Unti Lucy Black Novel #3 (13 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-­Nine

S
HE FELT HER
phone vibrate as she left the room, glancing back at where her mother was gathering together some papers that had been lying on the table.

“DS Black,” she said, not recognizing the number on the caller display.

“This is the Bank of Ireland on the Strand Road. You'd asked us to keep an eye on the account of a missing person, Ciaran Duffy.”

“Yes,” Lucy said, stopping. “Has he used the account?”

“He called into the branch just now to try to withdraw the funds in his account.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. He has eight thousand in there. We've a policy that we can't give out that size of a cash withdrawal on the spot. We require twenty-­four hours notice usually. He told us he's buying a car and needs it this afternoon, so we've agreed to have it ready for him at 3 p.m.”

“So he'll be calling into the branch?”

“Yes. I just thought you should know.”

“Great. Thanks,” Lucy said, then, before hanging up, added, “Eight grand? Has that been in his account long?”

The speaker laughed lightly. “That's the thing. He only put in five of it the other day. If he'd kept it out, we could've given him the other three this morning without a problem.”

T
ARA WAS SITTING
on the edge of her desk when Lucy came out.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Great,” Lucy said. “I've just had word Ciaran Duffy is going to be at the Bank of Ireland at three this afternoon to empty his account. He's obviously planning on running.”

“I meant with your mother.”

“No, she was—­” Lucy began before realizing what Tara had said.

“I knew it!” Tara hissed. “I knew there was something between you and her.”

Her reaction was enough to rouse the curiosity of one or two of the other officers nearby, though Lucy guessed she had said it quietly enough that they wouldn't have clearly heard what she had said.

“Tara, look, I can—­”

“Don't,” Tara said, moving back from her. “That explains
so
much.”

“Tara, look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I can explain. Just not here.”

Tara stared at her, then turned on her heel toward the toilet. Lucy followed behind.

She checked the stalls were all empty before she spoke.

“She left us when I was only a kid. We hadn't spoken in years. I grew up with my dad. She put her career before her family. Trust me; there's nothing between us.”

“Yeah, right! Apart from her helping you along in your career.”

“Really?”

“How come we both started together and I'm making coffee in CID while you're working cases with Tom Fleming.”

“Child abuse and domestic violence cases? Do you want to swap? Be my guest! She put me in the unit she thought would break me. She didn't want me in the police and she stuck me somewhere working cases that would drive me straight out of it again.”

Tara leaned against the sink.

“You don't believe me? She moved me out of CID in the middle of my first big case. To work one about an abandoned child instead. I'm not the only one not telling ­people about our relationship. She's worked bloody hard to make sure no one knows either.”

“It's not just that,” Tara said. “It's the fact you didn't trust me enough to tell me. I wouldn't have told anyone.”

“I . . . I didn't . . .” Lucy began. She paused, took a breath. “I didn't want anyone to think I was getting preferential treatment.”

“You said yourself, she put you working child abuse cases. According to you, no one would see that as preferential.”

“I just . . . I didn't want you to think, I didn't . . .”

“Trust me? I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” Lucy said.

“No we're not. Friends trust one another.”

“I didn't want anyone to think I was like her,” Lucy said suddenly.

“Well, that I
can
understand,” Tara said. “Because you're
exactly
like her, as far as I'm concerned—­putting your career first!” she added, then turned and left the room.

F
LEMING WAS WAITING
for Lucy in the Incident Room.

“I was wondering where you'd got to,” he said.

“Tara found out about my mother.”

“How?”

Lucy shook her head. “Guessed, maybe. I didn't ask. But if she knows, other ­people will know.”

Fleming shoulder bumped her. “It's not like she's helped your career or anything, let's face it.”

“That's not how other ­people will see it,” Lucy said.

“Cross that bridge when you come to it. We'd best get going,” Fleming said. “I want to see if I can track down Terry. We'll call to his house, have a word with the neighbor.”

Lucy gathered her thoughts. “Ciaran Duffy's bank has been in touch. He's due in at three to empty his account. He lodged five grand a few days ago.”

“A payoff for the body disposal?”

“Looks that way,” Lucy agreed. “If we can get Ciaran, we'll get whoever paid him.”

“And maybe even find out just who was in that bloody coffin,” Fleming added.

 

Chapter Thirty

T
ERRY
H
AYNES HAD
lived in a semidetached house on Primity Crescent, at New Buildings, which lay out on the outskirts of the city, a few miles beyond Prehen Park. As they approached the village, Lucy noticed lampposts were festooned with a variety of flags, including the Union Jack, the Orange Order, and the flag of Israel.

“Do they oppose the marching season in Palestine?” Lucy asked, nodding toward where the flags hung limp in the heating air.

“I counted last year,” Fleming said. “On a stretch of less than a mile, there were over a hundred flags hung.”

Lucy pulled in on Primity Crescent and Fleming stared out at the houses. “That one,” he said.

The house was neat, unadorned, the grass fairly freshly shaven, patchy brown in the heat. The curtains were undrawn, the windows carrying venetian blinds which made it difficult to see inside. Fleming knocked twice at the door, then skirted the side of the house and tried the back.

As Lucy waited on the front porch, she heard the click as the door of the neighboring house opened.

A small bulldog of a woman came out, her arms folded across a chest so ample her hands barely met. “Are you looking for Terry?”

Lucy nodded. “Have you seen him recently?”

“Is there something wrong?” the woman asked in return.

“Have you seen him recently?” Lucy persisted.

The woman waited, staring at her. Her expression softened suddenly as her gaze shifted beyond Lucy's shoulder.

“There's a face I know,” she said.

Lucy glanced over her shoulder to see Fleming standing there.

“Mrs. Hamilton,” he said. “I was planning on calling with you.”

“Jesus, I've not been Hamilton since last Christmas. Lily. You're Tim, is that right?”

“Tom,” Fleming said.

The woman addressed Lucy. “Tom here used to visit Terry, a while back.”

Lucy nodded.

“Have you seen him, Lily?”

She shook her head, a movement that rippled through her frame. “Not in a few days. I was worried when youse arrived that something had happened him.”

Fleming shook his head. “We need to find him, just.”

Lily moved across to the fence between the properties and, leaning her hands on top of it, continued. “I've not seen him since the weekend. He didn't say he was going anywhere. He usually would. I go in and lift his post and that. Put out food for the cat.”

“Have you a key?”

Lily nodded. “Sure I had to go in and feed Tiger, didn't I? When Terry never come back. I thought he'd gone on a bender again. He hasn't, has he?” she added concernedly.

“We're not sure,” Fleming said. “You've not noticed anything unusual going on, have you?”

She shrugged. “How would you tell? There
is
no usual with Terry. He'd another one of his cases staying for a few days.”

“Cases?” Lucy asked.

Lily nodded. “Terry would take in ­people for a few days to help them . . .” Her breath seemed to catch in her throat as she tried, too late, to swallow back her words. “Somewhere for them to stay while they . . .”

“Dried out,” Fleming added, as Lucy realized why Mrs. Hamilton recognized Fleming and, perhaps also, where he had gone the previous year when he'd been suspended temporarily after falling off the wagon.

“Aye,” Lily said. “Dried out.”

“Who was it? Anyone you know?” Fleming asked.

Lily shrugged. “He wasn't here long. Rough-­looking character, but then, it is Terry we're talking about. Do you know him?” she asked Lucy.

Lucy shook her head. “Only by reputation.”

“I'd not be taking him on,” Lily said. “The size of him,” she added, pulling herself to her full height.

Looking at the woman's hefty frame, Lucy knew how she felt.

“Maybe we can take a look inside,” Fleming said. “Just to check he's not had an accident or something.”

“I've been in and fed Tiger already,” Lily added. “He's not there.”

“Maybe he's upstairs,” Lucy said. “Did you check those rooms?”

The woman regarded her. “I'm not a snoop. Of course I didn't.”

“We'd best then,” Fleming said. “Has his latest case been back?”

Lily shook her head as she gathered herself, then came down her own path, rounded the fence and up Haynes's. “Not since Terry went.”

T
HE HOUSE FELT
airless inside, the heat of the past days having been trapped in the closed rooms, the windows all shut. A scattering of post lay unopened on a small table in the narrow hallway.

“Did you lift the post for him?”

Lily nodded.

“You'd best wait down here, Lily,” Fleming said. “In case we find something upstairs you'll not want to see.”

Lucy knew that they wouldn't. Had someone been dead in the house, particularly in such heat, they'd have smelt it at the front door. Lily would get in the way and Fleming wanted a chance to look around.

Lucy and he took the stairs. There were three rooms above. The first to the left was a small neat bathroom. The next was the big bedroom to the front.

“This is Terry's,” Fleming said. “I'll take a look around. The small room is for his guests. Check it.”

Lucy crossed to the box room, which overlooked the small scrap of land to the rear that constituted Terry's garden. The bed was made, the room tidy. Over a chair in the corner lay a pair of trousers which looked freshly pressed. Despite that, they still carried tears and black staining on the knees. Beside the chair sat a plastic bag, folded in on itself.

Lucy lifted the bag and glanced in. Inside were a shirt, some underwear, and a small black plastic wallet.

“It looks like the guest left their stuff here,” Lucy called. She pulled on a pair of gloves, then took out the wallet and opened it. It contained five pounds and a small card, which Lucy initially took to be a bank card but which, it turned out, was a driver's license.

Ironically, her first impression was that the driver's license belonged to Prawo Jazdy. It took a second for her to see Kamil Krawiec's name below it.

 

Chapter Thirty-­One

B
EFORE LEAVING
H
AYNES'S
house, Tom Fleming lifted a photograph from the mantelpiece in the living room. In the picture, Haynes was standing with another man, their arms around the other's shoulders, their heads inclined toward each other, beaming at the camera.

“Boyfriend?” Lucy asked.

Fleming shook his head. “Brother,” he said. “He died a few years ago in Galway.” He weighed the frame in his hand. “We'll need a picture if we're putting out an alert.” He glanced around the walls, as if looking for further pictures.

“Looking for a better one?”

“Looking for any at all,” Fleming said. “Besides this one.”

Lucy nodded. “I . . . ah . . . I want to call with someone,” she said. “Have we got a few minutes?”

“I've got all day,” Fleming said.

I
T TOOK
D
OREEN
Jeffries a few minutes to answer the door. While they waited, Lucy saw, for the first time, that the short driveway at the front of Doreen's property had been resurfaced. The edges were rough and globules of hardened tarmac marked the concrete path leading to her house. Already, the tarmac had erupted to reveal a profusion of serrated dandelion leaves near the gate. Lucy heard the door lock click, then Doreen peered out. She wore a floral pinafore over her clothes and a pair of yellow rubber gloves.

“Spring cleaning?” Lucy asked, after Doreen had invited them in.

“Trying to clean my room,” Doreen replied. “I'm scrubbing at the place but it still feels dirty.”

Lucy put her arm around the woman. “Do you want me to have a go at it?”

Doreen shook her head, tapping her lightly on the hand, then moving out of her embrace. “You're very kind. I need to do it myself. So I know it's all gone.” She turned to Lucy, worriedly. “You're not offended, are you?”

“Of course not,” Lucy said. “I understand completely.”

The woman hesitated a moment. “How's Helen?”

“Let's sit, shall we?” Lucy suggested, guiding the woman to the sofa. Fleming followed behind, closing the door.

“I spoke with her yesterday,” Lucy explained. “She says she didn't take anything from the house. She said she never touched your jewelry.”

Doreen nodded, watching Lucy's lips as if reading the words, her mouth forming the echo of the words as she followed the conversation. She smiled briefly as she reached the end of the sentence.

“But,” Lucy cautioned, “we found three sets of fingerprints on your stuff. One will be yours presumably. If the thief wore gloves, there are two other sets to account for. Even if he or she didn't, that still leaves one set which might be Helen's.”

Doreen shook her head. “I told you before, I don't believe she stole from me,” she said, her mouth tightening.

“We'll know soon enough,” Lucy said. “Helen did mention you had workmen here before you went on holidays. Is that right?”

The woman raised her eyes to heaven. “Them!” she snorted.

“Who were they?”

“The man come round a month or so back. Just landed at the door. He said he'd been looking at the drive and pathway and it needed work.”

“Did it?”

“The frost a few years back had cracked the concrete at the back, but it would have done. He asked to come in and talk through my options.”

“Did you let him?”

“Of course not,” Doreen said. “I told him I was on my own and didn't want strangers in the house.”

“And?”

“He said he understood. He said they could resurface the drive and the back path for me. He wouldn't take no for an answer.”

“How?”

“He said he knew by looking that the crack in the path would leak water into the foundations of the house. When it rained, it would run down and cause damp. He said it would cost tens of thousands to fix then. It would be too late.”

Fleming glanced at Lucy. “How much did he charge you for doing the work?”

“Two thousand pounds.”

“Did he give you his name?”

Doreen shook her head. “I can't, I don't remember what it was.”

“But you said yes?” Lucy asked.

“I wanted him to go away. He wouldn't take no for an answer,” she explained again.

“So what happened?”

Doreen reddened. “They were meant to start on a Monday and they didn't arrive until Wednesday afternoon. A squad of them pulled up in a blue van. I told him it needed to be finished for Friday because I was going away on holidays and wanted it done. They didn't manage to get the path at the back fixed. I'm still waiting.”

“You've not paid him, though?” Fleming asked.

The pause before Doreen spoke was enough response. “He said he had to buy materials and pay the men,” she explained, as if trying to convince Fleming.

“That's okay, Doreen,” Lucy said, aware that Doreen felt foolish at admitting that she'd paid for the job before it was done. “That's understandable. Did you pay the whole amount?”

The woman nodded.

“Cash?” Fleming asked.

She nodded again. Fleming glanced at Lucy and shook his head. They would have no chance of recovering her money.

“Do you remember what the company was called?” Lucy asked. “Maybe their name was on the van,” she added, thinking of Duffy the undertaker's van.

Doreen stared at her, her lips moving silently as if she was willing herself to speak the name but couldn't. “I . . . I can't . . . I'm not sure. It
was
blue, I think.”

Lucy took the woman's hand as tears welled in her eyes. “I've been made a fool of, haven't I?” Doreen said.

“Not at all,” Lucy replied softly, putting her arm around her and giving her a gentle squeeze. “Not at all.”

“He scared me,” Doreen managed. “The man scared me. I wanted him to go. I want to see Helen.”

“Give me a minute,” Lucy said. She stood and, taking out her phone, moved to the front of the house, as if to get a better signal. In the background she heard Fleming ask Doreen to describe the man who had called at the house.

“Clarke.”

“Tony? Lucy Black here. Any luck with the fingerprints from Doreen Jeffries?”

“Jesus, Lucy,” Clarke said. “Give me a chance. I've not even got to the toilet yet today.”

“I'd make that a priority,” Lucy joked. “We don't want any accidents now, do we?”

She heard Clarke laugh, then the rustle as he shifted the receiver from one ear to the other.

“Let me check where it's at,” he said. She heard the tap of his keyboard. “Right. Three sets. One belonged to the old doll herself. No surprises there.”

“What about the glass I gave you? The prints on that?”

“I'm checking,” he replied with exasperation.

“They belong to a friend of the old doll,” Lucy said. “And she really wants to see her. I'd like to be able to eliminate her as a suspect.”

“Consider her eliminated,” Clarke said. “No match.”

“You're sure?” Lucy asked.

“Certain. I'm running the other two through the system now, but neither belong to her.”

“Great,” Lucy said, preparing to end the call. “I owe you one for doing this so quickly for me.”

“Jesus, that
was
quick,” Clarke said.

“What?”

“The results . . . Jesus,” Clarke repeated. “You'll not believe this.”

“Try me,” Lucy said.

“We've a match on one of the sets of prints already. The bin man.”

“Kamil Krawiec?”

“That's the one. Hit on the other set now, too,” Clarke added. “Aaron Moore. DOB 24.9.84.”

“You're sure about the first set?” Lucy asked, phone clasped between her shoulder and jaw as she jotted down the details Clarke had given her.

“The computer is,” Clarke said. “That's good enough for me.

“And me,” Lucy agreed.

She moved back into the living room. “Good news, Doreen. Helen's in the clear. You can give her a call, if you like.”

The woman's restraint failed her and the tears ran brightly onto her cheeks.

“Doreen was just giving me a description of the man who sold her the tarmac job. Big man, red-­haired, heavyset. Ear pierced on one side,” he said.

“We have hits on the fingerprints,” Lucy said. “Kamil is one of them.”

Fleming stared at her. “Krawiec?”

Lucy nodded.

“Give me a minute,” Fleming said, standing and going out to the car.

“Doreen?” Lucy asked. “Is there anyone else with a spare key? Or did you give the workmen a key?”

Doreen shook her head.

“Have you a spare key anywhere in the house?”

“There's one in the back, under the garden gnome. I left it there for Helen in case she forgot her own.”

“Is it still there?”

“I don't know,” Doreen said, rising. “I'll check.”

Lucy followed her through the kitchen and out the rear door. A small gnome pushing a wheelbarrow stood at the center of the main flowerbed.

Lucy crossed and lifted it. The ground beneath held no key. At that moment, Fleming reappeared with the picture he had taken from Haynes's house as well as an image of Kamil Krawiec.

“Doreen,” he said, offering her both the pictures still in the frame. “Do you recognize either of these men?”

Lucy could guess where he was going. Kamil had been living with Terry Haynes. Haynes was a big man himself. Both had been missing for some time. It seemed a reasonable question.

Doreen took the pictures and, after wiping her eyes with the edge of her pinafore, studied the image of Krawiec first.

“I know him,” she said. “He was one of the men working on the driveway. I remember him. He asked to use the toilet. He had an accent.”

“He was Polish,” Fleming said. “What about the other picture? Do you recognize him?”

“Which one?” she asked.

Fleming pointed to Haynes.

Doreen angled her head, as if in thought. “No,” she said finally. “I don't think so.”

Fleming straightened, releasing the breath he'd held since she'd taken the picture from him. “He wasn't the man who convinced you to get work done? The heavy man who called at your door?”

She shook her head.

“You're sure?”

“I can't . . . I don't
think
it's him,” the woman offered, handing him back the picture.