Unti Lucy Black Novel #3 (21 page)

 

Chapter Fifty-­One

B
EFORE 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

L
UCY 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 small 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.”

F
IONA AND
J
ENNY
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.”

D
ERMOT 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

S
HE 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.

With nowhere in particular to go, she drove in through the town. The streets were busy, even so late in the evening, but as she drove down the main thoroughfare inside the city's Walls, Shipquay Street, Lucy couldn't help but notice the number of premises that lay empty, the shopfronts just painted boards, much like the bank building in Great James Street. The facade of prosperity and business hid a much more sinister truth: the city center was dying, slowly, hemorrhaging trade out of town.

On the corner of Shipquay Street, just before she passed through the Gate out toward the Guildhall, Lucy spotted a girl who, for a moment, she thought was Grace. She slowed the car as she drew near, which caused the girl to turn and look at her. The girl was much younger, her face fresh and alight with the laughter she shared with her friends.

Lucy raised a hand in acknowledgment of her mistake and drove on. She lifted her mobile and tried dialing Grace one more time. Again the call rang out, going to call answering.

“Grace. Lucy Black here. You called me earlier. Not sure if you meant to or not. Will you give me a shout if you get a chance? Just to let me know everything's okay.”

She did another circuit of the city center, in the vague hope that she might spot Grace, before cutting back up through the Diamond to head home. As she passed the bottom of Pump Street, she glanced up to see a squad car parked opposite Moore's house. She stopped and, doing a U-­turn, went back around the one-­way system and pulled down into the spot behind the marked vehicle.

As she approached, she saw that the two officers inside were eating their dinner, a bucket of KFC balancing on the dash. One, a thin man with a goatee and a shaven head, opened the door, the windows of the car being sealed shut. He wiped the grease from his fingers onto the Kevlar vest he wore.

“Everything all right?” he asked, then recognized Lucy. “DS Black? Hot wing?” He proffered the fast food bucket.

“I'm good, thanks,” Lucy said. “Are you sitting out here all night?”

The man shook his head. Lucy was fairly certain his surname was Frazer, but didn't want to risk calling him that lest she was wrong. After all, he had remembered her name.

“No. We're to drive past every so often, take a quick check.”

Lucy nodded. “Any signs of life in there?”

“Nothing. We're here about ten minutes; stopped for a bite to eat and thought we'd sit for a bit and kill two birds with one stone, you know?”

Lucy straightened, staring up at the house. There was something about the rubble in the yard. She wanted to get back into the house again, to check the rooms carefully for signs of activity. The mixture of earth and old bricks she'd seen in the garden had come from somewhere, after all. The only way she'd get back in to search more thoroughly would be if they knew Moore was in there.

“What's that?” she asked suddenly. “In the back?”

Frazer shifted in his seat to see, unbalancing the bucket of fried chicken from the dash, which spilled onto the floor of the car.

“Shit,” he said, gathering up the food with the aid of his passenger, whom Lucy now saw to be a fresh-­faced female officer, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“I didn't see anything,” the woman offered.

“I think I saw torchlight,” Lucy said. “Moving about in the kitchen. Definitely. Look.”

She moved away from the car, approaching the darkened house and peering in the front window. “I'm sure I saw someone moving about in there.”

Frazer had joined her now on the pavement, his presence marked by the waft of grease and spices. “Where?” he asked.

Lucy moved next to him, leaning lightly against him as she pointed. “In there,” she said. “I'm certain I saw something.”

Frazer peered in where she pointed, not moving away from her closeness. “You might be right,” he said.

“I didn't see anything,” the passenger said, getting out of the car.

“Best be sure,” Frazer said. “Eh?” He lifted the radio handset from the shoulder pocket of his vest and radioed through to the Strand Road to report it.

S
EAMUS
M
OORE ARRIVED
almost half an hour later, his manner more abrupt than it had been when Lucy had previously met him.

“This better not be a waste of time,” Moore said, flicking through the keys on the ring, then selecting the one he needed. “I've better places to be on a Saturday night.”

“We appreciate your assistance, Mr. Moore—­” Lucy began.

“I'm here because the Chief Superintendent asked me,” Moore said. “That's the only reason.”

Lucy nodded. “I understand, sir.”

He unlocked the door and opened it ajar, then stopped. “And, as before, this is also on the understanding that my brother, if he is here, will give you any information he might have about the death of the man you found in the bins, but will not answer any questions about anything else he might have done. Is that clear? The Chief Super has already agreed to it.”

Lucy nodded again. “That's fine. I'm sure I saw someone in there,” she said, already regretting her lie.

T
HE HOUSE WAS
exactly as it had been on her previous visit, bin bags still lying on the hall floor. This time, though, Lucy noticed that the papers that Seamus Moore had removed from the bags had been replaced and the torn part of the bag tied up in a knot. Perhaps Seamus Moore himself had done it, she reasoned.

She moved upstairs this time, while the other two officers searched the ground-­floor rooms. There were two bedrooms in the house. One was crowded with bags and boxes of magazines and books all relating to horses, even the bed sagging a little under the weight of the materials piled on top. The second room contained more memorabilia—­boxes of trophies and rosettes, many of them tattered with age and frequent handling. A chest of drawers against one wall was covered with statues and toy horses. There was no space for anyone to sleep in either room, or indeed any evidence that Aaron Moore had recently been there. More importantly, Lucy noted, there was no evidence of building work having been done. Both rooms were papered with fading striped wallpaper, which appeared to have been on the walls for some considerable time.

She moved back down the stairs, picking her way carefully past the black bags, which lined the staircase.

“Nothing,” Frazer said, blushing a little. “Are you sure you saw something?”

Seamus Moore stood behind him, arms folded, glaring at Lucy.

“Constable Kerr here tells me that she didn't see anyone moving about from outside,” he said, nodding to the female officer.

“I'm sure I saw someone moving about in here,” Lucy said. “I saw a torch beam moving about.”

“Why are you even here?” Moore asked. “I understand that the two officers were passing by as requested. Why were
you
here?”

Lucy shrugged. “I was on a call-­out,” she said. “Let me just take a last look down here,” she added.

“It's already been checked,” Moore called, but Lucy was already moving into the living room again where Constable Kerr glared at her.

“We've already looked,” she said. “He's not down here either.”

Lucy couldn't explain that it wasn't the man she was looking for; it was evidence of what work had resulted in the pile of soil and rubble littering the backyard. Again, though, the kitchen, living room, and downstairs toilet showed no evidence of recent work.

“Downstairs toilet only,” Lucy observed. “That must be a pain in the middle of the night.”

“He's lucky there's one at all,” Moore said. “These houses didn't have inside toilets. When I bought it there was only the outhouse. We had to get this one installed; that used to be a cupboard.”

“There's an outhouse,” Lucy said. “Can I check it?”

Moore frowned. “You think he's living in an outhouse?”

Lucy shrugged. “It won't take a minute,” she said.

Moore shuffled through the keys on his key ring again until he found the large dead bolt key and unlocked the back door.

“Be my guest. It's the last time you'll be getting inside this house without a warrant,” he said.

The yard was small, boxed in on all sides by the houses surrounding it. A small scrap of grass at its center had grown up around the pile of soil and pieces of red brick that Lucy had seen on her first visit. As she shone her torch around the yard she saw, for the first time, tucked in around the corner of the house itself, a small cinder block building, with a corrugated iron roof and an old wooden door.

“Is there an outside light?” she asked. A moment later, the yard was bathed in light from the halogen lamp above the back door.

Lucy moved across to the outhouse, pushing open the door with her foot. At first, she could not understand what had happened, for the torch beam seemed to drop from where she had expected to see it shining against the back wall. Her own shadow, cast by the halogen lamp behind her, fell forward into a hole, about five feet in radius, which had been excavated in the floor of the outhouse where the toilet should have been. Leaning forwards, holding on to the doorjamb to prevent herself falling, Lucy could see that a ladder descended down into the hole.

“There's something here,” she shouted, turning and putting her foot on the uppermost rung, her torch clamped in her hand as she tried her best to continue gripping the side of the ladder.

She climbed down twelve steps before she felt the ground beneath with an exploratory prod of her toe. She stepped down onto the ground and, gripping the torch, shone it around where she stood. The space was just large enough to accommodate her height, with a foot to spare above her. The sidewalls curved around her, joining above her head to create a perfect circle. She shone the torch upwards, noting that the masonry was red brick. In one or two spots, along the curve of the wall, single blocks seemed to have fallen out onto the ground, where they lay, shattered.

Lucy had heard before of the supposed tunnels running beneath the city. Some ­people had claimed that they stretched right back to the Siege; others that they were, in fact, Victorian sewer systems. The red brickwork, which Lucy could see, supported the second hypothesis more than the first. She directed the torch beam along the length of the tunnel walls, to where it curved out of sight. Finally, she directed it toward the ground at her feet, worried that she might be about to step into sewage, but the ground was dry, the system long since out of use.

As she heard the clatter of Constable Frazer's steps on the ladder above, she began moving forwards, following the curve of the tunnel.