DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

Geri could see she would get no further with this line of conversation and gave up, talking instead about Adèle’s plans for her new flat, when she eventually had one allocated. Adèle had saved up from her social security, and she had a few hundred in the bank ready to furnish and decorate her new home. She waited until Adèle had nearly finished her meal before bringing up the subject of Frank’s disappearance.

  Adèle licked her fingers and took a pull on her beer. ‘Who’s Frank?’

  ‘The lad who’s gone missing — that’s his name.’

  ‘I thought it was Ryan.’

  Geri’s heart sank. She was hoping that Adèle would have news of Frank, but if she hadn’t heard of him, it could mean he wasn’t on the streets, or it could have another, far more sinister meaning.

  ‘I think I remember Ryan,’ Adèle went on. ‘He was in the year below me. Drop dead gorgeous.’ She stopped, colouring slowly from her neck to the roots of her hair. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘That was the first boy, the one who was found in a burnt-out terrace. This is someone else . . . A friend of Ryan’s. I thought you might—’ She broke off. Adèle had stopped eating and was staring at her.

  ‘Adèle?’ she said.

  Adèle blinked and swallowed with difficulty. ‘When did he . . . ?’

  ‘He was at the memorial service on Monday night, but he didn’t turn up for school on Tuesday and no one has seen him since.’

  Adèle blanched, then flushed.

  ‘Could you ask about?’ She hardly believed she was breaking her promise to herself and to Coral so soon after making it. ‘See if any of your mates have—’

  ‘Mates? What mates?’ Adèle cut in sharply.

  ‘People on the street . . .’

  ‘I’m trying to break with my street “mates”,’ Adèle said. ‘They’re what got me into trouble in the first place.’ She seemed angry, frightened.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Geri said. ‘I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. It’s just that I’m really worried about him, and I don’t know who else to ask.’

  ‘Yeah, well . . .’

  They sank into an uneasy silence for a few minutes. Adèle ate steadily, while Geri toyed miserably with her food.

  ‘I don’t know what you think I can do,’ Adèle said, at length. Geri looked up, hopeful, but not daring to speak in case Adèle changed her mind. ‘But I’ll talk to some people.’ She shrugged.

  ‘Thanks,’ Geri said. ‘Thanks, Adèle. Any news, anything at all. Just so we know he’s all right.’

  As Adèle left the pizza parlour, she shivered.

  A sudden flare of light, then screams, an explosion. No connection, she told herself. But Ryan was found in a burnt-out terrace. And Frank was Ryan’s friend. Forget it, she told herself. Arsonists are always wrecking old buildings. You’re not even sure what you saw. None of your business. Keep your nose out, stay safe.

  * * *

  Friday, and there was still no sign of Frank. Night fell, closing the library inside its own walls. Lauren collected a stack of books and arranged them on the trolley for shelving. The boy had called her on Sunday, afraid for his life, then Ryan’s friend, Frank, had disappeared. It had to be the same boy.

  She wheeled the trolley from behind the counter and started with the fiction titles. Where was he? Why hadn’t he called back? She had checked with the day leader on Wednesday, after her talk with Meredith — Frank hadn’t been in touch. Perhaps he would call today. If he would only telephone someone could help him. If he spoke to someone else, she felt her burden would be reduced.

  * * *

  The church smelled of incense. The altar boys were clearing away after six o’ clock Mass, and the congregation had gone home. He felt a quiver of emotion he couldn’t identify, looking at the waxy flowers and votive candles shimmering below the triptych.

  Sometimes, he could see the attraction of religion. Frank’s confession had put him in a state of agitation. Trust Frank to off-load his problems onto someone else — the Samaritans, for Christ’s sake! Now, sitting in the contemplative stillness and gloom of the church, he realized there was a way out. He had a name — Lauren — which meant she was traceable. And the Samaritans are here twenty-four hours a day, he thought. All he had to do was call, then watch and wait.

  20

  Vince watched the passengers alight from the London train. Commuters, day trippers, students back from a few days playing hooky. They’d discovered that Frank had left a note — he had to get away for a while — London, maybe — didn’t matter, as long as it was away.

  ‘He’s not gonna be amongst this lot.’

  Vince turned to Sam Mayhew. He was in civvies — they both were — the boys on the concourse weren’t going to stick around to chat if they saw uniforms about. Mayhew was wearing a grey-brown mackintosh with a broad cape-effect across the shoulders; it made him look like a football manager, or CID.

  ‘He hasn’t been seen since Tuesday. He’s long gone,’ Mayhew added, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the cold. ‘This is a waste of bloody time.’

  ‘If he took a day or two thinking about it, making up his mind where to go, the lads will have seen him.’ Vince jerked his head in the direction of two boys sharing a cigarette by the vending machine.

  Mayhew shrugged. ‘Let’s get to it, then.’

  Vince put a hand on his arm. ‘You try the ramp,’ he said. ‘I’ll do the concourse.’

  Mayhew shot him a deeply antagonistic look and wandered off muttering about freezing his balls off. DCI Thomas had told him to keep it low-key, and Mayhew’s style did not lend itself to discretion. They didn’t want to fuel press speculation on a possible connection between the two disappearances, but they did want to show willing as far as the local community was concerned.

  Vince shivered. His leather jacket wasn’t enough protection from the intense cold. The snow had all but gone, leaving only a few dirty wedges in the darker corners of the narrow backstreets of the city. The rain earlier in the week had given way to sharp, bright days of dazzling sun, and black nights of severe frost.

  He walked from the platform to the concourse. Cream marble floor tiles and a high, vaulted roof did nothing to provide shelter from the freezing air. There were only two likely candidates: the lads got moved on periodically by security, concerned that they might offend the sensibilities of genuine travellers.

  He wandered over to one of the lads. From ten feet away he saw panic in the boy’s eyes. He was preparing to bolt. Vince shook his head and raised his hands, palms down in a placatory gesture. The lad stood his ground but kept an eye on the escape routes.

  ‘I’m not here to hassle you,’ Vince said, when he’d got within a few feet of the boy. The lad’s stance changed subtly from anxiety to cagey mistrust. He didn’t speak, but leaned back against the wall, one foot flat against it, and hung his head, pouting a little.

  Rebel Without a Cause, Vince thought, reminded of posters of James Dean. The boy’s face was too plump to be a good likeness, but he had the hair, and the sullen good looks.

  ‘I’m looking for a lad,’ Vince began.

  The boy gave him the once-over.

  ‘He’s gone missing,’ Vince went on, ignoring the boy’s provocative glance. He held out a photograph of Frank. The boy bided his time, taking it only after Vince shoved it at him.

  ‘Looks pissed.’ It was a recent picture — Frank was smiling, a bit the worse for wear at one of the half-dozen millennium parties he had attended.

  ‘D’you know him?’

  The boy shrugged. A negative. He pushed the picture back at Vince.

  ‘Keep it,’ Vince said. ‘If you see him, call the number on the back.’

  The boy raised his eyebrows. As if.

  ‘There’s a reward.’ Frank’s parents had put it up.

  The amusement in the lad’s eyes was partly displaced by avarice. ‘How much?’

  ‘Ring that number with the info, you’ll find out.’r />
  The second boy had slunk off while Vince was talking to James Dean. Vince walked to the side of the station, to the exit ramp from the car park. It was a good place to pick up passing trade, and if they couldn’t stake their pitch on the concourse, the lads invariably ended up out here.

  He started the climb up to the car park; so far there was no sign of Mayhew, then, halfway up the ramp, he heard shouting. Mayhew was struggling with the boy who had left the concourse. He was about fifteen, small for his age, and he squirmed and protested as Mayhew slapped him around the head.

  Vince yelled Mayhew’s name and he stopped, one hand raised, the other gripping the collar of the boy’s leather jacket.

  The boy swung at Mayhew, but the constable caught him by the wrist and twisted his arm up his back, forcing him against the wall. He screamed.

  ‘Let go of him!’ Vince roared.

  Mayhew looked startled. He eased his grip but kept hold of the boy who by now had stopped struggling and was crying with pain.

  Vince strode up to Mayhew and grabbed him by the shoulder.

  ‘I said let him go!’ His eyes blazed with anger.

  The lad started squealing and Mayhew gave him a shove that made him yell for real, then he released him. The boy turned around, eyeing both men malevolently while he rubbed his sore arm. The contact with the wall had grazed his face slightly and one or two pinpricks of blood appeared on his cheek.

  ‘Do him!’ the lad shouted, sensing that the junior officer was already in trouble. ‘He assaulted me!’

  Vince switched his attention from Mayhew to the boy. ‘How old are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Old enough.’ He had startlingly blue eyes — the kind that could glow with aching vulnerability or glaze with icy contempt.

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ He was barely five foot two, and he looked underfed.

  ‘Got any ID?’ He began checking the boy’s pockets, and the kid started shrieking.

  ‘Get off me you fag — you perv!’

  Vince stopped, shaken by the ferocity of the boy’s response.

  ‘Want me to do it?’ Mayhew asked.

  A muscle jumped in Vince’s jaw. ‘Have you shown him the picture?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Mayhew said. ‘That.’ He took out a copy of the photograph. ‘Seen him?’

  ‘Nah.’

  He grabbed the boy by the neck, but Vince’s warning glance made him let go. ‘Look at it,’ he said.

  The lad flipped a look in the general direction, just to avoid being roughed up again. His ears were red from the mashing Mayhew had given them, and the graze on his face was oozing. Vince handed him a clean handkerchief and the boy dabbed at his cheek. ‘I don’t know him,’ he said, truculently.

  Mayhew stuffed the photograph inside the boy’s jacket. ‘There’s a number on the back,’ he said. ‘If you change your mind.’ He swaggered off, leaving Vince alone with the boy.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I could take you in.’

  There was a spark of anxiety, then he seemed to sense that the risk was small. ‘Take me in? What for?’ he demanded. ‘Being out past me bedtime?’

  Vince didn’t reply, and the boy, gaining confidence, looked him in the eye. His expression changed from aggression to amusement. Vince took him by the arm and began leading him down the ramp.

  ‘Where’re we going?’ the boy demanded.

  ‘I’m taking you home.’

  He pulled away, smirking. ‘I don’t do freebies.’

  ‘Don’t try to be funny,’ Vince said. ‘You’re underage. What you’re doing is dangerous.’ He reached again for the boy’s arm.

  ‘Touch me again,’ the boy said quietly, ‘and I’ll scream rape.’ His pale blue eyes were cold, calculating. He knew exactly what he was saying.

  Vince hesitated. His mouth was dry, and his heart pounded. He reached out again. Nimble, evasive, the boy moved just out of range.

  ‘I’ll tell them you tried to bumfuck me.’

  Vince held his gaze, uncertain what to do. There were no witnesses, but if the lad started screaming . . . The boy stared back at him, unafraid. ‘Clear off,’ Vince said at last. ‘Get out of my sight.’

  The boy ran, laughing, back up the ramp, disappearing into the darkness.

  When he reached the roadway, Mayhew was showing the photograph to another lad. He hadn’t seen Frank either; Vince had to admit to himself that he hadn’t expected anything useful from the exercise. They were going through the motions, doing what was expected of them.

  As they walked back down to their car, parked outside the concourse, a high, clear voice carried to them on the thin night air. ‘Arse bandit! Perv!’

  Mayhew laughed. ‘Nice to be popular,’ he said.

  Vince wasn’t laughing.

  21

  ‘Lauren?’ Meredith Carter stopped and put her head round the door of the main office to check she hadn’t been mistaken. Phones were ringing, but the two Samaritans on duty were already busy. After a couple of rings, the calls were re-routed. ‘What on earth are you doing here? You should have gone home hours ago.’

  Lauren shot her a guilty look. ‘I did, but I couldn’t settle . . .’

  Meredith held the office door open. ‘You and I need to talk,’ she said.

  Lauren closed the logbook which she had been scanning for news of Frank. After a moment’s hesitation she took it with her, following the supervisor into the private consultation room. It was plainly furnished: oatmeal carpet, terracotta-coloured upholstered chairs, a small, square table with a box of tissues in the centre. Lauren went to one of the chairs and sat down, expecting Meredith to follow, but she stood at the door, holding the handle as if to prevent anyone coming in.

  ‘You can’t do this, Lauren,’ she said. ‘You know you can’t do this.’

  Lauren opened the logbook. ‘Look.’ She riffled quickly through the pages. ‘Half a dozen calls since Frank disappeared. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, all asking for me.’

  ‘I’ve seen the logbook. Let someone else deal with it.’

  ‘He won’t talk to anyone else! He asked for me.’ She looked back at one of the entries. ‘Caller hung up when I told him Lauren wasn’t working this evening,’ she read. ‘And here, on Friday, he asked when Lauren was on duty. He wouldn’t be persuaded to talk to anyone else. Caller sounded desperate.’ She looked up from the log. ‘He might do something stupid, Meredith.’

  Meredith took her hand from the door handle and folded her arms across her chest. She was a gaunt, severe-looking woman with straight, dark grey hair cut in a short bob. Her large, slightly bent nose added to her acetic appearance, and gave her glance a piercing quality. Lauren was spared her shrewd appraisal for the moment: Meredith’s eyes were fixed on the floor. Although Meredith could compartmentalise her work, shutting off the often-traumatic conversations she had with callers, locking them away from her everyday life, Lauren knew she was capable of great compassion and deep intuitive insight.

  ‘We aren’t a suicide prevention society,’ Meredith said, after a long pause. The sentiment was harsh, but her voice was gentle, warm. She had used it to almost magical effect in her seventeen years as a Samaritan.

  ‘But if we can prevent a suicide, we do, right?’

  Meredith tilted her head, conceding the point. There was an implacable quality to her stillness.

  ‘If I can persuade him to talk to someone else, I will,’ Lauren tried again.

  ‘And what makes you think he’ll call?’

  ‘He has done, at least once a day since Thursday. He’s not likely to give up now, is he?’ Meredith pursed her lips. ‘Let me do a couple of hours,’ Lauren begged. ‘If he does call, I’ll be here. If not, there’s no harm done.’

  ‘You’ve already done an extra session.’

  ‘That was a favour,’ Lauren explained. ‘When Rick was ill.’

  ‘And now
you want a return of the favour, is that it?’

  Lauren looked up into Meredith’s face. Her sombre expression seemed to have lightened a little; there was a twinkle of amusement in her eyes and a smile flickered around her mouth.

  ‘I’ll take the next two months off, if it makes you happy,’ Lauren begged.

  ‘It would make me happy if you’d go home,’ Meredith said.

  ‘But it’d make me miserable.’ She smiled. ‘Go on, Meredith — you know you could use the help . . .’

  Meredith considered. ‘If I let you stay,’ she began. Lauren leaned forward eagerly, but Meredith shook her head. ‘I said if. You’re to try to pass him on.’

  ‘Yes.’ In truth, she would have acceded to any stipulation.

  ‘And I’ll listen in,’ Meredith finished.

  ‘All right,’ Lauren agreed, but this time with some reluctance. She was used to supervising others, not having her own calls monitored. ‘Okay.’

  Since Geri had told her about Frank’s disappearance, Lauren had felt sick with apprehension. Each day she scanned the newspaper headlines and listened to the radio with a confused mixture of eagerness and dread. There was no news of Frank.

  She had worked at the library until eight on Saturday night, and during a quiet spell she had found Thursday’s issue of The Tribune. The front cover carried a slightly blurred photograph of Frank Traynor. The caption read simply Missing from home. There was background information on Ryan’s death — Ryan was described as a glue-sniffer — and the fact that Frank and Ryan were school friends was taken as some kind of indication that Frank was also involved in what the paper described as the ‘drugs culture’ at St Michael’s. A plea followed from his parents, begging him to get in touch.

  Lauren had made an effort to be rational: there were plenty of highly competent staff who could take Frank’s call. She had to maintain professional objectivity. Geri was evidently puzzled by her reserve, when Frank’s name came up at home, and she felt constantly anxious that seeing Geri worried about the boy, listening to her concerns for his safety, she would be unable to stop the words bubbling up like spring water. It was easier to avoid Geri, and when contact was unavoidable, to speak only about trivial matters.