I said, he was a fist for hire. He moved on. His kind do.’
‘And when did he move on?’ Mac asked.
‘Couple of months ago. He’d been unreliable for a spell before that. Always buggering off somewhere. He had the sense to take himself off before I sent him.’
Mac shook his head. ‘It doesn’t fit,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘We know that Edward Parker had been living in this area for a good six months, so, OK, he might have been commuting back and forth while working for you, but your son went into the water, well, the best estimate until the tox screens are back would be seven to ten days ago. Parker died three weeks back and he left your employ some time before that. Mr Duggan, when did your son go missing?’
For the first time the big man looked uncomfortable. He seemed to sag, shoulders drooping as though something inside of him collapsed in on itself. ‘He went a week after Parker did,’ he confessed finally. ‘Third week of January, we’d been away, the wife and me and his sister, but we were all meeting up that weekend. He’d gone back to uni at the start of term and everything seemed fine, met up with his girlfriend on the Friday night and before you ask, she’s not from our sort of family, thinks I’m just a businessman. He stayed over at her place and then caught the train back home on the Saturday morning and we were all going out together that night to celebrate his sister’s birthday, only he never made it. Somewhere between the train station and home, he went. They took him.’
Mac stopped walking and, after taking a single pace, Duggan stopped too. ‘Who took him?’
‘Whoever did.’ Duggan was tight-lipped.
‘But you suspect someone specific … and why didn’t you report it?’
Duggan moved on. ‘I had my reasons. Like I said, it’s not just me involved. His girlfriend got worried and called us when he didn’t turn up back at uni. I had to lie to the poor lass, tell her he’d gone away but eventually we had to come clean. She loves him, she had the right to know he’d not just run off on her. Then I had to tell her to keep her mouth shut and now I’ve got to tell her he won’t be coming back.’
Fragile Lives Page 5