The Dying Place (11 page)

‘You want to see him in his cell or in an interview room?’ the desk sergeant said, addressing Murphy but not tearing his gaze away from Rossi. Murphy read his name badge but then instantly forgot it as soon as he looked away.

‘Room please. More dignified.’

‘Yeah, course.’

There was still no actual CID working out of Walton Lane, but more uniforms since they’d gone back to twenty-four-hour opening, locking up people in the old cells down below. Mostly for public order offences away from the city centre, where the vast majority of those crimes occurred. Mostly young people as well.

‘He’s in for assault, but he’s due at magistrates in an hour.’

‘On a Saturday morning. Poor lad,’ Murphy replied. The new trials of flexible opening hours for certain courts around the country had of course included Liverpool.

‘He was here last week as well,’ the sergeant said, leading them towards the interview rooms. ‘That was for threatening behaviour.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ Rossi said, keeping in step with Murphy, in order to keep away from the sergeant, rather than dropping behind.

‘Should see the state of his head.’

‘Think we’re about to.’

Paul Cooper entered the room ten minutes after they’d sat down and accepted the offer of coffee, Murphy already regretting his decision. As soon as it was in front of him he knew he’d drink it, lamenting the fact he also knew it was going to taste awful.

Cooper sat down opposite them, eyes bleary from lack of sleep. His head was shaved to a close zero, the stubble short enough to almost be classed as bald. All the better to show off his battle scars, Murphy thought. A mass of intertwining white spidery lines across all parts of his head, no doubt from numerous fights which would invariably have seen a bottle or six flying across the place. Or the result of too many headers into walls or onto pavements when too drunk to care about walking upright like a normal person.

No handcuffs, not like on TV.

‘We’ll be outside,’ one of the constables said, leaving the room.

Murphy waited until the door was closed before eyeing up Cooper. ‘Paul, is it?’

Cooper didn’t meet his gaze. ‘Only me ma calls me that.’

‘What would you rather we call you then?’

‘Whatever. Not bothered.’

‘Okay then, Paul,’ Murphy said, noticing the beginning of a smile appear on Cooper’s face before it swiftly disappeared. ‘Just want to ask a few questions, nothing major.’

‘Haven’t done nothing.’

‘I haven’t said you have yet. Can you at least wait until I do before you start denying everything?’

Cooper leant back in the chair, arms folded and expression vacant. ‘What do youse want then?’

‘Dean Hughes.’

The reply was instant. ‘Don’t know him.’

Murphy held back a chuckle, nudged Rossi with his elbow. ‘You owe me a fiver.’

Cooper raised his eyebrows, but caught himself and went back to studying the ceiling tiles. ‘Prove it.’

‘You know how the Internet works, Paul?’ Rossi said, Murphy leaning on an elbow and watching. ‘It leaves a trace. Everything you do on there is recorded. It’s not even that hard to do, you know. Find a list of people who have something in common with someone, interactions between them, conversations, that sort of thing. Especially as all you divs seem to do it out in the open.’

‘And what?’

‘And that means we know you know Dean Hughes, that’s what. So let’s stop messing about here and you can just answer the questions we ask, that sound all right with you?’

Murphy was surprised to see Cooper tear his eyes away from the ceiling and finally look towards them. ‘I’m not a grass,’ Cooper said.

‘Never said you were.’

Cooper looked upwards once more before dropping his head to his chest. ‘Go ’ead then.’

‘How do you know Dean?’

Cooper shrugged. ‘Just from around and that.’

‘How long have you known him?’

‘’Bout a year. It’s not like we’re best mates or anything. He’s just always around with the same people I’m with.’

Rossi shifted some paper from inside her folder as Murphy paused.

‘He owes you some money?’ Rossi said, reading from her notes.

‘Yeah, but no one’s seen him for ages.’

‘How much does he owe you?’

Cooper shrugged, bit on his lower lip and shrugged again. ‘A few ton.’

‘A few hundred quid?’ Murphy said, affecting a little surprise into his speech. ‘Do you lend all your “not really mates” that kind of money?’

Cooper was struggling under Murphy’s gaze a little. ‘Nah …’

Murphy guessed at what was holding him back. ‘You didn’t exactly lend him the money, did you? He was supposed to pay for something, am I right?’

‘Something like that.’

‘So you were just trying to get that money back?’

‘Yeah. I sent him some messages on Facebook and that. Knocked at his house but his mum said he’d done one. To be honest, I’d forgotten about it.’

‘Lose face a bit?’ Rossi said, still not lifting her gaze up from her notes.

‘What do you mean?’ Cooper said, bridling at that.

‘With the lads. Maybe even the girls as well. Paul Cooper getting ripped off by some lad he barely knows? Can’t have been good.’

Murphy watched Cooper carefully for a reaction, something which they could possibly use.

‘Well, I didn’t do anything. Couldn’t find him,’ Cooper replied, shifting his gaze back to Murphy. ‘Why are you asking me all this now anyway? He’s been gone for fuckin’ ages and no one has said anything before.’

Murphy shared a look with Rossi. Gave her a nod.

‘Dean Hughes is dead, Paul. Severely beaten and then strangled.’

This time Cooper’s reaction was easier to read.

‘Fuck …’

Murphy took over. ‘So you understand now why we’re a bit more interested in him. Why we might be interested in people who might have a reason to be angry with him?’

‘No …’

‘People with violent records, perhaps? People with a history of losing their temper easily and getting themselves into trouble.’

Cooper sat back, running both hands over his shaved dome. ‘No way. I’m not getting done for this. I haven’t even seen him in months. And anyway, I know when to stop.’

‘Do you, Paul?’ Rossi asked, flipping over a page. ‘Would Stephen Fowler agree with that, do you think?’

Cooper looked between them both, an incredulous look plastered across his face. ‘That was … nah, I’m not having this. That was years ago and the fuckin’ prick deserved it.’

‘Really?’ Murphy said, tone lowered and controlled.

‘Yeah, he tried to hurt my sister. The knobhead was lucky.’

‘And was Dean Hughes deserving of your particular brand of justice?’

Cooper was sweating, the globules of moisture springing forward on his forehead. Murphy wasn’t surprised. He’d dealt with so many of this type before. Cocky little wankers – until something serious landed on their doorstep. Then it’s shitting bricks time.

‘No, no. That’s not me. I wouldn’t go that far, honest.’

‘Right,’ Murphy said. ‘Good to know. We’ll take your word for it, obviously.’

‘Really,’ Cooper said, relief washing over his face.

‘Of course not, you dopey git. We’ll need to know where you were Thursday night. All night, of course.’

A smile. Just a flash, and the tension visibly lifting from his shoulders. ‘Thank fuck. I was at me bird’s all night. Her ma is away, so we had the house to ourselves, like. We didn’t exactly go to bed early, if you know what I mean.’

‘And her name is?’

‘Rachel. Rachel Thompson.’

‘Her address?’

Cooper rattled off an address, which Rossi wrote down.

‘Right well, we’ll have a word with her. Lucky boy, Paul. Usually people don’t have ready-made alibis just like that.’

‘It’s proper D. She’s a good girl. She’ll be well pissed off that I’ve been locked up again, anyway.’

‘So is there anything you can tell us about Dean? You must have tried looking for him.’ Murphy kept his tone low, but with a bit more relaxation in there now. Friendly.

‘I did, but no one had seen him. I mean, he wasn’t hanging with us all that much anyway, once the youthy opened.’

‘The youthy?’

‘Yeah, that youth club that opened on Lower House Lane. Last year. He was going there all the time.’

Murphy looked towards Rossi, who was chewing on the end of her pen. They knew the youth club in question. Opened in a burst of fanfare the previous year, funded by two local charities. Meant to get kids off the streets and doing something, but so far hadn’t seemed to be working.

‘Did he ever talk about it?’

‘Not much. Tried asking us to go once, but none of us were into any of that crap.’

Murphy weighed it up. As a lead, it wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

‘Is that it then … can I get off now?’

Murphy snorted. ‘Haven’t you forgot, lad? You’re up in court this morning.’

Realisation hit Cooper’s face as he remembered why he was there in the first place.

‘Shit. Bet I get remanded for this one.’

11

Murphy drove them out of the station car park, joining the busy A road back towards town. Goodison Park loomed over them, in dire need of being renovated but in keeping with the rest of the area. All terraced housing and main roads. Housing estates, with traffic included these days.

‘Why do you think Dean’s mum didn’t mention the youth club?’ Rossi asked, elbow propped up on the edge of the passenger window, chewing on a nail.

‘Maybe she didn’t know,’ Murphy replied, following the road around Everton Valley, onto Kirkdale Road. Scotland Road was ahead, but he indicated off to run parallel to it. Quicker route back to the station.

‘Seems like our mate back there thought he was right into it. The youthy, that is. Would have thought that’d be something you’d let your mum know you were doing.’

Murphy mused as they passed the big gym on the tree-lined Great Homer Street. The traffic was much quieter this side, away from the main roads which ran into the city centre. ‘Maybe he didn’t want her to know.’

‘Why would that be, do you reckon?’

‘Could be something going on he knew she wouldn’t approve of. Could have been using it to do anything. Lot of kids going there aren’t looking to play games and be enrolled onto courses.’

‘Suppose. Only one way to find out.’

‘Of course.’

They were making a quick stop at the station to update the team and formulate plans. Tomorrow was Sunday, so things would slow down, inevitably, but they couldn’t be seen to be doing so. Especially with the local media now getting involved. A Monday morning press conference, Murphy assumed.

‘It’ll be open this afternoon, I bet. I’ll give them a ring when we get back.’

‘Sound,’ Murphy replied, passing the big light shop as the roads changed from Great Homer to St Anne.
Liverpool’s Largest Light Store
,
the sign outside proclaimed, and Murphy had to admit that even when Rapid was still open, the shop was probably still the biggest. Not that he’d ever been in there. Sarah was much more of an Ikea type.

He slowed as they reached the station, took in the drab brown block which looked more like an office building from the seventies than the home of the busiest division in Merseyside Police.

Rossi lagged behind as he walked through to the CID offices, stopping as she reached the vending machine. Murphy kept walking, keen to get on. He should have been at home, getting on with the decorating, which was already causing friction between Sarah and him.

Murphy thought back to the previous night – the moment when he knew that as soon as Jess left there’d be interminable silence before he asked the one question that always led to trouble.

‘
What’s wrong?
’

Jess had been discussing her son Peter, the problems he’d been having and how she was dealing with them. A throwaway comment he’d made had earned a look from Sarah, one she made sure he’d notice.

‘
I don’t know how you do it
…
I don’t think I have the patience to deal with that sort of thing. Don’t think I’d want it
.’

They’d been talking about having kids for a few months now. Always the same conversation. At first Murphy placated her with
now not being the right time
, before changing tack and going for what he really felt. The ‘I’m not sure I could do it at all’ talk.

The previous night, after Jess had left, Sarah had asked outright if he ever wanted kids. He thought of Dean Hughes instantly – imagined himself being his father, having to study his parenting and decide if he could have done things differently. Dean was eighteen, old enough to make his own choices, but it wouldn’t stop Murphy questioning himself. He was sure every parent would be the same.

He thought of all the young people he’d come into contact with in his previous years – all the wannabe gang members, the scallies, the thugs. Thought of the respectable homes he’d visited, containing parents who just didn’t know what they’d done wrong, their faces drawn and old before their time. The homes where the parents had long since given up on caring. Then there were the young victims. Trying to make sense of what they’d done to end up on the wrong side of those others.

They’d flashed before his eyes in an instant. That’s all it was. Sarah had taken the hesitation for what it said on the surface.

This case wasn’t helping, Murphy thought. Maybe if Dean Hughes had been in his eighties, he wouldn’t have hesitated at all. Would have had a better response than the one he’d given.

‘
I don’t know
.’

The office was busier now, the various detectives working on different cases. The boards from that morning looked untouched as he stood before them.

He added the name of the youth club and Paul Cooper’s name on a side list which was headed
Persons of Interest
. They had no suspects as yet, but Murphy wasn’t put off.

‘How are you getting on?’

Murphy turned to find DS Brannon standing just behind him, looking towards the board, squinting even though he was only a few feet away. ‘Not bad. Slow, but a few things have come up already. We’ll get there.’