DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

  Agnes closed her eyes, luxuriating in the feel of his strong hands loosening the tension in her shoulders.

  He bent level to her ear and she felt his breath, warm on her neck as he whispered, ‘The question is, what can I do for you, Agnes?’

  She opened one eye. ‘The name over the door is Angela.’ Agnes was a good name for a psychic, but it didn’t convey the sophistication people expected from a beautician.

  ‘Ah,’ he breathed, ‘but I know you’re no angel.’

  She laughed lazily and slapped his hand. ‘You’re shocking this nice young lady.’

  The girl tried to turn her head away from the two of them grinning at her in the mirror: a middle-aged woman and a twentysomething man. Without taking his eyes off Agnes, he raised his hand and clicked his fingers. The doorbell tinkled again. Both Agnes and her customer turned to look.

  A girl of no more than fifteen stood in the doorway. She was pretty, if rather vacuous, and had the kind of complexion that looked best under the lightest touch of make-up, but Agnes sensed it wasn’t the natural look he would want for this lass.

  ‘Well,’ he said impatiently, ‘don’t stand there letting the cold in. Close the door.’

  He raised his eyebrows, then made the tiniest of head movements towards Agnes’s client.

  ‘You’re done, lovey,’ she said, switching off the lamp. She went to the till and took the girl’s payment, helped her client into her coat and out of the door, changed the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’, then slipped the snick on the lock and turned to face the pimp and his new girl.

  This one, she recognized as one of Mikey’s girls.

  ‘Mikey won’t like it,’ she warned. ‘He’ll be out in a few months, and when he finds out you’ve moved in on his girls . . .’

  He spread his hands. ‘All I’ve done is pick up a few strays. I haven’t touched his massage parlours, or his phone business. Just a few girls doing a bit of moonlighting on their days off.’ He took the girl’s hand and led her in front of him. ‘Look at her. She’s too young to be out on her own, eh, chick?’

  ‘And what about the police?’

  He laughed. ‘They’ll have to catch me first. And I’m light on my feet.’

  She frowned, doubtful. She worried about him. He was a good-looking lad, and she wouldn’t like to see him in trouble.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  Agnes tilted her head on one side, assessing the girl’s fine blonde hair and china-blue eyes. She wore a short blue silk shift under a silver Puffa jacket.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Agnes said. ‘The Baby Spice look.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re a bit out of date, love. But aye, that’s the general merchandising angle.’

  ‘How long’ve I got?’

  ‘An hour.’ He ducked his head apologetically. ‘I know, you need time to get your creative juices flowing, but I’m working to a tight schedule myself. Special order.’

  Agnes pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘Don’t expect miracles, that’s all.’

  He grinned. ‘I thought miracles was your speciality.’

  ‘Don’t make fun of my gift, love,’ she warned.

  ‘Would I?’

  Agnes flushed angrily. She took her work seriously.

  He made a placatory gesture. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m serious.’ He waited until Agnes began to settle her ruffled feathers. ‘Anything that earns twenty-five quid for a half-hour session’s got to be treated with respect, eh, pet?’ He dropped a broad wink to the girl, who giggled and covered her mouth.

  Agnes bristled. ‘Right,’ she said, marching up to the girl, who still hovered near the door. ‘That’s it.’ She grabbed the girl by the wrist and spun her round. ‘Out!’ she said. ‘The both of you.’

  The girl balked. ‘Hey!’ she squirmed, looking back over her shoulder, dismayed.

  Agnes shoved her to the door and began fiddling with the lock but was so angry she couldn’t get the snick off.

  ‘Woah!’ he soothed. ‘Come on, Agnes. Take it easy. Just a joke — you can take a joke, can’t you?’

  ‘I don’t joke about my calling,’ Agnes said, turning back to him, her eyes blazing, and her cheeks flushed. The girl wriggled, trying to get her to release her grip.

  ‘You’re hurting me!’ she whined. ‘She’s hurting me!’ Her voice rose to a screech.

  ‘Shut up!’ The words were as sudden and sharp as a slap, and the girl fell silent.

  ‘Come on . . .’ he repeated, cajoling. ‘Don’t be like that, Agnes, love. Look, I’ve been asking questions for you — I got some background.’

  Agnes eyed him suspiciously. She had arranged a private session with Mrs Connelly, and although she regarded most of her talent as intuitive — a God-given gift — she saw no harm in doing a bit of research to augment her powers.

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t hold out much hope,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t,’ he replied, ‘but it’s all over the street. He was in a terrible mess when they found him.’

  Agnes led the girl to a chair and sat her down. She offered no more complaint than the odd snuffle.

  ‘Go on,’ Agnes said.

  He nodded to the girl. ‘I’ll talk while you’re working.’

  15

  Geri crept to the back of the church feeling like an interloper. As the other mourners came in, they genuflected and crossed themselves before shuffling sideways into the pews. The action was automatic, and Geri tried to remember a time when she had the same faith in the church’s doctrine. Ryan’s friends arrived. Siân stopped and seemed ready to turn and run, but Frank Traynor put his arm around her and guided her to a seat. She looked even thinner and frailer in the brightly lit church. She was wearing make-up to cover the bruises, but her eyes were red from crying.

  Mrs Connelly came in, leaning on her sister for support. Dean followed behind, walking next to his father, who placed a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder. They sat in the front pew, which had been reserved for them.

  The school had paid for flowers and the altar was decorated with mixed sprays of lilies and large white chrysanthemums with waxy, reflexed petals. The triptych of Christ crucified, died and risen, above the tabernacle, gleamed in the light of a rack of votive candles, set up on the altar especially for the occasion.

  By seven o’clock, the church was full. There was a shuffling and clearing of throats. Geri heard a baby’s wail go up somewhere to her left, a sudden, frightened sound, quickly shushed by its mother, then the organist struck a chord and as one the congregation rose.

  Geri sang with the rest, sharing a hymn sheet with an elderly woman who sang in a quavery soprano.

  Surprised that the music still had the power to move her, Geri had to stop several times and close her eyes, her eyelashes moist, a lump in her throat, focusing on her breathing to try to avoid breaking down.

  Father Rooney, the school chaplain, led the memorial service. He and the altar servers processed from the back of the church. One boy carried the processional crucifix, the other — Carl, from her own form — a thurible. Geri caught a whiff of incense as he passed. They made their way on to the altar; the crucifix was set in its stand and Carl handed the thurible to the other boy so that he could go down and lock the gates behind them. He turned and bowed to the centre of the altar, then took up his position to one side of the priest.

  The second boy knelt beside Carl, closed the censer and set it down, lowering the chain gently to the ground so that it made no more than a faint rasp as it slipped through his fingers. He was wearing his school trousers and Nike trainers under his surplice.

  Father Rooney opened his hands, palms upwards. ‘Let us pray.’

  There was a flutter as people placed their hymn sheets on the pews behind them, and then an uneven shuffle as the congregation knelt.

  ‘We are here to remember a young man whom we all loved in our own ways: as a son, or a brother’ — he glanced kindly in the direction of Ryan’s family — ‘as a friend, a pupil, a football
coach, as a parishioner.’ He smiled. ‘Ryan Connelly meant so much to us in so many different ways.’ Geri saw the slightest nod to somebody near the front of the church. ‘Let us pray for his soul and for all the souls of the faithful departed.’ He paused for breath.

  ‘Eternal rest give unto them O Lord . . .’

  Geri joined in, wishing with all her heart that Ryan was at peace. The prayer continued as Frank stood, hesitated, tripped and recovered, stepped into the aisle. He walked to the pulpit, a carved stone structure, attached to one of the pale lemon sandstone pillars. He waited, red-eyed and nervous, gripping the rail with both hands, waiting for the prayer to finish. Another nod from Father Rooney, and he began.

  ‘Ryan was my mate,’ he said. Feedback reverberated from one speaker to another and he jerked back, throwing the priest a frightened look.

  ‘Just stand away from the mike,’ Father Rooney said, giving him an encouraging smile.

  Frank licked his lips and began again. ‘He was good at everything, but he never made you feel like you weren’t as good as him. He . . .’ Someone started sobbing, and Frank looked across to where he had been seated. Poor Siân. Frank seemed on the verge of tears himself. He blinked rapidly, his gaze darting from one person to another. ‘He was . . . okay, was Ryan. He . . . he never made you feel small. His brains — and he were a great striker.’

  Geri wanted to rescue him but knew that her intervention would only make things worse. People were becoming uneasy, they were embarrassed, looking anxiously at each other and at Father Rooney. ‘I think we all agree with those sentiments,’ Father Rooney said. ‘Ryan was a young man we all felt we could trust, who was a kind and generous friend.’ He turned again to the congregation, drawing attention away from Frank’s shambling attempt to negotiate the pulpit steps. ‘The next hymn was one of Ryan’s favourites,’ he said, and the organist began the introductory bars of ‘Make Me a Channel of Your Peace’.

  Mr Ratchford, the headmaster, spoke. He began by describing Ryan’s many achievements, his popularity within his own peer group, and his status as a role-model for the younger pupils. ‘St Michael’s has suffered a tragic loss,’ he said. ‘And the suddenness, the unexpected nature of his demise should give us all pause for thought. A life can be so easily snuffed out. One mistake is all it takes, and it is irrevocable — we cannot take it back,’ he added, for the benefit of the younger listeners. ‘We must take comfort in our faith and in God’s mercy. The terrible void caused by Ryan’s death extends beyond the family and has touched the whole school community.’ He paused and stared hard at the people below him. ‘We are a community,’ he said. ‘The school is a part of the parish, as those of us here are part of the wider Church, and we must accept responsibility — each one of us — for every member of that community. We must be aware; we must look to our own.’

  There was a hush as he stood for a few seconds more in the pulpit. His pupils, their younger brothers and sisters, their parents, all understood that he was asking them to share the burden of guilt for Ryan’s death. For Siân it was too much. She fled down the aisle, sobbing, and after a moment Frank Traynor following her, looking tearful and wretched.

  Geri felt the urge to say something. It didn’t seem enough, this equivocating acknowledgement of Ryan’s good qualities. It didn’t do him justice.

  * * *

  Some of Geri’s form kept her talking outside the church. It was cold, despite a slow thaw that had set in that afternoon. All that remained of the snow were a few grimy mounds and dirty puddles of water. Geri never believed that April was the cruellest month. February was the time of year she dreaded most. It was unforgiving, dark, cold and seemingly interminable. Her mother had died in February. She was about to move off when Mrs Connelly and her sister entered the porch. Mrs Connelly walked to the steps of the porch, while her sister, Una, thanked Father Rooney for the service. The children nudged each other and began whispering.

  ‘Dean’s been on tablets, since. That’s why he’s not been in.’

  ‘He’s never — he’s looking after his mum, that’s all.’

  ‘Someone should go and talk to her. Look at her, poor thing . . .’

  Geri wondered if Coral’s moratorium on her talking to the Connellys extended to this evening. As she made up her mind to approach her, Mrs Connelly darted off to the left, to a cluster of Sixth-Form boys and girls. Frank Traynor stood with his arm around Siân, in a huddle with Barry Mandel.

  As she drew close to the group, she saw Mrs Connelly place her hand on Frank’s arm.

  ‘You’d know, if anyone would. You were his friend, weren’t you? Did he . . . ? I mean, was he . . . ?’ She stared into their faces, pleading for an honest answer. ‘Did he take drugs? Was my son into drugs?’

  Barry Mandel seemed less self-satisfied than usual. In the light from the spotlamps over the church door he looked washed out, even sick, but he was still sufficiently in control to try to take charge of the situation.

  ‘Mrs Connelly,’ he said, his voice quiet, as always, but strangely penetrating, ‘we don’t know anything about Ryan’s death.’

  Siân looked up quickly, her eyes wide. The others shuffled uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. The word ‘death’ seemed to make them uneasy; it was an affirmation that Ryan wasn’t ever coming back.

  Frank kept his eyes lowered, unable to look Mrs Connelly in the face. His eyelashes were wet. ‘He said doing drugs was stupid,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Frank,’ Barry warned. ‘Don’t make a bigger fool of yourself that you’ve done already.’

  Frank reacted with shocking speed. He lunged at Barry, grabbing him by the lapels. Mrs Connelly released her grip on his arm but was flung off balance. Geri stepped up and steadied her as Frank launched into a tirade against Barry.

  ‘He told us. He did! He’d never’ve, not on purpose. You stupid bastard, Baz! You think you can do what you like. You never think about what’ll happen. You don’t bloody care!’

  Barry took hold of Frank’s coat, and for one horrible moment Geri thought he was going to head-butt him. There were murmurs of dismay from the people who were leaving the church. Mrs Connelly was crying, and her sister hurried over from the porch.

  ‘Come on now, lads, this’s not the place.’ Joe had appeared from a cluster of thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds. ‘Think of the family, eh?’ He put a hand on Barry’s shoulder and instantly Frank let go and backed away, shaking and crying. Geri grabbed his coat sleeve and pulled him into the shadows at the side of the church.

  ‘What the hell d’you think you’re playing at?’ she whispered. ‘Isn’t she upset enough?’

  ‘I couldn’t help it, Miss,’ Frank muttered, wiping his eyes with his coat cuff. ‘Ryan was my mate.’

  ‘He was her son, and Siân’s boyfriend. Other people have been hurt, too, Frank. Here—’ She shoved a tissue at him. He took it and blew his nose. ‘Go to the police,’ she said. ‘If you won’t talk to me, bloody well go to the police!’

  He shook his head in a wide, exaggerated movement. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t, Miss!’

  ‘You know Vince. You know you can trust him. It’s not like you’d have to make a formal statement.’

  He looked over at Vince, then back to her. ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ he said.

  ‘No, I don’t. Make me understand.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to get hurt.’

  ‘Too late for that,’ she shot back.

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ he whispered.

  ‘Look if it’s Baz— If he had something to do with . . .’ Her voice snagged and she couldn’t go on.

  Frank backed away from her, shaking his head, and shooting a look past her, as if afraid the others would overhear. Geri blinked away her tears, trying to see who it was in the knot of mourners by the porch that Frank was so frightened of.

  When she turned back, Frank was heading for the far exit, near the church hall.

  * * *

  As Geri returned to the group, Baz sh
ook off Joe’s restraining hand and shoved him hard.

  ‘Stay the fuck away from me,’ he said. ‘I mean it, Joe.’

  Joe smiled. ‘Oh, I’m on to you, lad. And I’m sticking like glue.’

  ‘Insensitive choice of words, given the circumstances,’ Barry said, recovering his composure, straightening the lapels of his coat.

  Vince Beresford was hovering in the background, looking like he was wondering whether to muscle in. Geri caught his eye and gave a slight shake of her head. His eyes flickered in her direction, then he returned his attention to the exchange between the two men.

  ‘You’ll go too far,’ Joe warned, and Geri felt that he was talking about more than Barry’s cocky attitude and smart mouth.

  Barry smirked. He was his old self again. ‘Why don’t you get back to sharing sweeties with the kiddies,’ he said, nodding to the small knot of children who were watching, appalled and thrilled by the altercation. ‘That lot like their M&Ms.’

  Joe took a step forward, but Vince was in there first. He got between the two of them, towering over both. ‘Not here,’ he said. ‘Not now.’

  Dean stood in the porch, his hands bunched into fists. His heart and soul were filled with a hatred that would consign him to eternal damnation. Baz, he thought, grinding the damaged tooth until shafts of sharp pain shot through his skull. He’s gonna pay, he thought. I’ll make him pay. When Frank grabbed Baz, he had tried to go over to join his mother, but his dad had stopped him. He felt his father’s hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently as he spoke to Mr Ratchford. He was stumbling over his thanks for the headteacher’s speech, and Dean felt a confusing wave of embarrassment, resentment and pity.

  16

  Tuesday morning registration. Geri hadn’t slept well. When Coral had seen her at the centre of the mêlée outside church, she had assumed Geri had been stirring up more doubts about how Ryan had died. Vince talked her round, explaining that she had stepped in to protect Mrs Connelly, but Geri fretted over the incident. What was Barry Mandel’s involvement? Frank evidently thought he was accountable in some way for Ryan’s death. Frank himself seemed to feel some share of blame.