Unti Lucy Black Novel #3 by Brian McGilloway Read Free Book Online Page B

bin?”
    â€œThe body in the bin? They were talking about it at the soup kitchen. Was it Crackers?”
    â€œWe don’t know,” Lucy said.
    â€œHe used to be about a lot,” the woman said. “But I’ve not seen him for months.”
    â€œCan you remember when exactly?”
    â€œWhat month is this?” the woman asked, as those around her cackled with laughter.
    â€œIt’s the summer, sure the bloody sun’s beating down,” Sammy said.
    â€œBefore Easter,” the woman said. “Earlier maybe. Not for ages.”
    â€œThank you.” Lucy smiled. “If you hear anything about it, will you try to get in touch with us?”
    She offered the woman her card, but she didn’t take it.
    â€œLike I have a phone, love,” she said, joining the others in laughter. However, the girl in the red sneakers reached across and took the card from her.
    Sammy swallowed a mouthful of cider and passed the bottle to the girl next to him. “We’ll let someone know if we see him.”
    â€œThe fella in the bin? Was he sleeping in there?” the woman asked, her laughter fit passed. “Is that what happened?”
    â€œWe don’t know,” Lucy said.
    The girl in the red sneakers snorted derisively. “Of course he wasn’t.”
    Lucy examined her a little more closely. “Why do you say that?”
    â€œSure why would you sleep in a bin in this heat?” the young girl said. “You’d be baked.” She lifted the cider bottle to her mouth and gulped down a mouthful while trickles spilled from the corners of her mouth.
    Lucy nodded agreement. The girl watched her and smiled.
    â€œI could be a cop,” the girl said, offering the bottle out to Lucy. “If I wanted.”
    â€œNo, thanks,” she said, to the proffered drink. “And I’ve no doubt you could have been.”
    â€œCould be, I said,” the girl corrected her, sharply.

 
    Chapter Twelve
    L U CY DIDN’T SPEAK as they got back into the car.
    â€œWhat’s up?” Fleming asked as she started the engine.
    â€œI don’t get it,” she said, aware that she needed to tread carefully in the conversation with Fleming. “I understand alcoholism is a disease; I get that, I do. And I have every sympathy for someone struggling with it. But I don’t see the appeal in . . . in that,” she said, nodding toward the museum. “Sitting there, drinking all day.”
    Fleming said nothing and, for a moment, Lucy was worried she had offended him.
    â€œLike, that girl? With the red shoes. Why would she choose to spend her days like that?”
    â€œStreet drinkers are a special breed,” Fleming said. “To everyone else they’re the lowest of the low, and they know that. There’s only one place they can go where they won’t be judged. Among others like themselves.”
    â€œBut she must have a home—­” Lucy began.
    â€œThat question you asked; why would she choose? Over there’s the one place she’ll not be made to think of an answer to that. The other drinkers all know what they are. There’s no denial. And they’ll accept her so long as she sticks to whatever rules they operate by. That’s a home by somebody’s definition. Or an approximation of one at least.”
    Lucy wasn’t convinced but thought better than to pursue the discussion. She was relieved when her phone rang as they made their way down the Strand Road toward a second spot where the homeless congregated in a local car park. It was Burns.
    â€œAny luck on a name?” he asked, without preamble.
    â€œPossibly,” Fleming said. “Kamil Krawiec. We’ve been asking round and no one has seen him in a while. We got a picture of him.”
    â€œGreat,” Burns said. “The PM is being done at the minute. Can you take the picture up to the hospital, see if they can compare it with him