Chapter 9
DAY TWO
The dead man had lived in another small two-up, two-down terraced cottage.
From the outside, it looked the same as Mason Abruzzi’s house, but with none of its internal individuality.
Everything, from the paintwork to the furniture, was battered and worn out.
The carpets may once have been beige, or even cream, but now they were worn smooth and dark by legions of shoes grinding in dirt and grease.
Half-empty mugs and empty beer cans stood on every flat surface, along with crumpled chip papers and overflowing ashtrays.
An old-fashioned television was propped against the wall in one corner.
There was the same underlying smell of weed as in the house he’d just left.
And on the pockmarked sofa a man lay, surrounded by more crumpled paper, a tipped over beer can and the things he had needed for his fix: spoon, needle, cigarette lighter.
A sobbing woman sat on a kitchen chair, holding a used syringe, being comforted by a paramedic in green uniform scrubs.
The familiar yellow packaging of a naloxone kit was on the floor beside her feet.
“It didn’t work,” she said, holding the syringe out when Deryn entered. “It didn’t wake him up. It should have woken him up.”
The paramedic stood up straight. “We were too late,” he said to Deryn.
“This lady did everything right, but sometimes one dose isn’t enough.
We gave him another, but he’d already gone.
” He started to gather up his equipment and eased the used syringe from the woman’s hands.
“It needs a sharps bin, love.” The woman continued to sob.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Deryn asked her. “Do you live here?”
The woman shook her head wordlessly.
“Let me have a quick word with the paramedic,” Deryn said and flicked his head to indicate outside. “What happened?” he asked once they were alone.
“The victim’s friend says he’d been off drugs for a while, so it wouldn’t take much for the poor bloke to OD.
Or it could be a particularly pure batch of heroin, but most likely it’s another fentanyl mix.
A single naloxone jab should have brought him back if it was just heroin, fentanyl takes a lot more.
I hear this isn’t the first overdose round here? ”
Deryn nodded. He was regretting not having kicked Phillip harder. “We’re putting the word out where we can.”
“Best of luck,” the paramedic said and loaded equipment into the car.
Deryn returned wearily to the bleak living room with the dead man and his weeping companion.
“Let’s see if there’s a kettle and some tea bags in the kitchen,” he said.
Deryn made extra sugary tea and sat the woman down to drink it.
There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t think what.
In a village as small as Cwmcoed, it was usual to say hello to everyone, because otherwise you risked offending someone you had been introduced to — a friend of your family, perhaps.
The woman took a slurp of tea, and said, “You don’t remember me, do you?
Ceri Boswell. You were a year ahead of me at school. Robbie was in your class.”
“Robbie?” Deryn said, indicating the room with the dead man.
“Not Robbie Welland?” Because he remembered Robbie Welland.
A ‘bad boy,’ always in trouble, but widely acknowledged to be good-hearted, even by the teachers.
Robbie’s problem was that he couldn’t sit still.
There was no sport he didn’t excel in. Ceri nodded.
“Didn’t Robbie go to a football academy? Or was it rugby?” Deryn asked.
“Football. They said he wasn’t quite good enough to turn professional,” Ceri said.
“So he came home.” She started crying again.
Deryn wanted to cry with her. Robbie had been fun, even as he caused chaos and destruction, walking on his hands at the back of the class when the urge to move became too great.
He’d been known to jump out of the window when the teacher’s back was turned, disappearing to chase a ball around the school.
“How did this happen?” Deryn asked, not really expecting an answer to make any sense.
Ceri shrugged, and wiped her eyes. “He got depressed when he came back, didn’t know what to do with himself.” She shrugged again. “This place … all he had was football …”
So, my family sold him drugs. And now he’s dead.
There was a clatter from the front door. Deryn stood and went to see the source: DI Glover, plus the SOCO who had tested for blood at Mason’s house.
“Mortuary van is coming,” Glover said. “Mary is just here to take pictures.”
“Because you’ve stomped all over the scene,” Mary said bitterly.
Deryn rolled his eyes. “We’ve had paramedics here, and a friend of the victim. Yanno, trying to save his life. Believe me, there isn’t going to be much forensic evidence.” All he got in return was a filthy look.
Glover beckoned Deryn closer. “Ambulance service said it was likely another Fentanyl OD,” she said.
Deryn nodded. “Turns out he was an old school friend of mine. I’d have warned him if I’d known.”
“Of course you would,” Glover said, and turned away.
It was dark by the time Deryn finished at Robbie’s house.
The body had been removed, Ceri sent home with a friend, and Deryn had called on all the immediate neighbours, learning that Robbie had indeed been trying to come off drugs, with a hospital detox followed by lots of visits from the drug and alcohol team.
But there’s no fancy rehab places for people from round here was the consensus view, not even for a young and talented footballer.
Deryn knew that a detoxed addict returning to the same place, surrounded by friends still taking drugs, and with easy access to dealers, was almost a guarantee of relapse.
The dealers would have been his first visitors, with a special offer to welcome him home.
Poor Robbie had had little chance of recovery.
Which put Phillip firmly in the frame for his death.
Deryn got into his car and slumped back against the seat, head against the headrest, eyes closed.
His skin tingled with fatigue. He wondered, vaguely, about Phillip.
No doubt there would be some kind of revenge for Deryn’s attack on him, whether by outing him as a cross dresser, or sending thugs, he didn’t know, and tonight he really didn’t care.
All he wanted to do was wave a magic wand and find himself back in his own flat.
Unfortunately, he was all out of magic wands and the only way home was via a series of narrow streets with a bit of motorway and a country lane to finish.
It was getting late to report to DI Glover, but with a sigh, he pulled out his phone.
There were missed calls from Glover and Murphy. Murphy could wait; Glover couldn’t.
“Boss,” he said when she answered. “I didn’t find anything useful from the neighbours.”
“I never expected that you would,” she said. “You and I need to have a talk about the drug supply in Cwmcoed. I’m hearing rumours. My office, straight after the morning briefing.”
“What rumours?” Deryn asked, though he was fairly sure he knew.
“We’ll talk in the morning,” she said.
The phone lay heavily in his hand as Deryn’s eyes closed again. Was this it? The end of his police career? Damn Phillip. Damn his whole family. The phone vibrated with an incoming text. Deryn lifted it and read: I’ve found something you need to see. I’m still at Mason’s. Brody.
Part of him wondered if he could be bothered, but he put the car into gear and drove the few streets to Station Terrace.
Perhaps the something Murphy had found would implicate Phillip, or solve the mystery of where Mason Abruzzi had been taken.
If so, he would have something positive to tell Glover in the morning.
It was a slim hope, but the only one he had.