DEAD GONE (40 page)

‘I don’t know, and I don’t much care. It’s done now. Let it go.’

Rossi fumed quietly. She missed Murphy, his openness to the pattern and his knowledge.

‘We’ve got a name back from the car,’ Brannon said eventually, ‘Richard Garner. Mean anything to you?’

Rossi swallowed. ‘Yes.’

Experiment One was Tom Davies. This was supposed to be number two. Yet, it wasn’t right.

Unless, this was a distraction.

‘If Tom Davies was Experiment One, does that mean he began the whole thing, or was someone else behind it?’ Rossi spoke softly, thoughts spooling out of her head. ‘Murphy was right. Jemma is Experiment Two.’

‘Jemma who?’ Brannon asked, staring at her with a confused expression.

She ignored him, ‘and now with Tom inside, he has to return and finish off the experiment.
Stronzo
…’

‘What? Can you speak in English at least?’

‘Murphy.’

‘What about him?’

Rossi circled the car to the driver’s side. Motioned towards the uniforms stood outside the house.

‘He’s in trouble.’

Murphy entered the house in front of Garner, unable to help himself from staring open-mouthed at the décor. The grand staircase facing him, the antique furniture. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been in a house so nice.

‘Come through to the sitting room,’ Garner said from beside him.

‘Thanks,’ Murphy replied, still staring at the artwork on one wall. Looked original.

They entered the sitting room as Garner had called it, Murphy expecting just a normal living room. Instead it was lavish, leather armchairs and an open fireplace. Bookcases adorned the walls, filled with thick books which looked off-coloured. He paused looking at the titles, as Garner stood by an armchair.

‘Please, sit. A drink perhaps?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Murphy said, his attention still on the furniture, the grandness of it.

‘Whisky okay? I know it’s early, but I find it always takes the edge off a difficult situation.’

Murphy thought for a second. ‘Just a small one. You have a remarkable home.’

‘Thank you. Years of hard work. Oh, and of course it’s a family deal, I was left the house by my parents. Professors aren’t paid all that well, detective,’ Garner said, handing a thick glass filled halfway with whisky, ice floating on top.

‘Please, call me Murphy.’

They sat opposite each other, a small dark-wood table between them. Murphy took a sip of the whisky. Smooth, a small kick as it hit the back of his throat.

‘What can I do for you then, Mr Murphy.’

Murphy searched for the right words. ‘Well, the case is over. I’m sure you’ve heard.’

‘Yes. I was astonished, as you might have guessed.’ A crooked hand around his glass, his other resting on the cane at his side. ‘I suppose you never really know anyone.’

‘Definitely. This case has been difficult for me, on a personal level. When we spoke the second time, I think you picked up on that.’

‘Yes,’ Garner replied, bringing the glass to his thin lips. ‘Was this the first one since your parents’ death?’

Murphy nodded, took a larger swig of his whisky.

‘Well, it’s to be expected that you’d find it a struggle. I’m not sure why you’re here however.’

‘When we spoke, professor …’

‘Please, call me Richard.’

‘Sorry, Richard. When we spoke, it seemed that you knew more about the whole process than I do. That you had some experience in counselling?’

‘Well yes, that was my previous job. I’ve also written many papers about the grieving process. I’d be willing to share some of them with you.’

‘That’d be good. But I need to talk to someone about things. I don’t want to go to one of those counselling places. They’re not for me. I need to speak to someone who understands it better. I thought you might be able to help.’

Garner studied him over his glasses. ‘I’d be more than willing to talk to you. You understand I’m not a clinician any longer, though? I’m not sure how much I can help you, that’s all.’

Murphy drained his glass. Warmth filled his insides. ‘I’m just trying to understand it all better.’

‘Tell me what happened, with your parents?’

Murphy took in a breath. ‘My wife … she has a dark past. The ex-boyfriend being the main part of that. He did four years for assaulting her, almost killed her. When he came out, he was angry. Felt it was my fault. When he found out we were married, he flipped I guess. Tried to get Sarah back, but she wasn’t having any of it. He started following her, trying to pressure her into coming back to him. She never told me. When that didn’t work, he targeted me instead. He found out where my parents lived, and killed them both. A neighbour had a CCTV camera in his front window, he had problems with kids hanging around his house. Caught him on that, plus the prints and blood in the house he’d left behind. He pleaded guilty and was sentenced three months ago. Life, minimum of twenty-seven years.’

‘Do you feel like justice has been done?’

‘Yes. No,’ Murphy sighed, leaned forward with his hands over his face. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been running around the past few weeks, trying to work out how someone could do what Tom did. All the time, I was just thinking about myself. About my situation. If I could just come to terms with things, move on, I think I’d cope better.’

‘Indeed. Death is inevitable, yet we’re always surprised when it happens, when it touches our lives.’

Something stirred in Murphy. ‘I’ve heard that before.’

‘You read our paper?’

Murphy looked at him, confused. ‘Which paper?’

‘The one I wrote with Tom. I should have known then. It was titled “Life, Death, and Grief”. He was only interested in the death part of it. Fascinated him. Tell me, Mr Murphy did you tell anyone you were coming to see me?’

Murphy shook his head. ‘This was just something I needed to do, you know.’

‘Quite. Refill?’ Garner shook his empty glass at him, standing up easily, before seemingly catching himself and grabbing his cane. Murphy handed the glass over to him.

‘Tell me, Mr Murphy, did you ever discover why Tom started at number three?’

Murphy’s head span for a second, the momentary head rush you get from standing up too quickly. ‘We thought he may have been involved with someone who went missing a year ago. He didn’t acknowledge that though. He called himself Experiment One.’

‘Interesting.’

‘It doesn’t make sense.’ The room was becoming fuzzy around him. Murphy shook his head to try to clear it, confused. Alcohol never affected him this quickly.

‘Have you ever heard of a psychologist named Stanley Milgram, Mr Murphy?’

Murphy rolled his head back up from where it had dropped onto his chest. ‘I don’t feel too good. How strong is this stuff?’

‘Milgram was a psychologist, American of course. His most famous work is on obedience to authority. What could you make someone do, just by giving orders … to kill for you, for example?’

‘I don’t understand …’ Murphy rubbed at his eyes, trying to focus properly. The professor became blurry in front of him.

‘Milgram tested forty people in his experiment. Each person took the role of teacher, sat in front of a board. Another person would be a
learner
and they would have to recite words, in a basic memory task. However, the learner was an actor – a fact unknown to each of the teachers. Each answer they would get wrong, the teacher would give them an electric shock, increasing in voltage at every point. Now, of course as the shocks got higher in strength they began to protest, they didn’t want to continue. You know what kept them going? Someone telling them they must go on. That’s all. A verbal prod in the right direction.’ He paused, as Murphy rubbed at his eyes again.

‘How many of the forty teachers do you think gave them the highest voltage shock of four hundred and fifty, David?’

Murphy shook his head. ‘I don’t know. One … three … five?’ He giggled to himself. Was he drunk? How much had he had to drink?

‘Twenty-six of them, Mr Murphy. Almost two thirds of the people willingly gave another human being a fatal electric shock, just by being told to do so. Isn’t that incredible?’

‘They must have known it wasn’t real.’ His voice sounded alien to him. Slurred. His arm came up to his face, but it took too much time. Far too slow.

‘That’s the beauty of it, Mr Murphy. They had no idea. They thought the whole thing was real. They just went along with it. It gets better. When the teacher wasn’t the one to administer the shock, when they could absolve themselves of responsibility and only watched as someone else seemingly electrocuted the learners, the level of obedience rose. Out of forty people, thirty-seven ordered the highest shock possible. That is the power of obedience. An incredible experiment, I’m sure you’ll agree. How obedient do you think you are, David? Do you listen to authority well?’

‘I do my best.’ Murphy sniggered at the thought of DCI Stephens trying to control him. ‘I should have killed him.’

‘Of course you do. You’re in the police, you must have a lot of bosses, and I can’t imagine it’s all like the TV shows and films with the rogue detectives and such like. You’d be out of a job in no time.’

‘Should have strangled him to death.’

‘Quite.’

Murphy tried to stand, flopping back down into his seat. ‘What’s happening to me?’

‘The whisky has gone to your head I see. Come with me. We’ll get you sorted out.’

Murphy stood up again, his legs supporting him in an odd fashion. Garner held out an arm for him and Murphy grabbed hold of it. It felt thick, like a tree trunk. So confused.

‘Just down here.’

The doorway led to a darkened hallway, a shaft of daylight shining through from a smaller window at the end.

‘Keep walking towards the end, the door on the bottom left is open. Can you see it?’

Murphy wasn’t sure what he could see. He continued to shuffle forwards, the smell of tobacco and whisky walking alongside him. They got to the doorway, pausing for a second before turning and entering. It was darker inside the room than the hallway. He thought the windows were at the far end of the room, the black cloth hanging from the ceiling covering that area giving him a clue. Only a soft glow from a few floor lamps gave off any light. His attention was drawn to desks in the middle of the room, and the banks of monitors placed upon them. The images were blurry from a distance. He was only able to tell they were CCTV type video images on six different small screens.

A large metal chair was placed directly facing the screens. Murphy walked towards it, shuffled, sitting down as soon as he reached it. He could see the screens, his eyes scanned across them as he saw his car parked up, the dirty lane he’d driven up to reach the house.

‘That’s my car,’ he said, pointing at the screen.

‘That’s right. I’ll have to get rid of that somehow.’

‘What’s happening to me?’

Garner walked around the chair to face him, his cane left behind. ‘I’m afraid you were mistaken coming here.’

‘You … put … something …’

‘Yes. Terribly 007, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t understand.’

Garner lifted his hand, pointing at the last screen. ‘Do you see her?’

Murphy swept his head across to look. Squinted his eyes to focus.

Night vision gave out a weird green glow. A woman, by a door.

His head cleared for a brief moment.

Jemma Barnes.

‘I’m carrying on the experiment, Mr Murphy. It needs to continue.’

Murphy tried to lift himself up, ‘I’ve got to get to her …’

‘Don’t let me stop you.’

Murphy got to his feet, swayed, but moved forward out of the room. He opened the door in front of him, a large kitchen appeared. A door was open, stairs leading down. ‘She’s down there.’

Garner appeared beside him. ‘Yes. Go to her.’

Murphy shuffled forward, holding one hand against the wall to support himself. Nothing made sense. It was like a dream become real. He reached the door, opened it out. A staircase was below him.

‘Here, let me help you.’ Murphy turned, Garner stood a few feet to the side of him. The cane held in his hands aloft.

Murphy was flying.

Moving forwards, slowly, hung in mid-air. Then the stairs rushed up towards him.

He didn’t feel the pain.

Just the darkness which took over him, sending him into unconsciousness.

Helpless.

She waited, expecting him to come back at any moment.

The hatch remained open as the voice which had spoken to her earlier had left it. Careless.

She waited longer. Stood still for what seemed like hours … days?

She strained to hear anything. Thought she could hear voices, but wasn’t sure if they were coming from outside the room, or from the corner.

Something stirred inside her head. An idea?

Jemma remembered the one time she’d heard the door open. A bolt moving across.

She looked at the hatch. Rolled up her sleeve and edged her arm through the opening. Her skinny arm, all bone and barely-there flesh, fit through easily. She swept her hand across, up and down the side, searching for it.

Her hand bumped against metal. She scrabbled across, reaching for it, for the bolt.

Found it.

She released and pulled the bolt towards her. Heard it clunk back out of its locked state.

Jemma drew her arm back through the hatch, scraping it along the wood, causing her to flinch in pain.

She dared not believe.

Jemma gripped the hatch opening with both hands and pulled. The door opened easily.

She was out.

Shit. She was out. That easily.

Jemma crept from the room, into the basement she’d once escaped out into. She closed her eyes, picturing the way it had looked. The room opposite hers now silent, the door closed. The stairs to her left, the light coming through there now.

Then something … someone appeared at the top.

It fell forwards. Bone on concrete, crushing against it.

She stumbled against the wall, her breathing rapid, loud.

She had to be quiet.