Little Girl Lost Page 18

  The story had just finished when her mobile rang. She hoped it was someone from her work, calling to see how she was doing, Instead, when she answered it, she did not immediately place the voice.

  ‘I need your help.’ The voice was a girl’s, timid, broken.

  ‘Kate?’ Lucy asked, immediately aware of the absurdity of the question. How would Kate McLaughlin have her number?

  ‘It’s Mary. You said to call you if I needed help. I need your help.’

  Lucy turned on the flashers on the car as she crossed over the Foyle Bridge, though she deliberately kept the siren off in consideration of the time of night. As she pulled into the estate where Mary lived, a group of youths on their way home from a night out staggered onto the road in front of her. One of them yelled abuse at the car, grabbing at his crotch and leering in the windscreen at her. She pulled on the handbrake and opened the door without cutting the engine. Sure enough, the Dutch courage left him and he turned and, half falling onto the pavement, sprinted away from her while his friends scattered among the warren of alleyways.

  She drew up outside the Quigg house. The living-room light was visible through the thin fabric of the curtains in the main window. Then Lucy realized a small figure was standing between the curtains and the window, watching out at her. A small white hand rose in salute, then the curtains were pushed aside and Mary disappeared back into the room again.

  After a few seconds, the front door swung open, spilling light onto the snow-covered driveway. Lucy trudged her way up, scanning the surroundings while she did so, remembering the attack on the car they had suffered on her previous visit.

  Mary stood in the hallway waiting for her. She wore a vest which simply served to accentuate the thinness of her body; her shoulders were narrow, the bones protruded through her skin, her arms gangly and pale. She wore a pair of pyjama bottoms and no socks or slippers. Lucy felt a pang when she noticed that the girl’s tiny toenails were painted with pink nail varnish, the normality of the application so at odds with the circumstances in which the child lived.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mary?’ she asked. ‘Has someone hurt you?’

  The child shook her head, her small front teeth worrying her lower lip as she struggled to hold back her tears.

  Lucy crouched before her and outstretched her arms. ‘It’s OK, honey. What’s wrong?’

  But the child would not allow the tears to fall. She took Lucy by the hand and pulled at her to force her to stand and follow her.

  They went up the stairs to the first floor. As they climbed the stairs, Lucy gradually became aware of a low moaning coming from one of the rooms. They stopped at the door, which was closed.

  ‘Mummy won’t stop crying,’ Mary said. ‘I need you to help her.’

  The directness of the request caught Lucy a little off guard. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  Mary nodded sharply and pointed to the door of her mother’s room. ‘Mummy’s been crying all day and I can’t get her to stop. I made her dinner but she didn’t eat it.’

  Lucy stared at the child a moment, revisiting the urge to lift her, wrap her in her coat and carry her away from this house. Finally, she turned and thumped on the door with her gloved fist.

  ‘Mrs Quigg, is everything all right?’

  The only response was an increase in the groaning, a clearer sound of crying, and the thudding of something off the door.

  Lucy tried the handle; it depressed but did not open.

  ‘Mum’s boyfriend put a lock inside. He said it was to stop me coming into her bed at night.’

  Lucy pushed gently at the door. While the bottom opened slightly, she could feel the resistance at the top and decided that there must be some sort of small sliding bolt there similar to the one on Mary’s door. She knocked once more, lightly, without response.

  ‘What’s your mum’s name?’ she asked Mary.

  ‘Catherine.’

  ‘Catherine?’ Lucy called, knocking again.

  Inside the room, she heard the woman muttering something, the words indistinct through the wall. Lucy placed her weight against the door and felt the upper half begin to creak as the pressure worked against the screws holding the bolt in place.

  ‘Where’s your little brother?’ she asked Mary.

  ‘In his cot in my room. I put him to bed.’

  ‘Of course you did, honey,’ Lucy said. ‘Check on him a moment, would you?’

  As Mary turned to go, Lucy shoved against the door again and heard the crack as the wood splintered around the bolt. She half fell into the room, still holding on to the door handle as she did so.

  Catherine Quigg lay on the bed. She wore only her underwear. An empty bottle clattered at Lucy’s feet as she approached the woman, and Lucy guessed that this had been the source of the thud on the door when she had first knocked.

  Catherine Quigg shifted on the bed and stared at her, bleary-eyed. Her make-up had run down her cheeks and dried into black streaks. Her face was puffy with tears, her cheeks and nose red with crying and alcohol. The heady smell of vodka hung in the room. A waste-paper basket in the corner overflowed with crushed beer cans. On the bedside cabinet, the twisted empty paper of a cigarette lay discarded like a shed skin beside an unused filter of a cigarette and a few flakes of tobacco. They must have been there for some time, for Lucy could not discern the smell of marijuana in the room.

  ‘Piss off!’ Catherine Quigg spat, lashing out with her foot as she did so.

  Lucy stepped out of the way, instinctively reaching to her belt for her baton.

  ‘Catherine, can you sit up and talk to me?’

  The woman tried to spit at Lucy but the gesture lacked force and the spittle dribbled onto her chin. She pushed herself up on her elbow and smeared it away with the back of her arm.

  Lucy bent and lifted a white T-shirt that was lying on the floor and offered it to her.

  ‘Would you put something on?’

  The woman stared at her, her red-rimmed eyes narrowed and scornful. Then her vision slipped beyond Lucy. Lucy turned to see Mary Quigg standing in the doorway.

  ‘Are you OK, Mummy?’ she asked.

  ‘You little bitch, calling the pigs.’ She lashed out with her fist ineffectually. Nevertheless the gesture made Mary step back in fear.

  ‘Run down and put the kettle on, Mary,’ Lucy said, forcing a smile. ‘I’ll help your mother up.’ Despite her efforts, the child did not seem wholly reassured, though she did leave the room. Lucy listened as her light footfalls padded downstairs and across the floor below.

  Lucy sat on the bed beside Catherine Quigg who shifted away from her, reaching for the T-shirt to cover her chest.

  ‘That child phoned a police officer in the middle of the night because she was worried about her mother. She made dinner and tended to a baby while you lay here on your bed. I’d mind how I spoke to her if I were you.’

  ‘Don’t lecture me about my kids,’ the woman slurred. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘I know that I should take that child and her brother with me and leave you here to stew in your own shit.’

  The woman stared at her in horror. ‘You can’t speak to …’

  ‘I’ll speak how I like, Mrs Quigg. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  Catherine Quigg’s mouth opened and shut. ‘I’ll be on to my solicitor.’

  ‘And I’ll be on to Social Services. Now get dressed.’

  Catherine Quigg held her stare a second, then lowered her head and began to blubber into the T-shirt she still clasped in her hands. ‘Your crowd arrested my Alan.’

  Immediately Lucy realized what she meant and understood the woman’s state.

  Catherine Quigg began to shudder as her crying intensified. ‘He’s all I have.’

  Biting back the urge to point out that she had two children, Lucy laid her hand on the woman’s shoulder. Her bra strap was twisted and Lucy untangled it.

  ‘I understand how you feel, Mrs Quigg,’ Lucy said. ‘But we’ve connected him with Kat
e McLaughlin’s abduction.’

  ‘He’d nothing to do with that child going missing.’

  Lucy demurred from continuing the discussion further, for Catherine Quigg would not be convinced regardless of what Lucy said.

  Catherine shifted herself quickly on the bed, sitting up and placing her hand on Lucy’s free hand. ‘You could get him out,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Lucy straightened herself up and stood.

  The woman scrambled off the bed and stood too, swaying as she did so. Lucy had to hold her by the shoulder to steady her.

  ‘You could help him get out. You know he had nothing to do with it, don’t you?’ The woman’s tone was desperate, pleading. ‘I can give him an alibi. What night did the wee girl go missing?’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘He was here all night.’

  ‘From what time?’

  ‘What time did she go missing?’ Catherine Quigg moved towards Lucy pressing some mysterious advantage she had convinced herself she held over her. ‘He’s been here non-stop since that girl disappeared. I can vouch for him.’

  ‘If you can provide your partner with an alibi, you need to sober up and come to the station.’

  Catherine Quigg narrowed her eyes and sneered. ‘You’re just looking to take my Mary off me,’ she said, waggling her finger. The strap of her bra slipped off her shoulder but the woman did not fix it.

  ‘Please put on some clothes, Mrs Quigg,’ Lucy said. ‘Mary is making tea. We can talk then.’

  Reluctantly, the woman lifted the balled-up T-shirt from the bed and pulled it on over her head. Lucy lifted a pair of jeans from the floor and held them out to the woman.

  ‘Do you want a photograph?’ Catherine Quigg said, her mood shifting again.

  Lucy stooped and lifted the empty vodka bottle from the floor and went downstairs.

  Mary stood in the kitchen, two mugs of tea in her hands, her face pale, her expression one of total loss.

  ‘You should get to bed, Mary,’ Lucy said. ‘You need your sleep.’

  ‘Someone needs to keep an eye on Mummy.’

  Above them, Lucy heard the creaking of springs as the woman lowered herself onto her bed again. Lucy glanced at her watch. It was edging 4 a.m.

  ‘Your mum says that Alan has been here since Wednesday night, Mary,’ she said, taking one of the mugs from the girl. ‘Is that right?’

  Mary raised her head to the right and squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to recall the night. Finally she nodded. ‘He hasn’t left since the snow started. Mum’s happy when he’s here.’

  ‘You’re too good, Mary,’ Lucy said. ‘Your mum’s lucky to have you.’

  Mary smiled lightly, the gesture almost reaching her eyes.

  ‘Can you get Mummy’s boyfriend home?’ Mary said. ‘She’ll stop crying then. She’ll be OK.’

  CHAPTER 37

  Fleming met her on Strand Road at eight the following morning.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in hospital?’ he said.

  ‘I discharged myself last night,’ Lucy said.

  ‘I had hoped to get up to see you,’ Fleming began. Lucy waved away the comment.

  ‘I was fine,’ she said. ‘I slept most of the time anyway,’ she lied.

  ‘I got caught up in something,’ Fleming added by way of explanation. This too was a lie, for Lucy could smell, beneath the sweet scent of breath mints, the ketone smell of alcohol from the previous evening. For all his protestations about finding God and getting off the sauce, she thought, he had obviously fallen off the wagon.

  ‘So what’s up?’

  ‘I need to see Travers, sir. I have concerns about the arrests yesterday. I spoke with Cunningham’s partner last night. She says he’s not been out of the house in days.’

  Fleming grimaced.

  ‘He’ll not be happy to hear that,’ Fleming said. ‘They did find one of Kate’s charms in the van. You said yourself, she seems to be laying a trail for us to follow.’

  ‘I promised Mary Quigg I’d see what I could find out,’ Lucy explained.

  ‘On your head be it,’ Fleming said. ‘But I’ll gladly sit with you. Anything that raises Inspector Travers’s blood pressure does my own heart good.’

  ‘Explain this to me again,’ Travers snapped. ‘Start from where you were meant to be in hospital having taken a knock on the head,’ he added sarcastically.

  ‘I know, sir,’ Lucy said. ‘The child says that Cunningham hasn’t left the house in days. His brother may well be involved but he has an alibi.’

  ‘Given by a child.’

  ‘And her mother.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. The reliable testimony of his drunken partner. I’m glad you mentioned that.’

  ‘I’m not saying that they’re both innocent.’

  ‘Neither of them are innocent. In addition to whatever Alan Cunningham has to do with Kate McLaughlin, he’s also carrying drugs. He’s scum and he’s going to serve time for this.’

  ‘Has he even said anything about Kate?’ Lucy asked, then immediately realized she had overstepped the mark when Fleming laid a placatory hand on her arm.

  ‘That’s enough, Sergeant,’ Fleming said.

  ‘Now you get involved, Inspector,’ Travers said. ‘Were you aware of this interview?’

  Fleming paused, clearly trying to work out how best to respond without incriminating anyone, but that in itself told Travers all he needed to know. ‘I thought so.’

  He turned again to Lucy. ‘I appreciate your keenness to get back to CID, Lucy,’ he said glancing pointedly at Fleming. ‘But this is not the way to do it.’

  ‘It’s just … I think there’s something not right about the whole thing, sir,’ Lucy said.

  Beside her Fleming bowed his head, covering his brow with his hand.

  ‘I mean, there’s been no ransom. Yet I was told that Michael McLaughlin was trying to source almost ten million through his accountant the other day. Doesn’t it seem strange that someone took the daughter of such a wealthy man and didn’t make a demand for money? Especially when his own driver, Billy Quinn, and the bomber who killed his wife were part of the kidnapping gang.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Sergeant?’ Travers said impatiently. ‘McLaughlin kidnapped his own daughter.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Lucy said, struggling to remain unflustered. ‘He was looking for ten million though. Maybe he’s had a ransom demand already and hasn’t said. I don’t think he’s been straight with us, sir. I think he knows who has his daughter.’

  Fleming raised his head and glanced at her.

  ‘Who told you he was looking for ten million?’ Travers asked.

  Lucy was caught between wanting to give the name of her source to be able to verify her suspicions by basing it on authority, and an awareness that the comments had constituted little more than teatime gossip.

  ‘A reliable source, sir.’

  ‘That you’ve cultivated in the month you’ve been here.’

  ‘Her husband works for McLaughlin’s accountants.’

  ‘You know how that sounds, Lucy, don’t you?’ Travers said, taking a seat behind his desk.

  Lucy swallowed back her answer.

  ‘It might be best if you go home for the day, Lucy. I’m going to pretend that all that happened here this morning is a result of the knock on the head you got yesterday. Come back in when your head’s clear and we’ll forget this conversation.’

  Fleming stood to leave alongside her.

  ‘As for you, Inspector,’ Travers added as Fleming made to leave, ‘you need to keep your team in check.’

  As Lucy crossed the bridge to go home, she realized with embarrassment that she had not been in to see her father the previous day when she was in the hospital herself. She decided to take a quick run up now and, if possible, planned to call on Alice too, in the hope that her lasting memory of Lucy might be a positive one.

  Her father was sitting up in bed, eating breakfast when she went in. He had been left a bowl of porridg
e, which he was attempting to spoon into his mouth with little success judging by the globules of congealed oats lying on the blanket.

  Lucy took the spoon from him and, carefully scraping excess food from round his mouth, helped him to eat.

  ‘How are you today, Daddy?’

  He chewed slowly and swallowed. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You look tired, sweetheart. Are you not sleeping?’

  The normality of the statement took her by surprise. ‘I had a busy night,’ she explained. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, the silver stubble of his face scraping against her skin. His breath carried the staleness of sleep. ‘It’s good to see you, Daddy,’ she said.

  His eyes glistened and he grasped her hand awkwardly in his and squeezed. ‘You too, love.’

  The swish of the curtain being pulled back from around the bed heralded the arrival of the doctor.

  ‘How are we today, Mr Black?’ he asked, lifting the clipboard from the end of the bed and flicking through the pages, offering an ‘Uh-uh’ during each gap in her father’s response.

  ‘A little sore. Tired of being in this place.’

  ‘And the prime minister’s name?’

  Lucy suppressed a smile as her father winked at her. ‘David Cameron. Unless they’ve got rid of him since I came in here.’

  The doctor returned his smile. ‘No, he’s still there for now. That all seems fine. I think you can go home today.’ He spoke slowly and loudly, as if to a child.

  Lucy felt her hand being squeezed again, more tightly.

  ‘I’ll have a quick word with your daughter, if I may,’ the doctor said, moving away from the bed. Lucy followed him out towards the corridor.

  ‘Your father does seem to be improving Miss Black. We have concerns about his general mental health though. You’re aware I’m sure that he has something a little more severe than usual dementia for his age. We suspect he’s in mid-stage Alzheimer’s. It’s going to get increasingly difficult to look after him, so you may want to start looking for somewhere that can provide more specialized care.’