Dying Truth Read online

The receptionist checked and told her there were just a couple more people in front of her. Appeased the woman turned and looked around for her seat, which had been taken.

  Dawson approached the window. ‘A teenage boy, Shaun Coffee-Todd, has been rushed in. Can you tell me…’

  ‘And you are?’ she asked, glancing at the screen.

  He held up his identification.

  She appeared unimpressed. ‘So, you’re not a relative or guardian?’

  ‘No,’ he answered.

  She folded her hands and shook her head. ‘Then I’m sorry but I can’t give you any information.’

  He opened his mouth to argue, but realised he had no information or leverage that would persuade this woman to allow an unrelated male to attend the bedside of a minor. He accepted her judgement and moved to the side of the room, pleased to see the woman and coughing child had been offered a seat from someone.

  He took some change from his pocket and chose a black coffee from the vending machine, which spat the steaming liquid into a flimsy brown cup and stood with his back against the wall.

  He’d been leaving Sadie’s dorm room when he’d heard a commotion at the end of the hall. As he’d headed towards it, two paramedics had shoved past him followed by Principal Thorpe.

  He hadn’t been able to get close enough to see the kid, but the actions of the medics had been quick, and the boy had been placed on a stretcher and rushed to the ambulance.

  Principal Thorpe had hurried away, already on his mobile phone. He had stood for a moment listening to the astounded whispers of classmates and gathered that it was a fourteen-year-old boy who had been found unconscious in the shower block.

  His eyes went to the door as a couple entered wearing expressions of panic.

  Dawson recognised the man that entered as Anthony Coffee-Todd, a local newsreader and celebrity, who looked considerably older than his young wife without the studio make-up.

  They hurried towards the window and offered a few words. The receptionist picked up the phone. The woman tapped anxiously on the reception desk as Dawson began to head towards them.

  A nurse appeared at the swing doors and immediately ushered them both through.

  Dawson didn’t like the feeling of dread that was beginning to grip his stomach, but for now, he just had to stand back. And wait.

  Thirty-Three

  Kim stood at the back of the hall as Saffie Winters took her place at the piano.

  With lessons over for the day students and teachers were milling around the space, carrying boxes and bringing in chair stacks and placing them at the edge of the room. Kim tried to imagine the galas and balls that had taken place amongst the priceless tapestries that adorned the walls.

  She had sent Bryant off to find out what he could about the boy who had collapsed. There had been no word from Dawson, which she hoped was good news.

  Saffie stood behind the stool as though composing herself for this practice piece. Her gaze made a quick sweep of the room, ending at the doorway. She took a breath, sat, and flexed her fingers. The second her fingers hit the keys the room silenced. Discussions ended mid-sentence and activity stopped as all attention channelled towards the single figure on the stage.

  Four notes in and Kim could understand why.

  She recognised the piece as ‘Hammerklavier’, by Beethoven, a notoriously hard piano piece that required extreme dexterity and concentration, declared unplayable by some musicians. It was a piece she had listened to many times as she worked in her garage, and most times she found herself pausing in her task to simply close her eyes and listen.

  As Saffie played her head occasionally lifted from the keys to glance at the door. A secret smile rested on her delicate mouth, and Kim turned to see why.

  Along the back wall Kim saw a dark-haired youth leaning against it. His hands were resting in his pockets. His school tie had been abandoned, and his top button opened casually.

  A couple of people turned and waved in his direction, but he saw nothing as his gaze was locked on the girl performing on the stage.

  Her glances were less often now but occasionally their eyes met across the distance, and Kim could feel the intensity. It was like a power line was stretching between the two of them. Kim was sure that if she stepped between them she would be frazzled to a crisp.

  She could not shift her gaze from the silent interaction between them. Saffie’s eyes seemed to hold a tentative question. His face offered no response. She sought something from this boy, and his rigid expression was giving her nothing in return.

  Bryant came to stand beside her but said nothing until the piece had finished.

  The room responded with enthusiastic applause.

  Kim knew that the entire sonata lasted forty-five to fifty minutes, which required a great deal of stamina to complete. Saffie acknowledged their appreciation and instantly looked to the doorway, but the lad had already gone.

  ‘She’s good,’ her colleague said.

  ‘She’s more than that, Bryant,’ Kim said. ‘That girl is world class,’ she added, as she watched Saffie leave the stage without a glance at anyone.

  ‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ Kim said, rushing for the door.

  * * *

  She turned left and caught up with the male captivated by Saffie’s performance.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, touching him on the shoulder.

  ‘Yes?’ he said with a look of distaste.

  It suddenly occurred to her that Thorpe seemed to feel that Heathcrest was a place where they produced superior people. She was coming to realise that Heathcrest just made people feel superior.

  ‘DI Stone,’ she said, without producing her identification.

  He said nothing but continued to look at her derisively.

  ‘Firstly, drop the attitude, fella, I just want to ask you a couple of questions.’

  His expression warmed a couple of levels to impatience as he offered his hand and a modicum of good manners. ‘My apologies, officer, I was just in a rush. My name is Eric Monroe.’

  She ignored his outstretched hand and enjoyed his discomfort when it dropped back to his side.

  Yes, she had attitude and she’d bloody well earned it.

  ‘You seemed particularly captivated by the performance of Sadie’s sister in there a moment ago?’

  ‘I was appreciating Saffie’s musical ability,’ he replied.

  It was more than that and Kim knew it.

  ‘Are you two a couple?’ she asked. If this boy knew Saffie well, then he might also have known Sadie.

  ‘Not any more. We broke up,’ he said, without emotion.

  ‘Recently?’ she asked, surprised, recalling the level of intensity between them.

  He frowned and although his face was not puckering up into the disdainful look he’d sported earlier, it was getting there. ‘Yesterday, actually, but I’m not sure what that has to do with your inv—’

  ‘Did you know Sadie at all?’ she asked.

  ‘I saw her a few times,’ he said. ‘They weren’t close, but she was an angry little thing.’

  ‘About what?’

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t know what her problem was but she barged into Saffie’s room one night saying they had to talk.’

  ‘Did she say about what?’

  He shook his head. ‘Saffie told her to get out and not come back. That was the only time…’

  ‘Why did the two of you break up?’ Kim asked, directly.

  And the derision was back in full force. ‘My reason for ending our relationship is definitely none of your business, officer and now I must—’

  ‘Couldn’t you have waited to finish with her?’ Kim asked, struck by the callousness in his tone. ‘She has just lost her sister.’

  His lips pursed into an unpleasant sneer. ‘I can assure you, officer, that she’s lost a lot more than that.’

  He turned and walked away from her. She saw little point in following him. He’d said all that he was going to say.

  *
* *

  As she headed back into the hall Kim considered what she’d learned. Saffie wanted something from Eric, Eric was angry with Saffie, and Sadie had been angry with just about everyone.

  ‘What do we know?’ she asked her colleague, who took out his notebook.

  ‘So, the kid is fourteen-year-old Shaun Coffee-Todd, son of the newsreader and a former studio runner. He seemed fine in the previous class but never reached his next lesson. Apparently suffers with an allergy to nuts.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Kim said. She’d seen an anaphylactic shock reaction before and it wasn’t good.

  The ringing of her phone stopped her thoughts.

  She took a breath before answering.

  ‘Dawson,’ she said.

  ‘Kid didn’t make it, boss. Pronounced dead ten minutes ago.’

  Kim ended the call and closed her eyes for a second before turning to Bryant.

  ‘This school has now given us two dead kids this week and it’s only Wednesday. What the fuck is going on?’

  Thirty-Four

  The cards filed into the candle room one by one.

  Again, one chair was empty. The same chair.

  A few glanced towards it but more did not.

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ said the Joker, pulling out his chair.

  The sound of wooden chair legs scraping on the concrete followed.

  ‘You all know that Six is dead?’ the Joker asked once everyone was seated.

  There was a rumble that travelled around the circle.

  The Joker turned to Seven. ‘Did you do it?’

  Seven shook his head.

  ‘Answer, damn it,’ the Joker growled.

  ‘No, I didn’t get to him soon enough to…’

  ‘You didn’t make him eat a nut or something as a punishment for breaking the rules?’ the Joker asked, wondering if Seven had done so without realising the consequences.

  Seven shook his head, vehemently. ‘No, no, I was going to push some tacks up through the soles of his shoes, but I hadn’t found the right moment.’

  Yes, a popular punishment. Just three or four tacks and the wearer didn’t realise until their own body weight had pushed the flesh down onto the sharp points. It would have done the trick and taught him a valuable lesson.

  The Joker sighed heavily. ‘If you did this, you can tell us. If this was your punishment for his rule break, which went wrong and you didn’t understand the consequences, tell us now. You know that the secret will be safe here. Remember Noah?’

  Seven nodded.

  Noah Gless had been the Four of Spades in the mid-sixties. He had gone on to become the head teacher of an exclusive all-boys school in Kent. For fifteen years his sexual abuse of young boys had remained secret. Until an eight-year-old had told a nurse while being treated for a broken arm. His admission had brought forward a flood of complaints. All correct and horrific.

  Noah Gless was charged with thirty-four counts of sexual assault. The Spades had formed a wall of protection around him. His barrister pleaded diminished responsibility based on the sworn testimony of an eminent psychiatrist. Noah was sentenced to five years in a mental health facility, which was appealed down to three, and he walked free within a year.

  ‘I didn’t do it, I swear,’ Seven reiterated.

  The Joker searched his face. And believed him.

  ‘Okay, cards, reach for your glasses,’ the Joker instructed.

  All cards took the shot glass placed in front of their chair. A small measure of whisky had been poured into each one, as was the custom if a card died. It was barely a mouthful and reserved only for a death in the family.

  ‘To Six,’ the Joker said, raising his glass and drinking the shot.

  The cards all followed suit and placed their glasses on the table.

  The Joker nodded to the King on his right, who collected up the glasses.

  ‘And now to congratulate Five, Four, Three, Two and Ace who all move up a card. Well done to you all.’

  The Joker waited for a few seconds before continuing.

  ‘We have two small matters to deal with before the process of choosing a new Ace. First, Nine has an important basketball game in two weeks’ time. He needs to practise. Who volunteers to take his homework?’

  The hands were slow to rise but eventually three cards offered their services.

  ‘Seven,’ said the Joker. ‘That one is yours.’

  Seven nodded.

  ‘Secondly, Eight is being bullied by his biology classmates for passing out when dissecting a frog.’

  The King’s hand was first in the air, and the Joker nodded in his direction. ‘I’ll trust you to suitably advise the boys concerned.’

  The Joker hesitated for a moment, reaching to the side of the chair. ‘Okay, our next order of business is to choose a new Ace.’

  He lifted a pinboard that held two A4 photographs.

  ‘Take out your pins,’ he instructed.

  Each card reached into their pocket and produced a black Spade tiepin that had once been worn with pride. But now remained hidden in trouser pockets.

  Tradition dictated that the Joker would propose two possibilities to join the suit and give the reasons why.

  Right now the room contained two potential world class athletes, a musician, a boy already on his way to medical school, an artist, a boy who had joined Mensa before he reached the age of six, the son of a cabinet minister, a banker, and the sons of two international businessmen.

  The Joker pointed to the first photograph. ‘I have proposed subject one as his father has recently been awarded an MBE for setting up a charitable education initiative in Uganda.’

  The cards nodded in response.

  The Joker pointed to the second photograph. ‘I have proposed subject two because both of his parents are successful barristers.’

  The proposal needed no further explanation. Just as many children followed their parents through the education system, they followed their careers too. There was a good possibility that subject two would also choose to enter the legal profession and be useful in the future.

  The Joker sat back. ‘Okay, cards, you know what to do.’

  The King thrust his left hand forward and used the Spade pin to prick his thumb. He waited for the bubble of blood to form before smudging it onto the face of the photo of his choice.

  The process continued around the table, ending with the Jack.

  The Joker looked down at the ten droplets of blood ground into the pudgy little face.

  The choice had to be unanimous.

  It was.

  Thirty-Five

  ‘Okay, boy, what’ll we listen to tonight?’ Kim asked Barney as she scrolled through her music library.

  He offered no response as he waited for key words he understood, despite the fact he’d eaten his evening meal, crunched away on a carrot and had been for a two-mile walk. Still, he lived in hope of something more.

  After listening to Saffie earlier her ear now craved a burst of Beethoven. Kim scrolled to the playlist, found ‘Hammerklavier’ – the piece played by Saffie earlier – turned up the volume on the speaker and hit play. Immediately the piano notes seeped into her ear and travelled right to her nerve endings, massaging away the stress of the day.

  She stood back and observed her current project. Two months earlier she had tasked an ex-criminal named Len to find her a bike frame for less than five hundred quid. He had taken the challenge and three weeks later presented her with the bare bones of the 1968 Norton Commando she’d asked for.

  She had offered him the money, and he had refused, saying that in man-hours he had spent no more than a day searching and the frame itself he’d managed to get for less than a hundred. Kim had insisted that he take it. To her a deal was a deal. Reluctantly he’d agreed.

  The following morning she’d stepped out of her front door to see his pushbike leaning against her fence and him on his knees with a pile of weeds to his right.

  When she’d asked him what he was
doing, he’d said following her advice and providing value for money. He was a man desperately trying to put his criminal past of burglary behind him and provide for his young family.

  Seeing the job he’d done on her garden, Charlie – her neighbour – had given him some odd jobs to do. Len’s girlfriend, Wendy, had secured a part-time early morning cleaning job, and the small family were now off benefits and trying to make their own way.

  The whole journey of this bike caused her a smile every time she looked at it. The Commando was in production for ten years from 1968 and won Machine of the Year for five years running up to 1972, which came as a surprise, not least to the company’s owner, as the production of the bike was filled with problems. Early clutches couldn’t hold the engine torque and two small internal pins would shear off leading to severe slippage. The side stand on the bike often broke off if the rider was too forceful when kicking off.

  But those were the reasons she loved the MK1 750cc model. It wasn’t perfect. It had fought back.

  And although she was enjoying every minute of working on the bike she couldn’t help her mind wandering back to the events at Heathcrest. Two children dead in a few days; one murder and one accidental. The full post-mortem on Shaun Coffee-Todd was due to take place in the morning. The press hadn’t got their hands on the story yet, but she was sure by the morning it would be out there.

  The piece that she’d heard earlier that day continued to fill her ears. She felt the joy enter her heart as her eyes closed to savour the notes. She pictured the intensity of emotion passing between Saffie and Eric Monroe as the girl had played the piece. Whatever lay between them was still raw like an open cut.

  The music ended, and Kim opened her eyes as a sudden thought occurred to her.

  Saffie Winters had played that exact piece earlier that day and it had elicited no emotion in Kim at all. Although technically accurate it had been lacking a vital ingredient.

  The performance had had no soul.

  Thirty-Six

  ‘There’s little in this scoring I’d change,’ Kim said, glancing up at Stacey above her appraisal form. Before the death of Shaun Coffee-Todd, she had asked Stacey to meet half an hour before the morning briefing. They were all eager to get on with the murder of Sadie Winters, but Woody had left her in no doubt that the damned appraisals had to land on his desk before the end of the week.