Someone You Know (21 page)

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

‘K
eep 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.

T
he 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.

T
he 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.

B
efore 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.

‘Nothing, I'm afraid,' Richard said. ‘I can give you the name of the solicitor who handled the deal for him, but I've no address recorded for him.' He grimaced, as if imparting this news caused him physical pain.

‘That's fine,' Lucy said, trying to hide her disappointment. ‘Thanks anyway.'

She stood to leave, but Richard remained in his seat, staring at the screen in front of him.

‘Wait a bit,' he said. ‘Now I think about it, I did price his parents' house for him too.'

‘What?'

‘After he sold his own house, he asked me to value his parents' house. I think his mother had died a few months earlier and he couldn't decide what to do with the house. He asked me to give him a valuation for it.'

‘Did he sell it?'

‘No. I don't think he thought the money he'd have got was worth it. The house was in a bit of a state from what I remember. It needed new windows, central heating, roof fixed, the whole bit. In the good days he'd have managed ninety plus for it, I thought, but with the crash, he'd have been lucky to have passed thirty-five.'

‘Do you remember where the house was?'

Richard shook his head. ‘I'm trying to think. It was past Dungiven. Up on the Glenshane. There was a circle of trees round it. I remember that. Bleak, like.'

‘Would you have the address?'

‘I should have somewhere. I have a diary I keep valuation stuff in, in case someone comes back to you. I'll need to dig out the old ones and take a check through it. It was a few weeks after we finalized sale of the one in the city, so it should be easy enough found.'

‘Could you check now?' Lucy said, a little more impatiently than she intended.

Richard shook his head again, the skin beneath his chin wobbling with the effort. ‘I've my old diaries in my office at home. I can take a run out and get it for you. I'll call you as soon as I find it.'

‘Is home close?' Lucy asked. ‘I could run you there.' She glanced at her watch. Karen Hughes's funeral was in three quarters of an hour.

‘Ballybofey,' Richard said. ‘I'll head up myself in a bit. I've a light morning anyway.'

Lucy knew that the journey there would take the guts of an hour. ‘I have a funeral at ten,' she said. ‘Would you be able to call me with the address when you find it.'

Richard nodded.

‘The missing person case we're investigating?' Lucy added. ‘The missing person in question is a child.'

The comment had the desired effect.

‘I'll go now, then, so,' Richard said, pushing back his seat and standing.

A
guard of honour, comprising a group of Karen's classmates, lined the pathway up to the church. Lucy passed along them, nodding at one or two as she did so. At the top of the walkway, Karen Hughes's mother, Marian, stood, supported by two older men, both bearing a strong familial resemblance to her. They held an arm each, as if the woman was physically unable to remain upright unaided. Her face was slick with tears as she nodded her head in acknowledgement of the condolences offered to her by two passing mourners.

Lucy approached her, her hand extended. ‘Ms Hughes,' she said. ‘I'm sorry for your loss.'

The woman stared at her, trying to place her perhaps, and Lucy could see in the glaze of her eyes that she had obviously taken something to help her make it through the morning.

‘Thank you,' she said, having failed to recognize her. ‘These are my brothers.'

Lucy smiled grimly as she took the hand of each, one after the other, and offered her sympathies on their loss. She reflected that, in the entire time she had known Karen, she had not once seen or heard of either man.

Across from where they stood, she caught a glimpse of Robbie and moved over to him. They hugged briefly, Lucy breaking away from the embrace first.

‘What the hell happened to your face?' Robbie asked, holding her at arm's length as he examined her injuries.

Lucy moved out of his grasp. ‘Nothing. They look worse than they are.'

‘They look pretty bad. Who hurt you?'