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‘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.’
