DEAD GONE (4 page)

She’d barely been on a night out since they’d moved in the house. Rob had never stopped her, she just preferred staying at home, watching a film or some crap on TV whilst he messed around on the laptop next to her. She never seemed unhappy.

He believed she was. Why else would she stay out late?

It was true that he’d pushed her to go out with her friends. Told her she needed to have a night out, let her hair down, dance to shit music and have a few drinks. He wouldn’t stop her enjoying herself. She just needed to stay safe. That’s all. Not put herself in danger.

She hadn’t listened to him. Obviously. She never fucking did. That was the problem. If she’d just listened, they’d be sharing breakfast now.

They never listened to him.

Four years they’d been together. She’d even started dropping hints about marriage, kids. They weren’t getting any younger.

He couldn’t see it. One day, she would have realised she was wasting her life with him. Left, and found someone as special as her.

He should ring around. Check her mates out. Do something.

‘Phone.’

He checked his pockets, coming up empty. Took the stairs two at a time as he remembered where he’d left it. Entering the bedroom he was struck by her absence again, the unslept-upon side of her bed. Always the left side, even though that had been his side of the bed when he was single. She got her way about that, as she’d continued to do throughout their relationship, Rob happy to give way on just about everything.

He reached over the bed to find his phone, having left it on the bedside table the previous night. He looked at the screen to check there were no missed calls, or texts waiting for him; a blank screen flickered back at him. He clicked on the phone button, Jemma’s number the first one on the list of recent calls.

‘Hi, this is Jemma. Can’t get to the phone right now …’

It was right that he tried her first. He had to think things through properly. He ended the call without leaving a message. Started flicking through the contacts on the phone to find her best friend’s number. Pressed the green call button and waited.

‘Hello.’ Carla’s husband. The woollyback with the fake Scouse accent. Rob bit his lip.

‘Andy? It’s Rob. Is Carla home?’

‘Yeah, mate. She’s in bed. Left her phone down here. What’s going on – it’s a bit early isn’t it?’

‘Is Jemma there?’

‘Erm, no. Should she be?’

‘She hasn’t come home. Can you see if Carla knows anything? Starting to panic a bit here.’

‘Course, Rob.’

Rob heard him walking, a muffled conversation, before he came back on the phone. ‘Carla said she got off early. Said she was getting a taxi home,’ Andy said.

Rob swore under his breath. ‘Didn’t anyone go with her, make sure she got off okay?’ Rob said, his voice rising. He needed to know whether anyone left with her; to know that she left the club alone, as anything could have happened in that time.

‘I’ve no idea, mate.’ Andy replied. ‘Jemma’s a big girl though, she can look after herself. I wouldn’t worry about it yet. She could have gone on to somewhere else or something.’

‘Who with, Andy? She said she was going home. Get Carla up for me. I need to speak to her.’

‘Come on, Rob, she didn’t get in ’til late. She deserves a lie-in, she hasn’t been out since the baby was born.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Andy, Jemma hasn’t come home. Tell Carla to get on the fucking phone. I want to speak to her.’ His own anger didn’t surprise him. People not listening to him. Always a trigger. He needed to calm down. If he carried on, alarm bells would start ringing with the stupid dickhead on the end of the phone. Rob softened his voice. ‘She could be anywhere.’

‘I understand, mate, but it’s only early, you need to calm down a bit. Don’t start worrying just yet. Give it a couple of hours and see if she turns up. Have you tried ringing her mum yet? She might have gone there for all you know.’

Rob sighed. Strike two. ‘No. I’ll try now.’

‘Cool. Look, I’ve got to get on with giving Leah her feed. Let me know when she turns up, okay?’

‘Okay.’ He ended the call and tried ringing Jemma again. He had to leave a voicemail this time. Could be important.

‘Jemma, it’s Rob. Ring me.’

He sent a text message.

Babe, I’m worried. Where are you? x

He rang the number for Jemma’s mum from memory. When they’d first started seeing each other they spoke on the phone a lot. Her mum used to go mad at her for tying up the line.

Jemma’s mum answered on the third ring. ‘2461.’

‘Hi, Helen, it’s Rob. Is Jemma at your house?’

‘No. Should she be?’ Rob heard her stifle a yawn.

‘I don’t know. She went out with Carla and the others last night. I’ve woke up this morning and she’s not here. Just thought I’d check to see if she’d ended up at yours instead.’

‘I haven’t heard from her for a while. Are you saying she’s missing?’

‘I don’t know. It’s just not like her to not get in touch.’

‘Have you spoken to her friends? Maybe they know something.’

‘Yeah, spoke to Carla, well, Carla’s husband Andy anyway. She left earlier than the others and went for a taxi.’

‘This doesn’t sound good, Rob. Should I come over?’

‘No, you don’t have to. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

‘Well, I suppose I best stay here just in case she comes here. Ring me the second she turns up.’

‘Will do.’

Rob pressed the red end call button and stared at his phone. He stood next to the bed, and dropped down when he’d ended the call. He tried to think of where else she might have been. Who else he should call before the police.

What was he supposed to do? What was the right course of action?

Carla and her mum, they were the only people he knew Jemma spoke to regularly. He glanced at the alarm clock.

‘Shit.’ He should have been leaving the house now, going in to work at the university for overtime. He wasn’t going anywhere though. He walked back downstairs, going through to the living room and looking outside, hoping to see Jemma passed out on the doorstep. Nothing again. Outside, only socks on his feet, looking around the front of his house, the pavement, the side alley near the bins. Still the expected nothingness. Rob shivered, looking around the quiet street, looking for any curtains twitching. Anyone walking past or peeking out of their windows from the houses surrounding him would have seen a confused looking, average bloke, searching for someone. That was right.

He went back into the living room, ran a hand through his hair, still messed up from sleeping. Dropped his hand across his face and the intentional three-day stubble. Stood near the window, opening the blinds and began drumming his fingers on the windowsill.

It had finally happened.

She was gone, and now he had to deal with the consequences.

There are two tunnels running underneath the River Mersey and into the Wirral Peninsula. Only separated by a mile and a half of water, the tunnels provide the only way into Liverpool which doesn’t involve a ninety mile round trip down the motorway and through Runcorn. Murphy could see a connection becoming closer each day, the sheer amount of traffic coming from the tunnels telling their own story. If you filled in the Mersey with concrete, most would barely recognise the difference. Coming from the city centre, the first tunnel you hit is Birkenhead tunnel. Carry on further, down a wide A road, Byrom Street, which runs directly from the city centre, pull into the left hand side, and a curved road takes you around to Wallasey tunnel. Stay on the right hand side and within minutes you’re on Scotland Road. Turn off onto Hunter Street and behind one of the four universities in the city is St Anne Street running parallel to the tunnel approach. Halfway down, over a dip in the road, amidst abandoned warehouses, converted offices and a small housing estate, was the police station which served Liverpool North division.

Murphy pulled up in the car park behind the station, and sat for a moment amongst the police vans, unmarked cars, and personal vehicles. The dirty red brick building, which loomed over the street five floors high, looked as ominous as ever. An old-style office building, repatriated as the hub of a policing section which served seven areas of Liverpool.

Scratch that, Murphy thought, it was eight now. Cuts meant they’d inherited part of Liverpool South. He sighed to himself. If that hadn’t been the case, the dead girl in Sefton Park would be someone else’s problem.

He ran through the last couple of hours in his head. He still hadn’t eaten. Probably a blessing in disguise. Even after almost twenty years he still felt a jolt at seeing someone with the life sucked out of them. He’d run on adrenaline until then, but he needed to eat. Plus, of course, if you let adrenaline take over this early, it could lead to mistakes.

He could do without any of them.

Murphy pushed his way into the major incident room, people bustling back and forth as the events of the morning took precedence over other cases. He spotted DCI Stephens barking orders at a number of DCs.

Rossi had beaten him back there. Hunched over the computer screen, A4 sheets of paper strewn about the desk, one pen in her hand, another behind her ear.

‘Anything?’

Rossi turned in her chair to face him. ‘Nothing yet. There’s been a number of missing women reported in the last month. Trying to narrow it down now.’

‘Good. I’m going to run Reeves through the system. Make sure he’s not a murderer and we’ve already screwed up.’

He moved over to his desk, noticed a post-it note stuck to his computer monitor.

CALL HOUGHTON

He picked up the phone on his desk and called the pathologist. He’d be at the hospital morgue, tucking the body away for the post-mortem later in the day.

‘We found something on the body when we removed her clothing. A letter. I think you’ll want to come see it.’

‘Right,’ Murphy replied, pleased the pathologist was getting straight to the point. ‘Anything interesting?’

‘I think it’s best you see it for yourself.’

EXPERIMENT THREE

To Whom It May Concern,

I don’t know you yet, but I will. The same applies both ways I suppose. You’ll be trying to find out my name. My reasons. Everything will become clearer over time. Just know, I do it all for a good cause. We need to be clear about that.

The young girl you have found isn’t the first experiment I’ve carried out.

She won’t be the last.

When the American government was experimenting on an unsuspecting public, we didn’t accuse them in the same manner you will be accusing me. They were the beginning of the end I feel. The last of my kind, willing to go to any lengths in order to study mankind.

What you have with this girl is a modern interpretation of one such experiment.

Part of the MK Ultra programme, Operation Midnight Climax was the first scientific exploration into the effects of LSD on unwitting humans. For example, men, on the pretext they were enjoying a private visit with a prostitute, were given LSD without their knowledge and studied. They experimented on their own men, federal marshals, employees within the CIA …

It went much further than that.

The results are astounding. What this girl was willing to do when dosed with the drug was way beyond my expectations. She became a different person.

Giving her more and more of the drug compounded her state of mind. An endless trip.

She wanted to die. She begged for an end. Not because she was in pain, or through fear. She believed she could see the afterlife.

I’m not one for silly fairytales, so it was probably the drugs talking. Possibly. That’s part of the experimentation. To find answers to these questions.

Her last dose ended fatally, unfortunately for her.

Throughout history, man has attempted to understand the complexities of life. Why are we here? What is our purpose? I am attempting to prove my answer to those questions.

We are here only to die.

Think of every funeral you’ve ever been to. The grief people exude from themselves. It becomes one with the atmosphere, an almost physical feeling in the air. Death is natural, yet people somehow make it unnatural. They say things such as ‘it wasn’t his time’ or ‘taken too soon’ as if that bears any relation to the fact that whether it be one year or a hundred, the result is still the same.

Death is inevitable, yet people are always surprised when it happens.

What do we experience at the moment of death? How can we ever know that feeling? Without research, without experimentation, we are no nearer an answer to these questions.

So enjoy it.

This is just the beginning of my work. To discover more about life … through death.

‘Great. We need to find him fast.’ Murphy said as he’d finished reading the letter.

‘He?’ Houghton replied.

‘Just a guess. Could be her I suppose. This is my copy, yes?’

Houghton nodded, waved his hand away. ‘Yeah, original has gone to forensics. What is it then?’

‘You didn’t read it?’ Murphy said. ‘Thought you’d have had your nose right into this by now. Well, apart from some screwed-up talk about death, there’s something about the effects of LSD on humans, and some shite about something called MK Ultra and Operation Midnight Climax. Sounds like I’ve stumbled across a screenplay of the new James Bond film.’

‘I’ve heard of Operation Midnight Climax,’ Houghton replied. ‘It was a CIA thing. Linked with the whole MK Ultra deal. You must have heard about it.’

Murphy stared at Houghton, who looked as though he was trying to keep his round face straight. A trace of a smile threatened to break out, the lines on his face creasing further.

‘No I haven’t smartarse, what is it?’ Murphy said.

‘Touchy, aren’t you? You could just bow to my superior knowledge you know.’

‘Consider me bowed. Now explain.’

Murphy moved aside as Houghton scanned what he’d been reading. ‘From what I remember, Operation Midnight Climax was a psychology experiment to show the effects of LSD on people. They would give people doses of acid without their knowledge and then watch the effects of the drug on them through two-way mirrors. They filmed ordinary men with prostitutes in an attempt to see if anything could be used in conjunction with possible mind control efforts. All very secret and clandestine. It was shut down in the sixties, but some people think the US government still does this sort of thing.’