Let the Dead Speak: A gripping new thriller. Jane Casey

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.’

      ‘I’m here because your name came up when we made enquiries with the neighbours. I am not accusing you of anything.’

      Turner’s mouth tightened but he stayed silent.

      ‘I know you know Chloe Emery. How would you describe your relationship?’

      ‘I only know her to speak to.’

      ‘Have you ever visited her house?’

      ‘I don’t remember.’

      ‘You don’t remember,’ I repeated.

      ‘No, then.’ The amber eyes flicked away from me, darting around the room for inspiration. ‘When we were younger, maybe.’

      I sat back in my chair. ‘For someone who managed to avoid being charged with attempted murder, you’re a terrible liar.’

      The smile spread over his face. ‘I wasn’t charged with attempted murder because I didn’t do it.’

      ‘Remember, I’ve spoken to DCI Gordon.’

      Turner sat down slowly on the arm of the sofa. ‘What did he tell you?’

      ‘Everything he found out about you and Ben Christie. Which wasn’t much. Why wouldn’t Ben give evidence against you, William?’

      ‘Because I didn’t do it.’

      ‘The incident happened in an alley behind some shops. You were there and Ben Christie was there and Ben ended up with a stab wound in his stomach. It doesn’t take a great leap of imagination to guess what happened.’

      ‘You could guess, but you’d be wrong.’ Turner’s breathing was still a little fast but his eyes were bright; he was enjoying this.

      ‘What about the text messages on his phone?’

      ‘What about them?’

      I opened my notebook to read out the exact words. ‘“u know wot u did” “Time 2 make it right” “u can’t back out now” – what was that about?’

      ‘I don’t remember. Nothing much. Teenage shit. Maybe he spilled my drink or borrowed a quid and didn’t pay it back.’ He yawned. ‘You know you’re talking about something that happened four years ago. I can’t be expected to recall all the details.’

      ‘He was your friend and he almost died. Of course you remember it,’ I snapped.

      Turner lifted his hands and looked at them, turning them over to examine the palms. ‘I was covered in his blood. Did you know that?’

      ‘I’m not surprised. He was very badly injured.’

      ‘It was so hot, his blood. It got everywhere. Under my nails. On my shoes. I dream about it sometimes.’ He looked up at me again. ‘I saved his life. I called the ambulance.’

      ‘You stabbed him.’

      ‘Not me. I found him. I helped him.’

      ‘You met him in the alley near your school and you stabbed him.’

      ‘Did DCI Gordon tell you about the forensics?’ Turner asked, his eyes intent. ‘Did he tell you about the knife?’

      ‘Yes. He did.’

      ‘Whose knife was it?’

      It was a kitchen knife, an ordinary one with a serrated blade, the kind you might use for cutting up vegetables. Mrs Christie had identified it as one from her house, and cried as she did so.

      ‘It belonged to the Christies, but—’

      ‘And whose fingerprints were on it?’ Turner asked.

      ‘Ben Christie’s.’

      ‘Not mine.’

      ‘No. But there are ways of staging that.’

      ‘I didn’t have to. I never touched it. Did they find my DNA on it?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I’ve read up on DNA. They can do amazing things these days, can’t they? A skin cell or two, that’s all they need to identify someone beyond doubt. And every contact leaves a trace.’

      Edmond Locard’s maxim. It was the basic principle of all forensic investigation – that criminals left traces of themselves at crime scenes and crime scenes left traces on the criminals themselves. I wasn’t used to having a suspect quote it at me.

      ‘So they say. But—’

      ‘There was no trace of me on the knife. I never touched it. I never held it. I didn’t stab him.’

      ‘You said yourself you were covered in his blood.’

      ‘That was after he stabbed himself,’ Turner said dismissively. ‘That proves nothing.’

      ‘Why would he stab himself?’

      ‘You need to ask him that.’

      DCI Gordon had done precisely that, over and over again. Christie had refused to say. All he had mumbled, over and over again, was that it wasn’t anything to do with William Turner, and no one had been able to prove him wrong.

      ‘You mean you don’t know? You were there.’ Along with two other teenagers who swore they’d seen Turner helping Christie, calling an ambulance on his phone, cradling his friend and comforting him.

      ‘I was too late to stop him. I tried. I saved his life. A suicide is a terrible thing.’

      ‘Says the man who doesn’t care if he lives or dies.’

      ‘Which reminds me.’ He took out his tin of tobacco again, opening it on his knee this time. ‘Almost time for another coffin nail.’

      ‘Will-i-am. I wish you wouldn’t call them that.’ The voice came from behind me and I jumped; I hadn’t heard anyone approach. A thin, withered woman stood in the doorway holding a cloth with gloved hands.

      ‘Mrs Turner?’ I stood up. ‘I’m DS Maeve Kerrigan. I’m here to ask some questions about what happened up the road.’

      ‘I don’t know anything.’ Her eyes were fixed on her son who was concentrating on his cigarette. ‘Don’t do that in here, William. You’ll drop bits of it everywhere.’

      ‘Then