DEAD GONE (36 page)

He held the baton upright to his side, ready to bring it down with force at the slightest movement. He shuffled forward, keeping each foot firmly planted. The house was deathly silent, dust motes hanging in the air as what little sunlight there was shone through the uncovered window to the side of the room.

There was a staircase in front of him. A door to his right. He nudged it open with his foot.

‘Police.’

His voice sounded different as it echoed back in the darkened room. He shuffled forwards, his back against the wall as the door remained open to his other side. He held the baton up, ready.

‘Tom?’

The air changed to his left, the open doorway empty. Senses on fire, Murphy’s eyes flitted back and forth as he walked into the room, his footsteps soft on the carpet. He scanned the room, looking for anything out of place, where someone could be hiding. Flowery paper on the walls, sparsely furnished, a small two-seater couch pointed towards a flatscreen TV.

Movement behind him, Murphy turned quickly, just as Tom swung something towards his head.

Too busy looking at the wallpaper. Idiot.

Muphy tried to block with his left arm, already swinging the baton with his right, when pain exploded in his arm.

A crowbar smashed into his arm, all of Tom’s force behind it. His own baton missed by some margin. Murphy went to one knee, shifted to his right in anticipation of another strike, and tried to swing again. He aimed for the legs, but Tom side stepped and moved forward as Murphy went momentarily to the floor.

Tom was still standing, and as Murphy looked up, he saw him draw the crowbar up over his head, holding it with both hands. Murphy moved at the last second, getting up from the floor as he did so, the crowbar whistling past his right ear. Tom followed the crowbar, his torso exposed. Murphy didn’t pause, throwing a right hook he’d learned twenty years previously in a boxing gym into Tom’s side, hoping to bust a rib or three.

Tom buckled from the punch. Went to one knee, and stopped breathing. Murphy had done exactly as he’d intended, knocking the wind completely out of him. The crowbar dropped behind Murphy’s head, and he pressed home the advantage.

Murphy stood, moving towards the crowbar, placing a foot over it. Tom was clutching his stomach.

Tom wasn’t in range for a punch this time. Murphy settled for an old fashioned, face to the floor, arms up his back, kneeling with all his significant weight on Tom.

It all happened within a minute, Murphy surprised to find himself breathing at a normal enough rhythm. Wasn’t as out of shape as he’d believed.

‘You’re screwed Tom. We’ve got you.’

‘He’s under control.’ An officer in heavy uniform poked his head around the door to Murphy’s right, giving him the nod.

Rossi and around fifty coppers had turned up five minutes after Murphy had pinned Tom to the floor. Five minutes where he’d concentrated only on not letting him go.

He motioned to Rossi to move with him, before going back inside and entering the room. He could see the psychologist on the floor.

‘What’s going on? I don’t understand. Someone has to tell me what’s happening. Where are you going to take me?’ Tom Davies said from the floor, his voice squealing and high pitched. Murphy winced as Tom let out a yell, as one of the officers subduing him knelt on him a little more.

‘Thomas Davies?’ Murphy asked.

The man being held down attempted to lift his head, but the gloved hand pressing it down wouldn’t allow it.

‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Donna McMahon, Stephanie Dunning, Colin Woodland, and Robert Barker.’ The names came easily to Murphy, burned on his memory. ‘You do not have to say anything …’ as he reeled off the rest of the caution, Murphy watched as Tom’s expression turned to one of horror.

‘No, no. This can’t be happening. I haven’t finished,’ he said from the floor.

Murphy looked over at Rossi, who had her notepad out, writing down every word. Murphy turned and nodded at the officers holding Tom. They lifted him to his feet, pulling him out of the room. Murphy watched from the doorway as they placed him in a van, parked on the kerb. He looked over to the houses opposite, a wry smile on his face as he saw the curtains twitching. Human theatre. Never fails to attract attention.

‘Are we staying behind for a while sir?’ Rossi said, standing behind him.

‘No, we’ll let the SOCOs do their stuff. We’ll go down the station, let him stew for a bit and then start. If anything turns up we’ll hear about it,’ Murphy replied, stepping out of the house. They had him.

He scratched at his beard, wondering if anyone else was sharing his fears of the scene not being right, seeing only pats on the back for a job well done.

Murphy couldn’t share in it. The gnawing feeling of being controlled playing on his mind.

‘I wasn’t finished.’

Murphy sat impassively opposite Tom Davies, as he cried the same words repeatedly to himself.

His blonde spiky hair now looked untidy rather than stylish, as Tom’s hands passed through it.

‘We can sort this out quickly Tom,’ Murphy said, trying to use a soothing voice, but it coming out rougher than he’d wanted. ‘We just need to go over a few things, that’s all. Now, are you sure you don’t want anyone representing you for this?’

‘No,’ Tom replied, sniffing loudly in the interview room. ‘I’m okay.’

‘Okay. Can you tell us what you do for a living.’

‘I’m a senior lecturer in behavioural psychology at the City of Liverpool University.’ Tom sighed, his head in his hands.

‘And how long have you been there?’

‘I finished my PHD eight years ago. I’ve been in the department ever since.’

‘Why did you choose psychology?’

Tom shrugged, ‘it’s the best subject to do what I wanted to.’

‘Which is?’

‘Experiment. Find out more about things.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘Life, how we interact, the way people work.’

Murphy looked over at Rossi who was making notes. ‘Can you tell us how this started?’

Tom sniffed. ‘How what started?’

Murphy slid a photograph across the table. Tom looked at it quickly. ‘Number three.’

‘Donna McMahon.’

Tom pursed his lips. ‘I forget their names.’

‘Okay. Do you remember them all, Tom? How you left them?’

Tom put his head back in his hands. ‘Of course I do. They were magnificent. Did you read the letters?’

‘Yes we did. Take us through each of them.’

Tom looked between Murphy and Rossi, his eyes settling on Murphy, ‘Number three, LSD experiments. To see what would happen to someone with no inhibitions.’

‘How did you find her?’

‘She was working at the library one night. She seemed … interesting. Young, a bit naïve of course, but there was something about her. Intriguing. You can learn so much about someone by just watching them. She never knew I studied her for weeks. One night, I took the cab. Picked her up just outside campus.’

‘What happened?’

‘I got the dose wrong the first time. Just made her ill. By the fourth day she was flying. I watched her constantly, listened to her. She wanted to die. Wanted to meet God and shake him by the hand for creating such beauty. She could see things we’ll never experience. ‘I just helped her on the path to what she desired.’

Murphy swallowed, his mouth watering. He produced another photograph. Tom’s face changed from the obvious delight he’d had talking about Donna McMahon to one of disgust.

‘Number four.’

‘Stephanie Dunning,’ Rossi said, her voice steady and controlled.

‘Number four, didn’t work. Couldn’t get her to stay still. She scratched at me, spat, kicked, fought the whole time. I needed to sedate her so I could properly prepare her for what I wanted to do. She just screamed about her children, her husband. She had to go.’

‘Did you pick her up at the university as well?’

‘Yes. Same method. They are so trusting sometimes.’

‘What about him,’ Murphy said, pointing at the photograph of Colin Woodland. ‘Tell me about Colin.’

‘Number five, bystander theory. How long did it take for someone to find him? I never did find out.’

‘Just under twelve hours.’

He smiled at that. Murphy had to grip the table edge.

‘Awful. To think of all the people that walked past him. Two bodies found in the previous week, and they still left him there.’

‘How did you get him?’

‘I’d seen him at the library a few times. I knew it was only a matter of time before he said something about me spending the evenings there. He had eyes like a hawk for the women. I followed him as he walked from the university. He never took a cab or a bus, so I took him off a side street. They really should check the amounts of streetlights they have out there. Anyone could be out there in the darkness. He became number five. I found his heart. Watched as I made it stop.’

‘And finally … Robert Barker.’

‘Ah, number six, Unit 731 experiment. I was finally able to perform this one.’

‘You chose him.’

‘Yes. Wasn’t difficult. I wanted to see how much he’d been affected by the last year. He was broken before I got to him. I anticipated he’d accept death easier. More willing to give up and accept his fate. He fought only when he thought he could rescue his girlfriend. Even then, he was easy to dispose of.’

‘You cut him up.’

‘That was my favourite. Intermittent blood loss. Cut off a hand, a foot, a leg … see how long you can keep them alive. Didn’t take that long.’

‘What happened to numbers one and two, Tom?’ Murphy said.

‘Not ready yet.’

‘Who’s not ready?’

He got silence in return.

‘Are Experiments One and Two still alive, Tom?’

Tom raised his right hand in mid-air, waved it back and forth. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Experiment Two looks highly doubtful though. It’s been a while.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You’ll see.’

Murphy sighed, ran a hand over his beard. ‘Did you murder four people, Tom?’

Tom ran a hand through his hair again. ‘Yes. Did you ever understand why?’

‘Why don’t you tell me.’

Tom smiled slightly. Murphy gripped the table harder. ‘To see what happened.’

‘Is one of the experiments Jemma Barnes?’

The smile vanished, replaced with a frown. ‘I know the name …’

Rossi interrupted, ‘She was Rob Barker’s partner. The one you cut up into pieces.’

‘Of course.’

‘Well? Is she Experiment Two, Tom?’ Murphy said.

‘Rob and I knew each other in passing. He was Dan’s friend though. Had no time for me really. I’d go to the pub whilst they were at lunch. Sit away from them, where they couldn’t see me watching. They never invited me. He was always complaining about something or other. He was one of those people who never embrace life. He’d tell Dan everything, and I would sit and listen.’

‘Did you take Jemma? Are you holding her still?’

Tom paused. Stared at Murphy in the silence, only the scratching of Rossi’s pen on her notepad breaking it. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘I think you do,’ Murphy said, standing up. ‘And you’re going to tell us exactly where she is.’

‘She ran off. I heard Rob and Dan talking about it loads. Constantly moaning about it. It was obvious she’d done one. I would have as well.’

‘You might as well tell us, Tom. It’s over.’

‘Let’s talk about how you killed your parents instead. I’d love to know more about that.’

Murphy looked towards Rossi, who had put her notepad down. Looked down at his hands, clenched together as he leaned on the table which separated him from Tom. ‘I didn’t kill my parents.’ Stared at Tom, hoping to kill the conversation before it went any further.

‘Oh, I know you weren’t holding the hammer, but it was your fault, was it not?’ Tom replied, a sarcastic tone to his voice.

‘I can’t control what other people do,’ Murphy said, looking past Tom at the concrete wall behind him.

‘No one can, but we can lead them to do things, don’t you agree?’

Murphy shifted on the chair. ‘I certainly didn’t lead him to kill my parents,’ Murphy replied after a few moments. ‘He was just a pathetic little man who couldn’t take rejection. So he took something else instead.’

‘Not so pathetic that he can destroy your life though?’ Tom grinned, his teeth brilliant white.

Murphy’s shoulders slumped a little more. ‘This has nothing to do with what we’re here for, Tom.’

‘I disagree. Don’t you see? There’s only one type of person who could understand what I’ve done here. I think they are easily explainable to someone like you, David. You’ve experienced death, unexpected, unimaginable. Whilst not by your hand, you carry that feeling of guilt with you forever.
You
should understand what I’ve done in the last week.’

Murphy lifted his head to find Tom staring at him, a questioning gaze fixed upon his face. ‘I never will. You killed people. Good people, innocent.’

Tom laughed, his cackles filling the room with noise. ‘Innocent?’ he said, once his laughter died down a little. ‘Don’t give me that. Not one person is innocent. And that’s a pointless way to think anyway. What makes them any better than anyone else? What makes them any more worthy of our regret or remorse than the thousands of people who die every day?’

‘Because you stole their lives.’

Tom’s eyes danced. ‘And you don’t hear the same thing said about anyone who is deemed to have died sooner than they supposedly should have?’ His voice became mocking. ‘Oh poor Jeff, he was only fifty. Had so much more to give before the bus hit him.’

‘People mourn, are you suggesting they shouldn’t?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. It’s completely natural to die, it’s a fact of life. We live to die. Why do we treat death the way we do?’ Tom paused, looking around the room as if it held the answers. ‘You know who the worst are? The religious ones. All sad at their funerals, when they’re supposed to believe in a heaven, a better place than here.’ His voice raised at the end, saliva flew from his mouth and landed on Murphy’s shoulder.

‘So, you’re just making us see that death is natural, by killing people?’