Unti Lucy Black Novel #3

 

Dedication

For Tanya, with love.

 

Contents

 

Tuesday, 17 July

 

Chapter One

T
HE BRUISING
EXTENDED
from his temple, around the curve of the eye socket and down almost to where the fold of his laughter line curled round to meet his lip.

Lucy gently touched the purpled skin with the tips of her fingers, afraid that too much pressure might cause him to wake. She moved back slightly and traced down along his neck to where she saw a second shadow on the skin, this time the injury aged and yellowed around the edges, just visible above the collar of his vest. Wisps of gray hair curled over the material, rising and falling lightly with each breath.

She drew back the blanket from him, seeing for the first time the leather strap that encircled the safety bar at the side of his bed, its other end fastened around her father's wrist.

“Dad?” she whispered, tapping him lightly on the arm in an attempt to rouse him. “Dad, what happened?”

For a moment, his eyelids fluttered, his face inclining toward hers. Then he settled back on the bed again, his head barely denting the pillow. His brow shone with perspiration, despite the presence of a portable fan in the room.

She pushed back from the bed, opened the door, and went out into the corridor. Seeing no staff, she moved up toward the main workstation on the ward. Just as she approached, an orderly came around the corner.

“DS Black? Just the person.”

“What happened to my father?” Lucy demanded. “His face? What happened?”

The man raised his hands in placation. “I'm sorry, Miss Black. I thought you'd been . . . He became aggressive with some of the other patients and took a fall,” he said.

“He's chained to the bed,” Lucy said.

“He's not chain—­” he said, seemingly swallowing back his protest at her comment. “We had to restrain him to stop it happening again; he was uncontrollable.”

“He has a bruise on his chest, too.”

“I don't know—­it . . . it may have been when he was being subdued. Look, I understand you're annoyed. And I know you're off duty, but . . . well, we think there's a body in the river.”

G
RANSHA
H
OSPITAL, IN
whose secure unit her father had been placed, sat on the outskirts of Derry city, alongside the River Foyle, nestled in the shadow of the Foyle Bridge. The bridge, a kilometer-­long structure, had been designed with an arch high enough over the river to allow access for ships to pass under in order to reach the city docks. However, soon after completion, the docks were then moved north of the bridge, and the majestic arch's function became purely aesthetic.

The height of the bridge made it a frequent spot for suicide attempts in the city. In the previous decades, over five hundred ­people had already lost their lives to the river, more than ninety from the Foyle Bridge alone. If there was a body in the water so close to the bridge, Lucy felt fairly certain that it was as a result of a suicide jump.

She went with the orderly, down from the block in which her father was being held, cutting across the grounds, onto the field running down to the train tracks along the river's edge. She pulled out her mobile and called the sighting in to the Strand Road station as she ran. Doing so would not only alert the Police Ser­vice of Northern Ireland, but, more importantly, also Foyle Search and Rescue, a charity group in the city, made up of volunteers who patrolled the river and assisted in recovery operations. That the city needed such an organization was a reflection of the frequency with which ­people went in the river.

As they approached the river's edge, she could see a group had already gathered, most dressed in either blue or white scrubs, suggesting that they were staff from the hospital. The air was heavy with the stench from the water, the odor of the exposed sediment banks along the river's edge having built all day, ballooning in the intense heat. Even now, despite the fact it was past nine, the evening was still humid enough that the effort of jogging down through the field had caused Lucy to sweat.

The orderly led her through, pushing those gathered aside, announcing that she was “the police.”

Lucy scanned the water, the glare of the evening light shattering on its surface, forcing her to shield her eyes with her hand.

“There,” the orderly said, pointing up to her left.

She followed the line of his arm and finally saw the arm and head of a man breaching the river.

“Hello. Can you hear me?” she called, but there was no response save the rhythmic rise and fall of the man's arm on the water, as if the river itself were drawing breath.

 

Chapter Two

T
HE MAN SEEMED
to have snagged on a tree branch then become lodged in the sediment as the water retreated, only becoming exposed when the tide lowered. Lucy could tell that the rescue boat wouldn't be able to reach him without running aground itself in the mudbank. He would have to be recovered from the shoreline.

“Listen,” she called, waiting for the assembled group to quieten. “He could still be alive. We need to go out and bring him in quickly. I need some volunteers. We need to make a chain. I'll go to the front, but I'll need someone holding on to me so I can reach out and try to pull him in.”

She waited a beat to see if anyone would offer to take her place. She was, she reckoned, at least ten years and two stone lighter than anyone else there.

The orderly with whom she had come down stepped forward. “I'll hold you,” he offered.

“Thanks . . .” Lucy said. It wasn't quite what she'd hoped, but at least it was something.

“Ian,” he said, assuming her hesitation was because she couldn't remember his name.

A few of the others mumbled offers of assistance and began to step down onto the shoreline from the grass verge where they stood. Lucy turned and tried to trace a path across the mudflats to where the man remained in the water. She was able to spot out the sharp edges of rocks that protruded through the surface of the shore. With a bit of luck, and some careful balancing, she reckoned she could make it to within a few feet of the man.

“Follow me,” she said.

She picked her way across the rocks, quickly at first for the ground was solid. As she got closer to the water, though, her progress slowed, for the rocks were slippery here, their edges hidden beneath blades of seaweed. She turned, expecting Ian to be just behind. Instead, he was some fifteen feet behind her, lumbering from rock to rock, swinging his arms as if to build momentum before lurching from one step to the next.

She only needed to step across to one more rock in order to reach the man, whom she could now see clearly. His face was turned toward her, his mouth and eyes shut. His hair, plastered to his scalp, might have been gray, though the silt of the river made it difficult to tell.

“We're on our way,” she called, though again without response. His eyes appeared to be closed, but his features carried none of the injuries she might have expected had he been in the river long.

She waited until Ian had caught up with her, then nimbly moved onto the final rock. She could feel its jagged edge through the soles of her sneakers, and had to move to get a better foothold. In so doing, she shifted too quickly to the left and lost her balance. She flailed her arms, desperately trying to center herself when she felt the thickness of Ian's arms encircle her waist with such force it winded her. Her foot skidded off the rock and, for a brief moment, she was suspended in midair until Ian drew her back to the relative safety of the rock on which he stood, her body pressed tightly against his own.

“You all right?” he asked, breathless from the exertion.

Lucy nodded. “Thanks,” she said, patting the breadth of his arm, which still held her.

“I'll hold on to your belt,” he said. “Then I'll follow you across. You grip mine,” he instructed, turning to the man behind him.

Lucy felt his fingers work their way between her belt and jeans. “I've got you,” he said.

She stepped forward, taking her time, finding her balance. She felt the tension of his grip behind her, then felt it slacken as he stepped forward, too, following her.

The man in the water lay five feet from her now, his arm outstretched, the sleeve of his jacket caught on a branch only two feet away. She decided to use the branch for some support, gripping it with her left hand as she reached for the man's hand with her right.

“You're good,” she heard Ian say, once he'd got his own footing. She leaned her own body forward, realizing for the first time the level of trust she was placing, not just in the ­people behind her, but in the thin strip of her leather belt. For a second she panicked, regretting her decision, bending at the waist to try to reach, but it was no good. She had to lean her entire body forward.

As if sensing her reluctance, Ian called, “I've got you, Sergeant.”

“Lucy!” she called. “I'm Lucy.”

“I've got you, Lucy,” he repeated. “Trust me.”

She took a deep breath, then leaned out fully now and felt, behind her fear, a momentary flood of exhilaration in the freedom she felt at ceding all control, giving complete responsibility for her safety to someone else.

She stretched and felt the cuff of the dead man's jacket. Gripping it, she tugged, managing to move him a little closer to her.

“Grip his hand,” Ian shouted. “We'll pull you back in.”

Lucy nodded, stretching further. Her face was slick now, her hair hanging in front of her eyes, her mouth filled with the bitterness of the smell of the mudflats. She felt the man's hand, was strangely surprised by its coldness in contrast with the heat of the hand that held her belt. She tightened her grip, as best she could against the slickness of the mud that coated the man's palm.

“I've got him,” she called. “He's freezing. I think he's dead.”

She felt Ian's grip tighten, felt the tension in the cloth of her jeans stretched taut now across her buttocks. Then she felt herself begin to move, her body begin to straighten up. The heat, the stench, the angle at which she had been, all conspired against her and she felt dizzy, felt as if she would lose her balance again. Then she heard a low long slurping sound as the dead man's remains pulled free of the sucking mud, and she moved more quickly, falling backwards against Ian. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her against him, stopping her from falling.

She leaned her head against him as she tried to catch her breath, could feel the thudding of his heart, the rapid rise and fall of his chest from the exertion. She felt a strange intimacy as she held, in her other hand, a dead man's grip.

“That was something else,” Ian managed. “Are you okay?”

Lucy nodded, unable to articulate satisfactorily in words both the sudden thrill she felt at simply being alive and how alien a sensation it felt.