Second Shot (34 page)

“That DNA test,” Neagley said, breaking in for the first time, “just proved that the two of them were father and daughter. It didn’t prove that the man who was Simone’s father was Greg Lucas.”

“In other words,” Matt chipped in, “just because Greg Lucas happened to be married to Pam— Simone’s mother—it doesn’t automatically mean that he was Simone’s father.”

“But that’s … impossible,” I said, and even as I spoke I knew it wasn’t impossible at all. In fact, it made a lot more sense than anything else I could think of.

Neagley smiled at my obvious confusion. “Trust me, Charlie,” she said. “We’ve done nothing but tear this thing apart all morning. There’s no other conclusion that’s feasible.”

“But he’s a match, so if he isn’t Greg Lucas, he must be — “

“John Ashworth,” Matt supplied, nodding. “Her mother’s boyfriend. The boyfriend who magically disappeared at exactly the same time Greg Lucas upped sticks and moved over here. The boyfriend who everyone thought was dead but no one could find a body for.”

“The boyfriend,” Neagley said, producing another sheet of paper from the pile, “whose middle name just happens to be Simon—which you have to admit kinda adds weight to the he’s-her-real-father argument.”

“If the DNA test is correct—and we can only assume it is,” Matt said, his voice tight, “then the only possible explanation is that the man who’s been posing as Greg Lucas for the last twenty years is, in fact, John Ash-worth.”

“We thought the DNA test would prove Greg Lucas was who he claimed to be,” Sean said, looking at me. “Whereas in fact, it’s proved him to be the one man he couldn’t possibly be.”

“And he knew,” I said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have agreed to take it. He knew he really was her father.”

“Just as the real Greg Lucas must have known that
he
wasn’t,” Matt said, suddenly more subdued. “Maybe that was why he was so bloody cruel to her when she was a baby.”

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. The personality change from vicious psychopath to doting grandfather, the fact that I just hadn’t got that professional soldier vibe from the man—and he hadn’t picked anything up, in return, from me.

So what the hell happened to the
real
Greg Lucas?
And even as the question formed, the answer bloomed over the top of it.

“Ashworth killed him,” I said suddenly. I snapped out of my reverie and found everyone looking at me. “And Simone knew. The night she was shot,” I said, aware of Matt’s flinch at the words, “she went ballistic at Lucas. ‘I saw him do it. I loved you. I trusted you.’ That was what she shouted at him. She was only a child at the time, but I think somehow she must have remembered back to the night Lucas and Ashworth both vanished. Think about it—Lucas was ex-SAS and a natural killer. He’d been stalking them for months. If Ashworth ended up with Lucas’s identity, he must have had to kill Lucas to get it. You’ve seen his record. There’s no other way the guy would ever have given in unless he was dead. I don’t know what set Simone off, but what if she remembered seeing Ashworth kill Greg Lucas?”

“So,” Matt said grimly, “he may not be quite the psychopathic killer we thought he was, but he’s still a psychopathic killer, just the same.”

Sean frowned. “Wait a minute. If I remember right, this Ashworth guy was a salesman. He wasn’t even in the army. How did he manage to kill a fully trained SAS soldier?”

“He could always have shot him,” Neagley suggested. “Guns are a great leveler.”

Sean shook his head. “Guns just aren’t that common in the UK—and certainly not twenty-odd years ago,” he said. ‘And besides, the police searched the house pretty thoroughly, according to the reports. If he’d been shot it would have left a trace. They didn’t find anything.”

“What about Rosalind—do you think she knows that Lucas isn’t really Lucas?” Neagley asked.

“How can you keep that kind of a secret from someone you’re living with for all that time?” I said.

Sean shot me a sly glance. “Some people are very good at keeping secrets.”

I ignored the jibe and reached for my crutch, struggling to my feet. “Well, there’s one way to find out.”

“How?”

“I’ll ask her,” I said.

F
rances Neagley drove me over to the Lucases’ house just before three that afternoon and walked slowly beside me across the slippery driveway. She was the one who rang the front doorbell when my courage might otherwise have deserted me.

The timing was deliberate. We knew that Lucas would be at the surplus store taking care of business for another couple of hours, giving us initial time with Rosalind alone. Mind you, there was always the chance she wouldn’t let me through the door to begin with.

It seemed to take a long time for her to answer the summons of the bell. By then I’d got thoroughly cold feet in every sense of the words. I think I was actually shivering when she opened the door and stared blankly at the pair of us. Perhaps that was what made her take pity on me. Her gaze flickered over Neagley, standing close alongside me like she expected me to fall at any moment.

There was a long pause while the three of us stood there immobile. Then Rosalind stepped back and held the door farther open. “You’d best come in and sit before you collapse,” she said, her voice giving no clues on warmth.

“Thank you,” I said, limping past her into the hallway Neagley looked around the interior with professional interest, smiling at Rosalind’s assessing stare.

“This is Frances,” I said by way of introduction. “She very kindly brought me over—there’s no way I can drive yet.”

Rosalind nodded at that, accepting it on one level, questioning it on another. She gestured for us to follow her through into the living room area. I looked round, hopeful, but it was empty

“How’s Ella?” I asked.

A brief smile escaped across the corner of Rosalind’s thin lips. “She’s still very upset, naturally,” she said, “but we’re making progress with her.”

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs, probably watching a little TV in her room.” Rosalind paused, frowning.

Probably? You mean you dorit know?

“I’d take it as a favor if you didn’t ask to see her, Charlie,” she went on. “I think it might… unsettle her too much.”

Something reached into my chest and squeezed at my heart with very cold fingers. “I understand,” I said, expressionless.

“Thank you,” she said with another small smile. “Can I offer you and your … friend some coffee?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lucas, that would be great,” Neagley said, her voice coolly polite. “You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you, we like to think so,” Rosalind replied, but her eyes had narrowed slightly, as though she was still trying to get a handle on Nea-gley’s exact role.

Rosalind was still frowning as she moved across to fuss with the coffee machine in the kitchen area. I sat, taking the soft leather armchair near the fireplace, so I was sideways on to Rosalind and facing the window, laying the crutch down beside the chair. Neagley remained standing.

“So, I understand Ella’s father has been in touch with you since the accident,” Rosalind said smoothly, making it sound like Simone had died in a car crash. “Would he have anything to do with your visit? Because if you’re here on his behalf, I have to tell you that we don’t feel that young man would make a suitable parent for Ella.” Her voice was prim.

“Matt
has
been in touch,” I said with classic understatement, “but the main reason we’re here is about your husband.”

“My husband?” Rosalind said. She was measuring coffee grounds into the top of the machine and that might have been why she sounded distracted, but I didn’t think so. Her hand faltered slightly. “What about Greg?”

“You told me you’d been married for fifteen years,” I said, watching her pour in cold water and close the lid. “How long had you actually known him before that?”

She frowned. “A year or so,” she said at last, cautious, as though I was out to trip her but she was unable to see how that answer might do it. “Why?”

“You remember that day at the store when Mr. Vaughan issued his little challenge to me, and afterwards I got that photo message on my phone?”

“Yes, it was an old picture of Greg,” she said. Her shoulders were too tense, I noticed. She saw me watching her and dropped them abruptly. “Funny how people change,” she said, sounding almost breathless. “I almost didn’t recognize him.”

“No, Rosalind,” I said gently, “the reason you didn’t recognize him was because the man in the picture wasn’t your husband.”

She went very still. “So who was it then?”

“Greg Lucas.”

“But-”

“Has your husband ever been violent towards you, Mrs. Lucas?” Nea-gley cut in smoothly.

“What?” Rosalind shook off her confusion and flushed, outraged. “No, of course he hasn’t! What kind of a question is that?”

“Back when he was in the military in England, Greg Lucas was a violent man,” I plowed on, taking up the thread, relentless. “Not just as a part of his career, but in his personal life. He beat his first wife and regularly put her infant daughter—Simone—in the hospital.”

“I-I don’t believe you,” Rosalind said stiffly, but she was white-faced and tense enough to splinter if you’d dropped her.

“No? Well, the facts bear me out,” I said. Neagley opened her shoulder bag—the one with that short-barreled revolver inside—and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork. We’d detoured to get it copied at the Bob Duncan Photoshop on Main Street on the way over. She held the papers up for Rosalind to see and, when the other woman made no move towards her, put them down on the coffee table.

“Eventually,” I went on, “Simone’s mother decided she’d had enough. She got out from under. But Lucas wasn’t giving up that easily. He tracked her down. She’d made a new life for herself, taken up with a new man. A guy called John Ashworth.” I paused, let that one sink in on Rosalind, saw the merest twitch in the muscle of her cheek. “The thing was, he wasn’t really a
new
man. You see, she’d been having a relationship with him since before Simone was born. We don’t know how long for, but it had to be at least nine months, because John Ashworth—John
Simon
Ashworth, I should say—not Greg Lucas, was Simone’s real father.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rosalind said, but she had to put a steadying hand out for the kitchen worktop. “Greg passed the DNA test. The police confirmed it—he’s definitely Simone’s father. And Ella’s grandfather.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “But at the time of her conception Greg Lucas was in prison for assault. There’s no possibility of mistake—we’ve checked,” I added, when she opened her mouth to pursue that line. “It’s documented fact.”

Rosalind didn’t speak right away. She moved slowly round from the kitchen, walking like an automaton, her eyes fixed on the paperwork Neagley had placed on the table. Unable to resist its lure any longer, she snatched up the pages and scanned down them quickly, taking it all in. When she’d finished, her hands were shaking.

“What does this mean?” she asked, almost a whisper.

“It means,” I said, “your husband may not be quite the man you thought you married.”

“It also means that sooner or later the cops in England are going to ask for him to be sent back over there,” Neagley put in helpfully.

Rosalind’s head came up sharply. “What for?”

“Well, Greg Lucas was not the type to happily let another man assume his identity,” I said, “so, what do you think happened to the original?”

‘And when that private investigator from Boston, Barry O’Halloran, first came looking for him, your husband must have thought the game was up,” Neagley said, her voice flinty. “Is that why Barry had his ‘accident’?”

Rosalind’s mouth opened, gaped rather like a drowning fish, then closed into a thin hard line. “Get out,” she said, her voice low and harsh. “Get out now.”

I glanced at Neagley, who shrugged. Time for a tactical retreat. Perhaps later, when Rosalind had had a chance to read through the damning evidence again, and reflect, she might come round. But not now.

Now she was hurt and angry and liable to lash out at the nearest thing that could feel pain. Neagley must have sensed that in her, too, because she moved
in
close to me.

I reached for the crutch I’d laid next to my chair and struggled to my feet, feeling Rosalind’s eyes on me very keenly while I battled with balance and damaged muscles.

“I don’t stand to gain anything in this, Rosalind,” I said once I was upright, a last-ditch effort to win her over. “But I do care what happens to Ella.”

“Like hell you do,” Rosalind bit out. “You’re after the money, you greedy little — “

I saw the blow coming but couldn’t do much to counter it. The palm of Rosalind’s hand struck me flat across the cheekbone with surprising force. The power of it knocked me back so that I stumbled into the chair I’d just vacated, and overbalanced. Neagley made a grab for me and managed to slow my descent, but not prevent it. I fell backwards across the arm of the chair, landing on the seat. I jolted my back, but the fear of falling did more damage than the actual event. For a moment I just lay there gasping.

“Charlie!”

I heard the sound of my own name without initially registering the voice that cried it. Ella must have come downstairs unnoticed while we were arguing. Before I knew it, the tiny figure had threaded her way between Neagley and Rosalind and launched herself on top of me. I gave a grunt of pain and pushed her away weakly Rosalind hoisted the little girl off. Any other time I would have been heartbroken, but I felt only relief.

“Charlie’s hurt, Ella,” Rosalind said. She looked straight at me.
Payback time. “
Your mummy hurt her. That’s why your mummy got hurt, and the angels came and took her up to heaven.”

You bitch! Tou utter, utter bitch ..
.

Ella’s confusion was writ large across her features. She turned a gaze on me that was suddenly wary and close to accusing as the connections formed and hardened. No doubt this wasn’t the first time Rosalind had fed her this line. Ella took a minute step back, sneaking her hand into that of the woman she’d learned to call Grandma, looking to her for reassurance.