The Dying Place
Luca Veste
A FATE WORSE THAN DEATHDI Murphy and DS Rossi discover the body of known troublemaker Dean Hughes, dumped on the steps of St Mary’s Church in West Derby, Liverpool. His body is covered with the unmistakable marks of torture.As they hunt for the killer, they discover a worrying pattern. Other teenagers, all young delinquents, have been disappearing without a trace.Who is clearing the streets of Liverpool?Where are the other missing boys being held?And can Murphy and Rossi find them before they meet the same fate as Dean?
LUCA VESTE
The Dying Place
Copyright (#ulink_88a8d28c-2bf4-5970-af7f-f5ef0827f4bf)
AVON
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Copyright © Luca Veste 2014
Cover image © Alamy 2014
Cover design © ClarkevanMeurs Design
Luca Veste asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007525584
Ebook Edition © October 2014 ISBN: 9780007525560
Version: 2015-07-27
Dedication (#ulink_45f9257b-4e6c-5666-8a52-717a9abb9d0f)
For Angelina ‘Angie’ Veste
11/04/1936 – 07/05/2014
My nana. My nonna.
She loved her family and her family loved her.
Contents
Cover (#u81f8eec7-fff5-54ac-af17-530801d9779b)
Title Page (#u8eee9b65-55cb-5721-9567-43fc95964906)
Copyright (#u34aac26a-bbb2-5481-93fa-cd678e245b77)
Dedication (#u902e6d7c-1c8d-519d-9f0c-5cf99d049f69)
Now (#u16b4a411-d119-56a3-85e0-5573581056a4)
Before (#ua93aff7c-696d-59b0-a94d-edb151cbb204)
Part One (#ud5a8794f-ca7d-5e77-b205-af3550668c52)
Chapter 1 (#ua774fc99-d0d4-5ee3-b461-f8ac26c86bca)
Chapter 2 (#u760a724c-baa9-5406-8f48-9b6214265c69)
The Farm: Six Months Ago (#ude8028a9-65be-5837-ad73-6b9ab6b67939)
Chapter 3 (#u2908180c-038d-55bb-881f-17b2e347c1b7)
Chapter 4 (#u5eb6e40e-2ba5-572f-849a-0ea4d1c6d5fa)
Chapter 5 (#u4314c8b3-7a2c-533c-a038-7ab7bb0f6be8)
Chapter 6 (#ufb4ea7b1-eea5-5ea3-925c-7a73886ececa)
The Farm: Five Months Ago (#ua1b81287-71b4-5f0a-8c91-66cf0ef8efed)
Chapter 7 (#u43e07254-2f13-5b3a-b401-6f94ec834f19)
Chapter 8 (#u030dcbde-e7ba-5ae2-ad5a-8442fccfd71f)
Chapter 9 (#u5e972e2b-6d95-5301-9dda-a1aa14b66e79)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
The Farm: Three Months Ago (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
The Youth Club (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
The Farm: Three Days Ago (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
The Farm: Two Days Ago (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
The Farm: Two Days Ago (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
The Farm: Yesterday (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Home (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
The Youth Club (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Home: Six Months Ago (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Toxteth: Liverpool 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Bootle (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Peter (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
In Conversation with Luca Veste (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Now (#ulink_26c50eeb-ce74-584a-a552-0c7b80493571)
No one believes you. Nothing you say is the truth. They know it every time you open your mouth and start speaking, hoping to be believed. Everything is just a lie in disguise, dressed up nice, trying to be something it’s not.
Mutton dressed as lamb.
That’s just how it is. You go down the social – or the jobcentre as they call it now, although that’ll probably change to something else soon enough – and try to explain why you’re still worth sixty quid a week of taxpayers’ hard-earned money. Trying to justify yourself even though you haven’t worked in years. Get that look which seeps into you after a little while.
I’ve heard it all before, love.
There’s no let-up. Being judged at every turn. Lucky enough to have more than one kid? Unlucky enough to lose your part-time job working the till at some shitty shop? For your fella to piss off with some slag from around the corner? Doesn’t matter, shouldn’t have had more kids than you can afford. Doesn’t matter that you’re a single parent – I’m paying your benefits.
You live on a council estate, on benefits, and that’s it. You’re scum. Do not pass go, here’s a few hundred quid to pay some dickhead landlord who thinks five ton isn’t too much for a terraced house that’s overrun with damp. Mould growing on the walls if you dare put any furniture too close to it.
Your kids then become scum as well. Shit schools, shit kids. Bored with life, constantly pissed off because you can’t afford the latest frigging gadget that Sonyor Apple put out. Every six months without fail, something new that every other kid in the school has, that they can’t be without.
You try. You really do. But it’s never enough. Sixteen hours working in a supermarket, a few hours doing cleaning. Bits of crap here and there. Never enough.
No one believes you.
Your kids get older. Get in trouble. Bizzies knocking on your door at two in the morning, hand on the back of your fifteen-year-old son.
He’s had too much to drink. Could have got himself into a lot more trouble. Should keep an eye on him more, love.
That judgement again. Always there, surrounding you.
You try and explain. Tell them he’d said he was staying at his mate’s, or staying at his uncle’s house. With his cousins.
Get that look back.
I’ve heard it all before, love.
You want to scream. You want to pull the little bastard into the house by his stupid frigging head and beat the shit out of him. Like your dad would do to your brothers if they ever got caught doing stupid shit.
You try your best. Every day. It’s never enough. The crap wages you get for working two, three, different jobs barely matches what you were getting on benefits. So you think, what’s the point? You’re tired. You want to be lazy. Exhausted by the sheer weight of being alive. Everyone else around you seems to be doing sod all. You want to do that for a while.
The kids get worse. All boys, so the house is either deathly quiet whilst they’re all out, getting up to God knows what. Or, it’s a cacophony of noise. The moaning, the groaning. The smells of teenagers on the cusp of manhood, burning into your nostrils, hanging in the air.
No one believes you.
When one of them doesn’t come home for days, you shout and scream as much as you possibly can, but no one cares.
They think he’s just done a bunk. Gone to see a girl. Gone to get pissed, stoned, off his face somewhere. He’ll turn up eventually. They always do.
Your kind always does.
You try and tell them it’s different. That your lads have always been good at letting you know where they are, or if they’re going to be away for any time at all. That they wouldn’t just leave without saying anything.
They give you that look.
I’ve heard it all before, love.
You try and get people interested, but no one cares. The papers aren’t interested. Thousands of people go missing every year. No one cares about your eighteen-year-old son, missing for weeks … months.
You believe he’s okay. You make yourself believe it.
You know though. As a parent, you know.
Something has happened to him.
It’s not until you’re watching his coffin go behind the curtain – fire destroying everything that made him your son and turning it into ash – that they start to believe you.
It’s too late now, of course.
Sorry, love.
Before (#ulink_92398b20-33ed-5b96-a1d4-10fbe21011ac)
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
The plan hadn’t been for him to be in this position. Not yet, anyway. He was supposed to be there to see it through. It was his idea, his design. None of them would have thought of doing it without him. He was the catalyst, the spark that brought them all together.
That’s the problem with making plans … the master in the sky laughs.
Flat on his back in the street outside his own home, a ghost of a smile playing across his face. Clutching his chest as his heart threatened to beat its way out, his vision going blurry. Not being able to see if there really was an elephant sitting on him, which was how it felt – crushing weight bearing down, strangling him, cutting off his breath.
He should have known he was too old for it. Not that it would have made a difference. As soon as they’d come around to his plan, he wasn’t going to hide away whilst all the fun went down without him. He should have just stayed inside with a small whisky and some shite on the TV. Relaxed. Then maybe he would have had a few more years.
They’d come back again. Laughter and voices penetrating the walls from outside. No respect for people’s private property. Just sitting on the wall outside his house, throwing their empty cans into his little front garden.
He’d checked the time on the clock that took pride of place on his mantelpiece, a beautiful old-fashioned gold carriage clock which had been a retirement gift from a client.
Half past midnight. Way past his usual turning-in time. Early to bed, early to rise. An old motto, but one he stuck to usually.
Something that lot out there wouldn’t have a clue about.
He had noticed the area changing around him for a while. What used to be a nice area of West Derby was being overrun with those yobs. Complete with their strange bastardisation of the Scouse accent. Couldn’t understand them most of the time, which was probably just as well. Couldn’t imagine they’d have anything of value to say.
Back in his day, if you left school with no qualifications – as was the norm, to be fair – you took whatever job you could get, and got on with it. He’d left school at fourteen and went straight to work, doing odd jobs here and there. Joined the army a few years later, ended up in Korea. Got back home and worked for over forty years painting and decorating. Set himself up with a nice little business with enough customers to always have a bit of work on the go. Put a bit of money aside for the retirement years with the missus. They could have lived quite well for a good while.
And then he was alone.
Those lads wouldn’t know the meaning of work. Not employed, in education or training, as they say. A million of them apparently now, according to the papers. No jobs, you see. Whole world has gone the same way. It seemed like he’d blinked and the next minute everyone was saying it was better to live in China than anywhere else. Who’d have thought that would ever happen?
She was ten days off sixty-five when they got to her. Walking back from the post office. Doctors told him it was probably a coincidence. Didn’t matter that she was left in the street for dead, she could have gone at any moment. He never believed them.
He would go for a walk every day, tried to keep fit. Walked up to the village, into the county park. Past the red church sign he always stopped to read.
Church of England
St Mary The Virgin
West Derby
St Mary the Virgin. Odd name to give to a church. But then, he found most things about churches odd.
He’d walk up the lane which ran alongside it, trees crowding in on each side. He’d find his bench, have a nice sit down and watch the world go by. Chat to people every now and again. Most people just walking on by, or smiling politely whilst thinking about their quickest escape route.
The first time they’d showed up outside his house, he thought a quick word would do the trick. Not a chance. He’d given them an hour, until the shouting had become too much. So loud he couldn’t even hear the TV properly. Just a quiet word, he thought, let them know someone lived here, that he wasn’t going to let them take over his front. As soon as he’d walked out he could tell it wasn’t going to have any effect. The attitude of them … Christ. They hadn’t listened to a word he’d said. Just laughed at each other, whispering and turning their backs to him. He’d given up with a shrug of his shoulders and a hope that they wouldn’t be back anytime soon. That they’d find someone else to bother.
He’d been wrong.
The plan was supposed to change that.
Forty years he’d worked. Up and down ladders nine hours a day. Hard work, but going home to Nancy and the kids made it worthwhile. He’d met Nancy when he was getting into his mid-thirties, her fifteen years younger. The mother-in-law had hated him from the start. Taking her little girl away. They’d had the last laugh on that one. Happily married for almost fifty years. Three children, two of them boys. When they grew up and had their own, they would have some of the grandkids over for tea once a week. Then they grew up as well.
His only regret with the children was that they weren’t closer. Brothers and sisters should be there for each other, but there was always a distance between them.
It would have been okay though. Whiling away their later years together. They would’ve had little trips here and there. Bingo once a week at the social club. Visits to see the offspring.
The end of Nancy’s story began and finished with two boys, barely in their teens, wearing hooded tops and balaclavas. They’d grabbed her bag, but she’d held on. They’d found bruises up her wrists and arms where they’d tried to prise her hands off it. A broken nose, which the CCTV showed happened when the taller of the two delivered a straight fist to her face. She’d died weeks later, but even if they’d found the yobs who did it, they wouldn’t have been charged with murder. She’d died due to other complications, they’d told him.
He knew they were to blame though.
He checked outside again, looking through the curtains. Four of the little buggers. No older than sixteen or seventeen, he reckoned. He could feel the anger coursing through him, wishing he was a few years younger. Back in his army days he would have taken the four of them on and had them running home for their mothers. He wasn’t one of those old guys who believed everything was better back in the day, like the moaning gits at the pub, but he also couldn’t remember sitting outside someone’s house drinking cans of lager, shouting and swearing. Life moves on. Things change. Not always for the better.
The fireworks were the last straw.
It had been late. Gone midnight. Explosions ripped through the silence which had accompanied his sleep. Downstairs, the direction of the noise made no sense in his confused half-asleep state. Korea. It was sixty years ago, but the slightest thing could send him back. He wasn’t to know some little bastards had thought it would be funny to stick a few fireworks through his letter box. Sweat dripped from his forehead, down onto the wisps of grey hair on his chest. His chest. Constricting. Tight. Everything pulling inwards. Choking him. The phone was in reach, which probably saved him that night. Couple of days in the Royal. Told to take it easy for a few days, but he should be fine. Simon, his youngest son, had gone mad, wanting to protect his supposedly frail father. Called the police, but they couldn’t do anything without evidence. Said they’d look into it, but everyone knew what that meant.
A week later, the plan had begun to be formed.
The faces of war. The noise … explosions, gunshots, cries of anguish. The forgotten war is what they call Korea. He’d never forget it. Waking up silently screaming has that effect. It’d been a long time since he’d had the nightmares, but they had come back since the firework incident.
He wanted to get back at them. Not just that though. To show them the error of their ways.
Brazen as you like, sat on his wall, chucking their empties into the front garden Nancy used to spend hours tending to.
He lifted the phone. Dialled and said a few words.
He opened the front door and they didn’t even turn around. Reached his front gate and stepped onto the pavement next to where they were gathered. They started laughing amongst themselves as he tried to get their attention.
It happened faster than he’d expected. He gave them another chance, tried being cordial with them, asked them to move on, but they weren’t having any of it. He tried explaining about the garden. They responded by laughing. Like a pack of hyenas, spotting the easy prey. He could feel his heart racing – bang, bang, bang. Beating harder than it had done in years.
He wasn’t going to back down. Not this time. Things were different.
Two of them walked off behind him, sniggering under their black hoods as he held his hands out wide, palms to the darkened sky. He heard the distant sound of a car towards the end of his road and turned towards it. A shuffling sound to his left made him turn back.
Thunk.
The sound reverberated around his head. The clatter of tin on concrete brought him back to his senses, just as another beer can pinged off his head.
‘What the …’
The laughing had grown louder. Surrounding him, constricting his breathing.
‘You little shits …’
They were grouped together, pointing at him, nudging each other hard as their laughter grew and grew.
‘Come ’ead lads’, the tallest one said between fits of laughter, ‘let’s get down to Crocky Park. See if the girls are about.’
He stared after them as they left, mouth hanging open as they sauntered off, hands down the front of their tracksuit bottoms. Looked around at the mess they’d made of his garden and the pavement in front of his house, before reaching up to his head – damp where dregs of beer had splattered onto his hair.
The van parked up his street shifted into gear and coasted towards him. He felt as if his chest was stuck in a vice, his breathing becoming shallower. He staggered backwards and sat on the small brick wall.
He lifted his head up as the van came to a stop a little before his house, squinting into the bright lights on the front of it. The passenger side door opened and he looked at the figure which got out.
‘You okay auld fella?’
‘Fine,’ he replied between pants of breath, ‘the tall one. That’s who we want.’
‘You sure?’
The old man swallowed and made a go ahead motion with his hands. ‘It’s time, son. One isn’t enough. We’re going to teach them a lesson. We’re going to teach them all a lesson.’
Goldie felt buzzed – a bit light-headed even – but not properly pissed, which annoyed him. Even worse, that little slag Shelley hadn’t let him do anything more than have a feel of her tits before pushing him away. Not that there was much there to feel. Now all he wanted to do was get home, smoke a bit – just to zone him out, like – and then have a good kip.
He smiled to himself as he remembered the auld fella from earlier on in the night. Probably a fuckin’ paedo or something, so he didn’t feel bad. Not like there were any laws against sitting on someone’s wall anyway. Next few weeks, he planned on making sure that auld bastard realised who Goldie was.
Lost in his half-pissed thoughts, he didn’t hear the van slowing behind him. Didn’t hear it come to a stop, the side doors opening. The first he realised something was wrong was when he was pushed hard in the back, his balance not what it would have been earlier in the day. It happened so quickly, he couldn’t free his hands to stop the fall.
He remembered thinking the pavement was fuckin’ hard, smashing into his face with nothing to brace against it – harder than even his dad had hit him that one time, before he fucked off for good. He turned around on the floor, using his tongue to feel around his mouth. One of his front teeth jutted forwards into his top lip. His left eye was going blurry as something wet dripped down his face. Blood, he guessed.
He tried to regain his senses, determined not to go down without a fight. Probably some Strand fuckers, hoping to put him out of action. He turned onto his back, raising his hands to cover himself, waiting for the kicking to start.
He looked up, confused in an instant as he saw the men standing over him.
They were old. Forties, fifties. He could tell from the greying hair, rather than facial features. All of them wearing masks.
Shite …
‘You’re coming with us, kid. Gonna teach you some respect.’
Goldie began kicking out, but rough, hard hands grabbed at his legs. Strength he wasn’t used to from the other lads his own age. Fingers dug into his flesh as they pulled him along the concrete.
‘Get the fuck off me you fuckin’ twats. I’ll fuck you all up. Do you know who I am? I’m gonna fuckin’ kill all o’ yers.’
Then the world went black as something was forced over his head, pulled tight across his face, no amount of thrashing around making it come off. Hard metal slammed into his stomach, taking the wind out of him completely. He felt a weight on his legs as he realised he was now in the back of the van, hands holding his head to the floor as they began to move. The hood over his face was loosened a little so he could breathe.
‘Duct tape.’
The voice was hardened, Scouse. Proper old school, like his dad’s.
‘No. Don’t you fuckin’ dare …’ Goldie tried to shout, the hood muffling the sound.
The hood was lifted to his nose, before tape went across his mouth. Shouting behind it had no effect. He tried kicking out again, but the hands holding his legs and arms down barely shifted.
‘Stop messing about, or we’ll just dump you in the Mersey now. Relax. Nothing is going to happen to you. We’re going to help you.’
Goldie tried answering back, but it was useless.
One leg got free.
Goldie didn’t think twice. Just swung it back and aimed for anything he could. The satisfying clunk as his foot found flesh made him redouble his efforts.
Shouts, cries, as he struggled free, the hood over his face keeping him in darkness.
‘Stop the van.’
The same voice as before, still calm, still low.
Goldie tried to stand, but the van pulling to a stop made him rock forward, off balance.
‘I told you to relax.’
Goldie spun, but wasn’t quick enough. His hands caught in mid-air as he tried to remove his hood. Strong grip on his wrist. Starting to twist.
Explosion in the side of his head as something smacked against it.
Then, as he fell to the floor, he wished for the complete darkness of unconsciousness – not just the vision of it. As the punches landed, the kicks and boots flew into his stomach, his ribs cracking one by one.
That tight grip on his wrist. Still there. Twisting, turning.
He cried out behind the duct tape sealing his mouth. No use.
The crack as his wrist snapped.
‘That’s enough. All of you.’
The blows stopped as he lay on the floor of the van, trying to hold his body together. Coughing up God knows what behind his gag. Trying not to choke. Trying to breathe, every intake of air through his nostrils not enough.
It somehow got darker behind the hood as his head lolled backwards.
The last thing he remembered was the voice again.
‘Start it up. Let’s get to the farm. Now.’
PART ONE (#ulink_d116ea68-73cd-5c9e-bcaf-625ebb90d4a2)
Take the coward vermin to the nearest safari park. Shatter one of its knees. Hamstring the maimed leg, then kick the disease out of a van in the middle of the lion enclosure. No cat can resist a limping, bleeding thing. Film it and show it daily at prime time for a month. I’d pay good money to watch this show happen live. It wants to live like an animal? Let the subhuman abortion die like one.
I suppose when a judge says something is ‘wicked’ he presumes the accused will wilt under the ‘tirade’. They may see the ugly side of life, but they simply do not understand it. Well, something that cowardly piece of rubbish would understand is a rope – or better still, piano wire. So what is wrong with visiting upon him the horror that family have gone through, doubtless are going through? Come on PC crowd, how are you going to side with this one?
**** **** and his type are not human. They are far, far beneath human. They are parasites who cause nothing but misery for real humans. People like this should be sterilised so their poisonous DNA is knocked out of the gene pool. What is it about these nasty folk who just roam around being vile? What can they possibly contribute to society other than destruction and misery?
Top-rated online comments from news story of teenage murderer
1 (#ulink_66f5e5b1-ad77-5899-a2ce-1f3caf5bd61f)
More sleep. Just a little bit more …
Detective Inspector David Murphy hit the snooze button on the alarm for the third time, silencing the noise which had cut through his drift into deeper sleep once again. He refused to open his eyes, knowing the early morning light would pierce the curtains and give him an instant headache.
A voice came from beside him.
‘What time is it?’
He grunted in reply, already knowing he wasn’t going to float away into slumber now. A few late nights and early starts and he was struggling. Age catching up with him. Closing in on forty faster than he’d expected.
‘You need to get up. You’ll be late for work.’
Murphy yawned and turned over to face Sarah, away from the window. Risked opening one eye, the room still brighter than he’d guessed. ‘Do I have to?’
Sarah sat up, taking his half of the duvet cover with her and exposing his chest to the cold of the early morning.
‘Yes,’ she replied, shucking off the cover and pulling on her dressing gown. ‘Now get up and get dressed. There’s a fresh shirt and trousers in the wardrobe.’
‘Five more minutes.’
‘No, now. Stop acting like a teenager and get your arse in gear. I’ve got work as well, you know.’
‘Fine,’ Murphy replied, opening his other eye and squinting against the light. ‘But can you at least stick some coffee on before you start getting ready? I tried using that frigging maker thing yesterday and almost lobbed it through the window.’
‘Okay. But you have to read the instructions at some point.’
Murphy snorted and sloped through to the bathroom. Turned the shower on and lifted the toilet seat, the shower tuning out the noise from downstairs as Sarah fussed in the kitchen.
He needed a lie-in. Twelve or so hours of unbroken sleep – now that would be nice.
It wasn’t even work causing his tiredness. Nothing major had come through CID in the previous few months. Everyone at the station was trying to look busy so they weren’t moved to a busier division in Liverpool. All too scared to use the ‘Q---T’ word. It was just slow or calm. Never the ‘Q’ word. That was just an invitation for someone to shit on your doorstep. A few fraud cases, assaults in the city centre and the usual small-fry crap that was the day-to-day of their lives in North Liverpool. Nothing juicy.
Murphy buttoned up his shirt and opened the curtains to the early May morning. Rain. Not chucking it down, just the drizzle that served as a constant reminder you were in the north of England.
The peace in work was a good thing, he thought. Just over a year on from the case which had almost cost him his life, he should have been grateful for the tranquillity of boring cases and endless paperwork. At least he wasn’t lying at the bottom of a concrete staircase in a pitch-black cellar, a psychopath looming over him.
He had to look at the positives.
Murphy left the bedroom, stepping over paint-splattered sheets, paint tins and the stepladders which festooned the landing.
The cause of his late nights.
He’d gone into decorating overdrive, determined to have something to do in his spare time. Started with the dining room, which hadn’t seen a paintbrush since they’d bought the house a few years earlier. Now he was back living there, reunited with his wife after a year apart following his parents’ death, it was time to make the house look decent. Sarah was often busy in the evenings with lesson planning and marking due to her teaching commitments, so he would have otherwise just been staring at the TV, and he’d done enough of that when he lived on his own.
Sarah had started teaching just as they got married. Her past put behind her, a successful degree course, and a clean CRB check was all she needed. That, and a large amount of luck, given her ability to never actually be arrested for any of the stupid stuff she’d done in the past. Murphy had never expected that last bit to hold.
Murphy entered the kitchen just as Sarah was pouring out a cup of freshly brewed coffee. ‘Cheers, wife. Need this.’ He brushed her cheek with his lips as she slipped past him.
‘I’ve only got half an hour to get ready now, husband. Work out how to use the thing yourself, okay? Or we’re going back to Nescafé.’ She stopped at the doorway. ‘Oh, and remember you promised we’d go out tonight.’
Friday already. The week slipping past without him noticing. ‘Of course. I’ve booked a table.’
She stared at him for a few seconds, those blue eyes studying his expression. ‘No you haven’t. But you will do, right? Tear yourself away from your paintbrush, Michelangelo, and treat your wife.’
Murphy sighed and nodded. ‘No problem.’
‘Good. See you later. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
They were almost normal.
The commute was shorter now than it had been in the months he’d lived over the water, on the Wirral – the tunnel which separated Liverpool from the small peninsula now a fading memory. Still, it took him over twenty minutes to reach the station from his house in the north of Liverpool, the traffic becoming thicker as he neared the roads which led into the city centre.
After parking the car in his now-designated space behind the station, Murphy entered the CID offices of Liverpool North station just after nine a.m., the office already bustling with people as he let the door close behind him.
Murphy sauntered over to his new office, mumbling a ‘morning’ and a ‘hey’ to a few constables along the way. Took down the note which had been attached to his door as he pushed it open.
Four desks in a space which probably could have afforded two. Their reward for months of complaining and reminding the bosses of the jobs they’d cleared in the past year. A space cleared for Murphy, his now semi-permanent partner DS Laura Rossi, and two Detective Constables who seemed to change weekly.
‘Morning, sir.’
Rossi looked and sounded, as always, as if she’d just stepped off a plane from some exotic country, fresh-faced and immaculate at first glance. It wasn’t until you looked more closely – and in a space as tight as their office, Murphy had been afforded the time to study her – and noticed the dark under her eyes, the bitten-down fingernails, and the annoying habit she had of never clipping her hair out of her face.
He said his good mornings and plonked himself down behind his small desk, checking his in-tray for messages. A few chase-ups on old cases, a DS from F Division in Liverpool South who wanted a call back ASAP. Routine stuff.
‘Anything new overnight?’
Rossi looked over from her computer screen, eyebrows raised at him. ‘Nothing for us.’
‘Come on. There must be something? I’m bored shitless here.’
As Rossi was about to answer, the door opened, DC Graham Harris sweating as he rushed in and sat down, shoving his bag under his desk. ‘Sorry I’m late. Traffic was murder near the tunnel.’
Murphy debated whether to give him a telling-off just to kill a bit of time, before deciding against it. He yawned instead, waving away his apology with one hand. ‘Where’s the other one?’
‘Not sure,’ Harris replied, removing his black Superdry jacket. Murphy had priced one of those up in town a few weekends previously. Decided a hundred quid plus could be put to better use.
‘Doesn’t matter. Not like I’ve got anything for him to do.’
‘Still quiet then?’
Rossi winced and turned in her chair, almost knocking over the single plant they had in the office. ‘What did you say?’
Murphy leant back in his chair, smirking as he watched the young DC as he realised his mistake.
‘Er … nothing. I mean … nothing new?’
Rossi moved towards Harris, ‘You said the fucking Q word, che cazzo?Say it again, I dare you. Cagacazzo.’
‘What? I don’t … I didn’t mean …’
Murphy sat forward, palms out. ‘Calm down, it’s just a stupid superstition. No reason to start anything, okay?’
Rossi turned towards him, her features relaxing as she saw his face. ‘Va bene. It’s okay.’ She sat back in her chair and went back to her computer screen.
Murphy worried that Rossi calling a DC a dickhead in Italian was going to be the height of excitement for the day.
He needn’t have.
A few minutes later the other DC who was sharing the office with them came bursting through the door. New guy, just transferred. Murphy had enough problems remembering the names of those who’d been there years, without new ones being thrown into the mix.
‘We’re on. Body found in suspicious circumstances outside the church in West Derby.’
Murphy jumped up out of his seat at about the exact moment Rossi turned on Harris.
‘What did I tell you? You had to say the word, didn’t you. Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo.’
Murphy knew Harris had understood only one of the words Rossi had spat at him as she grabbed her black jacket from behind her chair. ‘Knock it off, Laura.’
Rossi muttered under her breath in reply to him. He had to hold back a laugh. ‘Come on. Let’s just get down there. You know how these things can turn out. It’s probably nothing.’
Which was perhaps a worse thing to say than the Q word.
2 (#ulink_08bf5cf2-5d60-5d88-8c94-425cc81ec3d9)
Dead bodies. Decayed or fresh. Crawling with maggots, flies buzzing around your face as you examine them in light or darkness. Or, a serenity surrounding them, framed in a pale light as if time has come to a stop for them. There’s no tangible difference, really. They’re all the same, each with their own tale to tell, how the end has come.
It doesn’t matter how many times you see one, it never gets easier. Not in reality. You can kid yourself; pretend that you’re immune to it, that it doesn’t affect you any more. That’s all it is though – a pretence, a deception. A way of getting through it.
There was a simple answer in Murphy’s opinion. Seeing death makes you contemplate your own … and most people spend their lives actively trying to avoid their own death. Even those risk-takers jumping off cliffs with a tea towel as a parachute are only giving themselves the thrill of cheating death. They’d leave the tea towel behind if they really wanted to die.
Once the initial shock kicks in, an unconscious mental process clicks into place and professionalism takes over. Makes you forget about what it is you’re dealing with. That’s the way Murphy thought of it. He imagined a shutter going down in one part of his mind, thoughts and feelings closed away and a detachment appearing.
The only time it took a bit longer for that process to occur was when they were below a certain age.
This one was on the cusp.
West Derby is a small town just past Anfield, around fifteen minutes from the city centre. Only a few minutes away from the more infamous estates of Norris Green and Croxteth, it was also the home of Alder Hey Hospital and Liverpool F.C.’s training ground, Melwood.
Now it would gain its own little piece of notoriety.
Murphy stood in the gravel entrance to St Mary’s Church in West Derby – Croxteth Park off in the distance – having arrived a few minutes before the forensic team and pathologist, by some miracle. On the steps leading into the church lay what they’d been called for. A young white boy, or maybe a man. He could never tell age these days. Laid on his side, one arm tucked beneath him, the other draped across himself. Eyes closed over a destroyed face. A mask of smeared blood – an attempt to wash it off, perhaps? – which did little to deflate the impact. Open wounds on the cheeks, skin splitting on numerous areas. Red flesh on show above his mouth, his nose misshapen and swollen. Eyes puffed up under the swelling. A faded scar just below his eyebrow was noticeable only as it seemed to be the lone part of his face that was untouched. The grey-silver of healed skin stark against the surrounding reds, browns and blacks.
Rossi finished talking to a uniformed constable and walked back towards Murphy. ‘Well?’ he said as she reached him.
‘Two twelve-year-old lads found him. They were walking through the park to school and spotted him. Thought it was a tramp at first, but looking closer they saw his face and realised he wasn’t breathing. They pegged it, right into the vicar, or whatever they call them, who was arriving for the day. He was the one who called it in.’
‘They notice anything?’
‘They’re a bit shaken up, but adamant they didn’t see anything else. They walk past here every day apparently.’
Murphy finished snapping on a pair of latex gloves, his faded black shoes similarly covered, and bent down to look at the body closer up, wincing as he looked at the victim’s face.
‘How old do you reckon?’ Rossi said from above him.
‘Not sure. Can’t really tell with these kinds of injuries to his face. All these kids look much older than we ever did at that age.’
‘That’s probably just us getting old.’
Murphy grunted in reply and went back to studying the face of the male lying prostrate on the ground. A thick band of purplish red around his neck drew his attention.
‘Fiver says it’s strangulation.’
‘I’m not betting on cause of death, sir.’
Shuffling shoes and shouted orders interrupted Murphy before he could respond. He looked up, trying to effect a look of innocence as Dr Stuart Houghton, the lead pathologist in the city of Liverpool, bounded over. The doctor had grown even larger in the past year, meaning he moved slowly enough for Murphy to pull away from the body before Houghton arrived on the scene.
‘You touched anything?’
‘Morning to you an’ all, Doctor,’ Murphy said, avoiding meeting the doctor’s eyes.
‘Yeah, yeah. What have we got here?’
‘I thought you could tell me that.’
A large intake of breath as Houghton got to his haunches. ‘We’ll see.’ He snapped his own pair of gloves on and began examining the body.
‘How long?’ Murphy said after watching Houghton work for a minute or three.
‘Rigour is only just beginning to fade. At least twelve hours, I’d say. Body has been moved here.’ Houghton lifted the man-boy’s eyelids, revealing milky coffee eyes staring past him, the whites surrounding them speckled with burst blood vessels. A thin, cloudy film pasted across them.
Murphy stepped to the side as Houghton’s assistant finished erecting the white tent around him. ‘Anything on him?’
Houghton finished fishing around the pockets of the black joggers which the victim was wearing. ‘Nothing at all. Was expecting a psalm or bible quote or something, given where we are.’
Murphy shrugged. ‘Could be nothing religious about it. Something we’ll be looking into, obviously.’ A religious nut or someone with a grudge to bear against the church. Murphy didn’t like the thought of either.
‘He’s been laid here on purpose, in this manner. Almost looks peaceful, just curled up. Like he just came here, lay down and went peacefully. As always, first glance is deceiving. Looks like he was strangled with some kind of ligature. Not before he was quite severely beaten.’ Houghton paused, rolling the torn T-shirt up over the victim’s flat teenaged stomach. Wisps of fine hair tracing a line towards a recessed belly button, barely visible behind angry red markings turning purple and black. ‘Bruises to his abdomen. Some old, some new. This boy was beaten severely before death. I’m guessing four … no, five broken ribs. Pretty sure there’ll be more broken bones to find as well. Also, there’s his face of course.’
‘This has been going on a while then. The older bruises, I mean.’
‘Could be. I’ll have more answers after the PM of course.’
Murphy nodded before beckoning over a forensics tech from the Evidence Recovery Unit – ERU – towards him. ‘Prioritise this one, Doc. The media will be all over us before we know it. Dead teen in suspicious circumstances and outside a church, with these injuries? Easy headlines.’
Houghton sighed at him in response, but before he could give a fuller answer Murphy moved away to meet the ERU tech – a white-suited woman with only her deep green eyes on display before she removed the mask covering the bottom half of her face.
‘Yes?’
‘I want a fingertip search of the whole area of the church. Inside and out. Pathways which run alongside it as well. I’ll see how far we can cordon the place off.’
‘We know the drill. Just make sure none of your uniforms get in the way.’
Murphy attempted a smile, which obviously looked more sardonic than he’d meant, judging by her reaction – a roll of the eyes and a turn away. He was always making friends.
‘Laura?’ Murphy called, Rossi lifting a finger which told him he was to wait whilst she finished talking to Houghton. She’d always got on well with the doctor, annoying Murphy no end. He still wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done in the past to piss off the old bastard, but was now so used to it he wasn’t sure he was all that arsed.
Rossi eventually finished her conversation a few seconds later, straightening up and strolling over to him.
‘What do you want to do first?’
Murphy finished removing the latex gloves, walking away as he did so. Rossi followed him. ‘Interview the priest, vicar, whatever he’s called, first. Then the kids who found the victim. Tell the uniforms to take them back to the station. Inform the parents, get social services to meet us. They might need counselling or whatever.’
‘Okay. Anything else?’
‘Door to doors,’ Murphy replied, looking up towards the main road at the bottom of the gravel drive which led to the church. ‘Although there aren’t that many in the immediate vicinity.’
‘There’s more houses on the other side of the church; Meadow Lane leading into Castlesite Road. Close enough. There’s some flats above the shops on the main road as well.’
‘Okay, good. Make sure the uniforms know this is a murder investigation. I don’t want them thinking it’s just some scally who got in a fight.’
‘Sir?’
‘Call it a gut reaction, Laura. Some of those bruises are old, fading. Signs of abuse. Something’s not right.’
Rossi nodded slowly, writing down the last bit of info in her notebook before looking back at him. ‘That it?’
‘Yeah. I’ll see if the vicar can accommodate us.’
The Farm (#ulink_a544666c-f6d0-5f97-b49a-4b89feac8065)
Six Months Ago (#ulink_a544666c-f6d0-5f97-b49a-4b89feac8065)
Goldie was alive, there was that at least. When he’d first been grabbed off the street, beaten until he could barely breathe without feeling the pain all over his body, he’d felt for sure that was it. That he’d pissed off the wrong person once too often and was now going to pay the price. He’d heard stories about the gangsters out there in the city and what they could do to you if they wanted.
He was expecting the end. Tried to work out which dealer he hadn’t paid properly or what he’d promised that he hadn’t delivered, but couldn’t think of a thing.
When he was dragged along the muddy track outside, a sawn-off shotgun pointed at his chest the whole way, Goldie was thinking about all the things he was about to lose.
It amounted to very little.
There was his family, he guessed. What was left of it, anyway. One brother locked up, doing at least fifteen years for manslaughter. Hadn’t seen his dad in years – didn’t much care.
Now there was just him and his mum. And whoever she was seeing at the time, of course.
That was all gone. All he had now was the large room they’d shoved him in, the darkness within masking its real form. He ached from the ride in the back of the van and the beating inside. His breathing was shallow, as the adrenaline he’d been feeling earlier began to wane and he became used to sucking in full lungfuls of oxygen again.
That’s the thing they never showed you on TV. When your mouth is gagged, you have to breathe through your nose. Goldie’s had been broken a few years before that night, which had left it resembling one of those shit paintings he’d seen in art, by the bloke with one ear or something. Or that other one. Art wasn’t exactly his strongest subject. That earlier injury had left his nose skew-whiff, at an angle. Bone blocking one nostril, so breathing with his mouth closed became difficult after a while.
He waited a few minutes, just kneeling down in the dark, breathing in and out. Wondering why they’d left him there.
‘Hello?’
The voice came from across the room as a whisper, shitting Goldie up big time. He scrabbled back, only being stopped by the solid wall behind him and the pain that resulted from hitting it.
‘Who’s there?’
The voice was a little louder now, more hiss than whisper. Goldie sensed something behind it.
Fear.
He felt the same way.
Goldie stood up, his eyes still adjusting to the pitch black, and began slowly feeling his way forwards. Arms out in front of him, sweeping his legs back and forth.
‘I’m Goldie, mate. Where are you?’
‘Over by my bed.’
Goldie stopped as he heard the reply come from a couple of feet away from him to his left. His eyes were adjusting now, the shape and form of things becoming clearer. He could make out a bed, two in fact, on his left. Mirrored to his right. That was it though. No other furniture.
He could smell piss coming from further away.
‘What’s your name?’ Goldie said, coming to a stop at the bed opposite.
‘Dean. Just got here?’
Goldie nodded, before thinking better of it. ‘Yeah. What’s going on? Why do you keep fuckin’ whispering?’
There was a creak from the bed as Dean moved, Goldie imagined rather than saw.
‘Because they’re out there, listening all the time. You don’t want them to get mad. Believe me.’
Goldie barked a laugh. ‘You’re paranoid, lad.’
He wouldn’t find it funny after a while.
Things were calm for the first few days. They’d drop meals off for the two of them. Dean told him he’d been there for a few weeks at least. Two men had taken him, he thought. He wasn’t sure, as it’d happened fast and he’d been a bit stoned.
Goldie didn’t believe the things he said had been done to him since then.
Light got into the room during the day. Not enough to be comfortable, but at least they could move about without worrying they’d bang into something in the darkness.
Boredom was the problem in the beginning. Goldie decided to fill his time trying to find a way out of there, examining every part of the room.
By the third day he’d given up. There was nothing to find. Every inch was solid, reinforced.
The only way out was through the door which he’d come in.
He began watching them as they dropped off meals. Food in sealed packaging. None of the stuff he was used to eating, proper horrible stuff like tasteless rice and salad. He would have thrown it back, but he was starving after the first day.
Every time they came inside was the same. The door would be unlocked, more than one lock on the outside, Goldie noted, the door swinging open, light rushing in. The eight times it had happened, there’d never been less than three of them. Two of them had either a sawn-off or a bigger gun, like you’d use on Call of Duty. Assault rifle, Goldie reckoned. He’d told Dean that, but not really got anything in response.
‘Dean,’ Goldie had said on day four, whilst they were eating a meal of some kind of mashed potato and meat, ‘we should rush them when they drop the food off.’
‘No …’
‘Hear me out, lad. We could get either side of the door and surprise them. Have them over and then get the fuck out of here.’
‘It won’t work. And then you’d have to go on the rack. Trust me, you don’t want to go on that.’
‘What’s the rack?’ Goldie said, his brow furrowing.
‘You don’t wanna know …’
‘Pretend I do,’ Goldie replied, an edge to his voice. The look on Dean’s face made him pause though. The lad had started sweating, his hands shaking a little … then more.
‘I … I … No. They told me not to say anything.’
‘Like I give a shi—’
‘No,’ Dean’s voice echoed around the room. ‘I’m not saying nothing.’
Goldie considered pushing harder, but Dean was now sitting on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them, silently rocking. Whispering to himself words which Goldie couldn’t hear.
Goldie recognised what just thinking about the rack had caused in Dean.
Terror.
Day five was when it started. Three of them arrived, with Goldie expecting the same process as before. Food dropped off, no questions answered. Any movement met with a point of a weapon.
It was different this time though. No food. Two of them came towards him as the other aimed a rifle at his chest. Strong hands gripped each of his arms and pulled him along.
Helplessness. That’s the effect a bullet can have on you. It wasn’t the gun so much. Not after he’d got used to it being pointed at him. All he could think about was what it contained. Tiny little things that would rip him apart. Kill him in a second.
They led him out of the building he’d begun to get used to, out into the cold winter air of December. He could see his breath as he exhaled, hoping that would continue as the memory of his mouth being gagged came back to him.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, chancing it. Not wanting to talk too much.
There was no response. Goldie measured himself up against the two people in balaclavas holding onto his arms, deciding he could probably take them if needs be.
If he could work out a way of doing it before being hit by a bullet, he’d do it. He didn’t want to turn into Dean back in the room. Scared for his life. Not yet.
He was led back inside another building, a large desk in a room, someone in a black balaclava and a suit sitting behind one side. It wasn’t so much a desk, Goldie thought as he was dumped onto the chair opposite the man, as a long table. A red cloth covered the surface, barely hanging over the edges.
Goldie stared across at the balaclava-suit man, not willing to break eye contact. Two of those who had brought him here left the room, leaving only rifle man and the weird get-up sitting across from him. There was something so odd about the combination of a bally and a pristine suit, which Goldie could tell was no Burton’s Menswear special. Nah, this was money. Made to measure, he thought.
‘Nice suit. Wanna tell me what the fuck you think you’re doing?’
His voice sounded exactly as he wanted it to. Hard as fuck. Don’t-fuck-me-about hard.
‘Be quiet. Learn to speak when spoken to, understand?’
Goldie forgot about the gun being pointed at him for a second. ‘Fuck off. Don’t talk at me like that.’
He heard, rather than saw, the whipcrack as Bally-Suit man raised and struck his face with something. A few seconds of nothing, before the pain cut in.
Stinging, burning. His face on fire, from ear to nose in an almost straight line. Goldie pulled his hand away from his cheek where it’d flown in reaction, looking at it as if it wasn’t his. Blood, thin lines of red. Broken skin, broken face.
Burning.
‘This is something my dad gave me. He no longer had any need to use it, so passed it down. I only ever got it once, that was enough. I deserved it then as well.’ Bally-Suit man was standing now, his accent softening as he spoke. ‘It’s like a riding whip, what you’d see a jockey using. Only this is worse. Thinner, more pliable.’
Bally-Suit man moved around the table-desk and came close to Goldie as he held his face with one hand, trying to decide if punching this dick now or later would be preferable.
‘You’re going to learn some manners, young man. And learn them quick.’
Goldie took his hand away from where he’d been stroking the burning, turning to face Bally-Suit man. ‘Fuck you,’ he spat.
Bally-Suit man sighed through the covering and shook his head at him.
The crack came again, quicker than Goldie could react. Across the other side of his face. As he went backwards, away from the pain, Bally-Suit man kicked at his chair, sending him flying. Goldie’s head cracked against the floor, making him dizzy for a second or three before his senses returned, his fists balling and swinging.
Laughter rang back at him as he punched thin air, then pain flared across his thighs as the crack hit there. Then all the wind rushed out of him as a boot flew into his stomach. He tried to get up, one arm across his middle, but a boot on his neck stopped him.
‘Stay down. I don’t want to have to put you on the rack first day.’
Goldie glanced towards the table-desk as the cloth fell from it, revealing something he couldn’t work out. Restraints and wood. In any other setting it would have barely caused a second glance. Seeing it there, Goldie began to breathe quicker, trying to swallow.
Goldie shook his head clear, tried moving again. ‘Am I fuck lying down for you,’ he said, pushing away the boot from his neck.
His voice wasn’t as good as before. The hardness was already going, leaving him, getting the fuck out of there while it still could. If he wasn’t alone, maybe it would have been different; with his boys backing him up, things wouldn’t be the same at all. As it was, Goldie was on his own, and the prick in the bally-suit was standing over him with some whip type of thing that was causing him a lot of pain and he couldn’t even see it coming.
‘You don’t understand, do you?’
‘Understand what?’ Goldie said, pulling himself onto all fours as the man backed away from him.
‘You’re under our control now. You’ll do as we say, or there will be consequences.’
Goldie spat out a long drool of saliva onto the floor, eyes widening as he saw the redness of fresh blood mixed in with it. ‘You going to kill me, is that it? What for? I ain’t done nothing to you.’
Bally-Suit man laughed at him. ‘Course you have. You and all your mates. Everyone like you. Young boys with big mouths.’
A boot flew into Goldie’s stomach, flipping him over onto his back and making him cry out in pain before his breath caught.
‘You’re disrespectful, arrogant and nothing but a stain on this city,’ Bally-Suit man said, standing over him. ‘Well, that’s going to start changing. You’re going to start changing. Starting now.’
Goldie closed his eyes to the pain which was beginning to kick in from the beating, as Bally-Suit man crouched down and leant closer.
‘And if we’re not happy with your progress, well … let’s just say you’ll be begging for a little roughing-up like I’ve just given you. I have many ways of making you accept change.’
Goldie opened his eyes, but the man was no longer there. Just the two in balaclavas holding guns as before.
He got up with some help, and allowed himself to be led back to what he would soon call the Dorm.
And hoped it wouldn’t be the last place he could call home.
3 (#ulink_550ca293-f827-576e-8a61-aa954330f88e)
Reverend. Not vicar or priest. The Church of England always confused Murphy. Catholic guilt was much more his forte, forever cursed to carry that around with him. Sister Margaret Mary rapping your knuckles for getting a line wrong in the Stations of the Cross, or a proper beating for anything closely resembling impure thoughts. Every bloke Murphy’s age who had grown up Catholic had the same stories. Thankfully, his parents had grown out of religion before too long. C of E always struck Murphy as more tea and biscuits than the hell and eternal damnation his own church had taught him.
Reverend Andrew Pearson. Wild haired, with a grey, bushy beard and bright blue eyes which seemed to dart in every direction at once. Murphy imagined he was usually much more expressive, but today he was sombre, one hand clasped over the other in his lap as if to restrain himself from making any sudden gestures. With the interior of the church currently out of bounds whilst it was searched for evidence, they had convened in one of the marked police vans which were now at the scene – Murphy and Rossi sitting on one side, facing the reverend.
‘Sorry about the less-than-comfortable surroundings, Reverend,’ Murphy said, already feeling the strain of sitting in a confined space. Being six foot four had its drawbacks. ‘Hopefully this won’t take too long.’
‘Not a problem,’ the reverend replied. Murphy noticed the accent wasn’t local. From outside the city, he guessed.
‘I’m Detective Inspector David Murphy and this is Detective Sergeant Laura Rossi. We just want to ask a few questions about what happened this morning. Okay?’
‘Of course. But I did tell the other officers I don’t know all that much. Just the boys running towards me, looking like they’d had the shock of their young lives. I guess they probably had.’
‘I see. What time was this?’
‘Around half eight. Bit later than I usually arrive to the church, but I was delayed this morning. A few phone calls I had to make regarding an upcoming event. If I’d been on time, those poor boys wouldn’t have had to go through the shock.’
Murphy stretched his legs out slowly. ‘Do you live close by?’
‘Yes, the vicarage is only around the corner.’
‘And you weren’t disturbed overnight? Anything you can remember at all?’
The reverend shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. I went to bed around eleven and slept through until seven. Didn’t hear a sound.’
‘Did you recognise the victim?’ Rossi said after a few seconds of silence.
‘No. We don’t see many teenagers in the congregation, I’m afraid. Especially males. We have a choir, with a healthy number of boys, but once they reach eleven, twelve, thirteen, they seem to find much more interesting things to be doing. We try our best of course, but there’s too much pressure from outside.’
‘I guess,’ Rossi replied, writing in her notebook. ‘Did you enter the church after finding the victim?’
‘Only to use the phone in the office.’
‘Anything out of place?’
The reverend made a show of thinking for a few seconds before answering. ‘Nothing I can think of. It was still locked up and there wasn’t anything obvious to indicate anyone had been in there. I imagine your people will be able to tell if that’s the case or not.’
Murphy nodded, thinking the fingertip search he’d ordered of inside the church might prove to be a waste of time. ‘Better to be safe than sorry.’
‘How long do you think this will take, Inspector? Only we’re supposed to have midweek services this evening.’
Murphy raised an eyebrow at Rossi before turning back to the reverend. ‘Forgive the bluntness, Reverend, but as long as it takes. At the moment, the church is a crime scene, and the most important thing is ensuring that we gather all the evidence we need.’
Reverend Pearson brought his index fingers together and bounced them off his chin, nodding slightly at the answer. ‘Of course. I’m sure the congregation will understand.’
‘Thank you. We’ll keep you up to date with what is happening.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Reverend Pearson replied, bringing his palms down and smacking them onto his knees. ‘I will be praying for the young man and your investigation.’
Murphy shot Rossi a look as she choked back what he hoped sounded like a cough to the reverend, rather than the laugh he knew it was. ‘Yeah, thanks for that. We appreciate any help we receive.’ He took a card from his wallet and handed it over. ‘Just in case you have any further questions.’
‘Not religious then, Laura?’
Murphy was leading them back to where the victim’s body was in the process of being bagged up to be taken to the morgue for the post-mortem. The mood amongst the various technical officers and uniforms was more solemn than usual. Murphy guessed it was the setting, rather than the dead body.
‘Not in the slightest. All a load of rubbish, isn’t it? Cazzata,’Rossi replied, tying her hair back as she spoke.
‘Thought all Italians were religious?’
‘Probably more so back in the old country, but once they were outside – over here – my parents never bothered. Much to my nonna’s delight of course.’
Murphy snorted. ‘Well, let’s hope this isn’t a religious thing then. Can’t imagine you’d be much use.’
Rossi stopped, placing a hand on Murphy’s arm. The height difference meant she was almost at his wrist, when she was probably aiming for a bicep. ‘No, don’t get me wrong. I might not be religious, but I know my stuff. Religion is fascinating. Especially sociologically speaking. I just don’t believe in the magic man in the sky bit.’
Murphy looked down at her and smiled thinly at the echo of his own thoughts. ‘Probably best to keep your voice down a bit. You’re standing on hallowed ground here,’ he said, motioning towards the church before walking on.
‘Yeah … I’m about to get struck down by God’s wrath any second now,’ Rossi muttered under her breath, just about loud enough for him to hear. He bit on his lip in order to stifle the laughter.
‘You’re not, are you?’ Rossi said, as she caught up with him. ‘Don’t mean to offend, if you are …’
Murphy shook his head. ‘No. Not really. It’d be nice, I suppose, but I think I’ve been doing this too long to believe.’
Rossi looked away, nodding. ‘Anyway,’ she said finally, ‘what next … the kids?’
‘Yes. Have they been taken to the station?’
Rossi looked around and beckoned someone in uniform over. ‘I’ll just check.’
Murphy left her to it, turning to watch as the tent cover surrounding the body was pulled back and the trolley which would transport it to either a van or ambulance was taken closer to the scene. The victim was now completely covered in black for its first step in the journey of a murder investigation.
Well, almost its first step. What happened to the boy before it had arrived here was the beginning, really.
‘The lads are at the station. Parents are meeting us there,’ Rossi said, appearing at his side. ‘But, more importantly, we’ve got a name for the victim.’
‘That was quick,’ Murphy replied. ‘Thought they didn’t find anything on the body?’
Rossi shook her head, grinning slightly. ‘Didn’t need to. A uniform recognised him. Reckons he’s had a few dealings with him in the past.’ She pointed to an officer who was sitting on the small outer wall on the perimeter of the church. ‘PC Michael Hale.’
‘I’ve seen him before somewhere,’ Murphy said, walking towards PC Hale, Rossi in step next to him.
‘Same here. Can’t place him though. Probably some other scene.’
‘Hmmm. Possibly.’
They reached the PC, who broke off from speaking to another officer to greet them
‘Sorry about that,’ PC Hale said, once the officer had left.
‘It’s no problem,’ Murphy said, looking Hale up and down. ‘I’ve been told you know the victim?’
‘Yeah,’ PC Hale said, stroking a leather-gloved hand over his face. Three-day stubble, intentionally shaped and clipped. ‘Had the pleasure of his company over the years. If you know what I mean …’
Murphy waited, the silence growing between the three of them until Rossi filled it.
‘Well? What are you waiting for?’
‘Oh, sorry. His name is Dean Hughes. Lives over in Norris Green. Part of the crew there. Always in trouble for something or other. Those gangs are the bane of our lives – in uniform, you know. One of the reasons I’m trying to move over to work with you guys.’
‘Right,’ Murphy said, trying to decide on his first impression and finding it wasn’t good. ‘And you can tell, even with what’s happened to his face?’
PC Hale nodded. ‘I’ve seen him at his worst, after fights and that. It’s definitely him.’
‘So, how old is he?’
‘Think he’s eighteen now. Not sure. Haven’t seen him around for a while, so thought he’d either been banged up without me knowing, or got some girl pregnant and was trying to go straight. Never happens though.’
‘What doesn’t?’
‘Going straight. Those types … they’re always up to something. Can’t help themselves. Doing normal stuff just doesn’t come natural. Waking up early, going to work, doing an honest job … they can’t handle it. Rather sit at home on their arses and go on the rob at night. Looks like someone might have done us a favour here, if you ask me.’
Murphy knew the sort PC Hale was referring to – even had some sympathy for the bitterness which had crept into Hale from years of dealing with this type – but he still decided his first impression was right. Hale was a prick. ‘Is that what your dealings with Dean were mainly about … robbing, that sort of thing?’ Murphy said, aware of Rossi bridling beside him.
‘All sorts, really. Street robbery, violence, drink, drugs …’
‘Drugs?’ Rossi interjected, just as Murphy was taking a breath.
‘Yeah, only a bit of weed and that. Nothing major. I’m sure you’ll see his record soon enough, but I imagine it wasn’t just me who was picking him up most weekends. Proper little scrote. Used to take him home to his mum and she’d be just as bad. More pissed off with us than the little shit we’d took home for her. The state of that house as well … Jesus. Five kids, probably five different dads, I reckon. None sticking around for more than the two minutes it took to get her up the duff. You know the type. What do these people expect if that’s how they’re brought up?’
Murphy couldn’t help but glower at Hale a little. ‘Well thanks for the speech, PC Hale. Good to know a bit of background about the victim … you know, the dead teenager?’
Hale focussed past Murphy and Rossi at the church behind them. Murphy followed his gaze. ‘Yeah,’ Hale said eventually, ‘no problem.’
‘Let’s go,’ Rossi said, pulling once on Murphy’s arm before walking away. ‘I can’t hear any more merda right now.’
Murphy said goodbye for both of them and turned towards the church entrance where they’d parked up earlier, and walked quickly to catch up to Rossi. Heard PC Hale ask a fellow uniformed officer what merda might mean, and smiled in spite of himself.
‘You sorted here?’ Murphy said, as he reached his car – Rossi leaning against the passenger door, waiting.
‘Of course.’
‘Let’s get back then. See what these kids have to say and then make plans.’
4 (#ulink_63bff748-c9fb-5489-899e-9c701d3d0005)
The car journey back to the station was silent, broken only with long sighs from Rossi who sat beside Murphy. The four miles back to the city centre should have taken fifteen minutes but was taking much longer due to traffic going back into town.
‘Okay. I give in,’ Murphy said, as they stopped at yet another set of traffic lights. ‘What’s up with you today?’
Another sigh. ‘Nothing.’
‘I know that means something. Come on, open up. You’ve been in a frigging foul mood all morning. I haven’t heard this much swearing in a foreign language since I last went to an away match in Europe.’
‘Just family stuff.’
Ah, Murphy thought, should have guessed. ‘Which is it this time … job, love life?’
‘The second one, nicely tied with the first this time around. Wanting to know why I haven’t settled down yet. They’ve started blaming the job.’
‘Surely you’re used to it by now?’
Rossi examined a nail and started biting it. ‘You’d think, but no. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’
Murphy sneaked a glance, seeing Rossi with another finger in her mouth. ‘I’m sure they’ll ease off a bit eventually. But I bet it doesn’t help that all your brothers are settling down now.’
‘Not all of them. Vincenzo still refuses to move in with that girl he got pregnant. And I’m pretty certain Sonny is seeing someone behind his wife’s back. Apart from that though, they’re all diamonds in my ma’s eyes. Just me who’s the disappointment.’
Murphy opened his mouth to answer, but Rossi cut him off.
‘Never mind. I can’t be arsed talking about it. Let’s forget it. I’ll try and be a bit nicer.’
A car beeped behind them as the traffic picked up pace ahead. Murphy released the handbrake again, beating the traffic lights this time and finally picking up some speed down the West Derby Road. Housing estates on one side of the A road, an endless array of shops on the opposite. Betting shops, Greggs, takeaways and those new clothes places he’d suddenly seen popping up everywhere a couple of years back. Sell your old clothes for sixty pence a kilo. Minutes up the road from the middle-class suburbs in the outskirts of the city and the differences could be seen everywhere.
Murphy didn’t like to ponder too much on the endless paradoxes of his home city. Enough to send anyone mad. How could the well-off and the poor be so close together? It didn’t make any kind of sense to him. He just assumed it was the same all over the country – probably more so in these post-recession times – and tried to get on with his life.
‘What’s the plan then?’ Rossi said, interrupting his thoughts.
‘Confirm the ID of the victim, interview the kids who found him, then go from there,’ Murphy replied, spying the Radio City tower in the distance – the signal that he was almost in town and would be at the station before long. ‘You know, the usual.’
‘I almost hope we’re done by the end of the day. I know we’ve not been busy, but I could do without a murder investigation.’
‘Couldn’t we all,’ Murphy replied.
‘Just let me know if it starts getting to you. We haven’t had one since … well, you know.’
Murphy didn’t answer straight away, but his thoughts instantly went back to the scene at his parents’ house two years ago. The violence inflicted on them, the death. It was always there, just on the surface of his memory, the slightest trigger bringing it forth again. Breath going shallow as he fought to keep the emotions down, determined not to slip into the same situation he had found himself in the year before. Lead detective on the biggest murder case his division had seen in years – a serial killer at that – but he’d been toyed with and manipulated. Mentally and physically.
‘Sir … you still with me?’
Murphy blinked back the images and looked out the windscreen towards the slowing traffic in front of him.
‘Yeah … I’m fine. Just … doesn’t take much, Laura.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’m sound. This is nothing like the last one.’
And it wasn’t. Not yet.
Murphy held his phone in one hand, comparing it to the photo which was staring back at him from the computer screen. ‘I can’t really tell,’ he said, squinting and moving the phone around to try and see better, ‘this phone keeps going dark.’
Rossi leant across the desk. ‘Give it here, will you.’
Murphy allowed her to snatch the phone out of his hands. One day he’d learn how these things worked, but for now he was happy to let others do it for him. ‘All right, you do it then.’
‘See,’ Rossi said, flashing the phone in his face before going back to studying it again, ‘here’s your problem. You’ve turned off autorotate. And you have to keep your finger on the screen to keep it backlit.’
A lot of words which meant pretty much fuck all to Murphy. ‘Of course,’ he replied.
‘What do you reckon?’
Murphy nodded. Rossi had managed to enlarge the photo of the victim, which had been sent to his mobile a few minutes earlier, so that it fit the screen. ‘Obviously can’t be sure, but certainly looks like him.’
A photo of Dean Hughes filled his computer monitor. A mugshot taken during his last arrest. ‘This is eight months old, but I’m almost sure it’s him. Look at the scar above the eyebrow.’
‘Yeah,’ Rossi replied, leaning over him to look closer, ‘looks like it to me.’
Murphy began reading the information which was attached. ‘Arrested and then cautioned for Section Five. Hughes was “drunk and aggressive – believed all cofppers to be complete ‘twats.’” Sounds delightful.’
‘How many arrests are there?’
Murphy scrolled down the list. ‘Jesus … at least twenty. That’s just page one. That guy Hale was right. He was used to dealing with us.’
‘When was the last time we had any contact with him there?’
Murphy frowned as he went back over the record. ‘Odd. Seems like he was in trouble quite regularly up until seven months ago. Then … nothing.’
‘Weird. Was he banged up?’
Murphy checked further. ‘No. Nothing about that. No court appearances scheduled or anything.’
Rossi tapped a pen against her teeth, far too close to Murphy’s ears for comfort. ‘What’s his address?’
‘Clanfield Road. Norris Green.’
‘Check to see if there’s anything else.’
Murphy clicked through to the HOLMES database. HOLMES 2 as it was officially called, after an upgrade during the nineties, stored information on a variety of features, most of which Murphy never had time for. Case management, material disclosure … it was really just a dumping ground for every piece of information anyone working in the police received.
‘Here we go,’ Murphy said, sitting up in his chair, ‘he was reported missing.’
Rossi came back around the desk. ‘When?’
‘Get onto this … seven months ago.’
‘Well, that explains things. He’s been off getting into all kinds of shit, and now it’s caught up with him?’
‘Maybe,’ Murphy replied, leaning back in his chair. ‘But it didn’t look like he’d been living on the streets or anything. He looked, well, normal. Like he’d been looking after himself. For someone dead, anyway.’
‘I guess. I didn’t really look at him all that closely, to be honest.’
Murphy drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking back to the image of the victim he’d taken in his mind earlier that morning. A snapshot, something to keep in his head whilst he was working. ‘Clean fingernails,’ he said, after a few moments of silence.
‘What?’ Rossi replied, holding her hand out in front of her and studying it.
‘He had clean fingernails. I’m sure of it.’
‘Okay …’
‘We’ll have to check at the PM of course, but I’m pretty positive they were clean. If he was living rough, or in some dosshouse somewhere, they wouldn’t be, would they?’
Rossi looked at him with a blank face, which set Murphy on edge. He didn’t like being thought of as spouting rubbish. He’d seen that look reflected at him too often in the past, and he thought he was finally getting away from it.
‘I’m serious, Laura,’ he went on, after waiting a few seconds for her to respond and not getting anything. ‘This could be important. If he’s been missing seven months, we’ll need to know where he was. We can narrow the search straight off if he’s been somewhere where he’d have been able to keep clean.’
Rossi finally nodded, sparks hitting her eyes as she realised what he’d been implying. ‘I get you now. Good thinking, sir.’
‘It’s what I’m paid to do. Now, let’s get a picture of him from Doctor Houghton – get it over to the family. I want an ID sorted quickly.’ Murphy stood, leaving the smaller office and crossing into the wider office which housed the rest of the CID team. He strode over to the whiteboards which detailed the ongoing cases and began making a few notes underneath where someone had added that morning’s new victim.
‘Right,’ Murphy said, turning to face the few DCs who had been watching him. ‘Who’s going through initial neighbour reports?’
DC Sagan raised her hand. ‘Me, but there’s nothing there at the moment. No one heard anything in the adjoining street to the church. Only four houses were occupied when uniforms knocked though, so there’ll be more later when they’re back from work or whatever.’
‘Okay,’ Murphy replied, eyeing a particularly unpleasant sight trundling over towards the group. DS Tony Brannon, polluting the air as he walked, eating a packet of crisps, spilling crumbs across the carpet. A pain in the arse, but one Murphy had in check, he hoped. ‘Keep collecting reports,’ Murphy continued. ‘I want you in constant contact with the uniforms at the scene. Plus, DC Harris and DS Brannon, I want you to go down to the scene and help with enquiries.’
DS Brannon managed to pause in between mouthfuls to blurt out, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake …’
‘Don’t want to hear it, Tony. Just get your arse down there. I want something before the media start getting involved.’
‘Fine,’ Brannon replied. ‘Come on, Harris.’
Murphy spied Rossi coming out of their office, beckoning him over. He turned back to the group of five DCs still looking at him. ‘The rest of you go back to what cases you were doing before this morning. See if you can get anything sorted before being dragged into this one.’
‘Death notice?’ Rossi said, as Murphy reached the office door.
‘We don’t know yet, do we?’ Murphy replied, moving past her and grabbing his suit jacket from the back of his chair. ‘Let’s get there and find out. You got the address?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay then. Give me a minute. Want to make sure the DCI knows what’s going on.’
DCI Stephens was already standing in the doorway as he reached her office, down the corridor from his own. Her office was around the same size of his, but with the benefit of being for her alone.
‘Was just coming to let you know the latest,’ Murphy said, realising he was still holding his jacket. He began putting it on.
‘I know, I heard. Didn’t want to interrupt. Looks like you’ve got the basics covered. ID yet?’
‘Almost sure of it. Some teenager from Norris Green …’
‘Not a frigging gang thing, is it?’ DCI Stephens said, running a perfectly manicured hand through her loose hair. ‘That’s the last thing we want.’
‘Not sure yet. There’s a few things not adding up at the moment. I’d stay open-minded for the time being.’
‘Okay. Well, the Chief Super has taken an interest already.’
‘Really?’ Murphy replied, surprised to hear notice had been taken.
‘Body found in church grounds? He’s already imagining all kinds. Don’t worry about him, I’ll keep him quiet for now. You concentrate on finding out who the vic is, and how he ended up dead outside a church.’
Murphy mocked a salute. ‘Got it, boss.’ Received a roll of DCI Stephens’s eyes in response. He walked away before she could say anything more, finding Rossi in exactly the same position as he’d left her. ‘Ready?’
‘Of course.’
5 (#ulink_6c75fe06-5ac4-57b6-b029-c3395b4045e1)
Murphy fiddled with the lever underneath the passenger seat, attempting to find the right motion which would move the seat backwards, removing his knees from underneath his chin. Sliding the chair back with a sudden bang, he ignored the stare from Rossi and went back to reading the criminal record of Dean Hughes.
It could have been his own from that age, had he not been much savvier. Every time Murphy had been in trouble as a teenager, he’d managed to get away with a warning here, a run away there. Not so much as an official caution, which was handy, given that he ended up joining the dark side himself.
Not that he saw it that way. The police service had given him purpose, a grounding. He could have been another lost statistic from the Speke estate. No drive to do anything other than get pissed with his mates and cause a bit of trouble. Boxing had helped, given him a sense of discipline, but when it became clear that he wasn’t going to make it above domestic level, he jacked it in. Waste of time.
Murphy remembered his dad talking to him once, dragging him out of bed at around ten in the morning, which had annoyed Murphy no end, given he hadn’t got home until four. His dad then had one of those conversations with him where he asked the questions Murphy had no answer for. What was he doing with his life … was this all he wanted … and where’s your keep, you little shit?
Just about to turn nineteen and he had no clue. Working every few days or so, cash in hand, and then blowing it on cider.
He couldn’t remember who’d suggested joining the police. It had just happened one day. He wandered into Canning Place near Albert Dock, having passed the initial application, and sat down to do a Maths and English test. Then it was the physical, which he’d passed with ease, still retaining the fitness from the boxing. Then two years on probation.
Fifteen years later and here he was, a detective inspector a good few years ahead of schedule, and at the forefront yet again.
‘What was the address again?’ Rossi said, disturbing Murphy’s trip down memory lane.
‘Clanfield Road,’ Murphy replied, checking the notes on the top of the file. ‘Head for Dwerryhouse Lane and I’ll direct you from there.’
‘Good, ’cause I get lost in all the back roads around there.’
Murphy sniggered, knowing what she meant. Norris Green was a larger place than most people expected. A council estate with one of the worst reputations in Liverpool at that moment – mainly for gang violence. Since the murder of a young boy outside a pub in nearby Croxteth, the result of a longstanding feud between rival gangs in Croxteth and Norris Green, with the eleven-year-old boy, an innocent bystander, shot in the back, the area had begun to change. Gangs had been shown on TV in exploitative documentaries – and subsequently shunned for revealing supposed secrets of ‘street-life’ – and the DIY show from the BBC had made over the local youth club, giving some kids a place to go which wasn’t in danger of falling down around them.
It was still a tough place to grow up though. Not much upward mobility in those kind of estates. And not many people trying to change that.
‘Take the next left,’ Murphy said, as they approached the end of Muirhead Avenue – Croxteth Park off to their right, still hidden by houses – the church where Dean Hughes’s body had been found that morning close by, only a few minutes further away.
‘Right here,’ Murphy said, looking at the derelict patch of field which lay to their left. An upturned Iceland shopping trolley was the main attraction, along with empty carrier bags, various bottles and rubbish. ‘You’d think they’d do something with that.’
‘With what?’ Rossi replied, indicating to turn.
‘That big patch of green. Just going to waste. It just looks like an eyesore, ’cause no one’s looking after it.’
‘You know why. They’re not willing to spend money around here. Reckon it’d just get wrecked, so they won’t bother.’
‘I suppose.’
Rossi slowed the car, looking for the right house number. ‘It’s bollocks though. That argument, I mean.’
‘You think?’
‘Course I do. If you put people in places like this, where everything is left to go to shit, what do you expect them to do? Everything’s grey, dark. That’s how your life is going to feel like. It’s the Broken Windows theory.’
‘The what?’
‘The theory that if the area you live in looks like shite, then the people who live there will act like shite as well.’
Murphy smirked. ‘And that’s how it’s put in the books, I imagine.’
Rossi snorted. ‘More or less.’
Murphy thought she had a point, but didn’t have chance to say so as she slowed the car and parked up.
‘I really wish we could have phoned ahead,’ Rossi said, unbuckling her seatbelt. ‘I hate just turning up with no warning. Makes it worse.’
‘Home number we had for them was out of use. Everyone has mobiles these days.’
The house they’d stopped outside of didn’t scream ‘house of a tearaway’. A sort of mid-terrace, with light brown stone brickwork. An archway separated the house from next door, but it was still connected on the top level. There were three wheelie bins on the small driveway, a few crisp packets lifting slightly in the breeze before settling back down against the fence. It was May, but Murphy shook his head as he noticed the house next door still had Christmas decorations hanging from the guttering – the clear icicles he’d noticed on market stalls in town, the previous December.
‘You ready?’ Murphy said as he pushed open the metal gate, the screeching sound as it slid across the ground making his hairs stand on end. It needed lifting, fixing or replacing.
‘Are you?’ Rossi replied, walking ahead of him and knocking on the door. Four short raps – the rent man’s knock, as his mum used to say.
They stood waiting for a few seconds before Rossi knocked again, pulling back as they heard the barking.
‘Porca vacca,’ Rossi said under her breath.
‘You don’t like dogs, Laura?’ Murphy said from behind a smile.
‘Not ones that bark.’
A few more seconds passed before they heard shuffling from behind the door. A mortice lock turning on the old-style door, the house not being adorned with one of the newer double-glazed models. It opened inwards a few inches, a face appearing in the gap.
‘Yeah?’
‘Sally Hughes?’ Murphy said, bending over so he wasn’t towering over the small-statured mother of Dean Hughes.
‘What’s he done now?’
Murphy raised his eyebrows at the instant recognition of them as police, even though they were in plain clothes. ‘Who?’
‘Our Jack. What’s he done? You’re either police or bailiffs. So he either owes someone or you’re trying to pin something on him.’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Laura Rossi, this is DI David Murphy …’
‘Jack was here last night …’
Rossi held her hands out. ‘It’s not about Jack, Mrs Hughes. It’s about Dean.’
Sally opened the door wider, a look of resignation flashing across her face before she swiped her hand across her forehead, moving damp, lifeless hair away from her face. ‘Right. Well you better come in then.’
Sally walked away from them, locking the still-barking dog in another room before going through to what Murphy guessed was the living room on the left. He went in first, wiping his feet on a non-existent doormat without thinking and following her inside. He took the few steps into the living room, some American talk show snapping into silence as he walked into the room, the clattering of the remote control on a wooden coffee table.
‘Scuse the mess. Haven’t had chance to tidy up yet.’ Sally lifted a cigarette box and in a couple of smooth movements lit a Silk Cut and took a drag.
Murphy savoured the smell of smoke which drifted his way, before perching on the couch which was to the side of the armchair where Sally was sitting, legs tucked underneath herself.
‘What’s he done then? Haven’t seen him in months, so fucked if I know anything about it.’
Murphy glanced at Rossi, suddenly unsure how to proceed. If they opened with the fact Dean was dead, any information that may have been gleaned from a less stark opening might be lost. On the other hand, Murphy decided if his kid was dead, he’d want to know straight away.
‘We found a body in West Derby this morning, Sally. We think it’s Dean.’
The reactions are never the same each time. Every time a quiet difference. During his career, Murphy had experienced the whole gamut of emotions being projected in his presence; from howling tears of grief to quiet stoicism. He’d learnt to not really put much stock in the initial reaction, not to make assumptions based on them.
‘Fuck off.’
He’d not heard this one before.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ Sally Hughes continued, laughing as she tried to take another drag on her cigarette, ‘look how serious you both are. Sorry lad, you’ve got the wrong house.’
Murphy breathed in. He’d seen the overall emotion of denial before – granted, it wasn’t usually accompanied by laughter, but once you got to the core of it, it was denial all the same. ‘Look at this picture for us, Sally,’ Murphy said, taking the blown-up, A4-sized photograph of Dean Hughes from the manila folder he was carrying. ‘Who do you see?’
Sally took a cursory glance at it, allowing her eyes to only alight on it for a few seconds. ‘Yeah, that’s not him.’
‘What about this tattoo?’ Murphy said, moving to another photograph which showed a tribal symbol found on the chest of the body.
‘Loads of lads his age have got the same thing,’ Sally said, still not looking at the photographs for more than a second.
Rossi moved out of the room beside Murphy, one quick glance passing between them. She’d be calling for support from family liaison officers, he hoped. Murphy leant forward, taking back the picture he’d handed to Sally and replacing it in the folder. ‘Sally, we think it is Dean, so someone is going to come and take you down the Royal to make an identification,’ – Murphy held up a hand to stop her interrupting – ‘and if it’s not him, then that’ll be it.’
‘It’s a waste of time, this. He can’t be there.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s only missing. Probably getting into all kinds of shit.’ She stubbed out the cigarette into a clean ashtray. ‘But I’d know if anything bad had happened.’ She banged an open palm against her chest. ‘I’d know in here. I’m his mum. I’d know.’
Murphy watched as her hands began shaking, struggling to pass a hand through her hair to brush it off her face. Her eyes betraying her as they filmed over.
‘Sally …’
‘Don’t.’ She interrupted as he began to speak. ‘I’ll go down there, but I’m telling you, it’s a big mistake. Have you got kids?’
Murphy shook his head.
‘Then you wouldn’t know. I’m telling you, I’d feel it if he was gone. And I’m not feeling anything.’
Murphy let the silence hang in the air, staring at the crown of Sally’s head as she leant forward, both hands grasping at her hair before sliding down and crossing over so she was hugging herself. Murphy blinked, and believed she’d aged ten years since they’d walked through the door, realising quickly it was a trick.
‘They’re on their way,’ Rossi said softly, returning to the room. ‘Be about fifteen minutes. Do you want a tea or something, Sally, while we wait?’
‘It’s all right,’ Sally replied, forcing herself upright, ‘I’ll do it. You want one?’
Murphy shook his head, leaning back as Rossi followed Sally through.
Denial. He was sure it was on one of those lists about grief he’d once read. He just hoped acceptance wasn’t too far behind.
6 (#ulink_29c95332-7d86-5a0d-8946-b5a11d790b63)
Murphy and Rossi returned to the station, leaving the support officers with the task of taking Sally Hughes to the morgue to identify her son; Murphy hoped they’d managed to make Dean look presentable at least before showing his mother the body. Murphy was relieved that the next time they’d speak to her she might be more accepting of the reality. At the moment, they had little to go on without speaking to her, other than a list of people whom Dean Hughes might have spent most of his time with. He read through it as Rossi questioned the officers who had been going door to door around the church that morning. Murphy realised how long it had been since he’d been in uniform, where you’d come across the same people, the same names, over and over. Now the names meant nothing. The people on the list would have only just entered primary school when he was in uniform in the late nineties, before the explosion of technology which seemed to have occurred a decade later. Now everything seemed to centre on a computer. Even those weren’t really needed any longer, as everyone seemed to have a brand new mobile phone which did the job just as well.
Not even forty, Murphy thought as he scanned the list. Barely late thirties, and he already felt left behind.
Social media, that was the thing. Everything being laid open. Murphy shunned it completely – didn’t like the idea of anyone from his past being able to find him that easily. He’d been involved in a few cases in the previous years which had involved the websites – Facebook, Twitter, Bebo – so he knew enough about them that he wasn’t lost in a conversation.
Twitter was the new thing, it seemed, for the genesis of such cases. The papers went through peaks and troughs with the story – usually when nothing much else was happening. Trolls, bullies, threats. Each platform gets their turn. They all get blamed, when Murphy knew the real cause.
The people.
It didn’t matter which website or avenue was used, they’re all just a way of exerting power.
Murphy had no doubt Dean Hughes would be on there, so he rolled his hand over the mouse of his computer, typing www.face—before the page auto-filled itself.
Scrolling down the page, he realised just how common a name it was. He tried to narrow it down by putting in Liverpool as the location, but it was still difficult to find the right one from all the results. Dean and Hughes was obviously a popular combination of names in Merseyside. He clicked on two different profiles before finding the right one. Profile picture set to a group of five lads, shaven heads on three of them, the other two with a swept-over quiff thing going on. Dean Hughes in the middle. All arms spread wide, cans of lager in one hand, teeth showing. First comment on the picture when Murphy clicked on it …
Gay as fuk lads!
Murphy shook his head, clicking the x in the corner of the picture and returning to the profile page itself. He waited for the inevitability of the page being set to private, which was supposedly happening more often these days. He was only mildly surprised when he was able to start scrolling through Dean’s wall posts. Most of the youngsters – or teenagers he should say – he’d had reason to investigate this way seemed to revel in the lack of anonymity. Everything was left open for public viewing and consumption.
‘What you on?’ Rossi said, swivelling her chair around the desk and stopping as she reached his side.
‘Dean’s Facebook page. Look at this – Carnt be assed wth dis. Ned 2 gt stned lads – how do you misspell “need”?’
‘No one gives a toss online.’
Murphy grunted in reply and carried on scrolling, only pausing to read the various status updates. ‘Last one was seven months ago. Which ties in with the theory of him disappearing suddenly.’
‘Anyone posted on his wall recently?’
Murphy scrolled back up to the top, looking to the left side of the screen. ‘Few here. Mainly when he went missing. People asking if he’s all right. Nothing of interest really … wait.’
‘What?’ Rossi said, leaning forward.
‘Same name posting a few times. Gets more and more angry. Paul Cooper. Dean owed him money by the looks of it.’ Murphy made a note of the name.
Murphy’s phone rang before Rossi had a chance to reply. ‘Sally Hughes has finally confirmed it’s Dean,’ he said once he’d finished the call from Dr Houghton’s assistant. ‘Post-mortem starts in an hour.’
‘We’d best get over there then.’
Naked, stark light shone above the body as Dr Houghton began his work. Murphy had begun to find the whole process quite boring. Once you’d winced and felt your stomach turn over the first ten or twenty times you attended a post-mortem, it became more methodical.
‘I count sixty-three different contusions and marks. Some inflicted close to death, some occurring days or weeks before. The worst of those are concentrated on the torso and arms,’ Dr Houghton said, speaking into a digital recorder as well as for the benefit of Murphy and Rossi. ‘Healing contusion to the eye area, around a week old, I’d suggest. Bruising to the neck area, asphyxiation a possible cause of death.’ He pressed the stop button on his recorder before turning towards Murphy. ‘He was beaten severely and then strangled by a thin ligature. It’s pretty obvious.’
‘Rule out suicide then?’ Rossi said.
‘Unless he’s worked out a way of hanging himself whilst lying down, then yes. He was on the ground when he died.’
‘What was used to beat him?’ Murphy asked, before Rossi had a chance to swear at the doctor in her mother tongue.
‘There are three different distinctive markings,’ Dr Houghton said, turning the body over with a sigh, before his assistant moved quickly to lend a hand. ‘On the back here is a marking from some kind of heavy object, a bat or plank of wood maybe. On the front, something thin like a whip or something similar. And then here,’ Dr Houghton pointed to the left-hand-side rib area, ‘half a boot print. He was stamped on so hard I’d guess there are a few broken ribs in that area.’
Murphy tried and failed to keep the grimace off his face. The memory of the injuries he’d sustained a year earlier – broken arm and ribs after being pushed down concrete steps which led into the darkness of a basement – was still fresh. The breathlessness of having your ribs broken in more than one place. The look on the doctor’s face in the Royal Hospital – only a few floors above from where he was standing now – as he’d explained to Murphy that they had to heal on their own. It was a couple of weeks before he could even stand walking any kind of distance.
Still, the sick pay was nice. Plus, he’d suddenly became more accepted around the station again, which made things much easier than they’d been previously. The snide remarks and sideways glances, just waiting for him to screw up, had pretty much ended that day. Injured in the line of duty had that kind of effect on petty differences.
Murphy absent-mindedly rubbed at his right-hand side as he replied, ‘Think you can get a print off that?’
‘I imagine so,’ Dr Houghton replied, sounding amused by the question. Hiding a grin behind his mask, Murphy assumed. ‘Wonders of modern science. We have scrapings underneath the fingernails as well, which I imagine are from the back of the hands of the person who was strangling him to death.’
‘Good. Full report?’
Dr Houghton sighed. ‘In the morning at the latest.’
Murphy kicked at a stone in the hospital car park, watching as it jumped up and hit the side of someone’s Ford Focus. He didn’t move slowly enough to check if he’d chipped the paintwork as he continued to trot towards his car.
‘Who interviewed the kids who found him?’ Murphy said, turning to Rossi who was, as ever, struggling to keep up.
‘Harris and some other DC I can’t remember the name of. They’re basically interchangeable at this point.’
Murphy smirked, knowing exactly what she meant. Local cuts to the police service meant that constables in CID were being sent all over Liverpool to fill in where and when needed. It meant there was no kind of consistency on who was working at St Anne Street from one week to the next. Once you got used to one face, they were sent over to the other side of the city to fill in on some other case. Murphy didn’t even want to consider the mind who had thought up this gloriously stupid way of working.
‘I’m guessing nothing came of it, otherwise you would have told me?’
Rossi shook her head. ‘Just found him and ran. Didn’t see anyone at all. Nothing from door to doors either really. Other than a neighbour who thought she heard an argument near Castlesite Road. Wasn’t sure of the time because she was half asleep. Could have been dreaming, for all we know.’
‘CCTV any good?’ Murphy said, pressing the button on his keys to activate the central locking.
‘Not sure yet,’ Rossi replied, opening the passenger door and getting into the car. ‘I know there’s a few cameras around the cross near the Sefton Arms pub, but not the other side. Depends which way they came in. It’s not like we could tell if he was killed anywhere else in the area, unless there’s blood.’
‘Doesn’t mean we don’t look,’ Murphy said, turning the ignition. ‘We need to organise a bit of a search, I think.’
‘Seems like a lot of effort. Probably going to turn out to be an argument got out of hand.’
Murphy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for traffic to pass so he could pull out onto the main road. ‘I’d usually agree, Laura, but there’s a few things wrong here. The fact he’s been missing over six months. The placing of the body at the church …’
‘Like an unwanted baby,’ Rossi murmured.
‘Sorry?’
‘When you hear about these abandoned babies, you know, where the mother is too young or whatever, they leave them outside churches, don’t they?’
‘I’m not seeing your point.’
Rossi sighed, pressing the button to half open her window. ‘It could be that Dean Hughes was left at the church because they thought he’d be looked after there.’
‘Possibly. I think the damage was already done though, don’t you?’
Rossi shrugged and turned to look out the window. Murphy stared ahead, trying to get the cogs within turning.
Concentrating hard to stop the demons coming back in.
The Farm (#ulink_a544666c-f6d0-5f97-b49a-4b89feac8065)
Five Months Ago (#ulink_a544666c-f6d0-5f97-b49a-4b89feac8065)
Goldie had become used to life there pretty quick. It was the same all the time, really. Days spent in the quiet, waiting for the evening, when the ‘fun’ would begin. Three meals a day. Anything they wanted to read.
Okay, there was no TV, PlayStation, or even Xbox. No iPhone, Samsung … fuck, he’d take a Nokia at some points, just to be able to speak to his mum or something. He reckoned he’d even phone her first, rather than check Facebook or Twitter.
His muscles ached in so many places, he’d given up trying to work out where it hurt most. He’d caught sight of his face on one trip into the farmhouse. It was becoming harder, older.
Scarred.
Goldie was inspecting a fresh mark on his right thigh when they brought in the Bootle lad. Just dumped him in there, without a word.
They’d been getting a bit more light in the Dorm than in the first couple of weeks, so Goldie could see him fine. Dean, the other lad, wouldn’t have seen shit. He was in his usual position – lying down on his bed, facing the wall, pretending to be asleep. He’d barely spoken two words to Goldie in the month he’d been in there with him.
Just shut down.
‘All right lad?’ Goldie said, standing up slowly, his thighs burning from overuse, his calves numb. It seemed too little a thing to say, but what the fuck else could he say? The lad had no idea what he was in for.
‘Who the fuck are you? What’s going on?’
Goldie held his hands out in front of him. ‘Calm down mate. It’s them out there you want to be pissed off with, not us.’
‘Us? Who else is here?’ the lad replied, standing up fully now. ‘Youse best tell me what’s fuckin’ goin’ on, or there’ll be fuckin’ murder, you get me?’
Goldie put his hands down. Curled them into fists instead. ‘Look,’ he tried a softer voice, but it didn’t really work. ‘Look, we’re in the same boat. I’m Goldie, the lad over here is Dean. We’ve been taken by a bunch of nutters who want to give us some kind of army training or some shite …’
‘Well, I’m MC Cray-Z. And MC Cray-Z doesn’t take any shit, you get me?’
‘You’re called what? Where you from?’
‘Bootle. What’s it to you?’
Goldie shook his head. ‘I’m not calling you MC Fucking Shit. I’m just gonna call you Bootle for now. That all right?’
‘This is bollocks …’
‘No,’ Goldie replied, taking a few steps towards him. ‘It’s not. It’s as fucking real as it can get. But you need to calm down, otherwise …’
‘Or what? What’re you gonna do about it?’
Goldie almost smiled. It had been a long time since someone had spoken to him like that when a gun wasn’t being trained on him.
‘Listen. I’ll give you one warning,’ Goldie said, stepping closer, five yards away from Bootle now, taking in his full five foot five figure. Small man syndrome exuding from every pore. ‘One warning, given what you’ve been through. But I won’t give you another.’
Bootle took a step forward, hands shaking, sweat on his forehead.
‘Do something,’ Bootle said as he stopped in front of him.
Goldie smiled then.
Gammaspoke first as they watched the camera feed from inside the Dorm. ‘We might have a problem here …’ shesaid, nudging Delta.
‘What do we do?’ Deltareplied.
Gammalooked around at the only other person in the small monitoring room. Tango chewed on his bottom lip for a second or two, then spoke.
‘Get Alpha.’
A minute or so later, Alpha bounded in, forcing his way in front of Gamma and staring into the screen.
Gamma cleared her throat. ‘Should we go and stop it?’
Alpha stepped back, rubbing at his face before folding his arms.
‘No. Let’s see what happens.’
Goldie didn’t know where the lad had got the strength from, but he was starting to tire already. It was probably down to the endless drills he’d been forced to do in the previous weeks. Muscles not having been given a chance to heal properly, now screaming for him to stop. Lie down and don’t move.
Bootle had his small hands wrapped around his throat, trying to choke him but not succeeding. Goldie had his chin ducked down low, meaning he could suck in air. All the time, he was concentrating on trying to prise away the grip.
It had started as it normally did for Goldie whenever he was in a fight. Quick movements forward and a closed fist punch to the side of the other lad’s head. That usually put them down, then he could jump them. Put the boot in and end it.
But this time he’d miscalculated, and only skimmed the top of Bootle’s head. Then he’d been surprised by the force of the little bastard’s rugby tackle as he was forced backwards onto the floor.
Goldie stopped trying to prise the hands away. Drew back his fist as far as he could, and drove it into the side of Bootle. Kidneys. Instant pain. Bootle’s hands loosened and Goldie took his chance. He pushed him away, letting him fall to the side, before punching him in the jaw, hearing a click or snap – he couldn’t tell which one – in his right hand. He ignored it, punching again, hearing the satisfying thump of flesh on flesh as he carried on. Bootle’s face started turning red as knuckles met skin, cuts forming around his eyes and cheekbones. Blood mixing with sweat and tears.
Goldie left him coughing and retching on the floor, stood up, and began stamping on the cunt.
He was in his socks, so he wasn’t doing as much damage as he’d have liked, but it didn’t lessen the pain he knew he was inflicting. Drawing his leg up, smashing his heel right into Bootle’s stomach. Then a volley into his bollocks, to really take his breath away. Then he moved up. He had a wicked right foot on him, when he’d played footy instead of getting pissed or stoned with his mates, and he lined up Bootle’s face as if he was about to fire in a free kick in front of the Kop.
Bang.
The sound was deafening in the small space, making Goldie jump and lose his footing.
A soft voice from the corner, that’s all he could hear after the ringing had stopped.
‘No … no … no …’
Goldie looked over the broken body of Bootle towards the door. The main guy – Bally-Suit – stood there, backed up with two others. Holding the rifle level with him. The bang had come from one of the other two rather than him, Goldie guessed. Bally-Suit wouldn’t have fired a gun without it being pointed at someone, Goldie reckoned.
Goldie realised he was shaking his head, moving backwards all the time. The fight disappearing from him.
He was in the shit.
Bally-Suit man had offered up the name Alpha as he’d tied him to the rack. It suited him. Better than what Goldie had come up with.
Alpha. He was the one in charge.
Goldie tried not to pay much attention to what was happening. Thought he could zone out of whatever they did to him, think above the pain.
It didn’t – couldn’t – work like that. He was restrained so he couldn’t make any movement at all. Every possible part of him was strapped down, tied together, and immovable. Lying spreadeagled in just the black boxer shorts he’d been given a pile of at some point – fucking Asda brand; he couldn’t believe he was putting his junk into something so shite – exposed and useless.
‘It’s a shame it’s come to this,’ Alpha said from somewhere to his left. Goldie couldn’t move his head to check for certain. ‘I knew you’d end up here at some point, but it is really a damn shame it was due to this. We simply cannot tolerate you lads fighting each other. It will not happen again. I hope the next couple of hours convince you of this.’
Goldie shivered as a cold breeze snuck under the wooden door that he could just about make out. Just the ridge at the top, if he really tried looking down. Otherwise it was just strip light, which burned into his eyes if he looked at it too long. Lighting up his face even when his eyes were closed.
‘We call this a rack, but it’s not like the old racks they had hundreds of years ago. Those ones … Jesus. You wouldn’t believe the pain they could inflict. They’d tie you down and stretch you out, tightening the ropes and making your bones dislocate and break. Destroying your limbs. Tearing them right out.’
Goldie started shaking … as much as he could, anyway. He tried again to move, but it didn’t matter. He could move a finger – maybe two – but not much more than that.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to stretch you out or anything like that. No. This is purely about instant pain and punishment. But also … hopefully … redemption. I don’t want to destroy you. I want you to get better, understand?’
Goldie opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by the gag which was shoved in his mouth as he opened it. His vision was obscured by a thick piece of sock-like material being placed around his eyes.
‘Good. Then we’ll begin.’
Goldie tensed as he heard the flick of a lighter. Clenched his eyes tight and tried to block out the pain.
Burning on his chest. Fuck, his chest was on fire. He tried to see, but the harsh light overhead stopped him. Screwing his eyes shut, he thought of home, of his streets, of anywhere but there.
He tried screaming, but the gag inside his mouth turned it into a mumble in the darkness.
Some sort of vice was attached to his head. Goldie felt it tightening, the bones of his skull being forced together, screaming in agony as he thought of his head exploding. Alpha seemed to know the limits though.
It wasn’t his first time, Goldie thought at one point. Oh fucking shit – it wasn’t his first time.
The needles were the worst. That’s what he guessed they were. Sharp, piercing pain in the skin between his fingers and toes. A bang as he imagined the thin pieces of metal being hammered through, then more agony as they were removed and covered.
He cried behind the covering over his eyes. Goldie hadn’t shed tears in as long as he could remember, always believing nothing could break him.
He was wrong.
After a while, the torture stopped and the numbness which had crept over him disappeared, bringing fresh waves of nausea as the pain kicked in once more.
‘That’s probably enough, Alpha … don’t you think?’
The voice came from further away, but even in the agony-induced state Goldie was in, he could hear the fear behind it.
‘Not nearly enough for this piece of shit.’
‘Okay … it’s just, well … we’re not really equipped for putting him right if you go too far.’
Goldie listened, barely able to match the words being spoken to a real conversation.
‘Would that be so bad?’
‘Of course it would. We’re not here for … for that. Are we?’
Goldie heard a sigh.
‘It’ll do for now, I guess. What do you think, Mr Gold?’
Goldie tried to nod his head, but it screamed in response as he tried to move it. Alpha tutted and removed the blindfold from his eyes.
‘Good. Well, Omega here will clean you up and have you back in the Dorm in no time at all. I hope we won’t have to do this again anytime soon. I trust you’ll behave yourself from now on?’
Goldie tried blinking, but the strip light above him refused to allow him respite from the pain as it burned into his eyes. He kept his eyes partially closed as he squinted above him, Alpha’s covered face looming into view.
‘I think we have an understanding now, don’t we? We’re not messing around here. You will be taught how to behave. It’s a shame your parents have failed so badly in this area and that we have to resort to such extreme measures, but it takes time and punishment, you see? Probably not now, no, but soon. Soon you’ll all see.’
The dark face moved away then returned, closer this time. Whispering into his ear.
‘The next time, I take a finger. Then we can really start to see what you’re made of.’
He moved away again and a few seconds passed before another masked face replaced him. Goldie wanted to believe he saw pity in the eyes of this one, but he didn’t know the difference any more.
He didn’t know anything.
7 (#ulink_c3384689-1587-51f3-9303-630bb6b171ba)
The first day was winding down, the light fading outside in the early May evening. Murphy and Rossi crossed the incident room, heading back towards their office. There’d be a short meeting before they left for the day, but other than the list of names they’d accrued, there wasn’t much else they could do. Overtime was currently a dirty word in the station, and unless the DCI suddenly got pressure from above, Murphy couldn’t imagine they’d change that for a single victim. Especially when he knew what most minds in the hive would be thinking.
Some scally kid had got what was coming to him.
It still troubled Murphy. Any death still had that effect on him. Sometimes he wondered if he had been born in the wrong era. It seemed to Murphy that there were more victims than ever that supposedly deserved their fates, in a growing number of people’s opinions. Even if they were only a few years on from being nothing but kids. Not having a clue what the reality of their actions could eventually lead to.
Murphy had been there. Growing up on a council estate in South Liverpool, the line between making something of your life and screwing it up was thin. Sometimes even blurred.
Murphy took out his phone as they reached their office, the silence he’d been hoping for denied due to DC Harris sitting behind the desk speaking into his mobile, his back to them. He turned as they entered, redness creeping up his neck. Private call then, Murphy thought.
‘I’ll call you back,’ Harris whispered into the phone, which made little difference considering the size of the office. ‘I don’t know when, I’ll just ring in a bit, okay?’ He stabbed at the phone, slamming it down on the desk with more force than Murphy thought he’d intended.
‘You all right?’ Rossi said, taking her jacket off and placing it over her chair. Murphy was already taking his phone out of his pocket.
‘Yeah, just … doesn’t matter. Boring shite.’
Rossi went to reply but stopped herself as Murphy shot her a look. Domestics. Best not to get involved. Murphy went back to texting.
Body this morning. Won’t be late though. Bit knackered, so can I just pick up an Indian?
Murphy hesitated before pressing send. He hoped Sarah would understand that he wasn’t taking her out, but he could never tell how she’d respond. In many ways they were still treading on eggshells with each other. Learning how to be with one another after they’d spent the best part of a year apart, following the death of his parents and all that had brought with it.
‘Just send it,’ Rossi said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘She’ll understand.’
Murphy smirked. And they say women’s intuition doesn’t exist. ‘Supposed to be taking her out,’ Murphy said, phone still in hand, the screen darkening. ‘Forgot to book a table though, so now I’ve got a perfect excuse.’
‘She’ll be fine. Take her tomorrow or next week. All the time in the world,’ Rossi replied.
Muttering came from Harris’s direction, accompanied by a loud sigh.
‘What’s up with you?’ Murphy said, sending the text as he spoke.
‘Nothing,’ Harris replied. ‘Just, you know, they’re not always as understanding as that.’
Murphy shared a smile with Rossi. ‘I’m sure it’ll work itself out. Don’t let it get to you.’
Harris shrugged in response. Three of them in the office and Murphy realised his relationship was probably the most secure. A strange feeling, given what had happened the previous couple of years.
He was mentally admonishing himself for allowing a crack to appear in the veneer of stability. Allowing work to affect things. He couldn’t let that happen again.
His phone buzzed on the desk in front of him.
Glad you said that. I’m knackered. Get home in time for 8 out of 10 Cats.
Murphy allowed himself a small smile before checking the time. Almost six p.m. Just enough time for a conversation he was dreading.
‘Where’s he been? That’s what I want to know. Where’s he fucking been for over six months, while you all sat on your arses doing nothing?’
Sally Hughes spat the last question out directly at Murphy, as if he’d been involved in the whole thing. He remained stoic, eager to allow Sally to get her initial anger out so they could move forward. ‘That’s what we’re going to find out, Sally. It’ll help us if you could tell us a few things though, okay?’
‘Oh, you want to hear all about it now, don’t you? When it doesn’t matter any more. Fucking useless, the lot of you.’
Murphy moved the box of tissues she’d been using to dab her tears away, just in case she decided to chuck that at him, which, going by the whitening of her knuckles on the table between them, could occur at any second. ‘Give us a chance to prove we’re not useless, okay, Sally?’
She sat back in the chair, finally breaking eye contact with him to bury her head in her hands, tears springing forth once more. ‘God, what happened? Are you going to find out what happened to him?’ Sally said, raising her head and facing Rossi this time.
‘That’s what we want to do, Sally,’ Rossi replied. ‘That’s why we need your help.’
‘Okay. Ask me anything. I’m not gonna lie to you.’
Unlike usually, Murphy thought, before giving himself an internal slap.
‘Right,’ Rossi said, reading the first question off the list they’d prepared before going into the room. ‘Dean went missing in the early hours of 6 October. When was the last time you saw him?’
‘The evening before. He was going out with mates and he came in to say bye. About half six, I think, because Hollyoaks was about to start.’
‘And did he seem okay … anything different about him?’
Murphy watched her as she thought back. Memory is a stranger; it plays tricks on you. He knew they might learn more from the original report, but having scan-read it earlier, he wasn’t holding out much hope. Some uniform had taken it without going into much detail. Even the follow-ups from higher-ups had been perfunctory at best.
‘Maybe a bit quieter, but nothing really. It was a Friday, so I knew he’d be in late, if at all. He was nearly eighteen, so I couldn’t really say anything. Not that he cared at sixteen or fifteen, for that matter. Always had his own mind, Dean. He’s … what’s the word … stubborn. That’s it. Always was. Does things his own way and woe betide anyone who tries to stop him.’
‘Did he say where he was going that night?’
‘Out. That’s what he always said. I knew he’d be drinking, of course. Maybe more, who knows with kids these days? But he always let me know if he was staying over at a mate’s or something. Send me a text in the early hours, just to stop me worrying. When I woke up the next morning and didn’t have anything from him, I knew something was wrong. Our Jason – that’s my youngest one, just turned seventeen a couple of weeks ago – went looking for him on the Saturday afternoon but couldn’t find him.’
‘Where did he look?’ Murphy said, easing into the conversation.
‘Couple of lads he knew that hung around with Dean,’ Sally continued, taking a lighter out of her hoodie pocket. ‘I’m guessing I can’t smoke in here?’
Murphy shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have a break soon.’
‘I rang you lot Saturday night. We found out more than youse did though.’
‘I’ve got some of it here,’ Murphy replied, flipping back a couple of sheets of the report. ‘He was last seen by a Steven Waites at around three a.m. Said he left him in West Derby Cemetery with “some bird I can’t remember the name of”.’
A whisper of a smile played on Sally’s lips before being lost with a knock of the lighter in her hand on the table. ‘We found out who that was. Some slut from up the road. Amanda Williams. Sixteen, she was. Glad I have boys, I’ll tell you that.’
‘And …’
‘She was pissed. Last thing she remembers was throwing up behind some grave and then her dad pulling her into the house. Reckons Dean must have took her home.’
Murphy found the part of the missing person’s report which referred to this.
Took girlfriend home.
Murphy shook his head at the lack of investigation. He knew it was down to time, resources and all that bullshit. The oft-quoted statistic relating to missing persons. Quarter of a million a year. Most turning back up again quickly. Still, a bit of effort might have saved at least one life.
‘And that was it,’ Sally continued. ‘No one saw him again. We tried getting in the papers and that, but they weren’t interested. Eighteen-year-old lad with his history … they couldn’t care less. Just assumed he’d done something wrong and got what was coming to him. We stuck posters up and that, but when we got the letter in January, we kind of stopped and just waited around.’
Murphy looked towards Rossi, who looked back at him, mirroring his own reaction. Flicked through the report to make sure he hadn’t missed something, came up with nothing.
‘What letter?’
8 (#ulink_863bbae9-4be0-56a3-9876-98267a744048)
Murphy wrote on the board under the details of Dean Hughes’s murder case. Adding the new information they’d gleaned that day, his last act before going home.
He was going to be late.
Someone had sent Sally Hughes a message. An envelope dropping through the letter box one January morning. No stamp or address on the front. Just one word.
Mum
Inside, a short note which explained how he was fine and was getting help with his problems. He’d be back soon, when he was better and ready to make something of his life. Not in her son’s handwriting, but typed out.
She’d assumed he was at some kind of religious thing. Actually felt okay about it. Two words in her son’s handwriting … Mum and Dean. And a few kisses, she’d said. Murphy shook his head at the naivety of it all. Someone sends you a message saying your son is somewhere you have no idea of until he’s better. It was ridiculous. And all she had to show it was actually written by her son were two words in his handwriting.
He guessed what the real reason was behind her supposed giving up. Apathy. It was a neat little explanation for everything. Meant she didn’t have to worry any more.
Murphy slammed the marker pen back in the shelf at the bottom of the board. Looked at his watch and decided to make a move.
It was becoming a ritual for Rossi to do this. Every time there was a death, suspicious circumstances or not, she went to her parents’ house. She’d thought she would have grown out of it once she’d gone through the process a few times, but the draw was still there.
Rossi’s parents lived near the scene from earlier that morning in West Derby. Only a few minutes away really. She drove past the church – saw a couple of uniforms standing outside the entrance, keeping away any ghouls who wanted to have a poke around, but other than that, things had quietened down now. Only twelve hours on, and already people’s attention was being drawn elsewhere.
She was putting off the inevitable. The questions, the judgements. Willing to go through it all, as usual. The lure of her mama’s food was a much more appetising thought, but she knew it came at a price.
She parked up her car, turned off the engine but left the radio playing some bland pop song which she couldn’t help but enjoy. Rossi switched off the radio with a turn of her key and got out the car. She’d managed to get a parking spot, which was becoming more and more difficult these days. It was a mid-terrace house in a quiet road which seemed to contain every different type of house you could find. Opposite, four detached bungalows; further down, semi-detached housing; to either side, terraced houses which seemed to run the length of the street.
She rang the bell, a snippet of Greensleeves emanating from within.
‘Bambina! Entare, entare. What is all this talk today? What is happening here in our beautiful city? You look hungry. Hai mangiato? Never mind. You eat now.’
Laura was still standing on the doorstep, waiting for her mother to finish. It was always the same. Isabella Rossi – Mama – didn’t believe in easing into conversations.
‘I’m fine, Mama, bene,’ Rossi said, finally being allowed to step into the house and taking her jacket off. ‘I wanted to make sure you were both okay, that’s all.’
Mama Rossi stood, her arms folded. ‘You check on us? We check on you! That is how it is. Now go through. Sit with Papa and I’ll bring food. Go. Sit.’
Rossi did as she was told, moving through into the living room where her father was sitting in his usual chair, waiting for her to brush his cheek with a kiss before lighting a cigarette.
‘Comestai?’ Alessandro Rossi said, fiddling the cigarette between his fingers before flicking his Zippo and inhaling the smoke.
‘I’m fine, Papa. You heard about what happened at the church?’
‘Of course.’
‘Looks like a bad one already.’
‘How young?’
‘Just turned eighteen,’ Rossi replied, moving back as her mama entered the room and placed a cup of tea in front of her, before hustling back out.
‘Terrible, terrible business. The whole city is changing. You should really be doing something about that,’ Mama Rossi said from the kitchen.
‘I’ll get right on that, Mama,’ Rossi replied, earning a smirk from her father.
‘He was eighteen. So an adult really, but still …’ Rossi said, lifting the china cup her mother always served tea in. Remembering why she never drank the stuff unless she was home. Not that it had been her home in a long time.
‘Bad, was it?’
‘It always is, Papa,’ Rossi replied, looking around the room.
Papa Rossi leant back in his chair. ‘You need somewhere else to go.’
‘I like coming here.’
‘No. You come here to be a child again. A bambina running into the arms of her mama. You need something else. It’ll make it easier.’
Rossi wasn’t sure about that. Even less so when her mama returned with pasta al forno, piled high on a plate. Parmesan cheese in a small bowl.
No. This was still preferable to some bloke messing up her house.
Murphy pulled into the driveway, spying Sarah through the front window watching TV. He left the car and watched her for a minute or so. She’d have heard him pull up but didn’t seem to react. He considered, not for the first time, if she enjoyed knowing he was watching her. Wondered what she was thinking, what she was so engrossed in that she didn’t turn her head and look at him through the window, breaking the reverie.
He left the car, opening the front door to the house, smiling as the blaring noise from the TV snapped off. Murphy seemed to spend most of his life asking her to turn the bloody thing down, but she always waited until he wasn’t paying attention before gently increasing the volume, complaining she couldn’t hear it properly. Thankfully, the only neighbour they had was on the other side of the semi-detached house. Not that it mattered much anyway. Mr Waters. Eighty-odd and happy to let them get on with things.
‘Hello?’
‘Did you bring food with you?’
Murphy shook his jacket off, his keys going on their own hook away from the door, so as to ward against car thieves apparently. Something about a fishing pole through the letter box.
He walked into the living room, ‘Yeah, Indian,’ he said, seeing the chair for the first time. ‘Probably not enough for you as well though.’
‘It’s okay. We’ll make it spread, won’t we, Sarah?’
Jess. Hanger-on, pain in the arse, third wheel, and his best friend. ‘Great. Don’t even be thinking about nicking all the bhajis though. Go and get plates.’
Jess left the room, not before aiming a kick at his shins.
‘She all right?’ Murphy said, listening carefully for the sound of plates being removed, keeping his voice low.
Sarah grimaced. ‘Problems with Peter again.’
‘Ah,’ Murphy replied. Murphy had known Jess over twenty years and for most of them she’d been a single parent. Murphy had chipped in over that time, even standing up for Peter as a child and becoming his godfather. Tried being a friendly uncle rather than a father figure, and failing spectacularly as Peter moved into the troubled teenage years. Murphy had fared better when he was younger, easily appeased with occasional trips to the match at the weekend or the odd trip to the picture house, usually to see some Die Hard-type of action film Murphy didn’t really enjoy.
‘She’s okay,’ Sarah whispered, ‘think she just needs a break.’
Murphy nodded, removing containers of food from the two carrier bags. He’d got lucky with Sarah. His first wife had hated the relationship he had with Jess. Couldn’t understand how a man and woman could be friends, never mind as close as Jess and he were, without any semblance of romantic feelings. Sarah had accepted the fact from the beginning. Hadn’t even batted an eyelid when he’d firmly told her how things were. Since getting back together a year earlier, it seemed like Murphy was becoming the extra person in the threesome. Sarah and Jess saw much more of each other, as his re-dedication to work became more time-consuming.
‘Didn’t get your big plate,’ Jess said, carrying plates into the room, cutlery strewn across the top of them. ‘You look like you need to lose a few more pounds before getting that back out.’
‘I’m allowed a night off. And anyway, you’ll have most of the food down your gob before I have a chance.’
‘Whatever,’ Jess replied, moving Murphy out of the way to take over removing the food. ‘Sar, you all right with sharing the masala?’
Sarah nodded, smiling at Murphy, knowing he was already relenting. ‘Korma for me,’ he said, removing a plate.
‘You’re a fucking soft git you are,’ Jess replied, tucking away the foil container holding the bhajis behind her on the coffee table.
Minutes later, there were half-full plates of curry, naan bread and poppadoms perched on their laps, and they stared at the TV in the corner. Murphy leant back in his chair.
‘What’s the matter, babe?’ Sarah asked. ‘Eyes too big for your stomach?’
‘No, just thinking is all.’
Jess mopped up the last of her sauce with a piece of naan bread. ‘New case?’
‘Yeah,’ Murphy said, attempting another forkful. ‘Eighteen-year-old in West Derby.’
‘Heard about that on the news. Found on the church steps?’
Murphy nodded. ‘Yeah, beaten and then strangled by the looks of it. Don’t think it’s religious or anything, but you know … can’t be too careful.’
Sarah dropped her fork on her plate, reaching over for the last onion bhaji. ‘Between her with her lawyer stuff,’ she said, using the bhaji to point at Jess, ‘and you with your murders and shite, it’s getting a bit dark a conversation for this time of night. Can we change the subject please?’
Murphy rolled his eyes at Jess, before lifting his plate off his lap to avoid a kick from Sarah. ‘Okay, okay. What’s going on with Peter then, Jess?’
This time it was Jess’s turn to roll her eyes. ‘Typical teenager bollocks. Seventeen years old and thinks the world owes him a favour.’
‘We were all like that once.’
‘I know,’ Jess replied, ‘but he’s just annoying me now. Hasn’t been going to college, so fuck knows how he’ll get on with his exams. More interested in going round his mate’s house. Keeps reminding me he’ll be eighteen in a few months. He’s at his dad’s tonight and I’ve had a word. See if him and the new bint can do anything to knock some sense into him.’
Murphy swallowed a chewy bit of chicken and winced. Not as good as usual. ‘Want me to have a word?’
Jess shook her head. ‘It’s all right. He’s not done anything too bad really. Just being a mother, I guess.’
Murphy heard a sigh from beside him. Sarah, looking pointedly in his direction.
He knew what conversation they’d be having when Jess finally left.
9 (#ulink_95865d6f-f67d-5853-88f8-d293384b7aa3)
Murphy headed for DCI Stephens’s office, suppressing a yawn on the way. A late night was probably the last thing he’d needed on day two of a murder investigation. The half cup of coffee that morning wasn’t kicking in yet. The office was mostly empty – the night shift clearing out in preparation for the day crowd to take over. He glanced at the murder board he’d set up twenty-four hours earlier, the same details from the previous night plastered over the surface.
He peeked in his office without entering, frowning when he saw it was empty. He’d expected to see Rossi inside, working away on something or other. She was usually here before him, especially when they had a murder. He glanced at his watch, giving her the benefit of the doubt when he saw that it hadn’t long gone past eight a.m. It was a Saturday, after all.
Murphy knocked on the office door, hand on the handle waiting for the signal to enter.
‘Come in.’
DCI Stephens hadn’t seemed to have lost any sleep at all. Immaculately turned out, as usual. Always the first one here, well before the detective constables desperate to climb the promotion ladder.
‘Roped in for weekend work as well, boss?’ No marm, or any of that. She preferred boss, and that was fine by him.
‘Only half a day,’ she replied, motioning for Murphy to sit down in the chair opposite her. ‘Super wanted to make sure we’re making progress with this dead kid case.’
‘He was eighteen. Hardly a kid.’
She made no sign of noticing his correction. ‘What’s the plan?’
Murphy steepled his fingers. ‘We have a number of friends we have to question. We need to find out where he’s been for the last seven months. Nothing from the door to doors, no witnesses. So unless forensics have pulled anything, that’s our best bet.’
‘We don’t like the religious aspect to this case, David. Have we ruled that out yet?’
Murphy met her gaze. ‘You know it would be wrong to do that at this point. Best we keep an open mind.’
Stephens waved a hand away. ‘Of course, but the Super was very insistent that we don’t overstep the mark. Last thing we need is to cloud the issue. Have you spoken to Matrix?’
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