The Dying Place (33 page)

He just didn’t want to stop.

He ditched the van once he was away from Norris Green. Left it for someone to find and spend hours scouring. They’d find his DNA and fingerprints all over it, but he didn’t think it would matter much. Not with his face currently being circulated on every news channel going.

He was trending on Twitter. Number two and three, under some boyband he thought he may have heard of but wasn’t sure. Still, number two wasn’t bad.

#AlanBimpson

#Liverpool

#WeLoveYouHarry

He was in a silver Focus now. ’51 plate, so it had some miles on the clock, but it was doing the job. He didn’t want to stand out too much and he was already running out of vehicles not registered to him.

He thought of his ’12 plate Audi Q5 being taken away from the driveway of his house.

He liked that car.

Toxteth still bore the scars of the eighties, true, but there were many signs of change in his eyes. Newer buildings, rebuilt shops.

Window dressing.

You couldn’t hide everything. Not entirely. He’d gone online months before, checking the crime rates in different parts of the city. Toxteth wasn’t as bad as somewhere like Anfield, but it was still up there. Especially for anti-social behaviour, which was what interested him most.

He turned off Park Road, going in search of more closely knitted areas. Signs of the council estates which always drew the worst examples. Modern new-build houses competing for space amongst the older houses. Post-war, pre-war. No real signs of life.

The evening was drawing in, the sky overhead darkening as the May daylight struggled. He began to think the papers had been lying to him all this time. The streets of the poorer areas weren’t littered with the destitute, the vermin. They were dull, soulless. Or maybe he wasn’t looking properly. Every other time they’d wanted to pick up someone new for the farm they’d never had any trouble.

He carried on further, dusk turning into evening around the time he started feeling hungry again. The satiation from the drive-thru meal he’d had earlier finally wearing off.

Then he spotted them.

Two of them. Grey jogging bottoms tucked into black socks, black trainers. The North Face black jackets. The archetypal scally. Uniformed-up, one hand down the front of their kecks, as if constantly worried someone was going to come along and steal their dicks. One was wearing a woollen hat, pulled low over his head as if it would magically hide his face. The other was more brazen.

He became aware of his hands sliding down the steering wheel as the sweat began to drip from him. One minute the air inside the car had been unnoticeable, then it was stifling, making it hard for him to breathe.

He watched them as he drove well under the thirty mph limit on the deserted side roads. Peering through his windscreen as the lads strolled about, sometimes looking around them, sometimes staring lifelessly into their mobile phone screens.

They walked across the road ahead of him towards the play area, which he knew was a popular place for them to hang around in until the early hours. Bereft of young kids and harassed parents, it became their playground. They each took a swing as he pulled up near the park entrance. One took out rolling papers and a small tin, began making up what he presumed was a spliff. The light from the flame as the one in the hat sparked up illuminated his hard face for a split second before flickering out.

He shook his seatbelt off as they started passing it between them, taking long drags before exhaling slowly into the now fully darkened sky.

He wanted to knife these two. Hear their screams, their surprise. Then their death.

It was ones like these, taking over what should be good, nice places for young kids to play. Fouling these areas with their mere presence. Nothing better to do on a cool May night but sit in a kids’ playground, getting stoned or whatever. No-marks. No-lifes.

There was a skill to using a knife, a certain expertise that needed to be gained before you could use one successfully.

Or two at the same time.

He shook his head and instead removed the assault rifle from underneath the blanket where he’d hidden it from plain view on the back seat. The shotgun was to the side of him, but he left that in the car as he slipped out.

The handgun was still safely tucked into the shoulder holster, as always.

He crouched low as he approached, before realising that might bring too much attention if someone was walking past or behind him.

He would start with these scallies and then whoever came next. The ones who came to defend them. Those who complained about them endlessly but turned into bleeding hearts when someone finally did something about the problem.

They
were the problem.

Alan Bimpson’s night of violence was about to begin.

The youths were oblivious to his approach, the sickly sweet aroma drifting from their direction nullifying the senses which might otherwise have saved their lives.

The one without a hat didn’t even turn around when he loaded up and charged the M16.

Single-burst rounds. Not like those video games or war films these wankers played around with. The rifle butt tucked into his shoulder with barely any recoil.

The one with the hat took a bullet to the face as he turned at the noise. From ten feet away, Alan Bimpson barely blinked as the boy’s face ripped apart under the force of a single bullet entering high up on his cheek, just underneath his eye. Flesh and bone melting from the heat, flipping him backwards before he even had a chance to breathe one last time.

The one without the hat simply stared at his friend’s body as it catapulted backwards. Watched the blood quickly run out of his destroyed face as a ruined mass stared back at him.

Alan Bimpson didn’t think he’d turn around. Walked forward a few steps and put three quick rounds into the back of his head. In a line. Top, middle and bottom. Traffic lights, blood, death.

He took out the ear buds as Mr No-Hat fell forwards, landing on his friend’s upturned, dead hand.

Alan heard voices from outside the playground. Laughter, he thought.

Thirty-round magazine. Four gone.

Still time to play.

29

As Murphy and Rossi entered the incident room, the tension dissipated for a few seconds as a half-hearted round of applause broke out. Rossi took it as Murphy expected her to.

‘Shut it, you lot. It’s not like I was actually shot properly.’

A few comedians made some jokes, others shared words of support, but within a few minutes it was as if their colleague hadn’t almost had her head blown off hours earlier, as everyone went back to concentrating on the job at hand.

Staring at screens, talking on phones, making notes, staring at screens a bit more. This was detective work in the twenty-first century. Murphy made his way towards his office, checking the murder board as he went, noticing it had been expanded by the joining of three cousins as more and more information had arrived.

He checked his messages as he reached his desk, ignoring anything that didn’t have
very urgent
attached to it and pulling out the preliminary reports from the scene at the farm the previous night.

One in particular stood out. Murphy picked up his phone and dialled.

‘Houghton,’ came the reply after a few rings.

‘It’s Murphy. Just got your message.’

‘Ah, didn’t think it would take this long …’

Murphy ignored the sarcastic tone. ‘Is this certain?’

‘As certain as we can be right now.’

‘Jesus …’ Murphy said, letting out a sigh.

‘That’s an operative word to use in this situation, yes. Our lovely local vicar …’

‘Reverend,’ Murphy corrected.

‘Yes, yes, of course. We found a few personal effects during the sweep of the rest of the house. Led us to a lock-up garage, just past the entrance to the farm. It looks like that’s where all the deceased kept their vehicles. An enterprising fellow down here ran a few checks and provided his name. That, and a couple of credit cards in his name, means we’re pretty certain.’

Murphy thought back to his conversation with Reverend Andrew Pearson, looking for any memory of something being
off
with him. Came up with nothing.

‘He seemed … normal,’ Murphy said after a few seconds of silence.

‘I’m sure they always do,’ Houghton replied.

Murphy ended the call, leant back in his chair and swept a hand through his hair. He took the files out with him as he left the office, making his way over to the murder boards to read the latest. Rossi was still showing off her war wound to a few of the female detectives, so he left her to it, sitting at an empty desk as close to the boards as he could manage.

Eight new victims to join the one that was already placed there. Nine in total.

And whoever it was surely wasn’t done yet.

‘Laura,’ Murphy said, extricating her away from a gaggle of nosing constables. When she finally reached him, he told her about the reverend’s involvement.

‘Jesus …’ Rossi said when he finished.

‘That seems to be the popular reaction,’ Murphy replied.

‘What does it mean?’

Murphy didn’t answer straight away, trying to fit the new information in with what was already known.

‘Not sure yet. We need to find out what’s happening first.’

Rossi nodded slowly, Murphy watching her as she processed the new info before she moved across the room to an empty desk and computer. He beckoned one of the detective sergeants he knew from the drugs team over. ‘Trev, you all right mate?’

‘Not bad. Moved over to help you lot out. Seems like we’ve got quite the nutcase going here.’

Murphy grimaced. ‘You can say that again. What do you know about what’s been going on? Can’t see Stephens in here …’

DS Trevor Vaughan wheeled his chair over, looking over his shoulder as he got closer. ‘Been sent home. If you’d seen the state of her by five o’clock you wouldn’t have been surprised. Dead on her feet. Super is on his way for a tactical meeting at seven to tell us the latest. I’ve heard we’ll be turning it all over to firearms, and that we’re just here to help out with the dogsbody-shite.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

Vaughan looked over his shoulder again and leant further forward. The world loves a gossip. ‘They’re apparently already out there. They don’t want to let this guy go on a spree. Getting texts off uniforms who reckon they’re being moved from certain areas in the city.’

Murphy was about to respond when Detective Superintendent Gareth Butler sashayed into the incident room. Sashayed being the correct way of describing his method of gaining people’s attention quickly. He didn’t even need to speak, just move his hips.

One of those blokes who has a presence about him, Rossi had said to him once. Murphy spotted her across the desks, looking from the Super to Murphy in one slow glance.

A raise of the eyebrows, and nothing needed to be said.

‘Murphy, Stephens’s office please,’ DSI Butler said, without breaking stride or gaze on the six feet ahead of him.

‘Sir.’

Murphy swivelled in his commandeered chair, wishing as usual for at least five more minutes than he ever got. Took in the murder boards once more, trying to memorise the information held on them, taking note of the new names and committing them to memory.

1 – Dean Hughes – Age 18

2 – Joanne Meadowcroft – Aged 45

3 – Robert Meadowcroft – Aged 47

4 – Unknown – Aged 40–55

5 – Michael Wilson – Aged 17

6 – Tyler Holt – Aged 17

7 – Unknown – Aged?? (Body not found)

8 – Joshua Gold – Aged 18

9 – Kevin Thornhill – Aged 52

Murphy scrubbed out the
Unknown
next to number 4 and replaced it with Reverend Andrew Pearson’s name.

Murphy swallowed and gathered up the folders, giving the nod for Rossi to stay where she was as he walked after the Super.

There was silence behind the door which DSI Butler had closed behind him and his two assistants. Murphy knocked anyway, knowing those in power always liked this little play.

‘Sit down, David,’ DSI Butler said as he entered. ‘Let me just get set here.’

Murphy took the chance to read some more of the reports he’d been sent. Top line, all of them except the guy found on the rack had died of gunshot wounds. As expected.

Rack Guy hadn’t fared as well. Tortured first.

Murphy scanned the rest of the reports, but they were startlingly bare. Some references to malnourishment or weight loss, old injuries, new injuries.

‘So … DCI Stephens has been given a few hours off, so I thought it best, given the major incident that’s happening right now, that I come along for the ride. I know you’ve been leading the murder investigation into the first victim, David, but I’m sure you’re aware that things have moved on from there …?’

Murphy nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Good. There are multiple firearms officers in the area now, waiting to be sent to any incidents that occur. We’re holding a press conference in the next half an hour, asking for help and all the usual things. You’ll still be needed I imagine, but from now on, this is a major incident, so the usual protocols have been put into action.’

Just what he thought, more people involved. ‘Sir,’ Murphy said, ‘with all due respect et cetera, I’ve been working the case from the beginning, so I’d like to still be highly involved.’

DSI Butler steepled his fingers together and appeared to give it some thought. ‘I’m sure you’re aware that we’re now talking about something that goes above your level, Detective Inspector.’

Murphy made to speak, but DSI Butler held up a hand as he stood. ‘We’ll keep you as involved as needed, David, but this has become a situation that requires different techniques. Don’t worry, you’ll be kept up to date with all developments.’

With that, DSI Butler left the room, not waiting for Murphy to stand up and speak any further.

‘We’re out, aren’t we?’ Rossi said from the doorway, as Murphy looked past her, watching DSI Butler leave.

Murphy turned to her. ‘Officially we’re still involved, but it’s now a major incident. There’ll be command levels, all that bollocks. Unofficially …’