DEAD GONE (38 page)

Sarah raised her eyebrows in reply, a look Murphy was intimately aware of.

An awkward silence fell over them once more, Murphy concentrating on dipping his biscuits in his tea. It had never been this way before; in the past they had so much to say to one another. Now, there seemed to be nothing.

‘I saw the news. You got the Uni Ripper,’ Sarah said, breaking the silence, forming quote marks with her fingers around the words ‘Uni Ripper’.

Murphy winced at the name. ‘Yeah, but we don’t really call him that at the station.’

‘Sorry. Did he own up to it?’

Murphy sighed, sitting back in the chair … his chair … sipped on his tea, which seemed to be more biscuit than liquid after five or six dips. ‘Yeah,’ he said finally. ‘It was hard, he’s very clever, didn’t leave us anything to go on. We got lucky in the end really.’

She set her cup back down on the table. ‘Was this the first one since … since then?’

‘Yes,’ Murphy said without emotion. ‘They’ve been keeping me away from these sorts of cases. Turns out this one wasn’t as straightforward as they thought it was going to be. Not an
ease your way back in
kind of case.’

‘How has it been?’

‘You know. It’s difficult sometimes, but I’m getting through it.’ Murphy found the lie easy to articulate. ‘How have you been?’

Sarah’s voice dropped along with her head, her chin tucking into her chest. ‘In limbo, David. Waiting for you.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t have,’ he replied, more severely than he’d meant it to sound.

She snapped her head back up at him. ‘What was I supposed to do, move on, forget about my husband? I couldn’t just do that, David. Is that what you’ve done?’

‘Of course not,’ Murphy said, beginning to regret going there. ‘It’s just, I don’t think anything has changed.’

Sarah pulled strands of her hair forward and began sucking on them. Murphy recognised the movement, her nervous energy breaking out into familiar self-comforting measures. Murphy sat forward, wanting to be away from there. Anywhere else but sitting with someone he once felt so deeply for.

‘You still blame me,’ Sarah said, her voice barely audible.

‘It’s not that. I just can’t do this yet.’

‘It’s been almost a year. If you were going to be able to, don’t you think you’d be there by now?’

Murphy stood up, paced the floor of the living room in front of the fireplace. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say, Sarah.’

‘What about me? Have you thought about me at all? Or can you just not admit to me you think it’s over? That it’s my fault they died.’

‘I can’t do this.’

Sarah crossed the room, banging into the coffee table as she moved quickly, but not missing a step. She came up to Murphy, causing him to take a step back. ‘We’re already doing it, David. You’re here, so why not get it off your chest? It’s my fault, it was because of me, because of where I’d come from. I’m the reason they’re dead. Admit that’s what you think.’

Murphy turned away, his fists clenched, biting his lip. ‘It’s not like that.’

‘Then what is it like?’

‘If I hadn’t met you I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you and they’d still be alive. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.’ He turned back around, feeling the tears falling down his face. Sarah’s lips were trembling.

‘Get out.’

‘What?’

‘I said get out of here. I don’t want you around.’

Murphy felt a flicker of saliva hit his face, as Sarah shouted at him. ‘Wait. I want to talk to you, I
need
to talk to you.’

‘You wished you’d never met me?’ Murphy reached out a hand to touch her arm. ‘No … no. I don’t want to hear it.’ She shrugged off his hand, stepping back and crossing her arms. ‘That’s enough. Please, just leave.’

‘I’m sorry, Sarah. I didn’t mean it that way.’

‘Of course you did. If we hadn’t got together, your mum and dad would still be alive. It’s true. It’s my fault I was with
him
before us. That I didn’t see it coming.’

‘How were you supposed to know? I should have seen what he was capable of.’

‘Because he gave me a few beatings? That’s ridiculous, David. I knew what he was like. You didn’t. How could you know?’

Murphy sat down heavily on the chair. ‘That’s my job, Sarah. I’m supposed to see these things coming. I didn’t, and now they’re dead.’

‘He was still obsessed with me,’ Sarah said, kneeling down next to Murphy. ‘I thought he’d get the hint that I’d moved on. But he just kept coming around and I should have told you that.’

‘It doesn’t matter now. It’s done.’

‘It does matter. We’re never going to move on with our lives if we never talk about it.’

Murphy sighed, rubbed at his beard. ‘What is talking about it going to change?’

Sarah placed a hand on Murphy’s knee. ‘It’s a first step. Don’t you still love me?’

Murphy stared into Sarah’s eyes, feeling the same way he always had. He loved her, he just couldn’t look at her face after it had happened. See his own guilt reflecting back at him. He reached over, stroked her face. She closed her eyes, nestling into his palm. He leaned forward, his lips parted.

It was soft, at first, then it became more urgent. He needed her. He gripped her tightly, hands over her back, in her hair.

Murphy pulled away. ‘Wait. There’s something I want to say.’

She looked at him, head tilted, her upper lip and cheek already turning red from his beard rubbing against her. ‘What?’

‘It’s my problem. I’m going to talk to someone. Not the shitty counsellor they want me to see at work, someone who I think can help me.’

‘Okay. I think that’s for the best. Now, let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.’

Murphy smiled. ‘That sounds great.’

Rossi grumbled to herself as Stephens spoke to them in her office. A sweat-stained Brannon beamed beside her.

Bet he couldn’t believe his luck.

He’d take the credit for this. She knew it. The man who finalised the interview with Tom Davies. He’d be promoted off the back of it, no doubt.

Testa Di Cazzo
.

She’d been trying to call Murphy since what had happened the previous day. He hadn’t answered. Probably sulking.

She thought of the posh boy at the university. Wondered how long she should give it before ringing him. Another day maybe.

‘Now, he’s had overnight to calm down, and hopefully he’s going to keep quiet about what happened with Murphy. All I want you two to do is finish off the statement and that’s it. Okay?’

Brannon got in before her. ‘No problem. I’ll make sure it’s sorted.’

They didn’t switch on the recorder at first. They waited.

‘About yesterday Tom, you understand you goaded detective Murphy into doing what he did?’ Brannon said, leaning over the desk. His shirt tail was hanging out the back of his trousers. It was a mass of creases. Rossi shifted her gaze.

‘Oh yes. Don’t worry, it’ll be our little secret,’ Tom replied, a smile on his face that turned Rossi’s stomach.

‘We just want to get your entire statement down, okay, Tom?’

‘Certainly.’

Rossi switched on the recorder, and began writing up Tom’s statement. Listening as he talked about each murder again, in flat tones, precise. Listing everything he’d done.

She wouldn’t forget this for a long time. It was going to be a week of Mamma Rossi’s food before she even went to her own home again.

‘Well, thanks for that, Tom. The next bit is obviously a formality. It seems you’re aware of how this goes.’ Brannon looked down at his notes and cleared his throat. Rossi rolled her eyes. ‘Thomas Davies, you are being charged with the murder of Donna McMahon, Stephanie Dunning … erm …’ he checked his notes, ‘Colin Woodland and Robert Barker. Do you understand those charges?’

‘Yes. Can I say something else?’

‘Of course, Tom.’

‘I want to tell you about Experiment Two. I think it’s only right that I do.’

Brannon sat up in his chair. ‘Yes, yes of course.’

‘There’s a house in Aintree. On Lancing Drive. It was my aunt’s house, but she moved into a nursing home a couple of years back. I’ve been renting it out. I made use of the tenant. You’ll find number two in there.’

‘Who is it Tom?’ Rossi asked.

‘You’ll see.’

Rossi had to summon all the strength she had not to take Brannon’s egg-stained tie off from his neck and shove it down his crowing mouth. He was holding court in the incident room, boasting how his softly, softly approach had meant he’d finally got some more information from Tom Davies.

‘It’s all about knowing them, how they work,’ he said, as Rossi checked the drawers of her desk for something to eat.

‘You’ve got to know what you’re dealing with. It’s all psychology, you know.’

She found half a Bounty at the back of the middle drawer and shoved it in her mouth. It was soft, the coconut tasting a bit funny, but it stopped her from shouting out.

Her phone rang on her desk.

‘Rossi.’

‘It’s me.’

She leaned forward, swallowed the chocolate down. ‘I’ve been trying to call you. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ Murphy replied. ‘Listen, I want you to get an address for me.’

‘Okay.’

‘You need to keep this quiet though.’

‘Sure, no problem.’ She listened as Murphy gave her a name and she pulled up the information on her computer. ‘Why do you need that?’

‘I think he can help me.’

‘Good thinking.’

‘I’m guessing Brannon finished off the interview with you?.’

Rossi looked up. Brannon was still holding court. ‘Yeah. Soft shite thinks he’s cracked the case. Tom told us where we could find number two.’

A sharp intake of breath came over the earpiece. ‘Well, that’s something. He told me he was number one.’

‘He experimented on himself?’

‘Turned himself into a killer I guess. Listen, I’ve got to go. Hopefully I’ll be back in soon enough. Let me know how you get on.’

Rossi ended the call. Turned in her chair and patted her knees, standing up. ‘Right. Shall we stop gassing and get over there?’

Murphy put the phone back in his pocket and entered Victoria Road into his sat nav. Pulled away from the kerb by Sarah’s house. Or was it their house again now? He wasn’t sure. Too early to say.

Twenty minutes later he turned onto Victoria Road in Formby. This was where people with money lived. It didn’t surprise him this was where he’d had to go.

The road was less wide, a more old English village setting replacing the fast moving A roads. He came to a level crossing and passed over it, searching the road ahead for the right house.

A small lane was to the right, wrought-iron gates opening inwards, and he turned the car towards it. The road underneath turning to gravel. He pulled the car to a stop as the house revealed itself.

Tall dark windows adorned the front of a large building which Murphy thought looked more like an old hotel rather than a home. Pillars surrounded the front door, the marble colour blending perfectly with the red brick façade. A silver Mercedes was parked at an angle on the large patch of gravel which lay in front of the house.

Murphy parked up and left the car.

Jemma was curled on the mattress, trying to ignore the pains in her stomach. Her dry mouth.

Failing.

It had been days. Weeks maybe. She tried to remember how long someone could go without water. It was either four days or fourteen. She couldn’t quite reach that fact in her head. It was drowned out.

Ha. Drowned. She’d give anything to be plunged into water. She’d gulp it in, not caring if it filled her lungs.

No voices. No voices in the walls.

Then, there was.

‘Jemma.’

It was different. It wasn’t the same.

‘Jemma, can you hear me?’

‘Yes. Am I going now?’

The walls went silent. She sat up, waiting for something else. Nothing came for a few minutes.

Then she heard footsteps coming down from outside the room. She stood up, her legs wobbling underneath her. The footsteps stopped, and the hatch opened. She scrambled across as something was dropped through.

‘I’m sorry it took so long. There’s been some slight mishaps the last few days. It’s okay though. I know what to do.’

She tore off the cap on the bottle of water, guzzled down as much as she could.

‘I’m not happy though. So there’s going to be a slight change of plan. You’re going to be here a little longer …’

Jemma’s head shot up. ‘No, please let me out.’

‘You be quiet now.’

They gathered on Lancing Drive, ready to enter the property. The road was quiet, just the odd curtain twitching and some neighbours brave enough to stand on their front step.

It had been raining overnight, the grass still tinged with early morning dew. A low sun in the sky, not bringing warmth with it. Rossi had her hands in her coat pockets and stood as close to Brannon as she could deal with.

‘Do we knock first?’ he asked her.

‘There’s a doorbell, why don’t you check that first,’ she replied, rolling her eyes.

‘Seriously?’

‘All we have is his word,’ Rossi said, turning to look at the other officers stood on the path, ‘it could be just another game.’

Brannon shrugged and pressed the bell.

‘You said I could go though. You said.’

‘Not just yet. We’re not finished. Another few months, maybe a year. Then you can go.’

‘No!’ Jemma shouted, moving closer to the hatch. It was too small, she couldn’t get through there again. It was letterbox sized now, just big enough to put a bottle of water and some food through it. She thought she could see his mouth behind it. ‘No, I have to go now.’

‘I’m sorry, Jemma. Plans change. I’m afraid it has to be this way. The experiment must be completed.’

‘What experiment? I’m not an experiment. I don’t agree to this, just let me go.’

There was a noise in the background. Then, silence. It came again.

A doorbell.

‘You’ve tried twice now, Brannon. Let’s just get in. There’s obviously no one there,’ Rossi said, leaning against the wall next to the front door.

Brannon looked around, let out a cheesy breath. ‘Can you see any movement through the window?’