DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Dean,’ Beefy shouted, keeping out of range of the flailing stump.

  Dean laid into Baz. Arms, body, back, screaming all the time: ‘Bastard! Murdering bloody bastard!’

  Baz rolled back and forth, using his arms to protect his face and head. ‘Get him off me!’ he yelled.

  Beefy lunged and caught Dean’s weapon arm, twisting the cricket stump from his hand. A small group of boys had already gathered, and now more were running from all over the field, slipping back from the street into the school grounds between broken railings, running across from the top gate to get a better look.

  As Baz began to get up, Dean threw himself at him, his fists bunched. Baz fell back, winded.

  ‘Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . . fight!’ The chant started slowly, gathering pace as more and more joined the crowd. ‘Fight-fight-fight-fight!’

  Dean was crying, blinded by tears, throwing punches wildly, but one or two made contact, and Baz’s nose dripped blood. Baz suddenly seemed to collect himself and lashed out with a back-handed slap that sent Dean tumbling off him.

  Baz struggled to his feet, still winded by his fall. His coat flapped about him, muddied and wet, tangling about his legs. The chants of ‘fight-fight-fight’ were quieter now, more speculative, as the crowd, mainly boys, watched to see what would happen. Dean dived at him, knocking him over, and the crowd yelled their excitement.

  ‘I’ll throttle you, you little bastard,’ Baz gasped.

  The boys whooped and whistled their approval, then the sudden, sharp trill of a sports whistle cut through the noise, and someone shouted, ‘Teacher!’

  The majority of spectators ran off, heading for the fence, or the top gate, leaving only a few of the more brazen, who stood a little way off, their hands in their pockets.

  ‘It’s Killer,’ someone muttered.

  Mr Killroy, the PE teacher, stormed over to the two boys, ludicrously mismatched in size, who were still brawling on the mud on the pitch. ‘What the hell are you two playing at?’ he demanded.

  Baz got the better of Dean and held him face down on the grass, while Dean, crying and struggling, tried to kick him.

  ‘He went ape!’ Baz exclaimed. ‘He’s off his head!’

  ‘You given him summat, have you?’ Killroy said, seizing Dean by the collar of his jacket and setting him on his feet. He continued to struggle until Killroy gave him a shake that rattled his teeth. ‘Stand still, lad,’ Killroy warned him.

  Baz wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He was panting, but his control was returning. ‘Given him something?’ he repeated, glancing quickly at Beefy, who wormed his way to the back of the loose knot of onlookers and slipped out of sight behind the sub-station.

  ‘Empty your pockets!’ Killroy ordered.

  ‘Oh, what?’ Baz shook his head in exasperation. ‘He went for me!’

  ‘Aye,’ Killroy said. ‘And we know why.’

  ‘I’ll kill him!’ Dean yelled, making a futile lunge for Baz.

  ‘Inside,’ Killroy said. ‘And walk ahead of me, where I can see what you’re up to.’ He glared at the other boys. ‘You lot — disappear.’ They did, reluctantly, but without complaint, because Killroy picked the teams, and football was about all that inspired the remaining spectators of this particular sport. Besides which, Killer Killroy wasn’t past inflicting a bruises-in-footie training that you couldn’t complain about without looking like a girl.

  Killroy watched Baz like a hawk to make sure he didn’t drop anything on the way back into school. They passed some staff, on their way out at the end of the day, Geri among them. Baz, limping and bloody, was trying to look moody, but actually seemed upset. Dean had stopped crying, but struggled ineffectually, his feet barely touching the ground, as Mr Killroy frogmarched him into the building.

  Geri hurriedly finished packing her briefcase into the boot of her car and then followed them inside, catching up with them at the headmaster’s office.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s what we’re about to find out, eh, lads?’ Killroy knocked at the door and opened it without waiting for a reply. He shoved Baz ahead of him, still holding Dean firmly by the collar. Geri heard Mr Ratchford exclaim, and then Killroy was closing the door on her. She stopped him.

  ‘Dean is in my form,’ she said firmly.

  Killroy lowered Dean to the floor, letting go of his jacket cautiously, ready to seize hold of him again if he made a move for Baz. Geri edged around the back of the group and slipped Dean a couple of tissues. He dried his eyes and blew his nose while Mr Killroy gave his account of what had happened.

  ‘Well?’ Mr Ratchford said. ‘Barry?’

  Baz dabbed his nose carefully with a handkerchief. ‘We were messing about,’ he said coolly. ‘It got a bit out of hand.’

  Dean clenched his fists and made a slight movement which was quickly checked by Killroy.

  ‘Dean?’

  Dean scowled at the floor and said nothing.

  ‘This one,’ Killroy said, tapping Dean on the crown of his head, ‘was threatening to kill Mandel, here.’

  ‘What have you got to say?’ Ratchford asked.

  Dean merely hunched himself smaller, refusing to answer.

  ‘What were you doing on the top field?’ Ratchford asked Baz. ‘The front entrance is your quickest way home.’

  Baz shrugged. ‘It was such a lovely evening, I fancied a walk.’

  ‘It’s pi— pouring down out there!’ Killroy objected. ‘He was off up to the ’leccy station. There’s a gap in the fence up there, and plenty of cover, eh, Barry?’

  ‘You have a suspicious mind, Mr Killroy.’

  Ratchford sighed. ‘If he has, it’s not without cause, Barry,’ he said. He seemed to consider for a moment. ‘You say you were just taking a walk?’

  Baz tilted his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘Then you won’t mind emptying your pockets.’

  Baz met him eye to eye. ‘In principle, yeah, I mind, Mr Ratchford.’ He seemed to savour the headmaster’s irritation, then added, ‘But if it’ll clear the air . . .’ He began unloading his belongings onto the headmaster’s desk.

  ‘And the rest,’ Killroy said.

  Baz looked at him in mock surprise, and Killroy dragged open the skirt of his coat, feeling in the deep pockets of the lining. Baz submitted to the search without comment, but he gave Killroy an icy stare as he stood back, angry and disappointed at having found nothing.

  ‘What was the fight about?’ Ratchford repeated. ‘Who started it?’

  There was a pause, then Baz said, ‘Like I told Mr Killroy, we were messing about — right, Dean?’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish!’ Killroy exclaimed. ‘You’re twice his size and look at the state of you.’

  Baz gave a rueful grin. ‘David and Goliath, eh, Dean?’

  ‘Well, Dean?’ Ratchford demanded sharply.

  ‘Yeah,’ Dean said, staring straight ahead, gritting his teeth. ‘It just went a bit far.’

  They all knew it was a lie, and Dean put no effort in to trying to convince the adults in the room — Geri could see it that was all he could do just to keep from going for Baz again.

  Mr Ratchford turned his full attention on Dean. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot this last two weeks,’ he said. ‘And I sympathize. We all do. But your mother’s got enough to deal with, enough to worry about, without you adding to her problems.’

  Dean nodded, blinking and chewing at the side of his cheek.

  ‘I want you to shake hands and settle your differences.’

  Dean’s head snapped up so fast that Geri heard his neck crack. He stared at Ratchford, then at Baz. Baz looked away.

  ‘Dean?’

  ‘Forget it.’ He continued staring at Baz.

  ‘You’ll do as you’re told.’

  He turned back to Ratchford. ‘No way.’

  Ratchford was shocked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You can suspend me, if you like. I�
�m not shaking his hand.’

  ‘Sir, it doesn’t matter.’ There was a note of pleading in Baz’s voice.

  ‘Don’t do me no favours,’ Dean snarled. Killroy put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

  Ratchford could see he wouldn’t win this one. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You’d better go home and think this over. I’ll be in touch with your parents. Miss Simpson—’

  ‘I’ll take him home,’ Geri offered, anxious to get him out of harm’s way before he said anything that would really enrage Mr Ratchford.

  * * *

  ‘Why did he stand up for you, Dean?’ Geri asked.

  ‘Nobody asked him to.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  They were easing out onto the main road; Dean was slumped in the passenger seat, wet and muddy, shivering with cold and suppressed rage.

  He didn’t reply, and she tried again. ‘Is it because he feels guilty?’

  ‘He should do.’

  ‘About Ryan?’

  No answer.

  ‘Or about drugs in general?’

  Dean stirred but didn’t reply. He was evidently uncomfortable refusing to answer her questions, but for his own reasons, he didn’t want to tell her what he knew.

  Geri’s frustration at his sullen refusal to talk to her was tempered with an intense sympathy for him. Dean had been in her form since he first came up to senior school, in Year Seven. That was when she was a newly qualified teacher, so they had been newcomers together, had learned the ropes together, and since Ryan’s death, she felt an extra responsibility for the boy.

  ‘There’s a lot of rumours going around about what happened the Saturday Ryan disappeared,’ she began again.

  ‘He never did drugs, right? Never.’

  ‘No,’ Geri said. ‘I don’t believe he did.’ He turned to look at her, but glanced quickly away, blinking back tears, when she took her eyes off the road for an instant to look at him. ‘But the fact is, Ryan was found in that house surrounded by solvents,’ she went on.

  He sighed.

  ‘If you know something about that, Dean, you should tell someone. You shouldn’t try to deal with it yourself.’

  He sat stony-faced, emanating fury and despair in equal measure, but she couldn’t get another word out of him. He must have some reason for thinking that Barry Mandel had caused Ryan’s death, but exasperated though she was by his refusal to talk to her, she couldn’t feel anything but pity for Dean.

  He went straight upstairs when his mother opened the door, walking past her without even acknowledging her and leaving Geri to explain why she was there.

  * * *

  Dean went to his bedroom and opened and closed the door, then crept back along the landing to listen. If he’d done what he set out to do, he’d be in the cop shop by now, not sitting at the top of the stairs, waiting to see what punishment he’d get for giving that bastard Baz a bloody nose.

  He quivered with impotent rage. ‘I should’ve kicked his head in,’ he whispered. ‘Should’ve kicked his bastard head in.’ He ran back to his room and slammed the door, clenching his fists and punching the wall until four round dabs of blood appeared on his knuckles.

  He drove his thumbs into his eyes until green spots danced on the back of his eyelids and he felt faint. He went through the fight, from the first badly aimed blow with the cricket stump, to his pathetic attempts to pummel Baz with his fists. What made him think he could finish Baz with his fists? He was too big, too strong.

  He heard the front door close, and then the sound of Miss Simpson’s car firing up. His mother called, and Dean jumped up and quickly dragged the chest of drawers — Ryan’s chest of drawers — in front of the door. Then he remembered. He opened each drawer in turn, ignoring his mother’s calls, searching under the T-shirts and jeans, sweatshirts and combat trousers. He finally found it in the bottom drawer: Ryan’s fishing knife in its leather sheath. He slid it out and held it up, catching the finely ground cutting edge in the lamplight.

  His mother knocked softly at the door and tried the handle. ‘Dean,’ she said. ‘It’s all right, love. I just want to talk to you.’

  Dean rolled up his sleeve and drew the blade across the meagre flesh of his forearm, making a neat, diagonal slash. He bled, while his mother wept outside the door.

  * * *

  Geri couldn’t bear to go home to an empty house. It was Lauren’s day off, and she had gone out. By now, Nick would be on his way to work. Geri went into the city centre, intending to get a bite to eat and then go to the theatre and see a play. Outside the theatre, she heard the plaintive call, ‘Buy a Big Issue, help the homeless.’

  ‘Adèle?’ She was standing outside the main foyer, shuffling from one foot to the other, looking nervy and excitable.

  Geri walked over. ‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at your usual pitch?’ she asked.

  Adèle glanced past her, her eyes darting around the square. ‘Can’t talk,’ she said.

  ‘Adèle . . .’

  ‘I’m busy, right.’

  ‘You look ill — is something wrong?’

  Adèle seemed to flinch at the suggestion. ‘No,’ she said, her anxiety giving the lie to her words. ‘A bit a trouble with the Taxman, that’s all.’ She gave a nervous smile.

  Geri had read somewhere that Big Issue vendors were responsible for their own tax affairs, but she had always thought it was a joke — an ironic comment on their earnings. ‘Look, Adèle, if there’s anything I can do . . . D’you need money?’ She reached into her handbag, but Adèle grabbed her hand and pushed it away.

  ‘No, don’t,’ she begged.

  Geri caught herself glancing about in the same furtive way. ‘You can’t talk here, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Are you still at the shelter?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah . . . All right?’ She hopped about on the balls of her feet.

  ‘I’ll be in touch, then.’

  Adèle’s relief at her going was palpable, and Geri spent much of the first act of the play worrying about it. Was she being watched? She hadn’t wanted Geri to get her purse out — was that because she was afraid Geri would become a target? Adèle said she hated hostels, that they were full of weirdos and psychos . . . and drugs. Had Geri put her in danger by persuading her to ask questions on the street? It was bad enough for her, and she could go home and lock her door against the lunatic who had poured acid over her car. Adèle had nowhere to retreat, safe from threat.

  Unable to contain herself, Geri stood up, excusing herself to an irritated row of people. She hurried outside, but Adèle had gone.

  27

  Geri gave up on sleep at around five a.m. and was showered and dressed by the time Nick got home from his night shift. She prepared breakfast for him, then, at a loss for something to do, decided to mend the tear in the lining of her coat. The small rip along the seam had become a gaping hole, and she wouldn’t be able to afford a new one before the next January sales.

  She sat at the kitchen table and spread the coat out, lining-side up. With Radio 4’s Today programme providing discreet background noise, she smoothed the lining but it wouldn’t lie flat. She slid the skirt of the coat onto the table, running her hands over the silk.

  ‘That’s funny,’ she muttered.

  Nick grunted from behind his newspaper.

  There was a lump in the bottom seam. Small, shaped like a cigar stub. She worked it up to the hole in the lining between her finger and thumb.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ she breathed.

  Nick flicked down one corner of his paper. ‘Shit is right! Where d’you get that?’

  ‘It was . . .’ She indicated her coat, too bewildered to speak for the moment.

  He took the package from her and broke it open.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Geri demanded angrily.

  He sniffed the fibrous contents of the package. ‘That’s good-quality hash you’ve got there, Ger. Somebody out there likes you.’

  She too
k the pellet of hash from his hand. ‘Somebody out there is trying to get me in serious trouble,’ she corrected. ‘If this had been found on me . . .’ She tried to think how it could have got there. She kept her coat locked in her stockroom at school.

  Oh, God. The youth club! She remembered Jay brushing past the coat rack on Monday night, her coat falling to the floor. Baz! We’ve got a police witness, he’d said. If Joe hadn’t seen him off, would he have persuaded Vince to search her coat lining? She shivered, remembering that Vince had picked the coat up from the floor.

  ‘Bastard! The vindictive bloody bastard!’ She squeezed the pellet in her hand and ran upstairs.

  ‘Whoa!’ Nick called, racing after her, grabbing her hand. She twisted free and ran to the bathroom. The pellet wouldn’t flush.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ he demanded, pulling her away from the toilet cistern. ‘You’re flushing fifty quid’s worth of MJ down the bog!’

  She shoved him hard, and he cracked his elbow on the towel rail.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  She tore off a strip of toilet paper and stuffed it down the pan, flushing again. This time it went.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  She rounded angrily on Nick. ‘If I’m found with drugs on me, after the hell I’ve raised over Barry Mandel, I will — no question about it — will lose my job.’

  Nick stared at her for a few seconds before turning away. ‘You’re paranoid,’ he said. ‘I mean you are losing it completely.’

  28

  A fine drizzle was falling. It coated DCI Thomas’s hair like a thin net as he stood shivering outside a canal-side warehouse. Red and blue lights shimmered through the mist of rain. Police, fire service.

  ‘They’ve declared the building safe,’ DS Garvey informed him. ‘The pathologist is in there now.’

  ‘Drayton?’ Thomas asked. Garvey nodded. Drayton had performed the PM on Ryan Connelly. ‘How sure are we it’s Frank?’

  ‘He’s wearing a trench coat, and he’s got one of those death’s-head badges on the lapel.’

  ‘As per his parents’ description,’ Thomas added, his heart sinking. ‘I suppose we’ll have to get suited up.’