THE NEXT TO DIE

Elliot Sweeney

Copyright © 2023 Elliot Sweeney

The right of Elliot Sweeney to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

First published as an Ebook by

WILDFIRE

an imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP in 2023

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

Cover design by Siobhan Hooper

Images © Lerone Pieters/Unsplash and Hayden Verry/Arcangel (figure)

eISBN: 978 1 4722 9263 6

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elliot Sweeney is a community psychiatric nurse from London. He was awarded the Fisher Scholarship to attend the Curtis Brown creative novel-writing course, and he’s also been supported by Spread the Word through their London Writers Awards Scheme. The Literary Consultancy has showcased him as a Spotlight Author, and he’s written for Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine and Switchblade, amongst others.

Praise for The Next to Die:

‘The Next to Die is a remarkably assured debut. It oozes the sour tang of authenticity, mingling psychiatry and crime with the mean streets of London.’ Andrew Taylor

About the Book

Five years since his daughter’s death. Now it’s happening again.

Dylan Kasper is stuck. Living in self-imposed reclusion from his former life in the police, he’s been in a downward spiral since his daughter’s death five years ago.

All that changes when the son of an esteemed professor jumps under an inner-city train. His former colleagues call it suicide, but Kasper knows different. This has all happened before – to him, and his dead daughter.

Taking on the investigation himself, Kasper soon realises the terrible trouble young Tommy had found himself in. With nowhere to run, he thought suicide was the only way to keep his family safe.

But before long, Kasper’s investigation makes him target number one. Can he keep his demons in check and stay alive long enough to bring those responsible to justice?

For Clare

Acknowledgements

Thanks to –

My agent, Gordon Wise, plus Curtis Brown’s Niall Harman, Lisa Babalis, Anna Davis, Jack Hadley, Katie Smart, Charlotte Mendelson and all the crew from our three-month course; then there’s the writers, Tony Parsons, Jake Arnott, Andrew Taylor, Mark Billingham and Amer Anwar, to name a few; trusted beta readers Scott Maynard, Jo Malone, Liz Prinz, Niamh Ni Longain and Megan Davis; Dea Parkin at Fiction Feedback, Aliya Gulamani from Unbound, copy-editor Jill Cole and for her proof-reading skills, Tara O’Sullivan; Aki Shiltz and co. at TLC, and all the wonderful people at Spread the Word, Ruth, Bobby, and my fellow LWA authors from the 2019 cohort; Allison Arekion, Helen Middup, Jose Michel, Nigel Yard, David Hamilton and everyone else I’ve worked with at Camden and Islington NHS Foundation Trust, in particular the CDAT and Camden AMHP teams, you guys rock; more recently, there’s Jack Butler at Wildfire, for his belief; lastly, to my parents, partner and son, for all you’ve done and continue to do.

Prologue

It was a black day.

I’d had a good run of late, but got them sometimes. Still do.

After skulking round my loft room for most of the morning, I put on some joggers and cycled to Savages Boxing Club. I was bludgeoning the heavy bag, and had a decent sweat going on when my phone pinged – a voicemail from Tommy Berkowitz.

The thwacks of punches and clangs of barbells were deafening, so I stepped outside. My nape prickled when Tommy’s voice came through.

He sounded calm. Too calm.

‘Kasper, I’ve messed up. There’s only one way to fix this. I found out what happened to you. Christ, I’m sorry it has to be this way. You’ll know what to do, OK?’

I heard muffled movement, and the message ended.

Shit.

I tried calling back, but it went straight to voicemail. Three more attempts, and on the final one I said, ‘Tommy. It’s Kasper. Cut the crap and ring me when you get this.’

Twice more, I listened in case I’d missed anything. I hadn’t though.

I paced in a circle, my thoughts rattling without focus.

Eventually, I called Diane. Skipping awkward hellos, I jumped to it.

‘This kid I linked up with – Tommy Berkowitz. Ring a bell?’

‘Oh yeah,’ she said, ‘the one with the nutty professor dad, right?’

‘That’s him. Tommy’s involved in vice, Diane. Has a history of trying to jump off bridges, too. Now he’s left me a garbled message, like he was about to do something really dumb. You hear anything?’

‘No. And telling you would be a breach of confidentiality, Kas. You’re not police anymore, remember?’

‘I know.’

A pause. ‘I’ll make a few calls. If I get a hit, I’ll bell you.’

‘I owe you,’ I said, and hung up.

I started walking, my sweat turning cold. Twelve long minutes later, my phone went:

‘Me again,’ Diane said, the sound of a car engine in the background. ‘I’m calling from a police car, Kas, driving to a train station.’

My throat grew tight. ‘Why?’

‘Listen. It’s a fatality.’

I leaned a palm on a wall, suddenly weak, struggling to focus. Five years evaporated, and I was back in the hallway of my old house, my ex-wife staring at me from the kitchen. I was in my dressing gown, a phone to my ear, listening to words from a police operator that made no sense.

‘Kas, I—’

‘What train station, Diane?’

‘Upper Holloway.’

A hole blew open in my chest, and expanded with each kick of my heart.

‘Kas!’ she said. ‘You there?’

‘It’s happening again,’ I managed. ‘Isn’t it?’

Chapter 1

OK, let’s rewind a few days.

My landlady, Dr Steiner, had gone to visit an on–off girlfriend in Brighton. Before she left, she gave me some guest passes for this fancy health club in Hoxton, a place called the Equilibrium. The passes were gifts from a former colleague of hers who hoped to quash her aversion to anything exercise-related. Bemused, a lit Dunhill in hand, she offered them to me as an alternative to the bin.

Within minutes, I clocked the kind of place the Equilibrium was – City boys, gym-bunnies and lechy men with money to burn made up the clientele. I stuck out like a hobo who’d stumbled into Fortnum & Mason. Mirrors were everywhere – in the reception, around the gym, even head-to-foot in the juice bar – allowing members a three-sixty view of themselves wherever they went.

To be fair, there was quite a bit to look at here, whatever your predilection, and it made a change from the macho brawn of Savages, my usual training spot. It was also here that a troubled young man called Tommy Berkowitz introduced himself to me.

I’d been to the club a couple of times by then, and this Friday afternoon had blitzed my shoulders and back with the free weights before hitting the treadmill. London Calling by The Clash filled my headphones, an alternative to the saccharine pop bleating from the speakers. Afterwards, I decided to head upstairs and treat myself to a coffee at the juice bar.

Coffee here came in handle-less bowls and cost four pounds a pop, more if you chose a fancy milk – there was soy, almond, cashew, coconut, oat or lactose-free. I played safe, ordered black, and took a bar stool.

The bar was oval-shaped, with high ceilings and glass walls partitioning the space from the rest of the club. Lean, well-groomed men and women sat at the tables, most sipping protein shakes and nibbling quinoa salads. Sweaty Betty and Lululemon were the labels of choice, and there were tattoos and tans aplenty.

There was a wide fitness studio to the right of the bar, where a dozen or so healthy young women were doing yoga things on mats. Most were scantily dressed, their faces lacquered with full make-up, which bemused me.

At the rear of the studio, I spotted the sole male in the class. He was young, late teens or early twenties, tall and doughy, with spotty cheeks, large eyes and honey-coloured hair that flopped over his brow in a comma when he changed position. His fingernails were painted red and he wore a silver hoop in his left nostril. A scuzzy grey tee, navy tracksuit bottoms and pink socks made up his workout gear. For completely different reasons, he seemed about as out of place here as I did.

I was on my second coffee when his gaze flitted up. He had rich, dark brown eyes, the colour of tree bark in spring, and they held mine fully. He grinned.

As the rest of the class moved seamlessly into a downward dog, he stood, grabbed a pair of All-Stars and a jumper from the floor, and pushed through the studio doors. I watched as he headed across the foyer, came into the bar and stopped a couple of feet from me, still grinning.

‘Buy me a drink?’ he said, in a light, husky voice.

‘No, thanks,’ I replied.

‘Aw, come on.’

I tried looking past his shoulder at the class, but he was blocking my view.

‘You’re in my way,’ I said.

He flicked his fringe, placed a hand on the bar and stayed as he was.

‘You don’t need to be shy. I saw you checking me out. It’s OK. I won’t tell.’

It occurred to me I was being propositioned.

By a boy.

Well, this was a first.

‘Look, mate,’ I said, ‘I think you’ve got the wrong end of—’

‘Tommy,’ he said.

‘Huh?’

‘My name’s Tommy. Not mate. What’s yours?’

I told him.

‘Kasper? So cute.’

‘Thanks. I think.’

This, he took for an invitation to take the stool beside me.

‘Tommy,’ I said, ‘I wasn’t looking for company.’

‘Give me a chance. You haven’t even got to know me yet.’ He was close enough for me to catch the cigarettes on his breath, and a sickly perfume that made me think of strawberries.

‘Maybe I don’t want to know you,’ I said, a bit harder than needed.

As I spoke, two ripped, well-tanned young men entered the club and began peering at us from the foyer. I’ve trained with steroid-heads over the years, and recognised the signs.

‘Why not talk to them?’ I said, pointing at the pair. ‘They might be more your cup of tea.’

Tommy looked over, the movement stretching his neck – briefly, a thin curve of indents became visible around the right clavicle, riding up to the side of his chin. The scarring could’ve been caused by anything, but I’d seen similar, and my gut told me it came from a ligature.

He turned back, scowling.

‘Oh, please. They’re meathead pill-poppers. Not my scene.’

‘Silly me,’ I said.

‘Tell you what. How about I buy you a drink?’

That should’ve been my cue to leave with a curt, ‘No, thanks.’ I’d finished my coffee, was due to work a shift at McGovern’s pub in a few hours, and had no reason to stay.

But truth be told, I had nothing much to do till then. Plus this kid was starting to intrigue me, just a little.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Coffee. Black.’

He gave the order, along with a request for something called a Detox Green Machine, to a sultry barman with a Hercule Poirot moustache. The Detox Green Machine involved a lot of spinach and kale shoved tightly into a blender.

As Tommy’s drink got pulverised, he looked me up and down.

‘You stick out here, don’t you, Kasper?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you rich?’

‘No.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I used to be a policeman.’

‘Wow.’

‘Now I work in a pub.’

‘Pulling pints?’

‘Yup.’

He seemed disappointed. ‘I thought you might be rich. There’s some guys who come here, they’ve got so much money they can afford to dress down like you.’

I looked at my faded tracksuit and scuffed Gazelles. These days, this was dressing up.

‘So, why are you here?’ he said.

I shrugged. ‘The club’s letting in oddballs and misfits. It’s part of this new community inclusion scheme. I’m from the latest batch. But don’t tell anyone, will you?’ I tapped a nostril conspiratorially.

He blinked several times. I stayed straight-faced.

Then his mouth widened and he let out a high-pitched laugh.

‘Oh, you’re funny,’ he said, pushing my shoulder.

‘Gee, thanks,’ I said.

I probably should’ve asked Tommy the same question – why was he here? My guess, he was looking for something more than a six-pack. He was awkward-looking, with smoker’s teeth and doleful eyes that hadn’t quite had the sleep they needed. At least six feet tall, he carried his height uncomfortably, his head bowed, knees knocking, his legs bandying inwards like a pair of golf putters. He reminded me of an adolescent giraffe I’d seen on a David Attenborough documentary recently – long and clumsy, kind of vulnerable too.

‘Ooh, our drinks,’ he said, as the barman served us.

Tommy’s was radioactive green and came in a tall glass with half a dozen straws sticking out. As he manoeuvred around the straws, I noticed more scars on his forearm, a thin ladder of smooth translucent marks the size of razor cuts. His fingertips were marred too, the cuticles picked and raw; there was a small tattoo on his right wrist showing a day, month and year – I couldn’t see which – and beside it, a bruise the size of a thumbprint that looked recent.

‘Yummy,’ he said, gulping some and licking his lips.

‘Cheers,’ I said, and drank more coffee.

‘I’ve seen you here before,’ he said. ‘You were pushing weights down in the gym. You’re pretty buff.’

I thought about flashing a bit of bicep; instead, I had another sip.

‘Don’t get smug, though,’ he added. ‘You’re no Tom Hardy. You could use a shave. You should cut your hair, too. You’re at risk of looking like one of those mid-life hippies. No offence.’

‘None taken.’

‘Tell you what. Why don’t you and me go for milkshakes after? I know this great place near my house. The chocolate malts are yum-tastic.’

‘Yum-tastic?’

The grin returned.

‘Nice of you to ask, Tommy, but I’m more of a pub man.’ I finished my coffee. Three drinks down, I was aware of a mounting pressure in my bladder. ‘Where’s the gents?’

‘That way.’ He pointed to the rear corridor past the yoga studio. ‘I’ll wait for you here. Make sure you come back, Kasper.’

I took my phone and wallet off the bar and left my hoody on the back of my stool. As I pushed through the juice bar doors, I glanced back. Tommy was sipping his drink, his eyes fixed on me.

Patronising the Equilibrium toilets was an absolute pleasure. The hand soaps were Molton Brown and the whole enclosure was subsumed in musk and minimalism.

After attending to essentials, I splashed water on my cheeks and considered my reflection. Whatever my thoughts about my new-found acquaintance, he was right about one thing – I definitely needed a shave.

Tommy was still at the bar, but he wasn’t alone. The stool where I’d left my hoody was now claimed by one of the lumps I’d seen earlier. His friend was standing in front of Tommy, pointing a finger in his face and saying something I assumed wasn’t complimentary. As I wandered back in, I caught the tail end:

‘. . . I told you, don’t come here anymore. You’re not welcome.’ His voice was all east London, and he snarled as he spoke. ‘Now piss off.’

‘Ah, Jazz,’ Tommy said, his eyes looking between the pair, seeking mine. ‘I’m just having a drink with a friend.’

‘Friend?’

I stopped behind them, my hands loose at my sides.

‘This is Kasper,’ Tommy said, gesturing at me. ‘Say hi.’

The one called Jazz turned to me and tried to look hard. I just stared back.

‘Kasper?’ he said. ‘That really your name?’

‘I just came for my hoody,’ I said.

‘Your mum named you after Casper the ghost?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Spooky, right?’

He looked me up, then down. ‘He’s not your usual office-type, Tommy. You’re lowering your standards a bit.’

His mate on the stool began to laugh. I didn’t say anything.

Up close, the side effects of steroid use were pretty unpleasant. They’d both tried hiding the greasy skin and pimples under their tats and sunbed tans, but hadn’t done a great job.

Languidly, Jazz stretched across the bar and took a gulp of Tommy’s drink.

‘Nasty,’ he said, and spat it back into the glass.

‘That was his,’ I said.

‘Get lost, Kasper.’ He returned the drink to the bar and dismissed me with a hand-flick.

‘Jazz, please . . .’ Tommy said.

‘Maybe you should leave,’ I said, a little stronger.

‘Gonna make me?’ He still wasn’t looking my way.

The other one laughed again.

A beat started in my head, like the patter of faraway drums. This wasn’t going to end well.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I am.’

That’s when he made a move. He was fast, turning a pivot, grabbing my chest and pushing me, not hard enough to make me stumble, but with enough force to get a reaction.

Well, an overreaction. I blame the coffees.

I took his wrist and twisted it back, up, and around his body in a single move. He growled and tried to flex and pull away, so I rammed his arm behind him, hard enough to make it hurt.

That got a yell.

The chatter ceased around us. I shoved Jazz forwards and released him. His frame made him top-heavy, and he tripped over a stool and landed chest-first on the floor. Shaking, he sat on his knees, clutched his wrist and breathed hard through his teeth.

I looked at the other one. He was still on the stool, mouth agape.

‘Stay seated,’ I said, grabbing my hoody. ‘Try anything and I’ll put you down, too.’

He stayed seated.

Tommy’s eyes were feral. I thought for a moment he was about to freak out. Instead, he reached for his green drink and inverted the sludge over Jazz’s head.

‘Ugh,’ someone said from one of the tables.

‘Mess with me,’ Tommy said, ‘and you mess with my friends. Understand?’

Jazz gave a whimper as the gloop ran down his brow.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ A rather thin and surly receptionist from the front desk had appeared. In her most assertive voice, which wasn’t very assertive, she repeated the question.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Just been showing my friend Jazz a dorsal extension. He overdid it and spilled a drink. Right, Jazz?’

Jazz remained on his knees, clutching his wrist. He’d be OK. He’d need a shower and might want to skip the bench presses for a day or two.

Without waiting for a response, I walked past the woman and made towards the exit, sensing eyes following me. I pushed through the turnstiles and stepped outside, welcoming the cool spring air that hit my face.

My heart was beating fast. I’d not had a scuffle like that in a while, and the adrenalin was pumping.

Keen to leave, I headed to the rear car park, where I’d chained my bike to the railing. I was halfway gone when I heard my name called out.

I looked back at the Equilibrium entrance. Tommy was standing there.

‘Kasper, wait!’ he said, and cantered over, stopping a few feet from me with his hands locked together in front of him. ‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened there. We were having a nice time until that idiot rocked up and spoiled things.’

‘Don’t sweat it,’ I said. ‘Too bad you lost your drink.’ I turned, about to push off.

‘Hold on.’ He came round, gripping my handlebars and depressing the brakes so I couldn’t move. ‘Don’t go just yet.’

‘What is it, Tommy?’ I was a little exasperated now.

He flicked back his fringe. ‘Let’s meet for that milkshake.’

‘Why?’

‘I just want to thank you for helping me.’

‘You’re thanking me now.’

‘All right. I want to show you I’m grateful.’

‘You know I’m straight, right?’

‘Course.’ He nodded. Again, I caught sight of the scars around his neck. It tightened something in me.

‘I don’t get this,’ I said. ‘What’s your interest?’

A shrug. ‘I like you, I guess.’

‘But you don’t know anything about me.’

‘Not true. I know you’re a bit nutty. Like me.’

No arguments there.

‘So will you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe yes or no?’

‘Just maybe.’

‘Mystery man. OK, let me add you on WhatsApp. I’ll message you later and you can decide.’

‘Don’t do WhatsApp.’

‘Facebook?’

‘Nope.’

‘God, you’re old-fashioned. I’ll text you then. Give me your mobile.’

It’d been a long time since anyone asked for my number.

He punched my digits into an iPhone sheathed in pink bunny ears.

‘Well, OK, Kasper,’ he said, looking up, grinning that grin. ‘See you soon, hopefully.’

I pedalled off.