Soul Fire (7 page)

‘I’ve never been to Greece. Or even Europe. I was supposed to go before college. The Grand Tour . . .’

I don’t want him to dwell on what he’s missing. ‘What languages do you speak?’

‘A little Spanish. We had a Mexican maid.’

‘She taught you?’

‘No. I taught myself. I was twelve. She was cute, so I tried to talk to her. My friend taught me.’

‘What did you say to her?’

His forehead wrinkles. ‘Um . . .
Vaca guapa. Quiero la leche,
’ he whispers.

‘That sounds really good. What does it mean?’

‘I
thought
it meant,
you’re cute, girl. I want you
. But then my buddy admitted it meant
cute cow, I want your milk
. Or something like that.’ He laughs.
‘And what about you? What do you speak?’

‘French.’

‘Tell me something in French.’

‘Um . . .
je voudrais du lait, ma jolie vâche
.’

‘Sexy. What did you say?’

I giggle. ‘I’d like some milk, my pretty cow.’

‘You’re mocking me.’

‘Never, Danny.’

We kiss more, talk more. Share first memories, most embarrassing moments. Mine was a skirt tucked into my knickers in my first week at high school. His involved a bout of vodka-fuelled
seasickness on a yacht belonging to the father of a billionaire school friend.

‘Was that a
female
school friend?’ I ask.

‘Does it matter?’

‘To me it does. Is it the brunette you went to a barbecue with?’

He leans back. ‘Wow. Do you have supernatural powers?’

‘Only the internet,’ I say. ‘She was in the video they show of you . . .’ I stop because I daren’t mention the news coverage of his death, ‘. . . well, the
video of you that’s online.’

Danny scowls. ‘Hope they got my best side,’ he says, trying to sound amused.

‘You don’t have a worst side.’

He laughs sadly. ‘My friends would disagree.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ah, Alice, I was spoiled. The life I had, I wanted for nothing. It’s not the best thing for a kid, getting everything they ask for. I was a brat.’

‘You’re a reformed character, now, though,’ I say, holding him tighter.

‘
You
changed me, Alice.’

I think I must have fallen asleep because suddenly the sky is lighter, and I’m shivering. He holds me closer but it doesn’t warm me through. ‘It’s
time.’

The spell of our magical night together is broken. I remember where I am: not a tropical beach, but a freezing cold dining room.

I kiss him once more but I hardly feel anything. Then I click out of the site. Reality is so colourless. I check the clock on the mantelpiece. Quarter past six. Bloody hell. I could have had
another ten precious minutes with Danny before I had to go back to bed. But it’s too late to go back, too painful to drag myself away from his arms twice in one morning.

Instead I click onto Burning Truths. It’s not exactly a site I can checkout while Mum’s watching me. I go straight onto Tim’s page, but when I lookfor the skull icons in the
corner of the screen, I realise I’m the only person online.

I scroll down anyway. There’s nothing new in the comments section, but there is an update at the bottom of Tim’s profile.

Inquest? Instinctively I know I need to be there, not only because I owe it to Tim.

But also beause I feel certain that whoever is behind this site won’t be able to keep away either.

I was expecting somewhere . . . scarier. A Gothic courtroom, with turrets and soot-stained black stonework. Gargoyles.

But the coroner’s court is a modern brick building with huge glass windows and cheerful yellow blinds. It’s too bland to be a place where the end of a life is examined.

No one knows I’m here. I texted Cara to ask her to cover for me at school till lunch, but didn’t say why. Luckily, Mum’s sick note from yesterday is vague enough for me to get
away with it.

There are two cameramen and a huddle of reporters outside the court, their breath condensing in the cold air like dragons’ smoke. I pull my scarf up around my face so they don’t
recognise me. For a time last summer, I was almost famous.

I check my disguise in the ladies’ toilets. My school uniform’s in my rucksack, and I’m wearing a shapeless shirt and jeans, my hair in a scraped-back ponytail, plus an old
hooded duffel coat on top. This is pretty much the dress code for freaks – I found
that
out at my sister’s funeral.

But I’m no freak. Am I? I’m here for a reason, doing the police’s job for them. I feed coins into the vending machine. Espresso? Cappuccino? Soup . . .

That’s when I sense I’m being watched.

I spin around, but the only person near me is a thin policeman with droopy eyes.

‘Hello. Are you press or family?’

‘Er. Neither. I was . . . studying with him. With Tim.’

‘Right. You want the public gallery, at the back. You know nothing will happen today, don’t you? It’s a formality.’

I nod. ‘I wanted to be here anyway.’

‘I hope it helps you.’ He has an understanding face. Perhaps it comes of living with death every day.

He’d never believe I know how he feels.

I choose hot chocolate, then sit down in the waiting area as more people arrive. The journos come in: two men, one woman, joking like mates on a day out. The woman catches my eye and I freeze.
But when she looks away, I feel safer. Obviously I don’t look like me anymore.

More people come in: two policemen, a woman in a boxy suit . . .

And that . . . that must be Tim’s father.

Meggie never met his family. Tim’s mum died in a car crash when he was thirteen, and within a year his dad had moved another woman and her kids into the house. Tim began sleeping on
friends’ sofas. He once told me he had to leave home when he started feeling jealous of a three-year-old. ‘I knew
why
Dad paid them attention,’ he said. ‘They were
cute. I wasn’t. So it made sense for me to go.’

Poor Tim. Not much of a life: unwanted by his father, then wanted as a murderer. Perhaps he deserves the paradise of Meggie and the Beach. If eternal life with little hope of escape really does
count as paradise . . .

His father has redder hair than his son, and taut, dry skin. His eyes dart around, as though he’s expecting someone to question his right to be here. It’s a shame he didn’t
show he cared about Tim that bit sooner.

He turns towards me, and for a moment, I feel a horrible chill; those are
Tim’s
eyes meeting mine, yet icier.

‘Mr Ashley?’ The policeman escorts him towards a side room, but I’m still shivering, even though the hall is boiler-room hot.

The clock ticks towards ten, when we’re finally allowed in.

I wait until everyone else is seated, then take a seat in the empty public gallery.

‘Good morning, everyone. I am the South East Thames coroner and we are here today to open the inquest into the death of Timothy David Ashley . . .’

The coroner reminds me of Dad’s colleagues at the solicitors’ office: grey men in grey suits.

The policewoman who answered Ade’s 999 call reads a statement. ‘The deceased was discovered seated at the kitchen table. A torn plastic bag was tied around his neck. We noted bottles
of what appeared to be alcohol on the table. These have been removed for analysis.’

‘Had the body been touched?’

She nods. ‘The deceased’s flatmate, Adrian Black, had come home to find Mr Ashley slumped on the table, but with the bag intact. It had been secured at the neck, to restrict air
flow. Mr Blacktore through it, but it appears Mr Ashley was already dead. Death was confirmed at twenty-one thirteen hours, by the police surgeon.’

‘Thank you, officer.’ The coroner leafs through some papers on his desk. ‘An initial autopsy shows that the cause of death is asphyxiation. The pathologist is still waiting for
toxicology reports on alcohol levels and so on.’

Tim’s dad is motionless.

‘Mr Ashley? I’m sorry for your loss. Today’s hearing will be brief, I’m afraid. There will be the opportunity to ask questions when the hearing resumes once I believe I
have sufficient evidence to proceed.’

‘All I want to know is
why
.’ His soft accent is the same as Tim’s. I was too hard on him, earlier. The poor guy is totally lost.

‘We will do our best to find out, Mr Ashley, you have my word.’

That’s when I feel it again: the certainty that someone’s watching me. I look behind me, half expecting to see Ade waving, but there’s still no one sitting in the gallery
except me. I turn back. Tim’s father is staring bleakly into space. I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking – that this
procedure
in this stuffy sanitised room
seems so wrong.

‘So, Mr Ashley, you understand that I am adjourning this inquest until a future date, to be confirmed, when investigations are complete.’

But Mr Ashley is understanding nothing. And neither am I.

I wait until everyone else has left. Back in the entrance hall, the journalists say noisy goodbyes before rushing off to write their stories. After a few words with the
coroner’s officer, Mr Ashley half steps, half stumbles outside and the cameras flash briefly and he ignores shouted questions. If he even hears them.

Then everyone’s gone except him and me.

He lights a cigarette. His son hated smoking, but when Mr Ashley’s lips tighten around the cigarette, his expression of concentration reminds me so much of Tim that I want to scream.

Should I try to talk to him? I could comfort him . . . but then what? Tell him that his son has been reunited with Meggie in the afterlife? Yeah. That’d help. Mr Ashley throws his
cigarette to the floor after a few breaths, then stubs it out under his shoe. He looks up at the court building once, before walking into the street.

Something’s moving
. I catch a change in the light, out of the corner of my eye. I twist to my right, and focus on the graffiti-covered entrance to a multi-storey car park. The
movement definitely came from that direction.

Nothing seems to be moving now, yet I’m sure I didn’t imagine it.

Tim’s father’s shoulders rise and fall. Sighing, or crying? I can’t tell. He walks. I wait. If there
is
someone in the car park, then it’s as likely that
they’re following him as me, surely?

But as he walks away, no one emerges from the car park. The coroner’s officer glances at me as he locks the metal gate.

The car park has five storeys. There’s a barrier, but no signs of life. Round here, the streets are lined with derelict warehouses. All I can see as I look up are the dead black
reflections of the panes.

No one knows I’m here.

The thought makes me shudder, but I try to stay calm by thinking it through. The car park is well lit. It’s not even eleven in the morning. If there’s no one in there, then I’m
not in danger, and even if there is someone lurking, nothing bad can happen. It’s not even eleven in the morning.

I try to tune into my instinct. My heart’s racing, yes, but I don’t feel
terror
, that paralysing force of evil I felt in Meggie’s room.

I cross the road, which is gritty with salt and melted ice. That car park smell of petrol and pee gets stronger as I climb over a low wall. Now I’m closer to where I saw something –
no, it has to be
someone
– move.

Should I text someone so they know where I am? Lewis, maybe?

No. If there’s someone hiding in the car park, I don’t want to let them get away. They must be connected to Tim, to Meggie, to Burning Truths.

It could be the killer.

The thought makes a pulse throb in my neck. I climb over the wall. From here, I can see the whole ground floor. There are only two cars parked on this level, so there’s nowhere to
hide.

What was that?

I turn my head, towards the stairwell and the lift lobby. What’s different?

The lift light’s come on.
Someone must be inside – or calling it from a floor above me.

I try to move silently towards the lobby, but my boots echo against the concrete. Everything’s loud. The whine of the lift. My breathing.

There’s an indicator light which shows that the lift is now on the second floor and still moving up.

My finger hovers over the button. Should I call it back? I don’t know what the hell to do. My knowledge of surveillance techniques comes from
24
. And I didn’t watch how Jack
Bauer operated nearly closely enough.

The lift light goes out.

I try to stay calm. It could be anyone. A driver, someone from the coroner’s court.

I can hear the machinery as the lift moves again.
Down
. Towards me. I should run. But I don’t. I’m frozen. With fear, yes. But with something else.

Anticipation . . .

This could end here. Whoever is in that lift might know everything: who killed Tim, who killed Meggie.

A trickle of cold sweat drips down my back as I realise that only the person who committed both murders could know for sure.

The lift brakes squeal like cats fighting at midnight. I flatten myself against the wall.
Don’t think
. Just be ready.

Louder. Louder. Then the lift motor stops. Silence. And then it drops into place and I wait for the doors to open.

This is madness.

The metal doors groan open. I wait. And wait.

What are
they
waiting for?

Finally, I dare to twist my head to look to the side.

The lift light that shines back at me is bright and unforgiving. I take a step. Then another step.

No.

I look up, around, down, unable to believe it.

There’s a strong smell of vomit. A crushed can of Red Bull. A cover ripped from a magazine.

But apart from that, the lift is empty.

I run, and run. Tearing through deserted streets. Down the escalators in the tube station. Along the empty platform.