Bad Blood

Book 0: Lucy Black Thrillers

by Brian McGilloway

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

A young man is found in a riverside park, his head bashed in with a rock. The only clue to his identity is an admission stamp for the local gay club. DS Lucy Black is called in to investigate. As Lucy delves into the community, tensions begin to rise as the man's death draws the attention of the local gay rights group to a hate-speech pastor who, days earlier, had advocated the stoning of gay people and who refuses to retract his statement. Things become more complicated with the emergence of a far-right group targeting immigrants in a local working-class estate. As their attacks escalate, Lucy and her boss, Tom Fleming, must also deal with the building power struggle between an old paramilitary commander and his deputy that threatens to further enflame an already volatile situation. Hatred and complicity abound in the days leading up to the Brexit vote in McGilloway's new Lucy Black thriller. Compelling and current, Bad Blood is expertly crafted and acutely observed.

Release date: November 19, 2020

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 368

Sample

The hall was already packed by the time Detective Inspector Tom Fleming arrived. The air was sweet with perfume and talc and, beneath that, from the farmers still wearing their work clothes, the scent of sweat and the smell of the earth.

The congregation were on their feet, being led in the opening hymn by Pastor James Nixon. Fleming smiled apologetically at those he squeezed past to get to a free seat in the third row from the back. The hymn finished, the assembly took their seats just as Fleming reached his, and settled to listen to the words of Pastor Nixon.

‘My brothers and sisters, it is a great honour to be here with you this evening and to see so many of you have taken the time to come and pray with me.’ His voice was strong despite his age, a rich baritone still carrying the inflections of his native Ballymena accent.

‘But it is a time of great challenge for us all. Daily, all good people face an assault on their morality with the rampant homosexual agenda that assails us and belittles everything we hold to be true and dear. Men of conscience are tried for refusing to make a cake celebrating homosexuality or print leaflets and posters furthering that agenda. And on the other side of the border, the Irish Republic has voted to allow homosexuals to marry, as if two women playing house is no different to the consummated union of a man and a woman. As if it is not a perversion which shames us all.’

A few voices appended his comment with ‘Amen’.

Nixon raised his hands, acknowledging their support. ‘There are those who would silence me, silence us. They tell us we must accept homosexuals in our town, our shops, allow homosexual bars and public houses to operate on our streets. We must allow sodomites to teach our children and to corrupt our young. We must stay silent while a new Gomorrah is built next to our homes and farms, our shops and schools. They say I am dangerous. They say I preach hatred. They say I should be silent. But I say this: I say that there is no danger in truth. I say that there is no hatred in goodness. And I say that I will not be silent.’

Another chorus of ‘Amens’ greeted his proclamation, accompanied by a smattering of applause which began at the front and rippled its way through the hall.

‘I will not stand idly by as our families are exposed to sin and depravity. I will not countenance the laws of the land being used to protect profane persons, allowing them to indulge their lustful practices, forcing those of us with consciences to humour this lifestyle. It is an abomination. The people who practise it are abominations and, like those before them, they will end in fire and brimstone.’

Fleming glanced around at the others in the congregation. While one or two shifted uncomfortably in their seats, for the most part the listeners sat intently waiting for Nixon to continue.

‘Friends, only last week, I read of an African nation – a heathen nation, a Godless nation – who arrested two men for homosexual acts. One of these men was sixteen. Sixteen! And do you know what they did to the pair of them? They stoned them. They took them out of the town and they threw rocks at them until the pair of them were dead. And do you know what I thought? Shall I tell you?’

An elderly lady in the front row called out ‘Yes’, to the amusement of those around her. Nixon smiled mildly at her, as if indulging her.

‘Stoning was too good for those men. Every rock that struck them was a just reward for their sinfulness, their immorality, their ungodly behaviour. Every drop of their blood that stained the ground was a reminder that they deserved to die. It was the wages of their sin!’

‘ROMAN’S OUT!’

The words were written with red paint, each letter almost a foot high, on the gable wall of the house, large enough certainly that Detective Sergeant Lucy Black could read them clearly in the light of her car’s headlamps even as she rounded the corner into the Greenway Estate. A small crowd of neighbours was standing on the pavement outside the house, watching as a uniformed officer, notebook in hand, copied down the content of the graffiti. Considering it only consisted of two words, he was taking a suspiciously long time to do so.

‘DS Black,’ she offered as she approached him. He was a little taller than her, lithe, wiry, with dark brown hair that had curled with length. She noticed in the glare of the street lamp a patch of shiny skin on his cheek, half hidden beneath the length of his sideburns.

‘Lloyd,’ he said. ‘My partner, Constable Huey, is in with the family.’

‘So what’s the story?’

Lloyd nodded at the letters, as if Lucy had somehow missed them. ‘Someone doesn’t like Romanians living in the area.’

‘Nor Romans, apparently,’ Lucy joked.

‘What?’

‘It says Romans,’ Lucy explained. ‘Romans are from Rome, not Romania.’

Lloyd stared at her a moment. ‘Well, that’s useful, Sergeant,’ he said.

‘Glad to be of assistance, Constable,’ Lucy said. She knocked on the front door, then moved into the house. The small hallway gave onto a kitchen to the rear and, to Lucy’s left, a lounge. It was here that the family was sitting.

The mother sat at one end of the sofa, leaving a gap between herself and the uniformed officer, whom Lucy assumed to be Constable Huey. On the only other seat in the room – an oversized armchair – sat the father and, balanced on the armrest next to him, their teenage son.

‘Good evening,’ Lucy said. ‘I’m DS Black with the Public Protection Unit. We deal with any incidents involving vulnerable individuals. I’m sorry to see what’s been done to your home.’

Huey stood, her relief at having another officer with her clear, and Lucy began to understand why Lloyd was spending so much time out at the wall. ‘I’m Constable Huey. We were the first on scene. My partn—’

‘I met him,’ Lucy said.

‘This is Constanta, Andre and Adrian Lupei,’ Huey offered, nodding at each in turn as she named them, though the proximity of the father and son meant Lucy wasn’t initially clear which was which. ‘Would you like a seat? Shall I make tea?’ she added before Lucy could refuse. Constanta Lupei rose to help her but Huey raised her hand. ‘No, please, Mrs Lupei, I’ll make it. I’m sure DS Black would like to hear what you’ve told me.’

Lucy smiled encouragingly, taking the vacated space on the sofa. ‘So, can you tell me what happened? In your own words?’

Constanta looked to her husband who nodded lightly, as if granting permission for her to speak.

‘Andre was at work,’ she began. ‘Adrian was in his room when I heard him shouting. I was in here, with the TV on,’ she explained. ‘I’d been cleaning the house and wanted to sit,’ she added. Lucy nodded, encouraging her to continue, keen not to interrupt.

‘I heard Adrian calling and I went out. “There’s someone in the garden,” he shouted. “I think it’s them.” I looked out of the window and they were there. Two of them—’

‘Three,’ Adrian said. ‘There was one waiting by the car. The driver.’

‘Three,’ Constanta agreed. ‘They were finishing when they saw me. One came running over and threw the rest of the paint … the pot, at the window. Then they ran. Adrian came down and went out after them, but they were already getting into the car.’

‘Did you get a good look at any of them?’ Lucy asked. ‘The one who came to the window?’

Constanta shook her head. ‘They had their faces covered,’ she said, ‘with scarves. Like football scarves.’

‘What about you, Adrian? Did you see anything? The make of the car, maybe? Or the colour.’

‘I’m not … I can’t remember exactly. Dark, I think,’ he said.

‘You didn’t notice anything else?’

‘Sorry,’ Adrian said, bowing his head a little in a gesture Lucy took to be apologetic.

‘I take it this isn’t the first incident,’ Lucy said. ‘You told your mother, “It’s them again.” What else has happened?’

‘We just want to be left in peace.’ Andre Lupei spoke for the first time. ‘We don’t want any trouble.’

‘I understand that, sir,’ Lucy said. ‘And you deserve to live in peace.’

‘Do you think they’ll leave us in peace if they see us talking to you? That man standing out there at the wall in his uniform, letting everyone in the estate know that we reported them to the police.’

‘Where do you work, Mr Lupei?’ Lucy asked. ‘Your wife mentioned you were at work.’

‘The hospital,’ the man said, his annoyance at her changing the subject reflected in the curtness of his reply. ‘In the kitchens.’

‘That must be a tough job, feeding all those patients. And staff. Long hours, too, if you were only getting home now.’ She glanced to the clock on the mantelpiece. It was gone 10 p.m.

‘I finished at eight. It was almost nine by the time I walked down.’

‘I can understand how angry you must be,’ Lucy said. ‘Someone doing this to your home, your family.’

Andre shook his head. ‘I’m not angry. I just want to be left alone.’

‘So, has anything happened before?’

He stared at her, then shook his head. ‘They shout some abuse at me, when I’m on my way home from work, sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘Gypsy mostly. They know we are Roma.’

‘Tell her about the leaflet,’ Constanta said, earning only a glare of disapproval from her husband.

‘What leaflet?’ Lucy asked.

‘It’s nothing,’ Andre began.

‘If you want me to help you, I need to know the whole picture,’ Lucy said. ‘What leaflet, Mrs Lupei?’

The woman glanced again at her husband, but this time, Lucy could sense that she was no longer seeking his permission. She stood and moved across to the mantelpiece. From behind the clock she withdrew a small folded page which she handed to Lucy. It was an A5 sheet. The headline banner read simply ‘Warning’, while beneath was a Photoshopped picture of people of various ethnic minority groups. Lucy scanned down through the brief text. It referred to the upcoming Brexit vote and the chance to end immigration, before stating, ‘Local housing is for local people only!’ In the bottom right-hand corner was a hand raised, like the red hand of Ulster, though in the colours of the Union Jack flag. Beside it, in small print, was the name ‘McEwan’s Printers’ and a telephone number.

‘Can I hold onto this?’ she asked.

Constanta nodded.

‘When did you get it?’

‘They were posted into all the houses in the area,’ Andre said. ‘A week ago.’

‘That must have been quite unpleasant,’ Lucy said.

‘For her,’ Andre commented, motioning towards his wife. ‘It’s just talk. That’s all.’

The door opened and Constable Huey came in bearing a mismatched set of mugs of tea on a tray. ‘I couldn’t find sugar,’ she said apologetically.

‘Have you anywhere else you could stay in the meantime?’ Lucy asked.

Andre shook his head. ‘This is our home. We put everything into buying this. We have a right to stay.’

‘I understand that,’ Lucy said, ‘but you have your wife and son to think of as well.’

‘I am thinking of them,’ he said simply. ‘What kind of a father runs from bullies?’

The smell of gloss paint caught the back of her throat the moment Lucy opened her front door. The hallway carpet had been lifted and the wooden boards beneath exposed and polished. They were covered now in old sheets on which Grace, Lucy’s lodger, knelt as she painted the skirting boards.

‘Hi,’ she offered, not looking up from her work, careful not to smear the wooden floors with the brush, the tip of her tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she concentrated.

‘I thought you were working tonight,’ Lucy said, stopping to survey the paint job. ‘It looks well. I feel guilty you’re doing it mostly yourself.’

‘My shift finished at seven,’ Grace said. ‘I’m happy enough; there’s a big Gay Pride bash tonight, so it’ll be manic busy. The rent’s on the table, by the way.’

Grace had been living on the streets when Lucy first met her while investigating a construction gang that had been exploiting homeless people for free labour. Grace had been surviving on money she earned as a prostitute, working out of an old abandoned building in the city centre. One of her Johns had beaten her severely enough to leave her in hospital. On her release, Lucy had suggested that Grace lodge with her. In the months since, the young girl had got herself a job in a local pub and had not failed to pay Lucy the agreed nominal rent of £10 per week. To compensate for the paucity of her financial contribution, Grace did as much work around the house as she could, including leading the redecorating that Lucy had long ago planned but never managed to start.

Lucy moved into the living room and lifted the envelope sitting on the table. The top left-hand corner carried a small set of angel’s wings, the logo of the club, Paradise, where Grace worked. Inside were five ten-pound notes.

‘There’s too much in here,’ Lucy said.

‘It’s a five-week month,’ Grace muttered.

Lucy knew better than to argue. ‘Have you eaten yet?’

‘There’s nothing in.’

Lucy pulled out two of the tenners from the envelope.

‘Pizza?’

Grace poked her head around the corner of the architrave she was painting.

‘Always.’

As they parked outside the pizzeria on Spencer Road, a group of men disgorged onto the street from the bar opposite. One of them wore a pair of false breasts over his shirt and a feather boa around his neck. The others were cheering him on as he downed the remains of the pint that the doorman had tried to take from him to transfer into a plastic cup.

Lucy and Grace ordered a large Chicken and Mushroom, then sat on the windowsill inside, waiting for their order. As they did so, the group of men pushed their way into the takeaway.

‘Have youse shitters?’ one of the men asked.

The cashier nodded without comment towards a door in the far corner marked with a wheelchair sign. The request, it transpired, was for the benefit of the man who’d downed his beer, for he staggered in through the main door and, with his friend’s prompting, made a blundering beeline for the toilet. Now in the light, Lucy could see that the man wore eyeliner and lipstick, while someone had drawn a huge beauty spot on his cheek. The cashier watched wordlessly as he made his way past her, then she glanced at Lucy and Grace and raised her eyebrows.

‘Lucy!’

It took Lucy a second to recognise the speaker, seeing him so out of context. DS Mickey Sinclair, a member of CID in the city, stared down at her where she sat, bleary eyed but smiling broadly. He wore jeans and a white shirt. Lucy noticed that on one cheek he bore a lipstick kiss that, she guessed from the size, he’d earned from the stag who was currently trying to operate the handle on the toilet door.

‘Mickey. Are you—’

‘Stag night. Ian there’s getting hitched next weekend.’

‘Very good.’ Lucy smiled. ‘Congratulations. To him, obviously.’

Mickey had transferred his attention to Grace. He leaned over, losing his balance as he offered her his hand, with the result that he had to grip Lucy’s knee with his other hand to keep himself upright.

‘Sorry,’ he said, raising both hands in a pantomime of apology. ‘Mickey Sinclair.’

‘Grace,’ she said, managing a light smile, then glancing at Lucy.

‘Are you out for the night?’ Mickey asked, straightening, in an attempt to appear more sober.

‘Just grabbing dinner,’ Lucy said.

‘That’s you,’ the cashier called and Grace stood while Lucy pulled the money from her pocket and gave it to her.

‘Are you her sister?’ Mickey asked Grace, glancing from one to the other as if searching for familial resemblances.

‘No. I just live with her,’ Grace said. ‘Excuse me.’

Mickey straightened again, as if having trouble balancing on the balls of his feet. ‘She lives with you?’

The emergence of the stag from the toilets distracted them. He came out fondling his rubber breasts while one of his mates rushed across and started rubbing his groin against the man’s leg as he too groped at the rubber.

‘She lodges—’ Lucy began to explain.

But Mickey had already made up his mind for he raised a finger to his lips and winked at her conspiratorially.

‘Goodnight, Mickey.’

‘You too, Lucy.’ He looked across at Grace, his expression changing. ‘You two girls have a good night.’

He watched them leave and, as Lucy climbed into her car outside, he was still watching them through the window, joined this time by two of his friends. Grace fastened her seat belt, then wound down the window and blew them a kiss.

‘Who’s he? A friend?’

‘A colleague,’ Lucy said. ‘He’s—’

‘A bit of an asshole,’ Grace said, closing the window.

Mickey was still staring after them as Lucy drove back down the street and on towards home.

‘There’s no explicit threat to this family,’ DI Tom Fleming, Lucy’s boss, said, laying the leaflet she had given him on the counter. He’d been making tea in the small kitchenette of Block 10, which housed the Public Protection Unit, when Lucy had arrived for work.

‘There is an implicit threat,’ Lucy said. ‘All that stuff about keeping immigrants out? Non locals not being welcome?’

‘But made in the context of Brexit,’ Fleming said. ‘It’s hardly the first leaflet to make that connection.’ The following Thursday, the country would be voting on whether or not to remain part of the European Union. Much of the debate had focused on the issue of immigration and border control: not all of it had been particularly edifying.

‘But now there’s graffiti—’

Fleming raised a hand in placation. ‘I’m not saying they’re not being intimidated, Lucy; I’m saying that this leaflet—’

‘They’re being specifically targeted,’ Lucy said.

‘But not in this,’ Fleming said, holding up the sheet of paper. ‘Look, you know if we take this further, that’s what we’ll be told. There’s no specific threat, it doesn’t actually name the Lupei family. If you take this to the Assistant Chief Constable, you know she’ll say that. Have they anywhere else they can go? Any family?’

Lucy shook her head. ‘The father’s digging in his heels. He doesn’t think he should be forced out of his house.’

‘Well, he’s right,’ Fleming said. ‘But that will be little comfort if things escalate. Let’s check out the printers who produced this, find out who placed the order. And maybe see what we can dig up on the Greenway Estate; see who’s running things there at the moment. I know Jackie Moss was—’

The main office phone rang. Fleming lifted the extension-line receiver. ‘Tom Fleming,’ he said. Lucy could hear snippets of the other speaker’s words as she got the milk from the fridge and sniffed it to ensure it was still fresh.

‘We’ll be right across,’ Fleming said, hanging up.

‘No tea?’ Lucy said, pausing before pouring in the milk.

‘The Chief Super wants us down to Bay Road Park. A body’s been found, badly beaten. They think he’s in his teens. They want us to check whether we know him.’

There were already a number of PSNI vehicles and an ambulance parked at the Bay Road Industrial units when Lucy pulled in. A cordon had been set up at the entrance to the park and a small forensics tent marked the site where the victim lay, just on the green area next to the car park. Lucy could see Chief Superintendent Mark Burns standing outside the tent with several members of CID, among them her friend DS Tara Gallagher and, stepping out of the tent now and pulling down his face mask, DS Mickey Sinclair, who appeared to be struggling to not be sick where he stood.

Burns turned at their approach and nodded to Fleming. ‘Tom, Lucy. Thanks for coming across.’

‘What have you got?’ Fleming asked as the officer on the cordon handed them both forensics suits.

‘Late teen, we think. He has no wallet, no ID, nothing. We were hoping he might have featured on the Public Protection Unit radar at some stage.’

The PPU’s remit meant that frequently, Lucy and Fleming would come into contact with youths who would later reappear at some point in the criminal justice system, whether as a perpetrator or, in this case, as a victim.

‘What happened to him?’

‘Extensive head injuries. We’re waiting on the pathologist to get here. SOCOs are working with the victim now.’

Once dressed, Lucy dipped under the cordon and made her way across to the tent. She glanced around her as she did so. Up to her left, at the top of a steep grass embankment, elevated high above the park, were the rears of properties situated in Gleneagles. She could see various occupants standing at their windows looking down at what was happening. Further along to her left, at the far end of the park, she could see the point where the arch of the Foyle Bridge rose beyond the embankment and high above the river running alongside the park. The concrete pillar there was covered with graffiti, though it was impossible to read from this distance.

‘We ready?’ Fleming asked, stopping alongside her.

They moved in under the flapping canvas of the protective tent. The boy lay prone on the ground, his head turned to one side, facing back towards the houses. Immediately, Lucy could see the series of wounds to the side of his head. The forensics photographer held the camera close to one of the wounds and took a final shot, while another officer inched a blue light slowly up and down the victim’s legs, looking for spots of fluids that might not have been instantly visible.

‘Do you recognise him?’ Burns asked.

‘No,’ Fleming said, then glanced at Lucy who shook her head as she studied the boy’s face.

On closer examination, she could see that the head injuries extended around the rear of his skull and onto the left-hand side of his face where his temple carried an open gash. As the photographer leaned in to take pictures of the injuries, the camera’s flash caught something wedged in the open wound.

‘What was that?’ Fleming asked.

The question prompted Burns who had been standing outside the tent assigning duties to. . .