Bloodstream (7 page)

‘Media?’

‘Of course,’ Rossi replied, pulling her seat belt on. ‘This’ll be big.’

Murphy’s teeth tugged on his bottom lip. He allowed himself a small jot of sharp pain before snapping his own seat belt on and starting the car. ‘We’ll deal with it.’

‘You think it was him then?’ Rossi said once Murphy had turned round in the road and headed back towards the Wallasey tunnel.

‘Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’

‘Not the last either,’ Rossi answered with a sigh, her face turned towards the window. ‘I don’t think this is murder-suicide.’

‘It definitely doesn’t look like that. Could be something related to him, though. The “bunny boiler” angle?’ Murphy slowed down for traffic lights as they turned from amber to red.

‘Just . . . that scene doesn’t fit. Domestics are almost always in the home. Away from public view. This, in some derelict house, miles from where they live, I can’t see it. If Joe did it, why is he the one injured? If someone else did it, why do it in that house, rather than in their one?’

‘Stranger things have happened. I once worked a case where the guy did it in a hotel. Called his wife, told her to meet him there, then did it in plain view of everyone at reception. Didn’t give a shit. She died, he survived the carving knife he took to his own wrists.’

‘He pleaded not guilty, right?’

‘You know the case?’ Murphy said, realising the lights had changed to green a second too late, earning him a beep from the car behind him.

‘No. I just know the way these things go.’

They fell into silence as they made the five-minute trip back towards the tunnel entrance, down the slip road off Gorsey Lane and back towards the city. Traffic was lighter than Murphy was familiar with; his trips when he had lived across the water had always taken place early morning, when it seemed the whole of the Wirral escaped like rats from a sinking ship into the proper city. Only a smattering of cars were taking the trip now.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Rossi said as they entered the tunnel. ‘Do you think it’s him?’

Murphy took one hand off the steering wheel to scratch at his beard. ‘No, I didn’t answer that question.’

‘Well, do you think it’s him? You got angry enough back at the house about him and now you’re going all “introspective” on me.’

‘I don’t know. I’m just bloody tired of hearing the same story, that’s all. We’ve had too many domestics lately.’

‘Can’t disagree with you there.’

‘It would probably be easier in a way if it was something like that. I’d be just making stuff up and guessing at the moment though.’

‘Doesn’t usually stop you.’

He couldn’t argue with that. ‘I suppose not. Gut feeling?’

‘Always.’

‘I think there’s something more to this one. Something I really don’t want to consider.’

‘That there’s more?’

‘Maybe. In the past and to come.’

Silence grew in the car once more. Murphy turned on the stereo, the sound of Pink Floyd filling the car a few seconds later.

‘Do we have to listen to this?’ Rossi said, reaching over and turning the volume down.

‘What, you want to listen to the shite that’s around these days?’

‘This is old music. Older than you, I would bet.’

‘That’s beside the point. This is classic stuff.’

Rossi sighed, then reached over and turned the volume down even further. ‘Can you still hear it?’

Murphy couldn’t really, not over the noise of the traffic as they travelled through the tunnel, but decided against any further argument.

‘I don’t know how to best broach this . . .’ Rossi said, the change in subject abrupt enough for Murphy to notice. ‘Only, I know it’s coming up to two years since Peter died.’

Murphy didn’t respond at first. He thought back to that night, his godson tied up and helpless. A man with a gun to the eighteen-year-old’s head, ranting at Murphy as he stood there watching.

The smell of gunpowder and blood.

‘What about it?’

‘We haven’t spoken about it in a while, that’s all. I was just wondering if there’s anything I should be wary of saying.’

‘I’m doing all right. Better than I thought I would be. The counselling helped a bit. Things with Sarah are sorted. I wish I could speak to Jess, but she still won’t speak to me.’

Jess – Peter’s mother, and Murphy’s friend of twenty years. Still blaming Murphy for not doing enough to save his life.

‘Good. I’m glad you’re doing okay.’

‘I have to. He wouldn’t want me to wallow in self-pity. He looked up to me. I’ve got to keep going, otherwise I sully that.’

‘Sully?’

‘Word-of-the-day calendar at home. You missed the day I used “discombobulate”.’

Rossi laughed, then turned back to her phone. Ten minutes later they were pulling into the car park behind the station. There was already a significant media presence gathered, waiting to hear more news. Murphy knew – had too much experience to not know – that there would be more TV crews up at the crime scene itself. Battling against each other to report the same news. Repeating similar information on an hourly basis, desperately waiting for something more.

Murphy had a feeling it would be him giving it to them before too long.

He parked up and the pair entered the drab building, nodding to the harassed-looking receptionist and passing their ID cards over the security scanner. Murphy gave a longing look towards the lifts before ascending the stairs behind Rossi, taking two at a time to catch up with her.

As Murphy and Rossi walked past the normally quiet offices they could hear conversations between small groups as they discussed the morning’s events. Continuing down the corridor, Murphy ignored the surreptitious looks he and Rossi received. He held up a hand to someone he knew in the drugs squad when they called out his name, but carried on walking.

Eventually they made it to the sanctuary of their own corner of St Anne Street.

‘Wondered when you were getting back,’ a voice said from behind one of the computers. ‘Interview with the mother go okay?’

‘As well as they always do,’ Murphy replied, taking off his suit jacket and loosening his tie a little. ‘I trust you’re doing the necessary.’

DC Graham Harris manoeuvred himself round and stopped his wheelchair at the end of Murphy’s desk. ‘CCTV, witness statements, home owners contacted, brief press release signed off saying the usual. All in hand.’

Murphy gave Harris a nod and switched his computer on. He glanced towards Harris as he turned to speak to Rossi. Felt that familiar twinge of guilt as he allowed his eyes to settle on his chair before turning away.

Harris had been injured on the night of Peter’s death. Murphy had taken Harris with him to chase up a loose end, which had ended for Harris with the blast of a shotgun. A knock at an uninspiring door and the world turns, spewing out a random series of events which can change lives in an instant. Murphy had survived without a scratch, but Harris couldn’t say the same. He had been peppered with shotgun pellets, which had resulted in a severed spinal cord, making his legs as useless as Murphy in the moments following the shooting. Doctors had saved Harris’s life, but not his full mobility.

Harris had returned to the job as soon as he’d been able to, determination overruling any word from a girlfriend who hadn’t lasted much longer. Murphy had asked for him to be on the team before anyone else . . . even Rossi, though he would never tell her that. He wanted that reminder of what his poor planning had cost, sitting there day after day, to drive the point home into his thick skull. Harris had turned out to be a great desk jockey as things had turned out, relishing the minute details better than Murphy or Rossi could arguably have done.

He never once blamed Murphy. Wouldn’t even allow him to apologise.

Just doing my job. Our job. Could have been either one of us.

‘Where are we then at’ – Murphy checked his watch – ‘six hours in?’

Rossi crossed the floor to the murder boards at the rear of the office. Soon, Murphy knew, they would be full of information, but at that moment it was sparse. His own handwriting staring back at him, a few details added near the bottom of the board by Harris.

‘Chloe Morrison and Joe Hooper,’ Rossi said, notebook in one hand, marker pen in the other as she wrote on the board. ‘Two victims found in an abandoned house in Anfield, cause of death unknown. Possible asphyxiation on male. Bodies found by agent who had received a phone call this morning at around six a.m., to go to the house. Local uniforms were called once he couldn’t gain access to the property. They broke in, finding the victims.’

‘That phone call,’ Murphy said, turning towards Harris and allowing Rossi to write more details on the board. ‘Any way of tracing it or something? Seeing where it was made from? Not sure if they’ve found Chloe’s phone yet.’

‘We’re on that,’ Harris said, shuffling loose papers across his desk. ‘Should have some info soon. We’ll also be able to find out if it’s still turned on if we haven’t got it.’

Murphy nodded. ‘Good. Shouldn’t take them too long.’

Rossi continued talking as she wrote. ‘Interview with mother of female victim. She’ll be doing formal ID, with informal provided by Thomas Parker. Mother didn’t know of anything that could help, but told us of issues within the relationship . . .’

‘Another domestic,’ Harris said under his breath.

‘Which may prove significant.’ Rossi carried on, ignoring Harris’s interruption. ‘Mother – Karen Morrison – provided a list of Chloe’s friends.’

‘We’ll start getting people on the phones then, organising interviews and so on. We’ve got another set of parents to visit.’

Rossi’s shoulders slumped. ‘Damn. Forgot about the other one.’

‘Come on,’ Murphy said, checking his email and shutting down his computer once he’d decided there wasn’t anything he deemed to be urgent. ‘Shouldn’t take us long. At least it’s this side of the water this time.’

Murphy grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and nodded towards DCI Stephens’s private office and held up a finger to Rossi. ‘Just give me a minute.’

Murphy walked off towards his boss’s office, smirking as he heard Rossi start complaining to Harris.

Murphy gave a short rap on the door, waited a few moments for a reply and then entered the office.

‘David,’ DCI Stephens said, picking up the telephone on her desk, staring at it for a second before replacing it. ‘Sorry, my head’s up my arse this morning. Glad you’ve dropped in. Want to tell me what’s going on?’

Murphy drew a chair towards him and sat down. ‘Looks like we’ve got a tricky one,’ he began.

There are parts of Liverpool that look entirely different from what some people might expect. Leafy suburbs, newly built detached houses, mansions even. Streets kept clean, well looked after. You could drop some parts of Liverpool into more affluent areas of the country and no one would think they looked out of place.

And other parts of the city looked much as an outsider might expect.

‘Well . . . this is different from Chloe’s parents’ house.’

Murphy turned towards Rossi, raised his eyebrows then opened the car door. Passenger side this time. Rossi had made it clear it was her turn to drive, so he’d had to squeeze himself into her car. She was still refusing to drive one provided from the pool at the station, even though Murphy had relented and begun picking one up for most journeys.

Rossi was right though. It was different. The terrace house in front of them had seen better days and was a direct contrast to the well-kept, large, semi-detached house owned by Chloe’s parents. Even for Walton the street wasn’t in the best condition – the main attraction being a tired string of England flags blowing in the breeze high above them, tied from lamp posts and strung across the road. Wheelie bins were dotted about the place, house numbers daubed across them in magnolia paint.

‘It’s got character,’ Rossi said, joining Murphy outside Joe Hooper’s father’s house. ‘I’ll give it that. Bet they’ll even say they have a sense of community.’

Murphy ignored the comment and instead basked in nostalgia. He felt more comfortable on streets like these than the one they had spent time in that morning.

‘This is where proper people live, Laura.’

‘Oh, I know that. Six kids in a three-bedroom house, remember?’

Murphy smirked, recalling the time he had tried to work out the logistics of Rossi’s upbringing.

‘Come on,’ he said after a few more seconds. ‘Let’s get this done.’

Murphy began to walk towards the metal gate which was hanging on only one hinge, and sidestepped a smear of what he hoped was only dog shit on the pavement. He managed to place one hand on the gate before the voices rang out. Not from inside the house, but from behind him.

‘Are you from the police?’

‘What’s happened to Joe Hooper, Detective?’

‘Is it true he was found in a drugs den with Chloe?’

Two journalists crossed the road with purpose, both had obviously been camped in separate cars waiting for them to arrive. Murphy turned and shook his head, allowing Rossi to step in between them as he reached through the gate and pulled up the handle, scraping the metal against the doorstep.

‘We’ll be making a full statement later. For now, we’ll neither confirm nor deny anything. Thank you.’ Rossi turned away.

The journalists followed Rossi, still shouting questions as if they were part of a media scrum, rather than two middle-aged blokes in clothes that would have looked fresh on three days earlier.

‘Keep your voices down,’ Murphy said, unable to keep his mouth shut as the noise level went up another notch. ‘Have a bit of decency. We’ll speak to you later. Down the station, not here.’

Murphy wasn’t sure if it was because a six foot four bloke had said it, or whether they had actually dredged up a sense of decorum, but the journalists stopped talking. He assumed the reason for their sudden silence was the third option – they had simply run out of questions to ask. The voices of the two men died down as they moved back towards their cars.

‘You’re always more polite than I am with them.’