Patrick was surprised. After talking to the staff at St Mary’s he had assumed that the love between Graham and Melanie had been one-way: the boy who longed to be wanted loving the attention he got from the vulnerable girl who worshipped him. But it seemed that Graham loved Melanie too. It made sense. Graham had been abandoned, thrown into the care system. He had been vulnerable too.
But that didn’t mean Patrick felt sympathy for him.
‘You tried to frame Shawn, didn’t you?’ Patrick said. ‘Asked Hattie to tell me about him and that Irish girl.’
Graham didn’t reply. He just smiled slyly.
‘And then you tried to frame Mervyn, leaving the underwear at his house, calling us.’
Another smile.
Burns still hadn’t told Patrick what he wanted and why he had brought him here.
‘Let’s talk,’ Patrick said. ‘Tell me how I can help you.’
Graham gathered himself, but still held the match between his trembling fingers. ‘I want the true story made public,’ he said. ‘My side of the story. Melanie’s story. I need him to call his friends in the press, make it happen. I want a full interview, front pages, my words with no censorship. I want the world to know that Melanie – the real Melanie, the one who loved me – was pure and innocent, and that I was only granting her dying wish: retribution against the bitches who killed her. Justice. Melanie’s soul is in torment right now. I can feel it. I thought that the only way Mel could find bliss in death would be for her tormentors to suffer and die. But if that can’t happen, if one of them lives, then the only way to stop her suffering is to make sure the world knows the truth.’
‘I can do that,’ Mervyn said. ‘Just give me my phone back and I’ll call the editor of The Sun right now.’
‘But why do you want me here?’ Patrick asked, having a horrible feeling he knew what Graham was going to say.
‘You’re going to vouch for me, back up my story. Speak to the journalists, tell them I’m not guilty of any crime. You need to tell them I did the right thing.’ He shouted the final words, his face contorted. ‘And you need to arrest Chloe Hedges for murder.’
Patrick kept his voice even, neutral. ‘I can’t do that, Graham.’
Graham took a step towards Hammond and placed the head of the match against the side of the box.
Hammond struggled on the chair, rocking from side to side, almost tipping it over. Patrick moved towards Graham slowly. Could he grab him before he struck the match? It was too risky. Better to talk. It seemed pretty clear that Graham hadn’t thought this through. Not unless he planned to keep them here all day and night until he saw a copy of the next morning’s newspaper. And how was Patrick supposed to arrest Chloe, while he was stuck in a barn full of petrol?
‘Graham,’ he said in a soothing tone. ‘We can get you help. Maybe . . . maybe we can help organise a memorial for Melanie. Set up a foundation in her name against Internet bullying. Whatever you want. But Chloe Hedges is innocent, just like Melanie was. And what about Nancy Marr? You killed her too, didn’t you?’
Graham’s eyes flashed. Did he think he’d got away with that one?
‘What happened, Graham? Did she find Melanie’s body? And the suicide note?’
The other man clenched his jaw.
‘And you decided on the spot to kill Nancy because you didn’t want anyone to know why Melanie had committed suicide, so you could get revenge without anyone seeing the connection between the victims?’
Graham’s silence told Patrick his theory was correct.
‘And you practised your torture method on her . . .’
‘She told me it was my fault!’ Graham yelled. ‘That I should have been keeping an eye on Melanie, should have known what was going on. She was an interfering old bitch, just like all the interfering bitches at St Mary’s!’ Spittle sprayed from his lips. ‘I’m sick of this!’ he roared and it was as if something snapped in his head, the final thread of self-control. He loomed towards Mervyn.
‘Don’t do this, you’re my son!’ Mervyn yelled.
Graham stopped, the unstruck match only inches from Mervyn’s skin. Patrick was terrified the petrol fumes would ignite. He couldn’t wait. While Graham was momentarily distracted, Patrick launched himself at him, knocking him down, both of them falling to the ground, which was slick with petrol. Graham jumped to his feet and as Patrick tried to stand he slipped and fell to his knees. Graham stepped forwards and kicked Patrick in the face, the explosion of pain sending him reeling.
‘You’re lying,’ Graham said, producing another match from the box. ‘Always lying. It’s what you do for a living.’
Patrick sat up. His clothes and hands were covered with petrol. Graham was holding the match but was shaking so hard now that he couldn’t strike it, cursing and muttering with frustration while Hammond begged him not to do it.
Patrick needed to get Graham away from Mervyn.
He stood up. ‘Your girlfriend deserved to die,’ he said.
Graham’s head whipped round towards Patrick, mouth opening, eyes flashing with shock.
‘She bullied those girls – Chloe and Jade and Rose and Jess. She got what was coming to her.’
‘Don’t. Say. That.’
‘I’ll say what I like, Graham. I don’t give a toss if you turn Mervyn here into a human flambé. He’s a scumbag. Go ahead, torch him. Do the world a favour. But after you do I’m going to tell the whole world what Melanie was really like – a girl in her twenties who was obsessed with a fucking boy band. An ugly, weird freak.’
‘Shut up!’ Graham screamed, running at Patrick, who sidestepped, leaving a leg trailing so Graham tripped and fell hard to the floor. As he pushed himself up, Patrick moved past him towards the door, drawing Graham farther away from Mervyn. The PR man was out of sight now, around the edge of the model railway, but Patrick could hear him sobbing.
‘I bet all that stuff on her Facebook page was true. About how she liked shagging dogs . . .’
Graham threw himself at Patrick, his face twisted with fury, and Patrick braced himself, ready to fight. But then Graham stopped.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I know what you’re doing.’
He smiled like he was oh so clever and pulled another match from the box, turning to walk back towards Mervyn.
He struck the match.
The flame shot up his petrol-soaked arm. Patrick jumped away from him and Graham screamed, pulling open his jacket, popping the buttons and throwing it to the floor just as the flames rippled across the entire garment, consuming it. Patrick held his breath, convinced the fire would spread, that he and Graham had left a trail of petrol droplets across the floor. But the jacket blazed in isolation, for the moment at least. Patrick looked around frantically and spotted a bottle of mineral water on the model railway’s control panel. Snatching it up, he doused the remaining flames.
Graham was making a terrible noise, breaths coming quick and shallow. He held up his arm, his face contorted with agony. The fire had eaten through the sleeve before he’d torn off the jacket and his arm was black and pink. Patrick could smell burning meat.
‘Help me. Please.’
Patrick grabbed hold of Graham’s other arm and yanked him towards the exit, pulling him out into the open air. But Graham broke free. Patrick chased after him, but realising Graham was heading towards the fish pond, he slowed to a walk.
There was a part of Patrick, a dark part, that wished Graham Burns’s whole body had been wet with petrol, not just his arm, that the flames had engulfed him. That Graham had died in unspeakable pain, his punishment for what he’d done, the torture he’d inflicted on those girls, the lives he’d ended prematurely, including Wendy’s.