Fragile Lives (9 page)

‘You had nothing else planned?' Rina checked as she hung up.

‘No, I had nothing else planned.'

‘Good, he wanted to come tomorrow, but I won't be rushed and besides, you and Tim are out tomorrow night at the pub quiz. It won't do to miss your first night.'

Mac groaned inwardly wondering what stupid moment of weakness had him agreeing that it would be a good idea and help him become part of the community. Looking at Tim's face he read similar thoughts chasing behind the eyes. Trouble was, DCI Eden had got wind of it and heartily approved, citing all the buzz words.

‘So, Friday it is then,' Rina said with a smile. ‘Don't worry, Mac, by the end of the evening we'll know all James Duggan can tell us about his son's death.'

Mac was betting on it. He revised his opinion of her once again. Middle-aged fixer crossed with Torquemada, a prominent figure from the Spanish Inquisition, that's what she was. A truly kind but truly deceptive woman.

T
hursday morning brought the tox results from Patrick Duggan's body. There had been no water in his lungs; he had hit the water already dead but from the amount of junk in his system Mac thought he had been as good as dead long before the coup de grâce of the bullet in the brain.

‘There's the whole issue of chemical decay,' he said to Eden as they sat in the early morning meeting, ‘but he's got cocaine, barbiturates, speed … as well as traces of over-the-counter medications. Forensics reckons the dosages must have been dangerously high for the residues to be this obvious. It's like he stripped the shelves of his grandad's pharmacy and took the lot.'

Eden was thoughtful. ‘I'm assuming that's a metaphorical thought and you've no evidence that—'

‘That the Duggan family business is anything less than legitimate? No. It's run by an elderly couple and their son. Not so much as a speeding ticket between them. The couple, the Meyricks, they're semi-retired and the son is planning on taking over. It's a tiny little place but it doesn't have much in the way of competition, so it looks as though it provides them with a living. Our colleagues up north are sending down anything they have, but word from them is that the chemist shop is exactly what it seems to be.'

Eden was silent for a moment then he asked, ‘What does Duggan think Mrs Martin can tell him? I'm not entirely happy about it but—'

‘I don't know,' Mac said. ‘I've no desperate worries though. I'll be there and I doubt Duggan will faze Rina though I'm looking forward to seeing how he gets on with the rest of the household. The Martins can be a bit overwhelming.'

‘I can imagine. How much does he know, do you reckon, about his son's disappearance?'

‘I think he suspects who, but I get the impression it's all a bit more complicated than we know as yet and I also wonder just how deep into all this Edward Parker had dug himself.'

I
t hadn't been such a bad day, George reckoned. There were signs that he and Paul were of diminishing interest, at least among the general school population and Mac's strategy of concentrating on current work first and then trying to catch up bit by bit was also starting to prove worth listening to. Miss Crick, George's form teacher who also taught him history, had commended him that afternoon on his grasp of the causes of World War Two and chastised the rest of the class ‘who had not been absent' for the lack of theirs.

Being congratulated by a teacher was, of course, a bit of a double-edged sword, but George figured he could handle the bit of flak he might take; at least he was succeeding at something, though his sense of triumph was a little tempered by the disgusted look Paul threw in his direction. Paul was struggling and what was more, he knew it but didn't seem to care. It was an attitude that really worried George but still did not completely dampen his optimism.

Ursula on the other hand was in a foul mood. Brandon, George gathered, had been winding her up but she wouldn't say exactly why or how. Instead, she marched angrily towards the town centre and their bus pick-up point, George striding manfully in her wake, knowing better than to ask for explanation or conversation until she'd overcome her sense of outrage over whatever Brandon might have done. Less than a week at Hill House, he was already becoming familiar with the main traits of his cohabitants.

Ursula seethed and then grouched but was soon over her mood. Grace was clumsy and grumpy and hated the world, but she hated it all pretty equally and was fine so long as you didn't attract her attention. The twins argued constantly but were also utterly inseparable. George had come to regard them as a single unit and also as mostly harmless. Caroline and Jill could be similarly combined as it was so rare to see them more than a few feet apart either at the home or at school, and other than the odd bitchy comment they could also be dismissed most of the time.

Richard, at fifteen, considered himself to be too old to take much notice of the others – Grace included despite the fact that she was a couple of months his senior. He looked down on everyone else at Hill House and made every excuse he could to get out to see his friends from the education centre he attended three times a week. George still wasn't sure what he did with the other two.

Brandon, on the other hand, made it his business to upset everyone, picking at the tender spots that characterized all the kids at Hill House. Teasing and taunting and making snide remarks.

‘What did he say this time?' George asked at last as they approached the pick-up point, Ursula's turn of speed meaning they had arrived there even earlier than usual.

‘Don't want to talk about it.'

George shrugged. ‘OK then.'

‘He's just unbearable. Just an absolute … Just a—'

‘Wanker?' George suggested.

Ursula stopped dead. She looked at George open-mouthed and then she laughed. ‘Yeah. He is that. God, George, I hate him so much.'

‘So, what did he say?'

She turned away but at least she had slowed down. She shrugged. ‘It was stupid,' she said. ‘I let him get to me and he knew he had and once he knew he just kept on poking and prying and I … God, George, I hate him so much.'

‘OK,' George was cautious. ‘So what was it about?'

Ursula sighed. ‘It was about my dad,' she said. ‘He started on about my dad.'

‘Your dad?'

‘Yeah.'

George waited, but she seemed to have withdrawn from the conversation. They had reached the pick-up point, first to arrive and Ursula took up position in front of a shop window, staring at the tourist tat mixed in with the local produce and adverts for B&Bs. It was clear to George that he'd have to wait her out and that the return to this particular subject might take some time.

He felt oddly jealous, knowing that Brandon knew things about Ursula that George did not. Ursula had been his lifeline this week. The one sheltered spot of sanity in a mega storm of emotion and trauma and it was vaguely painful to be reminded that Ursula had a past that did not relate to him in any way but which Brandon was aware of and exploited.

He turned away from Ursula and the shops, and instead studied the passing traffic at the end of the road. Traffic was building ready for the rush hour and the street was busy with kids leaving school and shoppers hurrying to be away before the busy period really got underway. A bus halted, disgorged its passengers and then moved on. George watched the ebb and flow and recalled the night he and Paul had walked back to Frantham from here. He thought about the fish and chip shop where they'd eaten dinner and discussed the best place to hide. It was only a few short weeks ago and yet it felt like forever.

A man coming out of a side street caught his attention. George frowned and then looked again, caught his breath. Blond, tall, heavily built, moving with an easy confidence and exuding the impression that he was heading somewhere important. George recognized him at once.

This man had been with his dad the day he'd died. This man had left them on the cliff top. Left Edward Parker to ‘deal' with his daughter and his son.

George wasn't thinking, he just took off across the street after the blond-haired man, shouting out to him even though he'd no idea of his name.

‘Hey. Hey you. Stop!'

It crossed his mind that he had no idea what he'd do if the man did stop. He couldn't say he had thought his actions through or knew why he wanted to talk to this man, but he ran after him anyway. Ran after him, Ursula close at his heels, willing him to listen to her and stop.

Then the man turned and George realized that he was not alone. The other one was older, completely bald, shorter and stocky and with a tension in his body that contrasted with the blond one's loose stride.

The blond man smiled, tilted his head to listen to a question from his companion, said something that George was too far away to hear. George skidded to a halt, reason reasserted itself now, and he was suddenly afraid.

The blond man's gaze flicked from George to Ursula. The smile broadened and then vanished as though snapped away. He lifted his hand, two fingers pointed like a kid with a make-believe gun. He pointed, first at George, then swung his imagined weapon directly at Ursula and pretended to fire.

George sucked in a tense, shallow breath, then let it out as the man walked away.

‘Who were they?' Ursula demanded. ‘What the hell was that all about?'

‘It was about my dad,' George told her shakily. ‘About my dad.'

‘W
hy did we let her talk us into this?' Tim asked as they stood outside the Railway Inn, staring through the lighted window at the pub quiz teams assembling inside.

‘I don't remember her doing it,' Mac admitted. ‘But it seems to be like that with Rina, you find yourself doing things and she tells you you agreed to it and somehow you end up remembering that you did.'

‘False memory syndrome,' Tim said and nodded wisely. ‘Do you think she's a government agent or something. Special training and all that?'

‘I wouldn't be at all surprised. Right, well, seeing as we're here I suppose we'd better go in and join our team.'

It had, he thought, seemed like an all right sort of idea when they'd talked to the landlord. The team had to be flexible, he had said. There were core members but a couple of people worked shifts and so they tried to keep reserves for those occasions when they couldn't play. Come along and try out, he'd said. It's just a friendly match this week. You'd be very welcome, he'd said.

Mac pushed open the door and sidled in. The noise seemed like a solid mass and Mac pushed against that too, making his way across to the bar.

‘You came then?' The landlord smiled. ‘What'll it be, gentlemen? Hey, Dicky,' he called across the room, his voice somehow slicing through the fog of noise, ‘your new lads are here.'

Mac left the ordering of drinks to Tim, and watched the balding man in the baggy jumper as he hurried across the lounge, weaving between tables, hand already outstretched and a broad smile stretched across a plump and equally baggy face.

‘Dicky Morris,' he said. ‘And you must be …?'

‘Sebastian McGregor. Mac. This is Tim Brandon.'

Dicky pumped Mac's hand hard and then turned to deliver the same treatment to Tim. ‘Good, good,' he approved. ‘Come and meet the rest of the team.'

Tim rolled his eyes and handed a pint to Mac. ‘Think we'll need more than orange juice,' he said. ‘Any way of sneaking out the back?'

‘I don't think so.' He took a deep breath. ‘Inspector Eden reckons this is a good way of improving community relations anyway.'

Tim didn't look convinced. ‘Doesn't that depend on whether or not we win?'

George had been trying to get hold of Mac to tell him about the blond-haired man. Unusually – in fact, George thought it might even be a first – Mac's mobile had been turned off and the fact that he'd tried to call Mac three times in one evening had Cheryl's nose twitching.

‘If there's something wrong, George, then you must tell me. I know you've got a good relationship with Inspector McGregor, but he's a busy man and you aren't his responsibility.'

‘It's nothing,' George told her. ‘Nothing important.' But he was painfully aware that his behaviour told her a different tale. In the end he tried Rina and discovered that Mac and Tim were out for the night.

‘They've gone where?' George burst out laughing, the tension he had felt since seeing the blond man receding for a moment or two at the thought of Mac and Tim being in a pub quiz.

‘Anything I can do?' Rina asked.

George was aware of Cheryl hovering in the doorway. He wished, fervently, that he had a mobile phone. One he could use in the privacy of his room. He tried to think of a way of telling Rina what he wanted without Cheryl hearing and demanding further explanation.

‘Cheryl, can I make myself some tea?' Ursula asked, appearing suddenly in the hall behind her.

‘Course you can love.'

‘Do you want one? Do you think Christine will? Shall I go and ask her?'

George whispered a prayer of thanks to the god of friends. ‘Just tell him I've seen the blond man,' he said. Then a little more loudly: ‘He promised to get me some information I needed for my homework. I just wondered if he'd had the time, that's all, only it needs to be in next week.'

‘Having trouble with ear wiggers are we?' Rina asked. ‘All right, George, message received. I'll catch him when he comes back tonight.'

‘Thanks Rina,' George said. He lowered the receiver and glanced round. Cheryl was still talking to Ursula but looking his way with a slight frown creasing between her eyes. It was clear that she knew she was being hoodwinked but she didn't seem to have heard enough of the conversation to know why or over what.