DEAD GONE (12 page)

He knelt down in front of her, far enough away that her thrashing limbs did not touch him. Her face was marked with black streaks, as tears and sweat mingled to create a river of mascara cascading down her round cheeks.

‘I was under the impression all you girls used that waterproof stuff these days. You look awful.’

He studied her some more, attempting to formulate a different sort of plan. One that would appease.

It was no use though, and he knew it. It was supposed to go a certain way, and he’d already failed. He’d marked her, spoiled her features.

It wasn’t his fault. It was his mistake, but she had caused it.

‘You stupid fucking bitch. Do you have any clue as to what I am doing here? I am changing things. This work is important. But you don’t care, do you?’

He stepped forward, drawing his foot back, kicked the bottom of her outstretched left foot. The noise behind the gag grew louder.

He enjoyed that sound. He felt something shift inside him. More alive. More powerful.

‘You’re selfish, you know that?’ He punctuated his words with more kicks. ‘Your death could have been glorious. A work of art. They would have still been talking about you, long after we’re all gone. Now, you’re a worthless piece of excrement on my shoe. A hindrance, a burden on me. I would have shown you the courtesy of dulling the pain. Now … now you’ll feel every last second of what I’m going to do.’

He crouched down again, taking in her sad form. He snorted. ‘You are undeserving of this work. You’re just a piece of waste to be taken care of.’

He reached into his back pocket, held up the knife into the light glaring from above.

She recoiled as he walked back towards her, breathing heavily as she attempted to break free of her chains. All the while, a muffled scream was the only noise in the room.

Then he moved quicker. Arm raised above him.

And then it went down towards her. Again and again.

The room turned red. He didn’t stop until the exertion overtook him, leaving him panting for breath with his back against the wall.

She was lifeless. Unrecognisable from the woman he’d brought here.

He smiled. He knew how to rectify this mistake.

The dashboard clock flicked over to eight-fifteen p.m as Murphy pulled the car up outside his house, his phone chirruping as he switched the engine off.

‘Murphy.’

‘Where are you?’ Jess’s shrill voice barked down the phone.

Murphy shook his head, smiling. ‘Hello, Jess.’

‘Yeah, fuck that. Where are you? I’ve just driven all the way out to yours, and you weren’t even in.’

‘I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I’m working a murder at the moment. Long hours kinda come with the job.’

‘You’re still on that? Thought they’d have dropped you by now.’

Murphy sighed, getting out of the car, locking it behind him. ‘Yes, thanks for the support.’

‘That’s no excuse. I have to go to my mum’s for food now. You know how I feel about that.’

‘I know, I’m sorry. Maybe ring ahead next time, make sure I’m in?’ Murphy said, smiling.

‘You wish. Listen, Sarah called me again today.’

Murphy sighed. ‘What did she want?’

He heard Jess breathe heavily before continuing. ‘She wants to see you.’

‘Not going to happen.’ Murphy extricated his keys and opened the door, entering his house in darkness.

‘Think about it. You can’t just ignore her forever.’

‘Yeah, okay, Jess. Listen I’ve got stuff to do, big case and all that. Give me a ring tomorrow.’

‘Fine, whatever, Bear. Just think about it, okay?’

Murphy closed the door behind him quietly. ‘Okay.’

He walked up his small hallway, flipping the light switch and relaxing as he bathed in light. He removed his jacket, kicked off his size fourteen shoes and walked through to his living room, collapsing on the sofa. He reached for the TV remote, wanting to switch off for a few minutes at least.

Sarah. She wouldn’t just give up. At least she’d stopped ringing him personally. Now she just went through his friends. Well, friend.

His stomach growled at him. He knew he’d forgotten something. He’d wanted to pick up a takeaway on the way home, but instead had driven in a daze. Distracted.

Twenty minutes and a trip to the kitchen later, Murphy was flicking through the TV recorder, trying to decide what to watch from the seemingly hundreds of programmes he’d saved over the last month or so. He settled on an episode of
The Sopranos
and sat back with his microwaved family-sized lasagne to watch. The meal was its usual disgusting fare, but Murphy carried on eating, dipping slices of dry bread into the lowering amount of sauce. He made a note to buy margarine at some point, knowing he’d forget within seconds.

He eyed the cross trainer in the corner, an extravagant purchase, for what was more or less running in mid-air. It had made him a little fitter though, made him feel less guilty for eating meals intended for more than one person. He turned his attention back to the TV.

The words from the letter found on the victim kept coming back to him, circling his mind, stirring up memories. He attempted to shut out the dominant thoughts but he was failing. Memories mingling with the present overpowering him.

Then there was Sarah, not letting him go. Forever trying to get back in.

Who was he kidding. She’d never left. A parasite in his head he couldn’t shift. A tapeworm that wouldn’t leave his gut.

Murphy winced at the imagery. Had it come to that? Was that all she meant to him now?

He thought back to the time when all was good. It was supposed to be that way forever. People would tell him how happy they seemed together, that they were made for each other. And it was like that at first. The love was different, strong. Just not strong enough, he guessed. The anger which had clouded him only months earlier was dissipating slowly over time.

She was still his wife.

He went back to eating his food, finishing the plate soon enough. He picked up the glass of Coke he’d poured himself, deciding not to drink anything stronger in order to keep his mind clear for the next day.

It wasn’t though, not by any stretch. It was on auto-play now, flicking through memories like a flip book.

Some good, mostly bad.

The day his dad had bought him his first car
,
a shitty little banger that barely lasted a year or so. His mum singing along to the radio as she cooked a Sunday roast. The night he came home to find Sarah crying in the bathroom, the baby she’d been carrying inside her for nine weeks gone.

Walking into the other house, a few days after consoling a devastated Sarah, finding nothing in the kitchen, and everything in the living room.

He screwed his eyes up, willing the images away. Stopped them before they all turned red, black, angry, hateful.

Dead.

He lost himself in the blinking images from the flat box in the corner, his eyes dropping as tiredness overtook.

He woke hours later, rubbed at his eyes and yawned, the tired feeling still not shaken. He could hear his mobile ringing, incessant noise drilling into his ear canal and rattling his sleep-muddled brain. He wanted to ignore it.

Did he even want this any more? He looked around his nicely decorated home, which always felt empty. No photographs on the walls, just the occasional piece of ‘art’ which he’d picked up from Homebase. It was all for show. A part of the façade he had built around him in the previous few months.

His phone had stopped ringing.

Murphy dragged himself upright, checking the arm of the sofa for his phone. It had slipped down the cushion and whilst he was digging it out, began ringing once more. He grabbed it, trying to answer it at the same time.

‘Damn touch screen, useless piece of shite,’ he said as he attempted to pick up the call, noticing it was Rossi calling as he did so.

‘Murphy,’ he said, finally answering.

‘Sir.’ Rossi was panting, out of breath. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you. We’ve … we’ve got another one.’

‘What?’

‘We’ve got another body. Found earlier. Near the lake in Newsham Park. Same posing, and another letter. I’m just on my way there now.’

‘I’ll meet you there.’ Murphy said, ending the call.

Another one. That couldn’t be right. He’d felt so sure, so convinced it wasn’t going to be something like this. One murder, one victim; nice and easy. It had to be.

Or the first letter was real and he was already making mistakes.

‘Focus, you need to focus.’

He needed this. He couldn’t make any mistakes. People relied on him for answers, all looking up to him.

And Murphy didn’t know if he could provide them.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

She was posed like the first victim, but that was where the similarity ended.

In the late night darkness, the large lights erected around the body illuminated the area, casting shadows around. There was no mistake as to where the attention of the couple of dozen people scattered about the place lay. The body was entirely lit up, stark and bright. The lake was to the left of them, silent and still. There was a hush as bodies passed each other with barely a raised voice.

Newsham Park, just past Kensington, a mile or so from town. The West Derby Road leading a path straight to it. A flat green space with a large lake at the top, surrounded by trees. Invisible from the road.

Again. Same type of scene.

They say you get used to it. One victim becomes another. An endless array of body parts lit up, wounds, scars, blood. If you deal with death all the time, you develop a gallows humour, dark jokes passed around.

Murphy knew differently. When it was bad as this, there was no levity to be found. You got on with the job, and hoped to catch whoever did it before it happened again.

She was laid out with her arms and legs outstretched, the same as Donna McMahon, but as Murphy got nearer he winced as he saw what had been done to her.

Large gashes were open on each cheek. She was topless save for a black bra. Numerous slashes to her skin, stab wounds.

Murphy stopped counting them at eleven. One in particular would live with Murphy for a long time.

Her neck, opened up, deep.

It was difficult to see a patch of skin which wasn’t covered in blood.

So different.

Her face was a mask of red. Dark, dull, almost brown. The features were unrecognisable. Her nose was almost level with her face. The mouth a grotesque open wound, stretching outwards towards her ears.

Once he’d brought her here, he was calm enough to lay her out, and disappear into the night.

Murphy stepped back allowing a SOCO to pass. ‘Is this what he wanted to do, another experiment or something?’

Rossi looked from Murphy down to the body. He tried to work out what was happening behind Rossi’s eyes, but failed.

‘Second one in three days. Either someone is trying to cover his tracks from the Donna McMahon murder, or we have a serial,’ Murphy said, moving out of the way. Putting distance between him and the body. ‘Witnesses?’

‘Just the one so far. Someone walking through the park on their way home from seeing her boyfriend. Young girl, seventeen. She’s being treated for shock apparently. Doubt she’ll be walking this way again any time soon,’ Rossi replied, gesturing towards a path which led from the lake, a few hundred yards towards the main road. ‘We can talk to her later if she’s calmed down. Don’t think we’ll get much though.’

‘Okay, we’ll let the SOCOs work, check to see if CCTV covers any of the area. We’ll wait for, let me guess, Houghton?’ The look from Rossi confirmed it. Murphy rolled his eyes and continued. ‘For now, we canvass the area, knock on doors.’ Murphy looked at his watch. ‘Wake people up.’

‘This is nothing like the first one. This is … just unbelievable.’ Rossi coughed, looked away before turning back to him. ‘He must have dropped the victim here earlier though. She was found at just after two a.m. Maybe midnight, just after?’

Murphy pointed towards the main road. ‘He could drive up that path from the road, and no one would think anything of it. The park is dead this time of night, no lights at this end. Wouldn’t be much of an effort at all.’

Murphy looked around; the wind whistled through the trees, sending a chill through him.

‘Haven’t been here since I was a kid. Not changed much,’ Rossi said, following Murphy’s gaze.

‘Only been here as a PC,’ Murphy said. ‘Cleared out the drunk teenagers at the weekends. Couple of bommy nights. We had the Venny when we were kids. Didn’t need anything else.’

‘The Venny?’

Murphy patted his pockets. ‘Yeah, the Venny. Adventure playground in Speke. Was well good when we were kids. Not been there for a while though. Hope kids still go there.’ Murphy found what he was looking for, popped a cough sweet in his mouth and offered the pack to Rossi.

‘Sore throat?’

‘No.’ Murphy sighed, put his hands in his coat pockets. ‘What the hell is going on here, Laura?’

‘Victim has been dead between eight and twelve hours. Not killed here. Again, she was moved here.’

Murphy watched as Dr Houghton shifted the victim onto her side. ‘How long has she been here?’

‘Hard to say. Lividity suggests she has been on her back between six and twelve hours. However, if she’s been moved, it’d be difficult to determine for how long she’s been lying in this position.’

‘Can you put a rush on the PM?’

Dr Houghton pushed out a sigh. ‘Won’t be until the morning of course. But we can move some around for you. As a favour.’

Murphy snorted. ‘Thanks for that.’

Dr Houghton muttered something under his breath and Murphy took his cue to leave. They’d never got on. Worked together for years, but it had always been that way. There was something off about the good doctor that Murphy had never been able to figure out. Houghton’s attitude towards him was that of general dismay, bordering on disgust. Obviously not old school enough for him.

He found Rossi talking to some uniforms and waited as she gave out instructions.