‘School finished for the day, has it?’
Winters, the taller of the two men answered, ‘We’re all done over there, Sarge.’
‘Good. You can join the grown-ups and get some real police work done.’
Vince ignored the jibe and headed for DCI Thomas’s office.
Garvey tossed a slip of paper across his desk to Winters without looking at him. ‘Someone was asking for you earlier,’ he said to Vince. He waited until Vince turned to him before going on. ‘One of the lads selling his plump little rump on the railway station. Asked for you ’specially.’ He affected a camp little lisp on the last word. ‘Called himself Alex — said you’d know him.’
Ice-blue eyes and a vicious tongue. The boy had occupied his dreams for the past week. Vince knew him all right. He saw Winters and his partner exchange an amused glance.
‘There’s half a dozen lads working Handley Street,’ Vince said.
‘He said he’s the one you wanted to take home.’
Winters had a choking fit and turned away.
‘Information on Frank Traynor?’ Vince asked.
Garvey didn’t answer immediately, but stared at Vince, who returned the stare. Eventually Garvey shrugged. ‘Says he saw our lad on the station the Tuesday he disappeared.’
‘D’you think he was telling the truth?’
‘Lying little toe-rag wouldn’t recognize the truth if it leapt up and bit him on the arse — he kept asking about the reward,’ Garvey sneered. ‘Well, playtime’s over, boys,’ he said, looking from Winters to Vince Beresford. ‘You waiting for your dinner money or something?’
‘A name, Sarge,’ Winters said with heavy emphasis. ‘There’s just an address on here.’
‘Agnes Hepple,’ Garvey said. ‘Boss wants to find out how she knew so much about how Frank Traynor died.’
Vince knocked and went into Thomas’s office. The DCI looked haggard. ‘Vince,’ he said, indicating the one upholstered chair in front of his desk. ‘Anything?’
Vince shook his head. ‘No one saw him or heard from him after he disappeared.’
‘What about the drugs connection?’
‘The kids’re still saying Ryan didn’t touch drugs. Frank dabbled. Recreational drugs — E, a bit of dope, sometimes speed, if he had a lot of partying to do.’
‘Nothing heavier?’
‘No.’
‘What about solvents?’
‘No chance. It’s considered uncool, and Frank worked hard not to appear uncool.’
Thomas sighed. ‘Well, it was worth a try.’
‘There was an incident on Wednesday of this week,’ Vince went on. ‘Ryan’s younger brother attacked Barry Mandel.’
‘That name does keep cropping up, doesn’t it?’ he mused. ‘Did you interview the two scrappers?’
‘They’re singing from the same hymn sheet: it was a bit of horseplay that turned nasty. I don’t get it — why would Dean protect Mandel if he thinks he was responsible for his brother’s death?’
Thomas rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Have you got kids, Vince?’ He coloured slightly and gave an apologetic smile. ‘They have a code of silence stronger than any you’ll see in the criminal world,’ he went on. ‘You just don’t grass.’
Vince sensed the interview was over, but that the DCI had something more to say. The chief inspector shuffled uncomfortably in his chair, and Vince realized suddenly what was coming. He tried to forestall it with, ‘If that’s all, guv?’
But Thomas waved him back to his seat. ‘Um . . .’ he began. ‘About your personal situation . . .’
Vince felt a rising sense of panic, ‘Sir—’
‘I want you to know I’m right behind you.’ He winced. ‘I mean, you have my support.’ He stood and leaned across his desk, offering Vince his hand. Vince got to his feet and they shook, making eye contact briefly.
‘Thanks, sir,’ Vince said, unexpectedly touched by the gesture.
As Vince made his way out through the main office, DC Quinn burst in.
‘Got them!’ he announced, holding up a handful of videotapes. ‘Midnight Monday to midnight Wednesday last week: the sleazy underbelly of city life as lived on Handley Street station.’
Vince paused. ‘You’ve got the CCTV tapes?’ he asked. ‘I wouldn’t mind a look at those.’
Quinn looked at Garvey, who held out his hand for the tapes.
‘What’s up, Vince,’ Garvey said. ‘Hoping to do a bit of window shopping?’
‘I knew Frank,’ Vince said, evenly. ‘I know the people he hung out with — I might recognize someone.’
Garvey put his feet up on his desk and jerked his head at Vince. ‘Give them a proper job for a day, they think they’re Inspector bleeding Morse,’ he sneered. ‘Get back in your box, Vince.’
Vince was ready to go over and punch him in his shiny, red face. Then Quinn smirked and he knew he had missed his chance.
He decided to go to the canteen and get a bite to eat before tackling the paperwork that had mounted up over the past two days. He picked up a sandwich and a plate of chips and carried his meal to an empty table.
At the next table, a few of his interview team were finishing a late lunch and were talking over the case.
‘Thomas is bringing in the psychic,’ PC Mayhew said.
‘He doesn’t believe that stuff, does he?’ PC Porter asked. Porter was about the same age as Mayhew, bull-necked and broad chested.
Mayhew shrugged. ‘She got a few of the details right.’
Porter smirked. ‘And she’s gonna solve the case for him, is she?’
Mayhew chortled. ‘Thomas should’ve asked Beresford to look in his crystal ball — he’d’ve got the whole story.’
Shouts of laughter, then Vince leaned forward and stared into Mayhew’s face. An embarrassed silence fell.
* * *
Agnes Hepple wasn’t quite sure how to play the situation: for one thing, the police had called for her at her salon, so she wasn’t properly got up to be Miss Hepple, and for another, she’d had to leave instructions with her assistant, Pearl — who was anything but — to cancel her afternoon appointments, which had put her very much out of sorts.
She looked at the baggy-eyed policeman opposite and considered demanding just who the hell he thought he was, dragging her away from her business without so much as an apology, but the truth was that, technically at least, she had come voluntarily and she could see that if she wanted to impress this fellow, it would have to be by more subtle means.
She took a breath and closed her eyes, seeking out her special place. The conditions weren’t exactly conducive, but she’d played worse venues and left with the audience eating out of the palm of her hand.
Another breath . . . She found it; a green, open landscape and her above it, on a mountain top, in the sunshine. She opened her eyes, focusing on the inspector’s weary face, distancing herself from the mundane actions: the starting of the tape, giving her name, listening to the caution and responding to his question, ‘. . . Do you understand?’ with a smile and a nod.
‘For the tape, Miss Hepple.’
She kept the smile, suppressing a prickle of annoyance and sending out love to this sad-faced man. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
‘You seem very well informed about our investigation,’ he began.
‘I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, love.’
‘You gave Mrs Connelly certain . . . details about Frank Traynor’s death.’
‘Oh . . .’ Mrs Connelly had telephoned her to warn her of her visit to DCI Thomas. It had happened before, on other occasions when she had helped the families of victims of crime. Those times, there had been no follow-up. The police generally dismissed spiritualists as cranks — so although she had been irritated that Mrs Connelly had gone to the police before discussing it with her, she had dismissed the matter as unimportant.
‘And now can you tell me how you came by such detailed information?’
‘We
ll, where do I begin?’ This was difficult. It didn’t feel right, being Miss Hepple in her salon get-up. Purple nails and a matching two-piece didn’t suit the persona. There was a lot of hostility in the room — some from the inspector, who evidently thought her a liar and a con-artist, some from the Asian girl who was sitting in on the interview.
She had a message for Constable Dhar, but now was not the time to deliver it. She gathered her thoughts, making an effort to create a positive aura around herself.
‘The spirits are my messengers,’ she said.
‘Miss Hepple, you gave specific information about how Frank Traynor died, and where he would be found.’
‘Not me,’ she said. ‘The spirits. I am only a conduit. I pass on the information they give me.’
‘I don’t believe in ghosts—’
‘Spirits,’ Miss Hepple corrected. ‘They don’t need you to believe in them, Inspector.’
He sat up straight, exhaling loudly. ‘Tell me, exactly, how you discovered the particulars of Mr Traynor’s death.’
She thought for a moment. She couldn’t very well tell him that her friendly local pimp had found out from his contacts on the streets — anyway, some of it really had come from her spirit messengers. ‘You want to know how the spirits speak to me?’ she asked.
‘I want to know how you came by the information you passed on to Mrs Connelly,’ he replied. ‘A warehouse, you said. Flooded. And campfire or bonfire was significant.’
She felt a warm rush of spiritual energy. ‘And it was, wasn’t it?’
DCI Thomas’s face was grim. ‘Miss Hepple.’ It was said as an admonishment and a warning.
She regarded him closely for a few seconds. ‘I see cracks in your aura, where dark light escapes.’ She said it to shake him. She couldn’t see his aura at all, but she could sense his anger clearly enough, and his contempt for her and her beliefs.
‘Answer the question, please, Miss Hepple,’ he said.
‘He wanted to be found,’ she said, having let enough time elapse to show she would not be intimidated. ‘He wanted his mother to know what had happened to him. You see, the spirits don’t care about their physical bodies, but they care about justice, and they watch over those they’ve left behind on the earthly plane.’
‘Spare me the lecture,’ he said.
She was stung by his hostility. ‘I’m not looking to make a conversion, Inspector,’ she said.
‘Just as well.’ He drew his chair closer to the table and leaned on his forearms. ‘Now let me tell you how I think you got your facts. You knew about the warehouse, the flooding, the bonfire, because you’re involved in some way in Frank Traynor’s death.’
Their eyes met and locked and Agnes sighed inwardly. This was going to be a long session.
32
The sky was beginning to darken, and a waning crescent of moon showed as a thin creamy sliver above the chimney pots and aerials of the narrow street. Baz walked quickly to keep warm; in the gutters, cracked sheets of glassy ice had already begun to form — there would be a hard frost tonight.
Gran would be surprised to see him so early on a Friday night, but since Dean had freaked on Tuesday, Mr Ratchford had posted teachers at the school gates and at likely dealing places around the perimeter fence at the beginning and end of the school day. All of which meant that he had been forced to find new venues, and to lay off having the younger kids carry his stash around school for him, at least until things cooled off. He would pop in, make her night, chat for a while — maybe even stay for his tea — then get off to the city to see if he could make a few quid selling in the city-centre pubs.
He knew his gran would be standing at the window, as she always did, watching the comings and goings of the street from behind her polished oak table, her Zimmer close by in the unlikely event that someone would call, sitting down every once in a while, or going off to make a cup of tea, but essentially watching until it was too dark to see.
It pained him to see her excited wave when she caught a glimpse of him over the privet hedge, the way she would hurry into the hall, with that agonising shuffle, leaving her frame, so he didn’t think her an invalid. He despised his parents’ easy dismissal of her loneliness — Dad had seen to it that she had a downstairs shower and loo installed when she could no longer manage the stairs; he had even helped to move her bed and wardrobes down into the back room, but that done, he had left her to it.
Baz avoided looking into the front parlour, as his gran called it, and so he didn’t see her initial surprise, that little wave, nor her more frantic gestures as he put the key in the door, otherwise he would have seen what was coming.
Two men, both in ski masks, both heavyset. The first one — the one in the blue mask — grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and slammed him into the doorpost. His lip split. A burst of pain flared in his nose, then it spouted blood.
They threw him inside. He could hear his gran’s high, cracked screams and he tried to get to his knees and crawl to her. He had to tell her to be quiet or they would—
A boot in the ribs and he crumpled, gasping and retching.
‘Where is it?’ the blue mask screamed. ‘Where’s the gear?’
He wanted to tell, but he couldn’t get his breath. He was lifted by the hair, caught a glimpse of his gran in the parlour doorway, wide-eyed, screaming for them to leave her grandson be. He couldn’t see straight: his right eye was swelling, already closing up, and both eyes streamed.
He tried to say, ‘Upstairs’, but his mouth, full of blood, wouldn’t form the word. His face was slammed into the carpet. He groaned and choked, gagging on the blood.
His gran was still screaming. The black mask rushed past, into the parlour. Baz heard a dull thud and her cries were suddenly cut off. Black mask yelled at her. ‘Where does he keep his stuff?’
His gran whimpered.
‘Please,’ he mumbled through swollen lips.
They didn’t hear him. The first man had gone to the back of the house. He heard furniture being overturned, drawers emptied. Then he was back, his face in Baz’s, his eyes — all that Baz could see of his face — glittering, mad. He was high on something, and through his pain, Baz felt a plummeting sense of terror. They were going to kill them both.
‘Where?’ blue mask screamed.
Baz pointed upstairs.
‘Take anything portable and smash the rest, he said,’ Black mask reminded the blue.
‘I know what I’m doing. You watch them,’ Blue mask ordered. Gran was crying. Baz heard the sound of a slap, and the second man told her to shut her noise. There was a moment’s silence when all Baz could hear was the sound of his own laboured breathing, then there was a crash, and he knew his cloning cupboard had been emptied.
A few minutes later blue mask returned, carrying paper bags of hash and plastic bags full of pills.
‘Right little pharmacy, aren’t you?’ he said.
Baz had struggled to a sitting position, propped up against the wall next to the staircase. His breath whistled — they’d a cracked rib.
The man stuffed the bags into his pockets and leaned over him, lifting him easily by his lapels. ‘Where’s the rest?’
Baz’s good eye widened. ‘That’s it,’ he spluttered, spattering blood on the mask. ‘That’s all of it, I swear.’
The man looked past him, and Baz saw a movement, no more than a slight lift of the head, then he groaned as the first punch to his kidneys winded him afresh. Again and again he was punched and kicked, shoved backwards and forwards between the two of them until he collapsed, curling himself into a ball, trying to protect his vital organs, his head. Then suddenly it was over. He felt his coat ripped open, his pockets checked, money taken. He lay passively, praying that his gran wouldn’t start screaming again.
The first man took his hand, turned it over gently, then grabbed his thumb and bent it back until he heard it crack. He heard screaming — deep howls of pain — his own screams, but he could feel himself retreating, and
the sounds seemed far away.
The blue mask stood over him. ‘Are you listening?’ he asked. A pause, then, ‘I can’t hear you.’
‘Yes! Yes!’ His voice a high-pitched scream.
‘The Taxman doesn’t like competition,’ he said. ‘Stay off his turf.’
He heard a wail of dismay from his gran. Then blue mask lifted his foot and stamped on Baz’s groin, and finally, blessedly, he blacked out.
* * *
Vince was checking duty rotas, filing paper, typing up reports — doing the admin tasks he hated when the phone rang. The superintendent wanted to see him. Immediately. PC Porter stopped him in the corridor.
‘Word just in, Sarge. Barry Mandel’s been beaten up.’
‘Dean Connelly again?’
Porter shrugged massively. ‘He’s unconscious, and his gran isn’t making much sense. He was at her house when it happened. The place has been smashed up. The gran’s in shock.’
‘How bad is he?’
‘Looks pretty bad.’
Vince ran up the stairs to the superintendent’s office. DCI Thomas stood beside Allan’s desk, looking uncomfortable.
‘Close the door, Sergeant,’ Superintendent Allan said.
‘Sir, can this wait? There’s been a development. Barry Mandel. Looks like he’s upset one of his drugs associates.’
Allan picked up a remote control and pointed it at the TV and video in the corner of the room. Vince turned around. A slightly blurred image appeared of the interior of Handley Street station. Victorian tiling, modern marble flooring. The image jumped, then came back into focus. A tall, dark-haired man in a leather jacket entered the concourse and approached a boy near the entrance. It was the boy Mayhew had roughed up during their visit to the railway station the previous week. The boy who had haunted his dreams since. Alex, he thought. His name is Alex.
‘Can you explain why you were trawling the station on Tuesday the eighth — the night that Frank Traynor disappeared?’
Vince shot him an angry look. The choice of verb hadn’t escaped him. ‘I was trying to find out where he’d gone.’
‘I didn’t authorize that line of enquiry until the Friday,’ Allan said. ‘And you’re not in uniform.’
DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists Page 24
