Let the Dead Speak: A gripping new thriller

‘We could go inside.’ He ran his tongue slowly along the edge of the paper to glue it together. ‘But you’ll have to put up with my mother if you do that. There’s a reason why I spend a lot of time out here and if you go in there you’ll find out what it is.’

‘I can cope.’

‘I’m not sure I can.’ He lit the cigarette and drew on it, coughing as he exhaled. ‘What a terrible rollie. It’s an embarrassment. I usually do much better than that.’

‘It’s bad for you, you know.’

‘No shit, Sherlock.’ He picked a shred of tobacco off his lower lip. ‘I like to live dangerously.’

‘I spoke to DCI Gordon,’ I said softly.

Turner went very still. ‘That was quick.’

‘I’m investigating a serious incident.’

‘You didn’t say what it was.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Is it murder?’ He pulled at his lower lip again, nervously this time.

‘Why would you think that?’

‘Because. Because of the fuss. Because of the guys in white suits going in and out. I didn’t see a body bag.’ He over-balanced and almost fell off the brick.

‘There wasn’t one.’

‘So what happened?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘You don’t know?’ His eyebrows went up, sky-high. ‘Doesn’t usually stop the cops from talking to the press, does it?’

‘In your experience.’

‘In my very unpleasant experience.’ It was warm in the sunshine but I could see goosebumps on Turner’s arms and he shivered. ‘You’re right. I don’t want to talk about this out here. Come in.’

At his invitation, when he was good and ready. I recognised it for a power play and tried not to feel irritated. Derwent would have found some reason for saying no but I followed Turner to the door, where he stopped.

‘Just so you know, my mum is upstairs and I’d like her to stay there.’

‘I might need to speak to her.’

‘No. No, you don’t.’ He swallowed. ‘She won’t be able to help you, anyway. She’s not – she doesn’t notice things. She doesn’t go out. She doesn’t look out the window. She doesn’t even know anything’s happened.’

‘I still might need to speak to her.’

He bit his lip, then went into the house. It was cooler inside, the air still. A fly buzzed somewhere, the sound swinging from loud to soft and back again. There was an all-pervading smell of vinegar and lemon and the place was absolutely spotless.

‘You need to take your shoes off,’ he threw over his shoulder and padded into the sitting room. I did as I was told and followed him, blinking against the sunlight that streamed into the room. It was neatly furnished with a leather sofa and armchair, and a couple of small tables. What was mainly remarkable, though, was what I couldn’t see when I looked around. No ornaments. No books. No cushions. No rugs on the wooden floor.

Turner coughed again, his chest heaving. The hollow at the base of his throat deepened as he fought for air. ‘Sorry. Need my—’

He dug in his back pocket and pulled out an inhaler, handling it with the practised skill born of long usage. He turned away from me before he used it and I took the hint: this was private. I was intruding on a personal battle. I sat down, acutely aware of the wheezing, terrified in case it stopped. I knew, in theory, how to resuscitate someone, but that didn’t mean I wanted to do it.

‘Sorry,’ he managed.

‘It’s all right. Take your time.’

‘It happens now and then.’ Five words and three breaths to say them. I winced and took my radio out of my bag, holding it on my knee in case I needed to call for help in a hurry, for him rather than me. Suddenly the room made sense to me: hard surfaces. Wipe-clean leather upholstery. No dust. Vinegar and lemon because someone used homemade cleaning products instead of mass-produced chemicals. Nothing left to chance.

He stood with his back to me, his shoulders hunched, his head hanging down. The wheezing lessened, the breaths coming more regularly. Between his shoulder blades, the fabric of his T-shirt had darkened where he’d sweated through it.

‘Sorry about this,’ he said for the third time.

‘You don’t need to apologise.’ He was watching me out of the corner of his eye, I realised. There was something sly about it that put me on my guard; it was as if he was assessing the impact of the attack on me. ‘What triggered that? Do you know?’

‘I’m not very good at taking my medicine. I forget.’

Maybe you should try a bit harder, since it could actually kill you.

‘Was that a particularly bad one?’

‘Normal.’ He leaned against the chimney breast and ran a hand over his head. ‘Happens all the time. Anything can trigger it. Perfume. Chemicals. Dust. Change in temperature. I’ve got shit lungs.’

‘All the more reason not to smoke.’

‘That’s what they say.’

‘But you keep smoking.’

‘I’d give up if I wanted to live.’ His eyes were fixed on mine, hungry for a reaction. I shrugged.

‘Most people do.’

‘I thought you’d know by now I’m not like most people.’

I laughed. ‘What are you, twenty? Twenty-one?’

‘Twenty.’ His voice was flat.

‘I’ve never met a twenty-year-old who didn’t think they were exceptional. You saying that tells me you’re just like everybody else.’

‘Hey,’ he said, affronted.

‘Hey yourself.’ I leaned forward. ‘Look, I appreciate the effort you’re putting into this but you’re not going to impress me or shock me or whatever it is you’re trying to do. Drop the attitude and I’ll make this as quick as I can.’

He dug his hands into his pockets and shrugged. ‘OK.’