DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists by MARGARET MURPHY

Author:MARGARET MURPHY [MURPHY, MARGARET]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joffe Books psychological thrillers
Published: 2021-01-24T22:00:00+00:00

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.

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