DEAD GONE (3 page)

Rossi nodded and set off towards the witness. Murphy began the process of removing his gloves and looking around the area, seeing a few familiar faces from older crime scenes about the place. He nodded and exchanged greetings with some of them.

No one stopped to talk to him.

He wasn’t surprised. He gave one last look at the finished tent, the uniforms walking around the area, looking under the bushes and scouring the ground.

Back to it.

‘This is Eddie Bishop,’ Rossi said as she led the dog walker towards Murphy. He was a grey-haired man with a stooped posture, a little Jack Russell padding alongside him. Yellow, stained teeth grimaced back at Murphy, the man’s wrinkled hands gripping the lead tighter, as he kept the dog close by.

‘Just a couple of questions, Mr Bishop.’

‘Eddie is fine.’

‘Okay, Eddie,’ Murphy replied, noting the softness of the infamous Scouse accent. Softness which you only really heard from the older inhabitants of the city nowadays. ‘Do you walk this way often?’ he continued.

‘Twice a day, first thing in the morning, again in the evening.’

Murphy watched as Rossi wrote down the conversation in her notepad. ‘And the dog found the victim.’

Eddie’s face grew serious as he explained how he’d found the dog standing over the young woman. ‘Terrible shame. Will take me a long time to get over this, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

‘And you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary this morning. Anything at all?’ Murphy asked.

Eddie shook his head. ‘Same as always, just me and Floyd.’ he replied, gesturing at the dog.

Murphy finished up with Eddie, explaining the need for a formal statement and promising to keep him informed, knowing that would be highly unlikely.

‘Anything else?’ Murphy asked Rossi, as she finished writing the conversation down in her notepad.

‘There’s someone who keeps telling uniforms at the gate that he heard something. Might be an idea to check that out.’

‘Okay. We’ll do that now.’

Murphy stopped to take in the place. The park was big enough to get lost in, vast areas of green and small wooded areas surrounding it.

‘In the dark, you could become invisible in a place like this,’ Murphy said to Rossi as they neared the gates.

‘True. Perfect places for this type of thing. In and out, probably without being seen in the early hours,’ Rossi replied, stepping underneath the crime scene tape. ‘I’ll be coming to interview this witness with you, yeah? I mean, I guess I’m getting to partner up with you on this one?’

Murphy paused. ‘Let me see. We’ve worked together on and off for about two years, right?’

Rossi nodded her head up and down slowly.

‘Ever known me to choose to work with Brannon?’

She smiled and mocked a salute. ‘I’ll just go and get a new notepad from the car.’

Murphy watched as she walked towards her car parked over the road, her posture straight and assured. The trouser suit looked new.

‘Sir. Sir!’

Murphy stopped and turned. Sighed for effect. ‘What do you want, Brannon?’

DS Brannon stopped jogging and bent down with his hands on his knees, panting. ‘I … sorry …’ He brought himself up again. ‘I just wondered if there was anything I can do?’

‘Haven’t you already got something to do?’

‘I just thought you might have something more interesting. I’m being wasted walking around looking through the mud.’

‘Rossi is with me on this one, Brannon. Maybe next time. For now, I want witness statements from everyone who lives in these houses which face the park entrance. Start organising it.’

‘But …’

Murphy smiled inwardly and turned back towards the road outside the park. Brannon wasn’t all that bad really. He was annoying rather than incompetent. He wasn’t even all that fat, but first impressions stick.

The uniforms were already being harassed by local residents eager to discover what was occurring near their homes. Murphy pushed through, ignoring the questions being directed towards him from a wild-haired older man, adorned only in a dressing gown and slippers.

Murphy took the uniformed constable who’d been trying to placate the man to one side. ‘Which one says he heard something?’

‘The loud-mouthed one.’

Typical, Murphy thought. ‘Okay, where does he live?’ The constable pointed to his house, which was exactly opposite the entrance. ‘Take him back in. We’ll be there in a minute.’

The first thought that struck Murphy as they approached the house, was that it seemed a little big for just one man.

As he entered, the second thought was that it wasn’t big enough for one man and the amount of stuff he seemed to own.

Newspapers were stacked up along the hallway in bundles, at least four feet in height, held together with what looked like old twine. A staircase with no carpet ran up the other side was similarly stacked with paper, but magazines instead of newspapers. As Murphy walked towards the first door which led off the hallway, he became aware of a sour milk smell assailing his nostrils, making him thankful for the lack of breakfast that morning. Rossi was a few steps behind him. Murphy turned to see if it had reached her yet. From the look on her face, he knew it had.

‘In and out?’

‘Definitely, or I’m going now,’ Rossi replied, covering her mouth with her hand.

They turned into a large living room, Rossi almost bumping into Murphy as he stopped in his tracks.

‘Jesus.’

The room was full. The only visible space to stand was that in which Murphy was occupying. Small portable televisions teetered precariously on top of microwaves with missing doors. Stacks of crockery were piled onto an old mantelpiece, a door missing its glass leaning against it.

It was the world’s biggest game of Jenga, only using household goods instead of wooden bricks.

‘Who’s there?’

The voice seemed to come from within the mass of what Murphy could only think of as every item a person could acquire in their life, without ever throwing anything away.

‘Hello? I’m Detective Inspector Murphy, this is Detective Sergeant Rossi.’ Murphy turned to introduce Rossi, but there was an empty space behind him.

Great.

‘I have a lot of work to do. Are you going to get on with it?’

Murphy ducked a little, trying to find the source of the voice. He saw a flash of brown through a small gap in the structure. ‘Can you tell me your name?’

A loud sigh. ‘Arthur Reeves.’

‘Right. And you live here alone?’

‘Do you see anyone else here?’

‘I can’t even see you, Mr Reeves.’

A small chuckle. ‘I guess that’s right. Let’s cut to the chase. I heard a car last night. It kept going up and down the road, disturbed my sleep. I got up out of bed and looked out the window. I couldn’t see very well, there’s not many streetlights up this way. It stopped at the entrance to the park. I assumed they’d been trying to find a parking space. Then it drove on again, right into the park.’

Murphy stood back up. ‘Did you notice anything about the car? Colour, model, reg plate?’

‘Not really. It was dark, as I said. Could have been dark blue, or dark red. Looked like a normal car. Or a van. A small van.’

‘Okay. And what time was this?’

‘About four a.m. I think. Maybe five or three, or in between. I thought it might be important, considering.’

Not exactly the early break Murphy had been looking for. ‘Anything else?’

‘Sorry. I went back to bed. It wasn’t until I saw all the police cars turn up that I even gave it a second thought.’

‘Well, thank you, Mr Reeves,’ Murphy said, patting his thigh, ‘that’s a great help.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Yeah. An officer will come and take a formal statement soon. But for now, you can get back to work.’

Murphy turned out of the room, coming face to face with Rossi. ‘There you are.’

‘Found the smell,’ Rossi whispered. ‘In the kitchen. There’s about two thousand empty milk bottles in there. Estimating of course. Think he got bored of rinsing them out.’

‘Let’s get out of here.’

They left the house, Murphy filling Rossi in on his conversation. ‘What was his deal do you reckon?’ he said as he finished.

‘One of those hoarders I think. We should call environmental health. Can’t be safe living like that.’

Murphy murmured an agreement. ‘Nearest CCTV to here?’

‘At the top junction which leads onto Ullet Road. Almost a mile up the road. Will get onto that.’

‘What about from the other end?’

Rossi clicked her tongue. ‘A lot of roads up that way. If our guy came from there, it could be any number of places. All CCTV in the area then?’

Murphy nodded. ‘Best to check everything.’

‘What now?’

They’d reached the entrance to the park again. The early morning mist had cleared, winter sun threatening to break through the remaining clouds. Murphy could still see faint traces of breath as he exhaled. ‘We need to find out who she is. Back to the station, check the system for any missing persons who match the description.’

‘Okay, will meet you there.’

Murphy reversed around a corner of a small cul de sac, and pointed the car back towards the station. Once Murphy had turned into Ullet Road and then further onto the A roads which led towards the station, the contrast was complete. Half completed buildings appeared in the distance, scaffolding and cranes became the landscape. The River Mersey was off to his left, but was masked by warehouses and housing estates. Toxteth on the opposite side, still struggling to recover from the events of thirty years earlier.

A city of contrast. Light and dark. Rich footballers and child poverty. Derelict housing and glass-fronted office buildings.

Murphy lived it all. Took it home with him, and attempted to make sense of it. How one city could have so many nuances to the lives of its inhabitants. Then he’d realise that every major city has the same issues. It wasn’t just Liverpool, they weren’t a special case.

Then he’d wake up and begin a murder investigation of a young woman, and the old feelings of resignation returned. A thread in the tapestry of his life coming loose. Frayed and torn. Threatening to be destroyed completely. A feeling in the pit of his stomach. Not a nervous feeling, something a little different. Something harder to ignore.

Fear.

Rob Barker was nothing if not average. Average height, average build, average wage earner, average Sunday League player.

No one called him special. He didn’t win trophies or certificates.

He lived in an average-sized house, with an average-sized garden. His car was an average-priced model.

When magazines or newspapers talk about the ‘average twenty-five to forty-year-old male’, that was him. He ticked all those boxes.

It wasn’t accidental. He desperately strived to go unnoticed, not to do anything special as he’d grown older and reached that pivotal moment of his early thirties. Bad things don’t happen to normal, average people. That fact had been drummed into his head from an early age.

Don’t get cocky. Don’t strive for more than you can handle.

Bad things happen to those who put themselves out there, raise their head above the parapet and ask life to take pot shots at them. Much better to fly under the radar, coast through life, happy and content.

Yet there was one area of his life he couldn’t control.

Who he would fall in love with.

Intelligent, witty, beautiful. Jemma was all that and more. So much more. She was bright, quick witted, and the worst cook Rob had ever known. She put a whole packet of noodles in a microwave once. Might have been okay if she’d taken them out of the packet and added water first.

She was gone.

And it was his fault.

Rob woke that morning to the sound of a Scottish ex-footballer complaining about a red card in a football match he hadn’t seen. The joys of talkSPORT. He steadily came around, listening to the radio as he began to wake. A split second when he wondered where he was before normality came in. It always took him some time to wake up – he was a deep sleeper, as Jemma would constantly remind him. With a radio show on, especially one discussing football, he was more likely to be up and ready for work a lot quicker.

She’d texted him before midnight to say she was having a late one. Rob had pretended it was fine, no big deal. Inside, he was shaking. How would she get home? Anything could happen to her at that time of night. Did she care?

He didn’t trust her. He couldn’t remember a time when he had. Everything was too good. Too nice. They barely argued. It didn’t feel real. Relationships weren’t perfect.

She wasn’t in the bed next to him. He wasn’t surprised. He’d been prepared for that.

‘Downstairs. She’ll be downstairs.’ His voice sounded alien, scared. He knew that she wouldn’t be, but he wanted to kid himself everything was still normal. An alarm bell at the back of his mind clanged against his skull with every thought of her being home and safe. That wasn’t the case, and he wouldn’t let himself believe it.

He sat up in bed, swung his legs to the side and slipped on the clothes he’d discarded the night before. Blue tracksuit bottoms and a footy shirt. Red.

The house was too settled, no sounds of light snoring coming from downstairs. When Jemma had been drinking she had a tendency to snore a bit. He’d hoped to turn into the living room and find Jemma lying there, sleeping off a heavy night.

He wasn’t surprised to hear silence.

Panic started to permeate inside him, a churning feeling. He began rubbing at his stomach, wondered if they had any Rennies left.

How does Mr Average react to his girlfriend not coming home from a night out? Does he ring the police straight away? Her friends … her mum? He was sweating, nervous energy running through him. He needed to think.

What had he done?

‘Relax,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Calm down.’

Rob boiled the kettle and had a cup of coffee. Two and a half sugars. A dash of milk. The early morning sunlight came through the window in the empty kitchen, reflecting off the microwave he barely used. The kitchen was exactly as he’d left it the night before. Nothing disturbed. Everything in its place.