The Dying Place (31 page)

No. You want the ones with a clear idea. Maybe a personal grudge. They’ve been broken into by kids who got nothing but a slap on the wrist. You want the ones who were sick and tired of good, honest working men and women being forced to pay for Chantelle down the road to spew another kid out of her nethers, the father some snot-nosed dickhead who wouldn’t know how to support his own head if it wasn’t attached to his bony shoulders … just so she could get more money from the dole.

They made a list.

You wanted anger, but directed in the right places. The focus had to be on those in the wrong. They didn’t care that they’d had a shit upbringing, which probably explained their behaviour as teenagers. No. They were becoming adults, they had to learn personal responsibility for their actions.

Him and his auld fella. Something to concentrate on rather than the fact they’d just lost a mother and wife. It had been exciting in those early days, checking the regulars out, see if any fit.

A few hours before he’d walked in to find his dad lifeless in his living room, they’d taken the second one. The one his dad wanted. The one who had made his life a misery the past few months. The one who hadn’t listened to his dad, who’d scarpered as soon as he’d come around himself.

He’d been a perfect choice.

It had been too much though. It was obvious now. He’d killed his own father because he hadn’t planned it out properly. He shouldn’t have been involved in this part. He could have visited the farm he’d bought for the land a few years previously and left, almost forgetting about it.

His dad should have been in bed. Not outside his own house, shouting the odds with some scally.

He stood in the darkness, just looking at the lifeless, breathless body that used to be his dad. His best friend.

Wiped away a tear which had snuck out of his eye. Moved over to the window and took out his mobile phone. Dialled for a pointless ambulance and waited.

Waited for this part to be over, so he could go back to the farm and finish what they’d started.

27

Murphy arrived at the scene within five minutes of hanging up on DCI Stephens. Dozens of cars blocked the road up towards the back of the church, so he dumped his own car on Dwerryhouse Lane and ran the last part there. Almost punched a uniform who tried to block his path but settled for shoving his warrant card in the dickhead’s face without breaking stride.

As he got closer, he realised it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea anyway. Firearms officers were dotted about the place, casually standing around with guns slung over their shoulders, just waiting to be used. An ambulance was pulled up at the side street which led down to the youth club. Murphy slowed down to a fast walk and tried to see beyond the multitude of people who seemed to have taken up residence in the road, the uniforms and plain-clothes milling about together.

Brannon.

He almost grabbed the fat bastard there and then, but instead followed where Brannon was looking towards and caught sight of Rossi’s black boots.

Please, please, please. Not another one.

Murphy took in the scene in a glance. Brannon’s car; smashed windows and a hole in the passenger side door. Four paramedics, two of them standing to the side doing nothing. DCI Stephens shouting into her phone on the other side of Brannon’s car.

DS Laura Rossi lying on the floor, oxygen mask over her face, the white blouse she’d been wearing earlier now splattered with red. Her jacket lying off to her side. Murphy shrugged off the feeling of wanting to pick it up, to make sure it didn’t get dirty.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Brannon, ashen-faced and shaking.

‘It was so quick … so quick.’

Murphy stared down at him, not replying.

‘She was just there, I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t even know she was here.’

Murphy shrugged his hand away and moved closer to Rossi. Concentrated on her chest. Made sure it was rising and falling. Moved further forward as he couldn’t tell.

‘You let her get shot …’

‘No! He missed, he fucking missed …’

Murphy wasn’t listening. Saw the blood on Rossi’s top and saw only red. Pushed Brannon against the car, gave him a left hook to the body and watched him crumple to the floor.

Murphy heard DCI Stephens shouting from across the road but ignored it and moved towards Rossi.

One of the ‘standing around, doing fuck all’ paramedics moved to block his path, but then thought better of it.

Now he could see her properly.

‘How is she?’ Murphy said, surprised by the sound of his own voice.

‘Lucky.’

Murphy turned towards the paramedic who had answered him. The female half of the Olympic ‘standing around, doing nothing’ team of two. ‘What did you say?’

‘Few inches to her left and her head would have been blown off. As it is, just a bad flesh wound. She’ll be all right. Who are you, anyway?’

Murphy didn’t reply, instead moving towards Rossi again, ignoring the paramedic who was doing something to Rossi’s shoulder and who tried to stop him.

‘Laura,
come stai
?’

Murphy watched as Rossi’s right hand came up and shifted the oxygen mask away from her face.

‘Good try,’ she said, Murphy almost missing it as she spoke under the noise, ‘but your Scouse accent makes it sound shit.’

Murphy smiled, patted her leg and then stood up. DCI Stephens was stood over Rossi, her face stern and straight.

‘Over here, now.’

Murphy shrugged his shoulders towards the horizontal Rossi and trudged off in the direction DCI Stephens had gone, past Brannon’s car and towards the end of the side street. Murphy noticed for the first time that there were officers milling around the entrance to the youth club. A glimpse of a forensic tech confirmed it to him. He passed Brannon, being helped up by a uniform who couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. Murphy didn’t return it.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Stephens said, once they’d put some distance between them and the others on the scene.

Murphy shrugged. ‘He deserved it.’

‘You’re making a bad situation worse. Go home.’

‘In a minute. Kevin Thornhill?’ Murphy said.

She nodded. ‘Dead a few hours. Nice big hole in his chest. Our man seems to have sat with the body for a while.’

‘Listen …’

‘No,’ DCI Stephens interrupted, pulling her jacket closer around herself as a cool wind whipped down the street. ‘I’ll be doing the talking.’

Murphy held up his hands.

‘Brannon told me he came to you this morning with this information – that Kevin Thornhill hadn’t been seen – and you dismissed him. Told him to go looking for him if he was bothered. You knew there was a connection, but didn’t think to join the two things …’

‘I couldn’t be sure of that …’

‘Nonetheless, you sent a man down here on his own. Into God knows what situation.’

‘He didn’t.’

Murphy and DCI Stephens turned to see a pale-skinned version of Rossi holding off a tutting paramedic who had his hand pressed to her shoulder.

‘DS Rossi, go back to the ambulance,’ DCI Stephens said. ‘You’re going to the hospital.’

‘I will, although I’m fine, really. Just need a patch-up. Shock, more than anything. But don’t be too hard on our DI. He told me to come down and back up Brannon. Had a change of heart after Brannon had stormed out.’

Murphy swallowed. ‘Laura, you don’t need to …’

Rossi held up the hand on her good arm. ‘No. It’s okay. It just all happened so fast. No one was to blame.’

Murphy tried to hold Rossi’s gaze, to try and communicate something, but she turned and leant on the paramedic. ‘Let’s get me sorted so I can come back and get the
bastardo
who did this to me,’ Rossi said, before walking away.

DCI Stephens watched her walk away before turning back to Murphy.

‘Is that true?’

Murphy thought for a second, before deciding not to answer in any other way but with a shrug.

DCI Stephens sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘Look, DI Burrows is working the scene in there. Let him get on with that. Alan Bimpson’s face is going to be all over the news and social media within an hour now he’s shot a copper. It’s going to get busy later. Take the chance to get some sleep. I’ll clear things with Brannon.’

Murphy began to argue, but DCI Stephens cut him off.

‘Not a discussion. We’ve all been on for too long. Go home, get some sleep and be back in later. You’ll get a call if you’re needed.’

Murphy considered arguing further, but the look on DCI Stephens’s face made his mind up.

He took one last look at the youth club, and walked back to his car.

The drive home had been a blur as tiredness swept over him and the image of Rossi lying there in broken glass and her own blood crowded his mind. It was only mid-afternoon, but it felt like the middle of the night, darkness threatening to swarm over and around him.

Murphy sat in the car for a few minutes once he reached home, his head resting against the steering wheel, trying not to close his eyes and fall asleep right there. He forced himself to turn off the radio, which had been talking about the events of the previous few hours on a loop. The same tiny crumbs of information being offered repeatedly, over and over.

Murphy knew what would come next. Nationals. They had it all now. Multiple bodies, a cop shot in the line of duty. The man responsible still on the loose. He expected that idiot from
Sky News
would be showing up any minute now to interview concerned locals live on TV.

It took a few goes, but he finally got the key in the door and opened it up, shifting post on the mat further into the house.

‘Sarah?’

If the unattended post hadn’t been a big clue, the silence which followed was. Not home from work yet.

He pulled himself upstairs and ran the shower. He’d planned to put in a separate cubicle, but for now was happy enough with the one over the new bath. Murphy undressed in the bedroom and padded back through to the bathroom, wincing as he climbed into the bath, his rib injury from the previous year reminding him it still wasn’t right. All it took was lack of sleep and it acted up.

‘Getting old …’

He let the hot water roll over himself, leaning on the wall in front of him, stretching out his tired limbs.

One man. Alan Bimpson. Victims totting up and all over the place. Had a thing for teenagers, scallies in particular. Wanted to get back at them, so was now killing them.

Oh, and those who helped him in some way. The others at the farm.

Murphy washed and dried himself off before drawing the curtains in the bedroom. Just a couple of hours, he thought, that’s all he needed. He set the alarm to go off at five p.m. and didn’t bother getting under the covers. Curled into a large ball and closed his eyes.

Brain still ticking over. Not stopping. Never stopping.

Murphy woke to the blistering sound of an alarm and a hand shaking his shoulder.

Shoulder. Rossi.

His eyes snapped open, which was his first mistake. Pain shot behind his retinas as he squinted against the low light coming through the curtains and door.

‘You have to go back in?’

Sarah’s voice was like a screech, even though Murphy knew she’d spoken softly.

‘Yeah,’ he managed to reply, the effort of opening his mouth and forming words exhausting him all over again.

A couple of hours was never enough.

‘Okay. You’re eating first though. I’m making your tea. You can tell me what the hell is going on then.’

Murphy tried to bury himself into the bed but Sarah whipped back the bed covers, exposing his naked skin to the icebox the bedroom had turned into since he’d been asleep. He hugged the bed harder but gave up. Swung his legs over the side of the bed, then lifted his torso up. Snatched up his mobile phone to check for missed calls or messages. Nothing.

‘There’s clean clothes on the door,’ Sarah said, her voice drifting in from the landing as she reached the stairs.

Murphy grunted a thanks and got dressed. Like he had a choice.

He shuffled down the stairs, the smell from the kitchen making him realise he hadn’t eaten in hours.

A silent meal of egg, chips and beans shared over the smaller kitchen table followed, with Murphy happy that Sarah allowed him to wake up properly before asking questions. But as soon as he forced the last forkful of beans down his throat, she was on him.

‘What’s happening out there? It’s all over the news, you know.’

Murphy stood and placed his dirty plate on the side, leaving the dishwasher loading for Sarah to do when he left.

‘We don’t know much at the moment …’

‘You know enough. Should I be worried?’

Murphy turned and attempted a smile. Sarah didn’t look impressed.

‘Some guy. Killed some teenagers and now seems to be working his way through the scally phonebook. He killed a youth club manager this morning and …’

He stopped, not wanting to say the next part. Knowing he had to.

‘What …?’

Murphy opened the fridge, reached for a can of Diet Coke and opened it. Took a swig, grimacing at the sudden cold. ‘Brannon had gone down there. He was mates with the guy …’

‘The killer?’

‘No, the youth club one. Laura followed him there.’ He drank a little more. Swallowed. ‘She was shot.’

Sarah put her hands to her mouth. Murphy spoke before she had a chance to respond.

‘She’s okay. Grazed her if anything. She got lucky. It was my fault.’

‘Don’t be stupid …’

‘No,’ Murphy said, slamming the Coke can down on the kitchen counter. ‘It was. I sent off Brannon on his own without thinking. The youth club manager had a connection to the case and I didn’t even think. Laura did though. She shouldn’t have been there.’

‘She’s going to be okay though. So just don’t screw up again and it’ll be fine.’

Murphy leant against the counter, palms flat on the surface. He moved forward to rest his forehead on the cupboard in front of him. ‘It’s not that easy.’

‘Of course it is.’

He heard Sarah’s chair scrape backwards. Soon, her arms around him, her head resting in the nook between his shoulder blades.