DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

  Geri looked at the card, addressed in Coral’s bold copperplate. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’

  The grim determination in her voice made Coral laugh again. ‘I know you’re up to the job,’ she said, letting Geri out of the room, but then calling her back before she had got two paces. ‘Tell them they’re in my prayers,’ she said, all trace of laughter gone.

  ‘I will,’ Geri said.

  ‘You be sure and tell them,’ Coral called after her, just before Geri was swallowed up by the press of children making their way to the last two lessons of the day.

  * * *

  Garvey was looking remarkably cheerful for a man who had received a stiff reprimand from his boss only the day before. He finished his call and hung up, rapping out a drum-roll on his desk.

  ‘That your bookie, was it, Sarge?’ DC Winters asked. It was a relief to see him smiling.

  ‘No, but my luck’s in all right. Fancy a pint?’

  Winters checked his watch. It was after six. ‘Go on then.’

  Winters was as fair-skinned as Garvey was florid. He wore his hair close-cropped and he was lean and fit. He sat across from Garvey in the pub, assessing the older man, thinking that the paunch and the high colour was a sure sign of blood pressure. He took a pull on his pint and silently vowed never to let himself get so out of shape.

  Garvey outlined the content of his telephone call: he had spoken to a mate who had moved to the Met eighteen months previously. ‘It seems Vince Holier-than-thou Beresford left under mysterious circumstances.’

  ‘What was it?’ Winters urged. ‘Death in custody?’

  Garvey shrugged, slurping a couple of swallows of beer and licking his lips before answering. ‘Haven’t got the details yet, but he moved out of Vice, then put in for a transfer up north a couple of months later.’

  ‘He did all right out of it,’ Winters said, meaning Beresford’s promotion.

  ‘If you can call a move back into uniform “all right”.’ Garvey mauled a handful of peanuts from the packet on the table and began munching. ‘Beresford likes to think he’s a man of mystery. Well, there’s mysterious and there’s cagey. You mark my words — he’s hiding something.’

  9

  The Connellys lived in a red-brick terrace two miles from school. Officially, they were just over the boundary of the catchment area, but the parish priest had put in a good word when Mrs Connelly had first applied for a place for Ryan. Their status as regular churchgoers and Mrs Connelly’s reputation as an excellent PTA member and fund-raiser for her sons’ primary school had clinched it. And once Ryan was safely installed at St Michael’s, the process had been easier for Dean.

  The houses opened directly onto the pavement, and snow and slush were banked up against the door sills. Geri glanced over at the house as she locked the car. The curtains upstairs and down were pulled tight and no light escaped into the night. It looked as if the house was empty.

  She trudged over the rutted slush in the roadway, wishing she had thought to change out of her school shoes into her boots; the temperature was tumbling and a crusting of ice was already forming on the ridges of the tyre tracks. She rang the doorbell and immediately heard a distant thump, like a soft implosion as a door was opened with some force inside the house.

  Three long strides — she heard their booted thud in the hallway — and the front door was dragged open and a fierce, square face was thrust into hers.

  ‘What do you want!’ the man yelled. ‘Just what do you want from us?’

  Geri could see, even in the uncertain light of a stuttering streetlamp, that his eyes glittered with anger or tears.

  She took a step back. ‘Mr Connelly? I’m from St Michael’s. Miss Simpson?’

  He straightened up and passed a hand over his face. It came away wet. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Sorry . . . Sorry, love. Come in. Come inside.’ He stepped aside, then looked up and down the street before closing the door after them.

  ‘Reporters,’ he explained. ‘They won’t let us be.’

  He leaned with his back to the door for a moment, as if trying to overcome a dizzy spell, then dragged his hand over his face again. ‘Sorry, love,’ he repeated. ‘Go through. We’re in the back.’

  Geri walked down the hall and into the kitchen. It was a large room, taking up the full width of the house, and it looked newly decorated. In the centre of the pale parquet floor was a pine table. Mrs Connelly sat at one end and another woman — her sister, judging by the resemblance — sat adjacent to her. They both looked up as she came in, and Geri got the feeling she had interrupted something, some angry exchange between the two women.

  Geri had met Mrs Connelly before, at parents’ evenings. She was in her late thirties and wore her dark hair long, in a mass of curls. Her sister looked older and was grey-haired, but she had the same ruddy colouring and small, slightly flattened nose. Mrs Connelly pushed her hair from her eyes and for a moment she looked lost, bewildered by the appearance of a stranger at her door.

  ‘Miss Simpson,’ Geri said. ‘Geri.’

  ‘Aye, I remember.’ Mrs Connelly glanced at the older woman. ‘This is the lady I told you about. Dean’s teacher. Sit down, love, I’ll make you a cuppa.’ She stood with such an effort, it seemed that gravity almost defeated her. There was tension beneath the good manners, and Geri saw her struggle with a spasm of distress that looked almost like physical pain.

  Geri glanced in alarm at the older woman, but she merely shook her head. Mr Connelly leaned against the wall, his arms folded and his head on his chest as if he had forgotten there was anyone else in the room.

  ‘Una,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Theresa’s sister.’

  Mrs Connelly smiled apologetically. ‘Aye, I’m forgetting my . . .’ Her voice trailed into silence and Geri shot Una a concerned look. Una shook her head again and continued talking, her voice louder than the size of the room warranted.

  ‘You’ve come about Dean have you, Miss Simpson? Worried about him missing school?’

  ‘We’re all concerned about Dean, of course,’ Geri said. ‘But you mustn’t rush him into coming back.’

  ‘Never had a day off sick in his life,’ Mrs Connelly said. ‘Him or our Ryan.’ She looked around as if she might catch Ryan in some childish prank, hiding from her in a corner of the room.

  ‘I came to offer my condolences,’ Geri said, feeling awkward, insensitive for intruding on their grief.

  ‘Good of you,’ Mrs Connelly murmured, as if reciting a well-rehearsed line. It was said without feeling, and with that same air of distraction that was so heartrending.

  ‘Mrs Jackson asked me to tell you that she’s praying for you.’

  ‘She what? . . . Oh, aye . . .’

  The kettle clicked off, claiming her full attention for the moment.

  ‘We said prayers for Ryan at assembly, as well.’ Geri suddenly remembered the mass card and took it out of her handbag. ‘And there’s this.’

  Mrs Connelly stared at the card without taking it. ‘It’s not true, you know,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Geri looked from Mrs Connelly to Una for clarification.

  ‘Our Ryan. He wouldn’t . . . He said drugs was for pinheads, didn’t he, John?’

  Geri had forgotten Mr Connelly. His head jerked up off his chest and he gave his wife a harried look. ‘Don’t, Theresa,’ he said. ‘It won’t do any good.’

  ‘So, I’m to put up with the lies the papers are telling about him? A druggy, they’re saying. Glue-sniffer. My Ryan!’ Her silence required an answer, a defence of her son.

  ‘Have you spoken to his friends — to Siân?’ Geri asked.

  ‘Poor lass is shattered. She doesn’t believe the trash the papers are printing any more than I do.’

  Geri noticed the ‘I’, and the sudden stiffening of Una’s shoulders.

  ‘We’re not saying—’

  ‘Not saying he’s a gluey?’ Mrs Connelly interrupted. ‘Maybe. But you’re not saying owt to defend him, are you?’


  ‘Did they have any idea why he might’ve got off the bus at that end of town?’ Geri butted in, anxious to deflect a return to a row that she sensed had been raging for some time.

  ‘There was none of them with him, only Barry,’ Una said.

  Mrs Connelly snorted contemptuously. ‘Well, they’re not going to admit to being with him, are they?’ she said. ‘Not if it’ll get them in trouble.’

  ‘The police have questioned them, Theresa,’ Una said tiredly.

  ‘They don’t know those kids. They don’t know when they’re lying. You want answers to your questions, Miss Simpson, you ask Frank Traynor. He knows a lot more than he’s saying.’

  ‘I spoke to him today,’ Geri said.

  Mrs Connelly stared at her. ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  ‘You’re right. He is hiding something or protecting someone. I’m not sure which.’

  Mrs Connelly shot her sister a triumphant look. ‘See?’

  ‘Ryan always told the younger children to stay away from drugs,’ Geri went on. ‘Kids take drugs to experiment, to get high, to escape — or because of peer pressure.’ She looked from Una to Mrs Connelly. The sister’s mouth was drawn into a thin line, but Mrs Connelly seemed curious. ‘Ryan wasn’t interested in experimenting,’ Geri went on. ‘He didn’t need drugs to get high, and he certainly didn’t need them to escape. He loved life!’ She stopped, embarrassed at her outburst. ‘I don’t need to tell you that,’ she apologized. ‘As for peer pressure, the kids followed his example. Ryan was a leader, not a follower.’

  She saw a look exchanged between Mr Connelly and Una. She had gone too far. Una spoke up, ‘You’re not helping her, you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Geri replied, ‘But I can’t believe that Ryan—’

  ‘None of us can,’ Una broke in angrily. ‘But we’re going to have to come to terms with it.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Geri said, ‘I’m—’

  ‘Don’t apologize, love,’ Mrs Connelly said. ‘Don’t you be sorry for believing in him more than his own father does!’

  ‘Theresa!’ Una exclaimed, appalled.

  Mr Connelly opened his mouth to speak, but the words would not come and a soft moan escaped from his lips. He grappled for the door handle and stumbled out into the hall.

  ‘They don’t even know if he had drugs inside him, yet, and his own father has condemned him!’ Mrs Connelly shouted after him.

  Geri got up to leave, offering an apology, but Una spoke over her:

  ‘Just get out, will you?’

  ‘If there’s drugs in my Ryan, somebody forced them on him,’ Mrs Connelly muttered, her eyes ablaze.

  Geri hurried into the hall, in time to see Mr Connelly blunder up the stairs. She opened the front door and stepped outside into the bitter cold. The snow was packed hard on the pavement and she almost fell backwards but managed to regain her balance and pull the door to before returning to her car.

  For several minutes she sat behind the wheel, shaking uncontrollably, her teeth chattering. ‘Ryan did not do drugs,’ she said aloud, just to hear if she sounded convinced. ‘He bloody didn’t!’ She banged her fist on the wheel.

  Mrs Connelly’s final words rang in her ears: ‘Somebody forced them on him.’ But who among Ryan’s friends would do such a thing?

  She started the engine and pulled out, her tyres cracking the crust of ice that had formed like a thin layer of icing over the slush in the short time she had been indoors.

  The end of the road had been polished to a smooth sheet by children sliding on the surface, and Geri felt the car slip sideways as she braked. Cars were parked either side of her and she held her breath, pumping the brakes until she stopped, slightly askew, just beyond the T-junction.

  She waited until the thudding of her heart was less painful, then checked left and right. Behind her a flare of light warned of an approaching vehicle. The driver was likely to have the same trouble as she’d had, and she quickly glanced in her rear mirror to gauge how much time she had to turn the corner. At that moment she saw a figure hurry across the road, the woman’s dark hair unmistakable in the headlights of the following car. Geri eased her Renault around the corner and pulled up gently; the rear end drifted a little, and the tyres bumped the kerb. The woman was alongside her by this time, and she looked anxiously through the passenger window. It was Mrs Connelly.

  Geri leaned across and opened the door. ‘Where are you headed?’ she asked. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘Erskine Street. I can get a bus.’

  ‘There’s no need. It’s on my way.’

  Mrs Connelly hesitated a moment longer, then ducked inside, just as the following car hit the patch of ice and slewed to a halt after bouncing off the opposite kerb. The driver, a man, crunched the gears angrily and then sped off, fishtailing down the road. Geri waited until he was out of sight, then eased away from the kerb and drove for a few minutes without speaking, concentrating hard on her driving until they had reached the relative safety of the gritted main roads.

  ‘Is Mr Connelly all right?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t mean to upset anyone.’

  ‘To hell with them.’

  Geri glanced at Mrs Connelly. Her face showed grim determination.

  ‘If his own family won’t stick up for him . . .’ She sighed. The rest of the journey was conducted in an uncomfortable silence. Within minutes they were in Erskine Street.

  ‘Where shall I drop you?’ Geri asked.

  ‘Anywhere here’ll do.’

  Geri found a large gap in the line of parked cars and glided to a stop. ‘Thanks, love,’ Mrs Connelly said. ‘And thanks again for what you said.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ Geri asked. ‘How will you get home?’

  ‘Taxi,’ Mrs Connelly said, evidently anxious to be rid of her. ‘I’ll hop a taxi.’

  Geri watched her slip and slither down the street and then disappear through a gate in a set of high railings. She was too far down the road to see the building. Geri braced herself for the tricky manoeuvre of getting out into the centre of the road again, and after waiting for several cars to pass, managed it without a hitch. This road was clearer than most side roads, mainly because of the volume of traffic using it. She noticed that two of the cars that had passed her had parked opposite the railings and the occupants had used the same gate as Mrs Connelly.

  She slowed from a crawl to a virtual stop at the entrance. The front of the building had a tall window either side of a double door; both windows were protected by iron grilles. The building was large, a plain oblong of greyish brick, the only concession to architectural design being an ugly concrete awning over the door. A sign over the awning read

  SPIR TUALIST C URCH

  A banner, made from an old sheet, had been strung from hooks in the concrete awning and tied off at the bottom to the metal grilles on the windows:

  Service Tonite

  6 — 8 p.m.

  We are privileged to announce

  our visiting medium is the renowned

  Agnes Hepple.

  Wincing at the spelling of ‘tonight’, Geri went through the gate and mounted the shallow steps to the double doors. They were locked. She retraced her steps, then followed the path that had been cleared and gritted; it led down a narrow passageway to the right, running between the building and the perimeter wall. The wall was topped with broken glass which stuck up through the snow like jagged teeth.

  She followed the path towards a faint light. The only sound was the occasional swish of cars on the road. The passage came to a dead end; on her left was a door, leading into the building. She tried it and found it open. It gave onto a corridor that smelled of mouldy paper and damp carpet — a dark brown runner, worn to the hessian backing in places.

  A noise came from further down the corridor, something like a collective clearing of throats, then silence. Geri walked towards the sound and stopped at a door which was helpfully labelled ‘ENTRANCE’. A high, fluty voice beyond the door was sa
ying something indistinguishable; this time the response, heard only as a cough at the far end of the building, was a clear ‘Amen’.

  Then came the unmistakable wheeze of a church organ and voices were raised in song.

  Geri edged in at the back of the hall as the congregation, reading from a hymn sheet, sang to the tune of ‘How Great Thou Art’:

  ‘Oh, Spirit World, when I in awesome wonder

  Consider all the hope you can convey

  I hope you will allow communication

  With all our friends on the Spirit Plane today . . .’

  Geri stood in the back row of straight-backed dining chairs. Behind her, a trestle table had been set up on which cups and saucers were placed. The decor was circa 1950: beige roses twisted on a trellis in a repeating pattern. The floor was plain boards, grown splintered and pulpy with the damp that seemed to pervade the building, despite the ferocious heat thrown out from radiators on either side of the hall.

  The service was conducted from a stage at the front by a small, silver-haired woman with a benign face. She dispensed with the use of the hardboard lectern, because she could not be seen behind it.

  ‘Friends,’ she said, as the organ gasped reluctantly to a halt. ‘Friends old and new, welcome. Before we enter into the business of the evening, can we pause for a moment, to send out our healing to the world. It doesn’t take long and remember that the healing that you send out today will return to you a hundredfold.’ She smiled, spreading her arms wide to encompass her audience. ‘Send out your healing. Your gift to the world.’

  In the silence that followed the only sounds were the frantic rush of water in the heating pipes and the gentle creak of shoe leather. Geri looked around at the congregation. A man of no more than thirty sat at the end of a row near the front; his face avid, he stared to the right of the elderly woman who led the prayers and hymns, his gaze fixed on a woman who sat in the shadows at the back of the stage, her head bent, her hands clasped in front of her.

  Sitting in the row behind him, Mrs Connelly held herself with tense dignity. Geri wondered how she was reconciling her Catholic faith with what she was doing now. It certainly explained the atmosphere in the house when she visited. Spiritualism was only one step removed from voodooism in the eyes of many in the Catholic church.