DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists Page 11

  For a while Adèle sat and wept, but it got so cold that she had to move, so she packed a few things in a carrier bag and thought about what to do next. It was a toss-up which was worse, emergency shelters or hostels, but right now she would be grateful for anything. The hostels would all be full in this weather anyway, and it was too late for them anyroad. At least an emergency shelter would only be for a few days, until the thaw. There had to be a thaw soon — this pigging weather couldn’t go on for ever.

  She started taking apart the ramshackle tent. If she had to leave her stuff here for a few days, she could at least make it look like it wasn’t worth robbing. She wasn’t about to risk taking her primus and sleeping bag to a shelter — they were full of knockoffs and Shylocks.

  She layered the cardboard and plastic over the blue pinboards and hid her valuables under the lot. It looked like a pile of rubbish — stuff kids might use for a bonfire.

  * * *

  Samaritans. Call logged at 11.05 p.m., Thursday. Male. 15 +? No name given. Seemed very distressed. ‘It wasn’t an accident. What happened to Ryan Connelly.’ The caller broke down. Then he repeated, ‘It wasn’t an accident’ and hung up. Call ended 11.09 p.m.

  The Samaritan who took the call asked for advice from the duty manager. No further action was taken.

  11

  Coral called Geri in to her office at break time on Friday morning. She seated Geri opposite her, while she sat behind her desk, so Geri knew it was official.

  ‘What in the world happened yesterday?’ she demanded, without preamble.

  ‘Happened?’

  ‘We’ve had a complaint from Mr Connelly.’

  Geri flushed. ‘I knew he was upset, but I was really just a bystander caught in the middle of a family row.’

  ‘That’s not his interpretation.’

  ‘I did say I couldn’t believe that Ryan—’

  Coral raised a hand to interrupt. ‘The police have told us that there was no sign of assault — physical or sexual.’

  ‘I know,’ Geri said. ‘I know all that.’

  ‘And there’s nothing to suggest that anyone else was involved.’

  ‘Yes, I know . . .’

  ‘So why are you obsessed with the idea he was coerced?’

  ‘Because I know Ryan.’ Geri caught herself, closing her eyes for a moment and taking a couple of calming breaths. It was still so hard to get the tenses right. ‘I . . . knew Ryan.’

  ‘We all did,’ Coral said, softening a little. ‘He was a good lad. He’d’ve most likely been made Head Boy next year. But we all make mistakes.’

  ‘You only saw Ryan in school,’ Geri said stubbornly. ‘I saw him in situations where he could let his hair down.’

  ‘The youth club . . .’

  ‘Yes!’ Geri replied, indignant at Coral’s dismissive tone. ‘Ryan never even got drunk, as far as I know.’

  ‘As far as you know,’ Coral repeated oppressively. ‘But you can’t be sure. Look . . .’ She seemed to be deliberating, wondering if Geri could be trusted, then she nodded to herself and went on. ‘Melvin — my youngest — he was caught at a rave with Ecstasy on him, two years ago now. I had no idea. He said, “Everyone does it. They think you’re weird if you don’t.” You think you knew Ryan?’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Think how I felt, my own son! He lives in my house and I don’t know what he’s up to.’

  ‘You didn’t hear Ryan at the youth club, talking to the other kids about it.’

  ‘I’m not saying he was a regular user. You’ve seen the leaflets, Geri. One fifth of glue-sniffing deaths are first-time users.’

  ‘They haven’t even got the toxicology reports back yet! They’re basing their assumptions on a few pots of glue — aerosol cans . . .’ She was too angry to go on, but she knew that Ryan wouldn’t have been in that squalid place out of choice; knew it with an obdurate assurance born more of loyalty than reason.

  Coral exhaled loudly and slapped the table with the palms of her hands. ‘’Fess up, girl, you just don’t want to admit he did this to himself.’

  Geri tried to be honest. ‘I was relieved when they said he hadn’t been assaulted, but okay, I admit that a part of me was disappointed in him.’

  Coral sat back. ‘You see?’

  ‘But Coral, I’d prefer to believe it was an accident. That way, I wouldn’t have to think about who was with him when he died. Did they hurt him; did he die afraid — in pain?’ The air seemed suddenly thin and she had difficulty breathing.

  ‘You’ll drive yourself crazy, thinking like that. Look at the facts.’ Coral counted the points off on one hand: ‘He was acting strangely the night he died. His friends thought he had taken something. He disappeared off on his own — on his own,’ she stressed. ‘And he was found with no signs of violence on his body, with solvents in his blood, and with glue-sniffing gear nearby.’

  ‘And the literature also says that glue-sniffing isn’t a solitary pastime, it’s a group event. And it’s usually younger kids, not lads Ryan’s age! I can’t help the way I feel, Coral. I don’t believe he was alone, and neither does Mrs Connelly.’ If she sounded defiant, she didn’t care. ‘I don’t regret what I said.’

  ‘Geri!’ Coral launched the full force of one of her disappointed looks at her.

  ‘Ryan always stood up for the kids who didn’t have the nerve to speak up for themselves.’ Geri shrugged. ‘He deserves a bit more . . .’ She wasn’t sure what.

  ‘Loyalty?’ Coral offered. ‘Blind loyalty can be destructive, Geri,’ she said gently.

  ‘Like blind faith,’ Geri said, bitterly, before she could catch the words and stop them.

  Coral stood up, towering over Geri. ‘You were supposed to ask after Dean, deliver a mass card and leave.’

  ‘I did!’

  Coral leaned across the table towards her, resting her weight on her broad forearms. ‘So how did you end up attending a spiritualist meeting with Mrs Connelly?’

  ‘Oh.’ Geri was hoping that Mrs Connelly would keep that to herself.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She was distraught, Coral. I was worried about her. I gave her a lift, that’s all.’

  Coral’s brown eyes searched hers. At last she seemed satisfied that Geri wasn’t hiding anything from her, and she sat down again with a sigh. ‘Ill-advised,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe, but would you have left her in those circumstances?’

  ‘I might’ve tried to persuade her against it. I might even have suggested she talk to her parish priest.’ The reproach in her tone was a criticism, not only of Geri’s actions the previous night, but a sad reflection on her lack of faith. As if to ram her point home, Coral added, ‘Anyway, I thought you didn’t believe in all that.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Geri answered. ‘And I didn’t know where she was going, otherwise—’

  ‘You drove her there, for heaven’s sake! How can you say you didn’t know?’

  Geri pushed a hand through her hair and tried to think how to explain herself. As she opened her mouth to begin, Coral spoke again.

  ‘Never mind. I don’t want to hear it. I thought you had a bit more sense — a bit more sensitivity.’ She sighed and shook her head, and her beads clicked disapprovingly. ‘A bit more respect.’

  Geri was dismayed. She liked Coral. It hurt her to think she could have such a bad opinion of her. Did she think Geri had some mischievous aim in taking Mrs Connelly to the meeting?

  ‘Coral . . .’ she began.

  ‘No,’ Coral said, raising a hand to silence her. ‘Don’t bother trying to justify what you did. Just stay away from that family, now, you hear me? Take time to think about it over the weekend. But keep away from the Connellys.’

  * * *

  Garvey took his tray and carried it over to where Vince was sitting. Ian Winters was with him. They had spent a fruitless day checking out lockups near the docks — a tip-off from a snout that had come eight hours too late. If the stuff was ever there, Stanfield had moved it elsewhere. The WPC’s attack o
f nerves had cost him dearly. Still, he thought, I got one useful bit of information today.

  He started a conversation about football, but Vince didn’t seem interested in joining in. ‘Who d’you support, then?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not all that keen on football,’ Vince replied. ‘But if I’m pushed to it, Man United.’

  Garvey laughed. ‘That why you came up north is it — the football?’

  ‘That and the warmth of the northern welcome,’ Vince said.

  The irony was lost on Garvey. ‘So, you’re not escaping a broken love affair?’

  Vince shot him a sharp glance. ‘How come you’re so interested all of a sudden?’

  ‘Well, for some people, it isn’t what they’re coming to that’s important, it’s what they’re leaving behind. Love affairs, family problems, a balls-up at work.’

  Vince looked away, and Garvey knew he had scored a hit.

  ‘You know, once you get a bad rep, it’s a bastard to shake it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Vince said. ‘You should know.’

  Garvey had expected that. He grinned. ‘He’s hysterical, isn’t he?’

  Winters smiled, but he couldn’t see where Garvey was taking this.

  ‘No,’ Garvey went on, ‘go on, mate. Tell us what made you give up the Met. I mean, people move south — better career prospects and all that, but there’s not many move north from London.’

  ‘It’s the chance of working with pros like you.’

  Garvey could see Vince was trying hard to stay cool, but he had him on the run.

  ‘I can see that would be an attraction, but what made you take the leap of faith?’ He shot Winters a droll glance. ‘What pushed you over the edge?’

  The colour drained from Vince’s face. He cleared his plates and muttered that he had work to do.

  ‘Haven’t hurt your feelings have I, mate?’ Garvey said.

  Winters looked in askance at Garvey, but he waited for Vince to leave, watching his back, willing him to turn, so he could smile or drop him a wink.

  ‘What the hell was all that about?’ Winters demanded.

  Garvey tilted his head. ‘I got a result on that bit of digging, and I’ve turned up some very juicy bones, Ian.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  Garvey smiled to himself. ‘It all makes sense — the drugs liaison, the youth community work . . . He’s trying to make amends.’

  * * *

  Later, in the abandoned trading quarter, a lone figure makes its way through the slush, slipping on the ice compacted by the police and journalists and friends and thrill-seekers who have made the pilgrimage to the site since Wednesday. He stops in front of the low terrace of artisans’ cottages. Their mud-coloured bricks are crumbling now, the mortar ruined by damp.

  He walks to the end house and listens to the blue-and-white police tape flutter and buzz in the bitter north-easterly wind. He looks up at the first-floor windows, remembering. Flowers have been placed in the doorway, still wrapped, frost-damaged, already faded and browning to become part of the litter on the narrow street.

  He doesn’t understand the urges that have brought him back here, but since he first brought Ryan to this place, he has gone over and over the events that followed in his mind, and it isn’t only the sex that is a turn-on.

  He won’t go in. He wants to remember Ryan as he was, that final time.

  Looking up at the soot-blackened window frame, he visualises Ryan, kneeling at his feet, and unthinking, closes his eyes and begins to masturbate.

  * * *

  Betty Mandel stood at the window looking out onto the street. She wrestled with feelings of irritation and disappointment. He was late. He promised he would come, and he was late.

  It was bad enough having limited mobility, but this snow had made her a virtual prisoner in her own home. And Anthony never came — almost never — Sunday dinner once a month was all him and his stuck-up wife could manage. Picked up and dropped off like a package. She was just one of her son’s responsibilities, a cross to bear.

  Then she saw her grandson’s head and shoulders above the hedge, and she felt a burst of pleasure. She made her way to the front door as quickly as her arthritic joints would allow, waiting in the hall as he let himself in with his latchkey.

  ‘All right, Gran?’ He closed the door softly. It was one of the things Betty loved about her Barry; he was so considerate. He didn’t go banging about the place, shouting at the top of his voice, playing loud music. Her Barry was the quiet type.

  She beamed at him, ‘Thought you weren’t coming.’

  He slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her the gentlest of squeezes. ‘And let down my best girl?’

  She gave him a shove. ‘Get off with you! You could charm snakes with that tongue of yours.’

  He laughed his soft, self-mocking laugh. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ He went straight through to the kitchen and got the brew on while she followed more slowly, wincing a little at every step, too proud to use her walking frame while he was in the house, too crippled to move at more than a shuffle.

  He had found the lemon cake and cut a couple of slices by the time she got to the door.

  ‘I’ve been saving that,’ she said, with a reproachful look.

  He glanced up from stirring the teapot and grinned.

  ‘For your favourite grandson.’

  She wagged one twisted finger at him. ‘There’s a word for lads like you.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, happily filling his face with cake. ‘Incorrigible.’

  That was the difference between Barry and his dad. Barry would have a joke with her. Pass the time of day. He didn’t make her feel like a nuisance. They sat and talked, supping their tea until nearly eleven, then he brushed the crumbs carefully from his hands onto the plate and stood up. ‘I’ll just check on things,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘Righto.’ She began clearing away the plates and he disappeared. She heard him for ten or fifteen minutes, walking lightly about upstairs. He appeared at the kitchen door as she dried the last dish.

  ‘All bedded down for the night,’ he said. She gave his cheek a dry kiss and watched him leave, happy to let him go because she knew he would be back at the weekend for a cup of tea and a natter. If the snow was still lying, she would ask him to clear the path for her. And she’d need a bit of shopping doing.

  * * *

  As he walked home, Baz reflected on the turn of events that had given him his chance to grow his own quality dope in quantity. He considered expanding into the student pubs and clubs; demand already outstripped supply at school, but with the extra growing capacity he had set up over the last few weeks, he could be more ambitious. The arrogance of youth gave him the confidence that he could tackle the main dealer in the area — after all, he was in a vulnerable position, and all Baz need do was hint that he might mention what he knew in the right quarter.

  If his biology teacher knew how much interest he was taking in botany, she’d be proud of him. The new set of clones was coming on nicely since he’d got the 1000W halide lamps and cooling fans, and the buds on the first cohort which he’d switched to a 12/12 diurnal cycle three weeks previously were fattening well. He did a mental calculation of growing times and predicted crop weights: six plants per cohort, a minimum of three quarters of an ounce per plant every eight or nine weeks. On a rotational basis, with three cohorts on the go, that made a minimum of three to four ounces every three weeks. Enough and plenty to spare.

  12

  The distant clatter of crockery and heavenly smells of bacon and toast woke Geri on Saturday morning. It was after eleven. She rolled out of bed and groaned at the ache in her calves and thighs. Nick had taken her dancing as the prescribed antidote to the gloom that had descended on her since her interview with Coral. All the resentment and cold distance he had put between them during the week was gone, and he was full of sparky energy and wit. Nick always was at his best when things were going badly for her, she reflected. The notion wasn’t a comfortable one. />
  She groped her dressing gown from the door and stumbled downstairs. Nick was whistling out of tune to something on the radio. He looked up from buttering toast as she came in.

  ‘Don’t you look a picture!’ he chuckled. ‘Hang on a tick, I’ll get my camera.’

  ‘Sod off.’ Geri was not in the mood for banter. She sat down with a grunt of pain and poured herself a coffee. Nick had propped the mail up against the milk bottle, and Geri sifted through it with a pang of anxiety: the habit of fear was quickly acquired. She hadn’t yet got over the threatening note, even though there had been no repetition of it.

  Nick scooped a couple of rashers of bacon out of the frying pan onto a plate and handed it to her with the toast.

  ‘Fancy an egg?’ he asked.

  Geri shook her head. ‘What’s made you so bloody cheerful?’ she demanded, making a sandwich of the bacon.

  He leaned across the table and planted a kiss squarely in the middle of her forehead. ‘You’re always at your best in the morning, my sweet,’ he said.

  Geri invited him to sod off again. ‘Anyway,’ she added. ‘“Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast”.’

  He had long given up asking her who she was quoting, so he carried on: ‘I’ve got a few bits to pick up for the bike, then I thought I’d do an hour or two at the gym. Fancy coming?’

  Geri winced. ‘I’ve got aches in places I didn’t know had muscles,’ she said.

  ‘Do you good,’ he said. ‘Get some of that lactic acid metabolised.’

  ‘It’s too early in the morning for science,’ Geri complained. ‘I think I’ll just have a soak in the bath.’ She had already decided to call round and see Siân that afternoon. She knew Frank was hiding something, and if anyone knew what it was, Siân would.

  Nick finished his breakfast on the hoof, ruffled her hair, dodged her fist lightly and, laughing, slammed out of the house.

  It took her two hours to get herself together. She had looked up Siân’s address in the school records before coming home on Friday. She lived in a cluster of new houses put up by a local builder when a row of terraces had been demolished. They huddled at the bottom of a hill, adjacent to the school playing fields.