DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

  DYING

  EMBERS

  An unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

  MARGARET MURPHY

  Revised edition 2021

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2000

  © Margaret Murphy 2000, 2021

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Margaret Murphy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  ISBN: 978-1-78931-645-2

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ALSO BY MARGARET MURPHY

  FREE KINDLE BOOKS

  A SELECTION OF BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY

  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH USAGE FOR US READERS

  For Sue Mortimer, friend and mentor.

  1

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  Monday morning. The clamour had already started. Catching up on the weekend’s gossip: who’d got off with who; who’d scored — girls, footie, drugs, it didn’t matter, it was all news. The broad corridors of St Michael’s were already crowded with children and the polished linoleum was strewn with sports bags, art folders and square-sided wicker baskets.

  Geri Simpson grimaced. She felt cheated, having missed the still, serene twenty minutes before the slow drift of children through the school gate became an onslaught.

  ‘Miss — Miss Simpson!’

  Geri sighed, checked her watch. She had a call to make to a parent before registration, and she was already late for the staff briefing. ‘Yes, Dean?’

  ‘Miss,’ Dean said, ‘can I go into class?’

  She looked down at him. He looked like he had fallen out of bed five minutes earlier. Small, skinny, with mouse-coloured hair that never sat flat on his head, Dean was as unlike his brother, Ryan, as it was possible for two brothers to be. Aware of her scrutiny, he made an effort to tuck his shirt in, and even raked his fingers through his hair.

  ‘What d’you want to go into class for?’

  ‘Finish my homework.’ He mumbled this, frowning.

  Geri was buffeted by a sports bag, carried at shoulder height. She hooked a thumb round the strap and dragged it down. The boy carrying it spun round, scowling, then seeing her, apologized.

  ‘Set an example, eh?’

  ‘Miss.’ He wandered off, absently swinging his bag back onto his shoulder halfway down the corridor.

  She shook her head, deciding it wasn’t worth the hassle of calling him back — besides she was now very late. She turned back to Dean. ‘You had the weekend to do your homework.’ He bit his lip. ‘Homework is work you do at home.’

  The set of his face changed from embarrassment to resentment. She didn’t have time for explanations about health and safety, reasons for setting homework, the application of rules to all, so she told Dean she would see him at registration, and he stamped off, muttering.

  Geri carried on towards the staffroom, hurrying, dodging dawdling clusters of girls and admonishing boys for slouching along with their hands in their pockets. Sometimes a look was enough, at others a direct request was necessary, keeping the tone of her voice low and strong, in order to make any impact over the babble of scores of voices. Despite her small stature and slight build, the children minded Miss Simpson. New pupils sometimes mistook her for a sixth-former — they never made the mistake twice.

  Geri eased through the door, shutting it against the noise that by now had almost reached its peak. The staff briefing had already begun. She saw Coral Jackson immediately; the gold, green and red colours of her woollen dress seemed to glow against the rich dark colour of her skin. Her hair was newly braided and beaded, and she stood erect and attentive with her back to the staff pigeon-holes. Geri found a spot next to her, reassessing her own choice of grey skirt and maroon sweater as dowdy and unadventurous.

  ‘The children should be properly prepared for Sergeant Beresford’s visit . . . especially in the light of Friday’s incident. Year Nine form tutors please take note.’ Geri had yet to see a quiet week as a Year Nine form tutor — thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds were traditionally the most difficult. ‘As of today, liquid paper is banned,’ the headmaster went on, ‘Confiscated containers to the school secretary, please.’ He referred to his notes. ‘Year Seven are on first lunch this week . . .’

  Geri whispered to Coral, ‘When’s he due in?’ Sergeant Vince Beresford had been appointed as drugs liaison officer shortly after his arrival in the area from London. His visits were a regular feature, an essential part of the Personal and Social Education lessons, and he had been expected for the past fortnight, his visit postponed twice.

  ‘Five and six,’ Coral whispered, referring to the lesson slots. ‘Question is, who’s advising who?’ Geri raised her eyebrows in question, and she chuckled. ‘The ban on liquid paper? Boys from 9G caught sniffing it at Friday afternoon break.’

  ‘No wonder they’re comatose,’ Geri said. Coral nudged her and nodded in the direction of the headmaster. Mr Ratchford finished his list of notices.

  ‘Interim reports are due in by Wednesday.’

  Geri groaned. Alan Morgan wandered past muttering, ‘Here a tick, there a tick . . .’

  Geri made a note of the time of the drugs liaison officer’s visit. She had to catch a couple of members of staff before they went off to registration: messages that had come through on Friday concerning her form — home problems, pleas for help in getting homework instructions down, a request to encourage one of the girls to use her new spectacles. On the way out of the staffroom, she checked the noticeboard. She was down for a double cover. Amy Wilcox was off sick — again.

  Coral Jackson looked over her shoulder, checking the cover list. She stood head and shoulders taller than Geri. ‘Good weekend?’

  Geri’s shoulders sagged.

  ‘
Hm. Nick?’

  Geri answered her with a look.

  ‘Say no more.’ Coral had been Geri’s mentor in her first year of teaching and had never quite dropped the habit of care. She followed Geri out of the staffroom in silence, and Geri was grateful that she didn’t probe further. At a T-junction, where the main corridor ran to right and left, Coral said, ‘This is my turn-off — and believe me, I mean what I’m saying.’

  Geri shot her a questioning look.

  ‘Amy Wilcox’s form for registration,’ she added. Coral was pastoral tutor for the whole of Year Nine and volunteered for registration duty whenever one of her team was absent. She shrugged. ‘It keeps me in touch with what the little darlings are up to.’ She turned and strode off, breasting the tide of incoming children like a great black figurehead on the prow of a ship.

  The bell sounded for registration. Geri would have to skip assembly and make that call. Mrs Davies worked a ten-two shift as a cleaner in the hospital, then put in an evening pulling pints at the Firkin and Trotter. Her son, Jay, was giving cause for concern: homework not done; inattentive in class — he had even fallen asleep in an art lesson. His interim reports were likely to be less than fulsome in their praise.

  Job completed, Geri unlocked her classroom. She still got a little rush of pleasure, looking at the gleaming new double desks paid for by the parents’ association. For the first two years of her tenure, she’d had to put up with graffiti-scored tables with the Formica nibbled away and the chipboard temptingly exposed.

  She called the register as exercise books shuffled left and right to the centre, then up to the front of the class to the collector’s piles. Orange for geography, green for science, red for maths. Precious textbooks had been sent home for the physics homework and a second monitor ticked off the number designated to each pupil as they came in.

  Her own work started arriving as she gave out the form notices; she asked the children to make a note that their PSE lessons would be in the hall for today, while skimming down the list to see whose social commitments had caused them to neglect their academic obligations. She was aware of Dean sulking at the back of the room, but she had to get through all the messages before assembly started. Someone threw a book from the back of the class. It skittered across the top of the geography stack and landed on the floor.

  ‘Don’t throw!’ Geri boomed.

  ‘You do, Miss.’

  ‘I do not miss. That’s why I’m allowed, and you aren’t.’

  The culprit laughed. ‘Nice one, Miss. You should be on telly.’ Geri fixed him with a deadpan stare, waiting for the punchline. ‘Next to me mum’s plaster poodle.’ That raised more laughter, and Geri allowed herself a smile.

  She checked the lists before asking the monitors to take the homework away. Dean got as far as the door at the end of registration before she saw him and called him back. He looked washed out, almost ill with tiredness. ‘You haven’t handed in any work?’ Often the indirect question got a less aggressive response.

  He shrugged. ‘Mum’s gonna phone.’

  She regarded him thoughtfully. She wouldn’t get anything out of him the mood he was in. She would try again at afternoon registration. ‘All right. But I want you to see all the teachers concerned and apologize, okay?’ Another shrug. He wouldn’t meet her eye.

  ‘All right, Dean,’ she said, quietly, and touched him lightly on the shoulder. He stiffened and for a moment she thought he would burst into tears, then he turned and almost ran out of the classroom and down the corridor.

  * * *

  The Drax congregated in the narrow galley kitchen area next to the coffee bar; they were six in number — five tall, slightly dishevelled boys wearing long grey-green woollen overcoats that fell almost to their ankles, and one thin, sickly looking girl. She wore a long, black jersey dress over lace-up boots. All of the gang had the same vampiric look of anaemia that had earned them their nickname. Baz called them to order and they huddled closer.

  ‘So, where is he?’

  A ripple of shrugs went around the group. Siân looked into their faces. Ryan was her boyfriend and since he had failed to phone her on Sunday night, fear had wormed in the pit of her stomach until it sickened her. ‘Who saw him last?’

  The boys shuffled a bit and she sensed an unwillingness to look at Baz. ‘John? Frankie?’

  ‘Didn’t he get on the bus with you, Baz?’ Frank Traynor said this, clearing his throat first to stop his voice wavering too much. He didn’t look up, but he could feel Baz’s eyes on him.

  Baz didn’t answer immediately, he waited until Frank was visibly sweating, then said, ‘He got off at Derby Street. Said he was going home.’ He had a way of talking softly, so that you had to look at him to make out the words, and when you looked at him . . . Well, nobody crossed Baz. Some said it was because he was hard, and he had been notorious as a scrapper lower down the school — he even had a scar along his jawline to prove it. But it was mostly that look. It wasn’t mad or wild or anything, it was cool, a bit distant, like he was seeing you — not picturing, actually seeing you — after something bad had happened to you, and he was enjoying the spectacle. Maybe he was capable of doing the bad thing, and maybe not, but few people ever pushed it far enough to find out.

  ‘When?’ Siân asked. Baz continued staring at Frank and Siân repeated her question more urgently. ‘When, Baz? What time?’

  ‘Time is relative,’ Baz said, still looking at Frank.

  ‘Bullshit!’ Siân grabbed his sleeve and pulled him round to face her. ‘Ryan’s missing, Baz. Do you know where he is?’

  Baz narrowed his eyes. This kind of outburst damaged his cool image. He gazed at Siân with rapt concentration.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she murmured. ‘Did you give him something? Did you, Baz?’

  He closed his hand over hers and prised it away from his arm, then slowly tightened his grip until she winced at the pressure. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he breathed.

  ‘Did you spike his drink, Baz?’ She went on, because her fear of what Baz might do wasn’t yet greater than her fear of what might have happened to Ryan. ‘D’you know how cold it was yesterday? He could be lying somewhere freezing to death!’

  Barry was fast. Siân flinched, but he had tight hold of her. He slowed the movement of his free hand from a threatened slap to a single raised finger. It came to rest so close to her eye that she could feel her eyelashes bat against it when she blinked. He smiled, but his eyes were cold and hard. He touched his finger to his lips.

  Frank moved closer, risked one look into Baz’s face and shook his head. Baz let go of Siân’s hand and, still in that quiet, reasonable tone that could send shivers up your spine, he said, ‘He was fine when I left him. Just a bit high.’

  ‘I thought you said he left you.’

  Baz watched Siân thoughtfully. His eyelids flickered slightly. ‘Whatever,’ he said.

  * * *

  Dean was sent home ill after morning break, so Geri didn’t get a chance to speak to him. She sat in on Sergeant Beresford’s talk; he managed the Year Nines well, seemed to have the knack of informing without patronizing. Since taking up the post of liaison officer, he had even shown up at the school youth club on occasions. He had come to the north from Thames Valley, promoted to sergeant — returning to uniform after a spell as a DC with a Vice unit.

  She paused to speak to the policeman as the children filed out of the hall at the end of the lesson. ‘Sorry, Vince, I can’t stop,’ she said. ‘Sixth-Form lesson — General Studies.’

  ‘Okay. But I need to talk to you.’ Vince looked around at the mass of boys and girls. ‘Maybe after work?’

  A couple of girls caught each other’s eye and burst out laughing.

  ‘You’ve got mucky minds, the two of you,’ Geri said, and the girls left, blushing and giggling. Truth to tell, they had a crush on Sergeant Beresford — along with the majority of Year Nine girls. Catholic school or no, hormones were apt to rule the heads, hearts and emotions of girls at
thirteen and fourteen years of age. Geri didn’t blame them: she could easily fancy the sergeant herself, with his thick, nut-brown hair and blue-grey eyes. ‘I’ll call you when I get home,’ she added, surprised that Vince seemed embarrassed by the girls’ attention.

  The Lower Sixth were in restless mood when she arrived. They seemed irritable and ill-at-ease, anxious to get the lesson over with and get out of school.

  Ryan’s desk was empty. Ryan was never absent, and he never bunked off lessons — even General Studies lessons. ‘Where’s Ryan?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s dead.’ It was a common enough response, it passed as a joke among the lads and even raised a laugh on occasions, but this time, all the joker got was a few venomous looks from the rest of the group.

  ‘Probably hung over,’ Baz suggested.

  Geri stared at him. She often wondered what the others saw in him; no more than average height, with mud-coloured eyes and slightly pock-marked skin, he excelled in nothing, as far as she knew, but they seemed to look up to him as a leader. ‘It’s the middle of the afternoon, Barry,’ she said. ‘Does anyone know where Ryan is? Siân?’

  Siân jumped up, scraping her chair back. ‘Ask them,’ she shouted, holding back tears. ‘Ask them!’ She ran out, and Geri turned to face the rest of the class.

  ‘Well?’ she said, her eyes drawn to Baz Mandel.

  ‘Well what?’ he said, on the defensive. ‘Why ask me?’ She waited. ‘How’m I supposed to know? We’re mates, not lovers.’

  That raised a laugh, then one of the girls came in with, ‘He’s probably roosting in a dark cave.’

  Geri ignored the comment. ‘So no one knows what’s wrong with him.’ The joker at the back of the class looked like he was going to come up with a list, but Geri silenced him with a glance. A few outside of Baz’s magic circle looked genuinely nonplussed, but the rest were unwilling to meet her eye. She thought again about Dean, sent home at morning break time; perhaps there was a bug going around the family, that’s all. Then she happened to glance over at Barry again. He was seated near the back, out of the range of vision of most of the class, but his eyes moved from one person to the next, resting on the back of their heads, and although she told herself it was fanciful, she could swear each of them tensed at Barry’s scrutiny.