Fragile Lives (6 page)

She shrugged. ‘Never had time. Always been too busy getting A's at school.'

‘But what would you want to do?'

Ursula shrugged. ‘I don't know,' she confessed. She picked up her pen but George got the feeling she wanted him to ask more, she just didn't want to have to volunteer.

His speculation was cut short by a ring at the front door and Cheryl's voice, too loud and too brash, directing the visitor that ‘I think he's in the conservatory'.

George frowned, wondering who it could be and then Mac appeared in the doorway, a creased-looking carrier bag clutched in his long-fingered hand. Cheryl stood close behind offering tea and telling him how well George was settling in. Mac caught his eye and smiled, wryly.

‘Tea would be nice. Thank you. Hello, George. All right if I sit down?'

‘Course it is,' Cheryl said. ‘George is glad to see you, aren't you, George? I'll go and get that tea.'

George sighed and slumped back in his chair. Ursula shifted books and glanced shyly in Mac's direction. ‘I'll go.'

‘You don't have to,' George said. ‘Mac, this is Ursula.'

Mac surprised him by holding out his hand for Ursula to shake. ‘Inspector Sebastian McGregor,' he announced. ‘Otherwise, Mac. Pleased to meet you.' He pulled up a chair and sat down with a sigh. Closed his eyes for a moment.

‘Busy day?' George asked.

‘It has been, yes. George, I don't know if you've seen the news?'

‘About the body? Yeah. I figured if you knew it was him you'd come and tell me soon as you knew so …?'

Mac shook his head. ‘No, I'm afraid not,' he said. ‘This is someone else. It isn't your father.'

‘Right.' He felt oddly deflated. ‘I'd kind of … you know …'

‘Yeah, I can guess. It would be good to be able to draw a line under that particular event. Be totally sure that he's dead.'

George nodded slowly, he hadn't thought to put it that way but Mac had really hit the nail. ‘I just … Do you know who it is then? I suppose a lot of people drown round here, fall off fishing boats or something.' He felt Mac's hesitation. ‘What?'

‘He didn't drown,' Mac said. ‘George, I can't tell you much but there's a chance this man might be linked to … to whatever your father was mixed up in.'

George could feel Ursula's gaze fixed upon him and wondered if he'd been right to ask her to stay, but he didn't want to be alone with this, not anymore, and even when he'd been staying at Paul's place, that's exactly what he'd been. Paul had been unable or unwilling to either speak about or hear George speak about what they had been through. Rina had been good and so had Tim, but they weren't here and once Mac went, George would be alone again. Selfishly, perhaps, he wanted Ursula to be ‘in' on this even in a small way. He was tired of secrets and hiding and running away from the truth.

‘How, mixed up?'

Cheryl arrived with the tea. Mac thanked her and she hung around, clearly wanting to know what this policeman was doing here. Not official business or he'd have had to ask for a chaperone, so, what …?

Mac, George realized, had anticipated this. ‘I brought these over for George,' he said. ‘They belonged to Rina's husband. She heard you telling Tim about wanting a pair.' He handed the bag across the table to George.

‘Oh.' Cheryl was excited. ‘What is it?'

George withdrew a leather case. ‘Wow.' He opened it up and withdrew a pair of gunmetal-grey binoculars. They were clearly very old but the condition was pristine.

‘Zeiss lenses,' Ursula said.

George blinked, she'd not said a word since Mac's arrival. ‘Is that good?'

‘Bloody fantastic,' Ursula said. ‘They're old. 1930s?' She looked at Mac for confirmation.

‘So Rina said. I believe Fred, Mr Martin, bought them when they went on tour. Somewhere in Belgium, she thinks, but they weren't new then. She hopes you'll make good use of them.'

‘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.

T
he 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.

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.'