Hurt (DS Lucy Black) (29 page)

Before she left, she leant over and kissed his cheek, wiping away the tears that dripped from hers onto his. She noticed, where he lay, that he had a small scar on his neck she’d never noticed before. She traced its outline with the tips of the fingers of her bandaged hand.

She took a taxi to Gant’s house. The phone book had only listed one in the immediate area and Logue had told her the previous night that the man still lived in the vicinity, so she took a chance that it was the right address.

The house was neat and clean looking from the front, the small lawn trim and tidy. Lucy knocked on the door and waited. The man who answered was in his fifties. He wore brown corduroy trousers and a loose-fitting white shirt, which did little to disguise the fact that he stooped slightly as he walked.

‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘Mr Gant?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Lucy Black from the PSNI’s Public Protection Unit.’

The man attempted to straighten himself a little. ‘Yes?’ he repeated, more slowly this time.

‘I’d like to talk to you about Louisa,’ she said.

He raised his head, glancing up and down the street. Finally he nodded lightly and stepped back. ‘You may come in, so.’

She followed him down the darkened hallway.

‘Do you want something?’ he asked. ‘I’m making breakfast.’

‘I’m fine,’ Lucy said. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’ll have an egg,’ he said, shuffling into the kitchen.

He moved across to the fridge and removed two eggs from the shelf. A saucepan of water was already coming to the boil on the cooker. He placed the eggs in the water then, reaching up, opened a cupboard above his head and lifted down two egg cups. As he did so, Lucy saw a small plastic mug with the image of Ariel from
The Little Mermaid
on it. Beneath the image, the name ‘Louisa’ was written in multicoloured lettering.

‘You found her then?’ he asked suddenly, not facing her. ‘They told me they think they found her.’

‘It’s not confirmed yet,’ Lucy said. ‘I’m sure someone will be in touch as soon as they know for sure.’

He nodded. ‘So why are you here?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lucy said. ‘I wondered if, maybe, the right man had been caught.’

Gant nodded lightly. ‘I heard he died.’

‘That’s right.’

He nodded again. ‘I hope he suffered.’

Lucy cleared her throat, beginning to regret having called with the man. She feared that, far from helping her, the visit would only serve to reopen old wounds for Louisa’s father.

‘
She
suffered,’ he said. ‘Louisa’s mother. ‘She suffered every day for eight months after Louisa went.’ He raised the spoon he held and pointed out through the window to where a single hawthorn tree stood in the centre of his back garden. ‘I found her hanging off that.’

Lucy felt sudden shame for having intruded on the man’s grief.

‘Do you want to see Louisa? She was a beautiful child. I’ve pictures here.’

He turned, leaving the saucepan bubbling, and led her into the front room. Against one wall stood a dark wooden bookcase. A range of pictures, each in small silver frames, sat on the shelves. With a pang, Lucy realized that the images were not photographs of Louisa as a child. They were the police mock-ups of how she might look, released each year after her disappearance in the vain hope than she might still be alive.

‘That’s how I watched her grow up,’ Gant said. ‘Just like that. In pretend photographs.’

Lucy remembered vaguely some of the images being released. Despite Duffy being charged with her murder, in the absence of a body, the family had issued a picture each year, in hope. Lucy realized now that it was Mr Gant himself who had done it, for when Louisa had been taken from him, so too had the rest of his family. Only he had remained, to carry the hurt alone. It was no wonder, she reflected, that he had bent beneath its weight.

‘That was taken the day she went,’ he said, pointing to a picture sitting on the mantelpiece.

Lucy moved across to lift it. ‘May I?’ she asked.

‘Please,’ he said.

In the photograph Louisa Gant wore the same clothes in which Lucy had seen her remains pictured. The girl was not smiling in the picture, but looked past the camera, as if ignoring its presence. Around her neck, she wore a leather necklace on which hung a round, green decoration.

‘What is that?’ Lucy asked.

‘One of those hologram things that were all the rage back then,’ Gant said. ‘An eye. One of her friends bought it for her. She never took it off.’

Lucy tried to remember if she had been wearing it in the images she had been shown at Carlin’s farm, but could not recall its presence.

‘You never thought of leaving here,’ Lucy asked, replacing the photograph exactly where it had been. Despite this, Gant moved past her and shifted it a fraction. Lucy suspected that he simply wanted to touch it, to maintain his connection with the child who never came home.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have done that. What if she’d made her way back and we were gone. What if she thought she’d been forgotten?’

Lucy nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said.

‘Even if she had ... if she wasn’t coming back ... wherever she is, she needs to know that I have not forgotten her.’ He spoke so earnestly that, for a moment, Lucy could not reply.

‘That sounds stupid, perhaps,’ he said.

Lucy shook her head. ‘I understand completely. While we remember, they are never truly lost.’

Gant smiled at the comment and nodded, once, satisfied that Lucy shared his belief. ‘I’ll show you her room,’ he said. ‘I never changed it either. Whatever time they tell me for definite that it’s her, I’ll maybe need to redecorate then.’

He moved up the stairs. Lucy could hear the sizzling as the pan spat water onto the cooker. She went into the kitchen and removed it from the hot ring before following the man up the stairs.

As he had claimed, Louisa’s room remained unchanged since her disappearance. The walls were painted a shade of pink, but the girl had perhaps felt the colour too babyish for the bedclothes on her bed were a paisley pattern.

On a chair next to the bed, a small black top had been placed. Lucy moved across, afraid to touch anything in the room, as if in the presence of relics. Gant followed her, lifting the garment from the chair, holding it to his face, breathing in.

‘You can still smell her off her clothes,’ he said. ‘Sometimes. Sometimes I can’t catch it any more.’

Lucy nodded, not trusting herself to speak. On the bookcase, a small photo album sat, its spine decorated in pink feathers. ‘Can I—’ She cleared her throat, tried again. ‘Do you mind if I take a look?’

‘Go ahead,’ the man said, smiling gently. ‘We bought her a camera for Christmas that year. She loved taking pictures. She said she’d be a photographer when she grew up.’

Lucy lifted the book and opened it gently, so as not to disturb its contents.

‘You look like her,’ the man said.

Lucy felt a shiver wash through her. ‘Excuse me?’

Gant smiled mildly in a manner that made Lucy wonder whether his survival technique all these years had been drug enhanced.

‘The first officer. When Louisa went. There was a woman officer too. She stood where you’re standing. Looked at that book too. You look like her. You remind me of her.’

Lucy felt something tickle at the back of her throat, had to cough several times to clear it. The photographs in the book had been taped in. In some cases, the tape had dried, leaving a brown line on the page, the picture itself lying in the folds of the book at the spine. Most were of Louisa and her parents. Lucy was surprised to see how young Mr Gant appeared in them, how significantly he’d aged in the intervening years.

One set of photographs, towards the end, was taken on a beach. Louisa was pictured sitting on the sand. Her head was bowed slightly, her eyes lowered, as if embarrassed by the picture.

‘She didn’t like getting her picture taken as she got older,’ Gant said, moving closer to Lucy to point to the photograph in question. Lucy could smell something, almost like infection, off his breath in such close proximity. His stomach rattled with wind.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. He moved away from her, rifting lightly to clear the wind from his gut. ‘Pardon me.’

Lucy flicked through the album. Towards the end she saw a picture of a young boy, perhaps a year or two older than Louisa. He wore a black T-shirt, emblazoned with a Guns and Roses logo. His black hair hung over his eyes. His dress seemed out of place for a trip to the beach.

‘Was this your son?’ Lucy asked. There had been no other pictures in the house, so Lucy could not be sure if Gant even had a son.

‘God, no. He was a friend of Louisa’s,’ Gant said. ‘Peter. He was a bit old for her. Not age wise – I think he was only a year older than her – but in other ways. She insisted on him coming with us that day.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He moved away after she died. With his mother. I think the family broke up. He went to Belfast, I think.’

Lucy nodded.

‘He was the one bought her that necklace you’d asked about. The eye. The eggs should be done,’ he added. ‘Will you come down?’

Lucy nodded, placing the album back on the shelf where it had been, then followed him out of the room.

‘I’m sorry if my calling has been difficult for you —’ she began.

Gant stopped on the steps and turned, snapping his fingers, his face alight with remembrance. ‘Bell,’ he said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’ve been trying to remember his name. It’s Peter Bell,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘The boy at the beach. Peter Bell.’

A team was already at Bell’s house by the time Lucy managed to get a squad car to pick her up from Gant’s. A uniform was banging on the door, but without response from inside. Despite this, Lucy noticed that the curtains had now been pulled closed.

Lucy introduced herself to the Senior Officer.

‘Chief Superintendent Burns will be here shortly,’ the man said. ‘Must be important for the Super to come out.’

Lucy nodded then glanced next door to where the lace curtains hanging on the windows shifted incrementally at her gaze.

She knocked on the door. A moment later, she heard the light click of the lock and the door opened fractionally. The elderly neighbour, with whom she had spoken the previous night, peered out at her through the gap. She wore a thin net over her hair, her cheeks sunken in a manner that suggested she had not yet put in her teeth.

‘Good morning, Mrs Sinclair. I’m sorry we’ve bothered you. Do you remember me? From last night?’

The woman tutted as if the question had offended her.

‘We’re looking for Mr Bell now, Mrs Sinclair. A bit more urgently. Has he been home since I called last night?’

The woman nodded.

‘Can I come in, Mrs Sinclair?’

‘No,’ the woman said.

Lucy tried to glance behind her, wondering if perhaps Bell had hidden out in his neighbour’s house.

‘Is everything OK?’ Lucy asked. ‘Is there someone in the house with you?’

The woman glanced across at where other officers had gathered on the roadway. She said something, her voice faint and dry.

‘I’m sorry?’ Lucy said.

‘I’m not dressed,’ the woman replied. As she spoke, she pointed towards where the male officers stood.

‘I understand. Of course. Has Mr Bell been home since I spoke with you?’

The woman nodded lightly. ‘He came back late. I didn’t get a chance to speak with him about you calling.’

‘That’s fine,’ Lucy said. ‘Is he still in his house, Mrs Sinclair?’

‘I don’t know. I heard shouting though. It woke me up. Around four o’clock.’

‘Shouting?’

A brief nod. ‘Thudding and shouting. Then I heard his front door slam. It makes my windows rattle. I’ve asked him not to do it. He normally doesn’t.’

‘But you heard signs of fighting in the middle of the night?’ Lucy repeated, loudly enough for the Response Team officers standing around to hear her.

The woman rolled her eyes, repeating it louder herself lest Lucy was hard of hearing.

‘Thank you, Mrs Sinclair. Keep your door closed. We’re going to check on Mr Bell.’

Lucy called over the man who had been banging on Bell’s door. ‘The neighbour says she heard a fight in there at four in the morning, then someone leaving. For all we know, Bell could be lying dead in there.’

‘We should wait for the Chief Super,’ he replied. ‘To be sure.’

‘We can’t wait,’ Lucy said. ‘She said she heard a violent struggle.’ She moved across and pushed at the door, shoving it with her shoulder. The man with whom she had spoken took out his radio and contacted the station. The other three officers stood watching her as she tried to force the door, without success. Two of them began to laugh at her efforts. The third however, a younger uniform, came across to her. ‘Do you need a hand, Sergeant?’ he asked.

‘A shoulder would be more useful,’ she said, smiling.

Between them, on the second shove, they managed to crack the frame of the door jamb sufficiently to push the door open.

‘Mr Bell?’ Lucy called, entering the house. ‘PSNI. Are you here, Mr Bell?’

The man who had helped her moved in behind, the others following them in through the open doorway.

‘Mr Bell?’ Lucy called. ‘We’ve had reports of a fight, Mr Bell. Are you here?’

The house was silent. Lucy moved in through the living room. ‘Check upstairs,’ she said to the man behind her. ‘I’ll check the kitchen.’

She moved through into the kitchen area. A scattering of dishes lay on the worktop. Beyond that, nothing seemed disturbed. She checked the back door into the yard, which was locked.

‘Sergeant,’ she heard one of the men shout from above.

Taking the stairs two at a time, she came into the room from which the call had come. The young uniform stood in what had presumably been a bedroom that Bell had converted into a workroom. An old piece of kitchen worktop had been screwed into the wall. Along it sat three different computers. A tangle of cables snaked beneath the worktop and down to a wall socket.

Lucy took out her phone and called through to ICS. The call went to answering machine, though the recorded message listed a mobile number for emergencies. Lucy scribbled it onto her hand as she listened, then redialled the new number. David Cooper answered.