* * *
Vince Beresford cornered DS Garvey by the soft drinks machine. He had returned from St Michael’s to find out that Garvey had taken one of his officers, without proper sanction, to take part in an ill-planned set-up which might have ended with serious injury — or worse. He had just come from a debrief with the WPC involved, and he’d had to send her home.
‘Next time you want officers from my team to do your dirty work, ask me first,’ he said.
Garvey picked up his can of orange from the slot and turned to face Vince. His face was exactly the same shade of red as his lips.
‘What’s the matter, Beresford — frightened they’re not up to the job?’
‘I know they are,’ Vince said. ‘It’s you I’m worried about.’
Garvey opened his mouth to come back at him, but Vince didn’t give him the chance. ‘I’ve worked CID, Garvey. I know the types. You’re the sloppy type. The type who’ll get out of anything dirty or strenuous or dangerous — usually by getting some poor mug to do it for you.’
‘She was glad of the chance to do some real police work,’ Garvey said.
‘She’s inexperienced,’ Vince lowered his voice as a couple of constables in uniform walked past. ‘She felt under pressure to agree to your hare-brained scheme.’
‘Is that what she’s saying?’
‘She doesn’t have to.’
‘Come on, Vince,’ Garvey sneered. ‘She bottled out. They weren’t gonna do anything to her.’
‘You know that, do you?’
Garvey smiled and cracked open the can. It took all of Vince’s self-control to keep from trying to ram it down Garvey’s throat as he took a greedy swallow.
Vince leaned in closer. ‘She was surrounded. Trapped in a cellar with four villains — one of whom was carrying a knife.’
‘“One of whom”?’ Garvey said. ‘Lovely grammar. The fact is, she started screaming blue murder and bollocksed up the entire operation.’
‘She felt under threat.’
‘We lost Stanfield as a result of her feeling under threat. He’s gone to ground. And the lorry-load of booze he nicked could be anywhere by now.’
‘That’s not my concern. You put an inexperienced officer under cover, insufficiently prepared, and with inadequate backup.’ He’d phrased this to sound official, and Garvey responded to the implied threat.
‘That what you’re putting in your report, is it?’ The sneer on his face barely masked Garvey’s anxiety.
Vince returned his stare with cold contempt. ‘That isn’t even the half of it,’ he said.
2
It was cold. Cold enough for ice already to have formed in milky patches in the gutters and in the depressions of cracked paving stones. Geri dug her free hand deep into her coat pocket. She had left her gloves at home in her hurry to get out that morning, away from Nick.
She could have waited for the bus, but at the end of the school day the last thing she felt like doing was supervising children — and she knew that she was incapable of ignoring rowdy behaviour from St Michael’s pupils, even out of school hours.
Anyway, the traffic would be building in the approach to rush hour, and the January sales hadn’t quite finished, which would add to the congestion in the city centre, so it would be faster walking.
Geri lived half a mile from the centre, but on the western side of the city, the shops and offices acting as a buffer-zone between home and school. When she passed the twin towers of NorthWest Assurance, she felt the school day was over.
At first, when her family had moved to the north just short of her tenth birthday, she had felt oppressed by the narrow streets of red-brick terraces and the imposing Victorian gothic architecture of the civic buildings. Now, she derived comfort from the solidity of the houses, the sandstone facades of the museum and art gallery, the lovingly planned and maintained patchwork of parks and gardens squares within walking distance of even the most built-up areas of the city. This was home to her in a way that the succession of pretty suburban houses her parents had taken on short leases had never been. This was the place where, for the first time in her life, she felt settled. Her father had worked as a sales rep — anything from double glazing to greetings cards — and when one job fell through, as it invariably did because of his heavy drinking — they moved to another. In her first nine years of life, Geri had lived on the fringes of no fewer than eight towns and cities from the midlands to the north of England.
She walked quickly, trying to keep warm, and now that the distractions and responsibilities of the school day had ended, she found herself unable to suppress the events of the morning.
It had started well, with Nick volunteering to get up and have breakfast with her. By the time she had showered and trotted down to the kitchen, Nick had opened the blind, and silvery winter sunshine gleamed on the stainless-steel cookware, hung on rails next to the cooking range. His short towelling dressing gown showed a tempting length of thigh. Pumping all that iron had certainly built up his quads and glutes to flattering effect.
His dark hair was so fetchingly tousled, his chin so newly shaven that she almost suspected him of orchestrating some kind of dramatic moment. Nick did that sometimes, usually after they had had one of their more acrimonious rows, but although Sunday evening had brought a routine outburst of bickering, it was nothing too strenuous or bitter, so she couldn’t see a reason for this surge of apparently motiveless charm.
Nick was determinedly cheerful, pouring cereal, brewing coffee and toasting bread as if they were things he did every day.
Geri asked him about his plans — he had the day off — and he told her he had decided to do some work on his bike. Nick had found work at a horticultural research station after three years of short-term contracts in unskilled and poorly paid jobs. After a pause that was just too long to be comfortable, he asked her about her timetable; he had a vague understanding that there were good days and bad days but could never remember which they were.
‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘Double Year Nine lessons five and six, but I’ve a couple of frees this morning and the Sixth Form last two.’ Which reminded her that she had a stack of exam questions to hand back to them.
Nick was saying something, but she interrupted him. ‘Sorry — I’ve got to do this before I forget.’
She ran upstairs to get the papers she had marked in bed and returned, stuffing them into her briefcase before picking up a slice of toast and sitting at the table again.
‘How far on are you on with the bike?’ she asked.
The Triumph Bonneville had been in pieces in the wooden shack at the side of the house for six months. Too large to be described as a shed, and too small for a garage, Nick called it his workshop.
He looked at her but didn’t reply.
‘Nick?’
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘Were you talking to me?’
Geri felt a familiar gnawing pang of unease. His mouth had taken on that down-turned look of sneering petulance that preceded one of his nastier outbursts.
‘Nick, what’s the matter with you?’ At first, he didn’t answer, but she could see he was working himself up to a response.
‘Nick?’ she repeated.
‘I’m in mid-bloody-sentence and she just ups and walks out,’ he said to an unseen third person.
‘I’m getting ready for work. I can’t go in unprepared.’
‘Still,’ he carried on, ignoring what she had said, ‘What could I possibly be saying that was of any fucking interest or importance?’
‘Why d’you have to do this?’ she said. ‘Why d’you have to start a row just as I’m going out of the door?’
‘I didn’t start it, you did.’
She held her hands up. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not getting into this.’ She picked up her briefcase and headed for the hall. Nick followed her.
‘Should I make an appointment, or what? When are you free this week, with your parents’ evenings and your youth club and your eternal bloody p
lay rehearsals?’ His dark eyes glittered angrily.
Geri dragged her coat from the hook and felt something catch and tear.
‘It’s my job, Nick. It pays the mortgage.’
‘Right, throw that in my face. Maybe we should make it official — you could make me up a nice little blue rent book, like Lauren’s.’
‘I wasn’t — I didn’t mean . . .’ He always managed to make it look like she was bitching.
‘Yeah? What did you mean?’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. You won’t listen. You take everything I say and twist it.’
‘Okay.’ He folded his arms. ‘Go ahead. I’m listening.’
‘I haven’t got time, Nick!’
‘That’s the trouble,’ he said, following her to the door, yelling after her, ‘You’ve never got the bloody time!’
Geri heard the door slam behind her.
‘Fuck,’ she muttered. ‘Fuck you, Nick.’ When she realized she hadn’t taken her car keys from the hallstand, she decided to walk. It wasn’t much over a mile to school, and the exercise might improve her mood.
She hadn’t thought about Nick all day, but now, slithering along the glistening pavements on her way home, the anger and frustration she had felt that morning returned as if it had never left her.
‘Miss — Miss Simpson — hiya!’
Geri turned, still glowering, and saw a girl, dressed in a long green waterproof jacket and tracksuit bottoms. Her fair hair hung loose over her shoulders and she wore a woollen hat pulled low over her forehead. She smiled shyly.
It took a moment, but then the name came to her. ‘Adèle!’ Geri exclaimed. ‘Sorry, I was . . .’ Adèle hopped from one foot to the other, her Big Issue magazines clutched to her narrow chest, as if for protection from the cold. ‘You must be freezing,’ she sympathized.
‘Spent most of the day in the library. Thought I’d sell a few before . . .’ She gave a self-deprecating little shrug, and Geri realized she was about to say, ‘Before trying to find somewhere to sleep.’
‘How’s the hostel?’ Geri asked. The last time she had seen her, Adèle told her she was trying out hostel life.
She looked embarrassed. ‘Didn’t take to it.’
Geri regarded her for a moment or two. ‘You’re not there anymore?’
‘Not as such . . .’ She looked ready to cry; her teeth were chattering, and her face was mottled with cold. It was after five p.m., but although she had work to do Geri was in no hurry to go back to one of Nick’s simmering silences. The punishing looks and impatient sighs were more than she was equal to right now.
‘Have you got time for a coffee?’ she asked.
Adèle checked the time on the digital clock over the funeral parlour — a not very subtle reminder, Geri always thought, that you never know the hour . . .
‘Fifteen minutes, the rush’ll be over.’
‘Okay, I’ll meet you at the caff — Let’s have one of those, will you? It’ll give me something to do while I’m waiting.’ She dug into her briefcase and retrieved her purse.
‘Second down, four to go,’ Adèle said, handing over a copy of the magazine.
* * *
Adèle arrived as Geri was ordering her second coffee. Daphna’s coffee shop faced the squat oblong of St Cecilia’s church in a side street cluttered with wine bars and restaurants. Daphna stayed open until seven most nights, thus catching some of the theatregoers who didn’t have time for a restaurant meal before the performance, but who were too hungry to wait to eat afterwards.
Geri added a sandwich and a large latte for Adèle and bought two outrageously huge Danish pastries to go with them.
‘You didn’t like the hostel, then?’ Geri asked.
Adèle stared into her coffee. ‘There’s some bad people in them places,’ she said, darkly.
She didn’t elaborate, but Geri knew what she meant. Some of the characters Adèle must have had to deal with at close quarters in hostels were the same men that Geri would cross the street — even walk down a different street — to avoid. Drunks, drug addicts, the mad and the mean — predators who were always alert to vulnerability.
‘Can’t Paul get you into an all-woman hostel?’ Paul was the manager of the local office of the Big Issue.
‘There’s not that many about, and I don’t want to move out of the area.’
‘Even so . . .’ Geri bit her lower lip: Adèle was no longer her pupil, she was a young woman who had lived through the degradation of drug addiction and homelessness. There were no easy solutions for Adèle, no quick fixes, but that didn’t stop Geri worrying.
Adèle tore a strip from her pastry while she thought about how to explain. ‘Difference is, on the street, you can get away from them, hide, if you need to. In the hostel, they know where to find you.’
‘They?’
She frowned, suddenly angry, as if Geri’s gentle probing for an explanation could force her back to a place where she didn’t want to go. She took a breath and spoke in a rush. ‘You’ve got two types of blokes in hostels, right?’ She thrust one hand forward and then the other, palm up: ‘Them that want to buy, and them that want to sell. I can do without scum like that messing me up, giving me a hard time.’ She blushed, realizing that she had raised her voice, and took a sip of coffee before going on. ‘I know I’m no saint, but I’m trying to get straight.’
‘I know,’ Geri said, ‘I know you are.’ Adèle had told her that she was saving to get set up in a flat. Paul had put her name down for a housing trust property. She had tried once before and failed, but she was more in control of her drug habit, now, and she was keeping more aloof from her street buddies. ‘Have you heard anything yet?’ she asked.
Adèle turned down the corners of her mouth. ‘Long list,’ she said. She didn’t need much encouragement to talk about her plans. Once she’d got a flat and made it the way she liked it, she would try for a job, hairdressing, maybe, so she could be earning while she was training. Maybe she’d do a night-school class in beauty therapy as well.
‘You’d be good,’ Geri said. ‘You’ve got the looks and you could talk for Britain.’
Adèle laughed. ‘I was always getting in trouble for gabbing in your lessons, wasn’t I?’
Geri laughed with her, but added, ‘I meant as a compliment — you’re good with people.’
Adèle grinned. ‘D’you really mean it, Miss?’
‘Geri,’ she said, wincing. ‘Call me Geri.’
‘Okay, Geri.’ Adèle giggled. ‘Sounds like I’m being cheeky, though.’
Her face was flushed after the coffee and food, and Geri saw her again as the girl she had taught two, perhaps three years before. ‘Just let me know which salon,’ she said, ‘and I’ll be your first customer.’
‘Client,’ Adèle corrected her. ‘They call them clients nowadays.’
‘Client,’ she repeated.
‘Sounds more professional.’ Adèle traced a swirl in the coffee ring left by her mug. ‘Yeah, if I can just get straight.’
‘D’you want to talk about that?’
Adèle winced, and seemed to withdraw, and Geri began to apologize.
‘No,’ Adèle said, her eyes widening. ‘It’s okay. I will — some day — but . . .’ She trailed off.
‘You’re not ready, yet.’
She relaxed, her shoulders dropping two inches. ‘I knew you’d understand, Miss.’
Geri sipped her coffee and Adèle finished her sandwich.
Suddenly Adèle reached across and squeezed her hand. She looked up, surprised and touched.
‘Are you all right, Miss — Geri?’ Adèle asked.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, before, you looked kind of stressed. And just now . . .’ She frowned, trying to assess accurately the emotion she had seen. ‘Sad.’ She said it with a hint of an inflection, so that Geri could interpret it as a question.
Geri raised her eyebrows. She hadn’t realized she was so easy to re
ad. What to tell her? The first bit, about Nick and his infantile tantrums? It seemed so trivial having listened to Adèle, to her hopes and dreams. Or should she tell her about Ryan? What was there to say? That a seventeen-year-old boy didn’t turn up for a lesson and she was worried about him? She smiled.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Bad day.’ But she kept seeing Dean’s face, pale and sick-looking, the shadows under his eyes like he hadn’t slept, and the casual comment Aidan had meant as a joke when she’d asked where Ryan was.
He’s dead.
* * *
He sat in his car for a few blissful moments, the engine turning over quietly, warming himself after the fearful cold of the derelict cottages. He closed his eyes, dizzy and exhilarated. They had spent most of the day together, him and Ryan. He liked to think of it this way, of them spending time together — what he felt for Ryan wasn’t sordid. Nevertheless, he reeked of sweat and sex. He would have to go home to shower and change, which meant leaving Ryan sooner than he would have liked.
He fretted; Ryan was safely bedded down, but he wanted to be with him, keeping him warm, touching his body, kissing him, exploring . . . He groaned. It was tempting to turn the engine off and go back inside, but he was expected — there was no sense in drawing attention to himself by his absence. And nothing to stop him dropping in on the lad whenever he felt the need for human comfort. Nothing to stop him doing whatever the hell he liked.
3
It was after seven o’clock by the time Geri turned the corner of Gresford Avenue and started the steady climb home. Frost glistened on the pavements, gleaming in the moonlight, making a fine lace on the brickwork of the garden walls.
After leaving Adèle, she had taken the long way home, walking three sides of a square instead of cutting diagonally across, through the warren of side streets. She could no longer feel her fingers, and only knew she still had hold of her briefcase because it clunked against her leg every couple of strides. Her face was numb, her cheeks like slabs of marble.
DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists Page 2