Hurt (DS Lucy Black) (20 page)

It was nearing nine by the time Lucy left Fleming in the car park, having locked up the Unit with his help. They embraced quickly, awkwardly, as she wished him good luck.

Once she was on the road, though, she did not feel like going home to the silence. When her father had been there, while it had been difficult on account of his condition, she had, at least, been so occupied with looking after him that she had little time to think. Now though the silence of the house was oppressive.

Instead of driving home, she cut across the Foyle Bridge at the roundabout, and drove across onto the Culmore Road and up into Petrie Way. She parked up on the pavement, a few houses down from where Joe Quigg now lived and, turning the engine off, sat in the darkness, watching the house. Through the uncurtained windows, she could see the couple who had fostered him moving about. At one stage, the mother came into view, Joe hoisted on her hip, her arm cradling his rump, his arms wrapped around her neck.

Lucy recalled Catherine Quigg, his actual mother. The last time she’d seen her alive had been when Lucy had had to break down the woman’s bedroom door and try to get her to sober up and get dressed for her children.

Her mobile rang, and Lucy recognized the number as being the CID suite in the Strand Road.

‘Black? Burns here. I was expecting you to call in with an update.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ Lucy said. ‘I’m out on a call. I’ve the press release sent out and we’ve followed up on most of the local estate agents. We’ve not located who handled the sale of Doherty’s house yet, but I should get it finished in the morning.’

‘I’ve rescheduled the press conference for eleven,’ Burns said. ‘Karen Hughes’s funeral is in the morning. Maybe some of the people who knew her might know Sarah Finn too, so I want bodies at the funeral to chat to the younger girls there. Discreetly, obviously.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Lucy said. ‘I’d planned on going anyway.’

‘Fine. We’ve been following up on Carlin,’ he said. ‘The black dog hairs that were found on Hughes appear to match a black collie Carlin had around the farm.’

‘So we know she was in contact with
him
at least, if not Kay,’ Lucy commented.

‘Indeed,’ Burns agreed. ‘We’ve also spoken to the metal theft crew and shown them Carlin’s image. Two of them have confirmed he was the figure they saw at the railway tracks.’

Lucy considered the comment. It had been dark, under tree cover. Their identification of him would be shaky at best if it went to court. Not that it would be going to court. Not now.

‘Plus we managed to pull CCTV footage from along the Limavady Road that picked up Carlin’s car on the way to St Columb’s Park around the time Hughes was dumped.’

‘Any clear pictures of the driver?’

‘Certainly the figure driving looks like Carlin.’

Lucy said nothing, her breath fuzzing against the receiver.

‘It’ll never see court, but we got him, Lucy. And you were instrumental in that.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.

‘We’ve ID’d the remains found at the farm, too, as Louisa Gant.’

‘I heard, sir. On the news.’

‘Well, it looks like Carlin and Kay were in on things together. One of them must have been “Bradley” or “Harris” or whatever he was calling himself. Gary Duffy must have been part of their little group at one stage. Once we can establish that the case is closed. We’re looking for the connections now.’

‘I’d thought of contacting the schools of the two girls to see if there were any events or visitors common to both in the week or two before “Bradley’s” first contact with them. That might help us find the connection between Kay and Carlin and we can work back,’ Lucy added.

‘Of course, what would be really useful would be to find Sarah Finn,’ he stated. ‘That’s your priority.’

‘Of course, sir,’ she said.

‘There is something else, Lucy. I checked up on the Cunningham case, as you asked.’

Lucy straightened. ‘Yes?’

‘Intelligence on the ground in Limerick is saying Cunningham is either home or planning on coming home soon. His mother is dying by all accounts. Maybe keep your ear to the ground. If we get a credible lead we’ll get a team organized to see if we can’t pick him up for the Quigg killings.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Lucy said.

‘We’ll see what we can do.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Lucy ended the call and looked up. Joe Quigg’s foster father was standing at the end of his drive, a parcel in one hand, the boot of the car yawning open, his face turned towards her.

She started the engine and drove away quickly, avoiding his gaze as she passed.

‘Keep an ear to the ground’ Burns had said.

Lucy reflected on the comment as she drove. She’d been doing just that from the moment Cunningham had vanished, keeping her ear to the ground. But no one was talking. While none of those who knew Cunningham necessarily agreed with what he had done, nevertheless they had not been prepared to help the police to find him. She’d called at homes of his family and friends, asked local informers and petty criminals who might have known him, had called round the various divisions both of An Garda and PSNI where he was rumoured to be hiding, asking if they’d seen him. No one would help.

Lucy knew then that if Cunningham was back in Derry, there was only one other place for her to look. She didn’t even need to check the system for Cunningham’s home address. Like Joe Quigg’s new family home, she had spent more than one evening sitting parked outside it on the off chance she might catch a glimpse of the man himself. She had not yet satisfactorily considered what exactly she would do with him when she found him.

* * *

The house was the middle one of three in a row of terraced houses. It comprised of two storeys, the front windows in each room curtained, lights visible through the thinness of the fabric. The door was heavy mahogany, with a single frosted glass pane set in the wood.

Lucy pulled up opposite the house and turned off the engine, leaving the key in the ignition to allow her to run the heater. She questioned whether she should call at the house, but knew that not only would she be refused entry, but it would alert Cunningham himself to her presence. Instead, she would sit in her car to watch and wait. Being in her own unmarked vehicle, she would not be recognized as a PSNI officer.

As she sat, a middle-aged couple shuffled past, barely glancing at her, then crossed over and moved up the Cunninghams’ driveway. Lucy leaned forward to get a better view of the house. She saw the door opening, recognized the man answering it as Peter Cunningham, the younger brother of Alan. Peter was a low-level dealer who’d been in and out for drugs offences. Strangely, despite the claims by dissident Republicans that they were targeting all known drug dealers in the area, Peter had continued his trade unaffected by the shootings which had claimed a number of his peers. In fact, if anything, he had benefited from their punishments, their hasty retreat from the scene leaving a vacuum that he had quickly filled. The popular view in the Drugs Squad, she’d heard, was that Peter was paying off the right people.

The older couple stepped into the house, the man proffering a hand to Peter, and, for a moment, Lucy wondered whether the mother had already died and that her wake had started. She felt shame at the hope this thought engendered, for it meant Alan Cunningham would almost certainly come home. However, the two men began to laugh and she guessed not.

Lucy lowered herself back in her seat and fiddled with the radio presets until she found a station playing Villagers, singing about a new found land. Then she leaned back, resting her eyes for a few moments.

She jumped when she heard the sharp tapping at the window. Glancing across, she realized there was a child, perhaps little more than ten, standing by the passenger side door of her car. He tapped on the glass a second time.

Lucy tried to stretch across to open the door, but her seat belt restricted her. Instead she reached down and depressed the electric window button. The glass slid down and the boy stepped gingerly closer to the car, his chin almost resting on the lower edge of the window frame.

‘Do you have a ciggie?’ he asked.

‘I don’t smoke, I’m afraid,’ Lucy said. ‘Nor should you. It’s not good for you.’

‘My teacher says that, too.’

‘Your teacher’s right,’ Lucy said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Why?’ the boy asked, angling his head.

Lucy shrugged. ‘Just being friendly.’

The boy raised his chin a little. ‘I’m not meant to talk to strangers.’

‘That’s very true,’ Lucy said. ‘Did your teacher tell you that too?’

‘Nah,’ the boy said, spitting on the ground next to the car. ‘Your lot did.’ He smiled quickly then ran.

Lucy felt a sudden rush of cold air as the driver’s side door next to her was wrenched open. She turned just as Peter Cunningham’s punch connected with her, the movement meaning the punch glanced off her forehead rather than connecting with her temple as he had intended.

He leaned into the car, reaching for her. She felt his hands grapple with her, tugging at her jumper, trying to pull her out of the car. Her seat belt, still connected, prevented him from doing so.

She began to fumble with the keys in the ignition, trying to control her feet sufficiently to press the right pedals to shift the car into gear.

Cunningham continued to pull at her. ‘Bitch,’ he shouted. ‘My mother’s dying.’ He gave a final tug, then, realizing the futility of it, leaned in and tried landing more punches instead. The first caught Lucy on the mouth, the second catching her below the eye as her head shifted sideways with the earlier impact.

‘Bitch,’ he spat again. Frustrated by the ineffectual nature of his blows, he moved backwards and, lifting his leg, attempted to stomp in at her, holding on to the door of the car to give himself sufficient leverage to do so.

Lucy finally felt the gear stick shunt into place, heard the engine rev as the ignition caught. She didn’t even try to close the door, didn’t check to see if anyone was coming. Instead the car jerked forward into the road. Cunningham, still using the door for balance, shifted suddenly sideways, falling backwards onto his rump. Lucy sped forward a few hundred yards, then slowed just long enough to pull the door shut and engage the central locking. She could taste blood in her mouth, like old pennies, could feel the building heat as the skin around her eye began to swell and tighten.

Rounding the corner at the end of the street, she saw the young boy who had stopped at her car standing with a group of kids. They watched her as she passed, each raising their middle finger in a silent salute.

The following morning, the cut above her lip had sealed and thickened, swelling the skin of her upper lip into what appeared a parody of a pout. Though her eye had not swollen it was encircled by a bruise, which was sore to the touch when she tried applying foundation to it to cover it up. There was little she could do to conceal the injury to her mouth.

The first thing she did when she arrived in her office was to contact the two schools that Karen and Sarah had attended. Knowing the dates of first contact by ‘Bradley’/‘Harris’, Lucy asked both if they could think of any events that had happened in the school, particularly involving outside visitors, during the week or two prior to that first contact.

The first contact between Karen Hughes and ‘Paul Bradley’ was made on 18 September. Lucy called Karen’s school and spoke to the secretary.

‘I’m looking specifically at the week running up to the eighteenth,’ Lucy explained. ‘Was Karen involved in anything that week? We need to know if she encountered anybody new, maybe through a club or something?’

‘Give me a moment, please.’

Lucy listened to an electronic version of ‘Ode to Joy’ three times before the voice came back on the line. ‘We had geography field trips on the Monday, a theatre company visit on the Wednesday, the school photographer on the Thursday and a Young Enterprise day on the Friday.’

‘Can I get details of each of the events, please?’ Lucy asked. ‘Especially where outside visitors were involved.’

‘I’ll send them through.’

Sarah Finn’s school was a little less organized. The secretary to whom she spoke, who appeared to be dealing with two phone calls at the same time, promised her she would fax through anything she found.

Before Karen Hughes’s funeral, Lucy called on the remaining estate agents that Fleming had mentioned to her to check if any of them had been responsible for the sale of Seamus Doherty’s house and might have a forwarding address for him. She got lucky on the second visit.

The man with whom she spoke, who introduced himself only as Richard, was from a different era. He was a heavy man, white haired, ruddy faced, wearing a three-piece tweed suit, the waistcoat straining at the buttons when he sat.

‘I can’t interest you in a place while you’re here?’ he asked, smiling as he lowered himself into his seat.

‘Maybe later,’ Lucy said.

‘Now’s the time to buy while prices are rock bottom. Someone with a bit of cash could make some canny purchases.’

‘The “bit of cash” part is the problem.’ Lucy smiled.

‘For all of us,’ Richard agreed, though his appearance suggested that the downturn in the market had not had quite the same impact on him as it had on everyone else.

‘So, Seamus Doherty. He had a house in Foyle Springs.’

Robert nodded. ‘I remember it well. It was one of the last things we sold to be honest. People can’t get mortgages you see. We’ve had stuff on the books for a few years now.’

‘Would you have a forwarding address for Mr Doherty? We’re looking for him in connection with a missing persons case,’ she added. It would be public knowledge after the press conference anyway, she reasoned.

‘I see,’ Richard said. ‘Let me check.’

He turned his attention to the PC on the desk in front of him, his chin almost touching his chest.

Lucy glanced around the office. A secretary sat at the front desk, busily tapping at the keyboard of the computer in front of her. From this angle, Lucy could see that, in fact, she was surfing the net.