Authors: Luca Veste
‘His homepage is a missing persons site. He’s automatically logged in. Just having a look around it.’
Murphy grunted in reply, reading through another page. It seemed to match the page he’d set aside, notes and notes about someone called Harlow. Monkey experiments, isolation, and other words had been underlined. He set it on top of the other page, going through the other pages which were more scrawled notes than the carefully made ones on the first pages.
‘Have you heard of a “Harlow”?’ Murphy asked as he reached the end.
‘Isn’t there a Sergeant Harlow, works over the water?’
‘Probably, but I’m talking about someone else. There’s a lot of notes here about a Dr Harlow, stuff with monkeys and experiments. Given what’s been said in the letters, this has probably got something to do it.’
‘There was a psychologist called Harlow. I remember from the psych class I did in first year,’ Rossi said, looking up from the laptop for the first time. ‘He did some weird experiments with monkeys, or something. That’s about all I can remember.’
‘Right. We need to look into that.’ Murphy stood up, and went through to the bedroom. The door was open, a couple of people milling about inside talking quietly. As Murphy entered, they stopped talking and went back to looking through what little was in there. ‘Just looking,’ Murphy said as he entered, taking up the rest of the available space in the room. Most of the room was taken up by the bed, neatly made against the wall. A small bedside table next to it held just a clock radio on top. And something underneath.
Murphy walked over and lifted the radio up, freeing what was underneath.
‘It’s him,’ Murphy muttered to himself.
‘What was that, sir?’
‘This is a letter from him. The killer.’ Murphy read the short message, recognising the mixed handwriting scrawled across the page.
‘
Harlow was the first, I’m just taking it further,’
Murphy read aloud.
He moved quickly back through to the living room.
‘Laura. The killer was in contact with Rob.’
‘I know.’
‘How? I’ve just found this in the bedroom.’ Murphy said, holding the letter up.
‘Because he contacted him through the missing person site first.’
Murphy stopped dead. ‘When?’
‘A week ago,’ Rossi said, writing notes in her book. ‘First message is to tell him Jemma, his partner, was still alive and set up a meeting at the Albert Dock. Victim was at work after that day, so explains why he was there. Turns out there was another message later that night, which seems to be carrying on from something that may have happened that night. Something about Harlow again. It links in with his latest letter as well.’
‘How so?’ Murphy sat down on the sofa, the pages he’d collected still in his hand.
‘He talks about how Jemma is the focus of his research. One he’s been working on for so long.’
‘His experiment is Jemma?’
‘Or that’s how he got him to comply. He could have just used that to get to him.’ Rossi replied, sitting back running her hand over her head, smoothing her hair back down. ‘She went missing …’ she checked her notes, ‘… almost a year ago.’
‘It would fit,’ Murphy said, the gravity of the situation weighing down on him as he worked through what that meant. ‘Holding someone for a year?’
‘Harlow. One of his experiments was with isolation.’
‘We need to know what the full story is with this Harlow.’
‘I think you’re probably holding most of the answers in your hand.’
‘He’s only been active in the past week though. Would he keep someone prisoner for a year and then start killing people?’
Murphy wasn’t sure. He looked down at the pages of notes. ‘I don’t think I’m going to make much sense of these, Laura. Probably best if you go through them back at the station.’
‘No sign of it yet? Right. No, that’ll be it for now. Call the second he shows.’
Rossi sat across from him, staring dead eyed at the computer screen in front of her, making notes every now and again. She’d been sitting there for an hour or so, Murphy occasionally asking how she was getting on, receiving grunts in reply. A meeting was scheduled at six p.m. as usual, and Murphy was attempting to put his thoughts in order for it.
He watched as DCI Stephens entered the incident room, talking to a couple of DCs on the way in before reaching her office. He knew he couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer, and crossed the room towards the office. He knocked confidently, waiting to be allowed in.
‘How are we getting on, David?’
Murphy sat down in the chair opposite her. Stephens was looking harassed, yet still maintaining an air of authority. Even if the dark circles under her eyes betrayed her calm exterior.
‘We have a lead on what may have happened to the victim’s partner. But we can’t locate the cab yet.’
‘Sorry, why are we concerned with the victim’s partner at this moment, rather than the murderer?’
Murphy brought her up to speed with the early morning’s events, the DCI’s expression remaining neutral until he began talking about the possibility someone may have been kidnapped a year earlier.
‘Jemma had a history of running off. Looked like a simple case of someone packing off to sunnier climes. I don’t think anyone thought she was in danger, apart from the mother and partner.’
‘And she is in danger?’
‘I think so. Rossi is currently looking into it further, but given that he started with these psychology experiments, and that his latest letter confirms there’s an ongoing one, I think we should face the fact he may have been holding Jemma Barnes for almost a year.’
DCI Stephens leaned back in her chair, removed her glasses and shook her head. Murphy shifted in the small seat, the atmosphere in the room changing as the weight of what may have been going on without their knowledge became apparent.
‘When the papers find out about this … we’re royally fucked.’
Murphy raised his eyebrows; it was the first time he’d heard the usually mild-mannered DCI swear. ‘I think that’s the least of our problems, with respect.’
‘Of course. We need to find her as soon as possible.’
‘We’re working on it.’
‘Okay. You and Rossi talk to any family members, and also Jemma Barnes’s mother.’
Murphy nodded, stood up to leave.
‘Wait,’ DCI Stephens said before he had chance to leave. ‘Have you seen the counsellor yet?’
Murphy sighed turning back around to face her. ‘I haven’t had a chance with everything that’s been going on.’
‘How are you feeling?’ DCI Stephens said, a concerned look on her face which reminded Murphy of his mother after he’d got himself in trouble.
‘I haven’t had time to worry about it.’ He sat back down. He didn’t know if it was tiredness or something else, but he suddenly had an overwhelming urge to release so much of what he was feeling.
Instead he blurted out, ‘I’m going to speak to Sarah, see if we can meet up.’ It surprised him. He hadn’t thought of doing that.
‘That’ll be good,’ DCI Stephens replied.
‘I need to see her.’ Murphy hadn’t said that out loud before, but now the words were out there, he realised how true they were. He did need to see her. ‘I just don’t know what I’m going to say yet.’
‘Well, my door’s always open, David. But if any of this is affects your work, I won’t hesitate to remove you from the case. It’s too big for any mistakes to happen.’
Murphy winced, but forced himself to bite his lip. ‘I’m focused only on bringing him in. Whoever he is.’
‘Good. Get back out there.’
Murphy left the office, the DCI’s words burning in his ears. The truth was, he didn’t know if he could focus. Everywhere he looked he seemed to be surrounded by darkness. He was trapped, closed in from the outside.
He was tired. Tired of it all.
He had to do this. He had to find him.
Jemma was sitting in a restaurant. The Italian place on the corner of Ranelagh Street, opposite Central station. It was warm outside, and they had a table in the window, causing Rob to shield his eyes with the menu.
‘Let’s get a different table.’
Rob laid the menu down. ‘No. This is where you like to sit, so we’re staying. What’s a bit of burned retina between lovers.’
Jemma rolled her eyes at him. ‘Lovers? Ugh. Don’t say that.’
‘Isn’t that what we are?’
‘Well … yeah. But it just sounds like a bad romance book.’
He laughed. Jemma smiled back.
‘Okay. I won’t say it again. What are you getting?’
Jemma looked at the menu again. ‘Bruscetta and the cacciatore.’
‘Good choice. I’m going for the lasagne.’
Jemma chuckled to herself. ‘Of course you are. That’s what you always get. Why not try something different?’
Rob shook his head. ‘I know what I like. Why take a chance and get something I don’t like?’
‘Because you might end up finding something new.’
‘Nah. I’ll stick with what I know. The grass isn’t always greener you know. That’s why I keep you around.’
Jemma threw a breadstick at him, laughing loud enough to earn stares from some of the people sat at the closest tables.
‘Fucker.’
‘Mind your language, Jemma Barnes. This is a posh place you know.’
Jemma gave him a sombre expression. ‘Posh? I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘I would. Have you seen all these knives and forks? They should come with labels so I know which one to use.’
Jemma laughed again. ‘Just work from the outside in.’
‘My, my. You really are losing it, Jemma.’
The restaurant began to fade, growing darker and darker. She felt the walls closing in around her, as her face fell and reality became clearer.
‘Where do you think you are?’
The voice wasn’t coming from Rob. It surrounded her.
‘No. This isn’t real. Let me go back.’
‘Jemma. I’m afraid you’re mistaken. This is your reality now. But don’t worry, it’s coming to an end.’
Jemma looked around, the darkness now all around her. The smells of the Italian food being replaced by sweat and waste.
‘Let me go back.’
‘It’ll all be over soon. Don’t worry.’
Jemma rocked herself, sitting against the wall closest to the door. Her arms tucked around her knees as she brought them up to her chest. She preferred it when the walls didn’t speak to her.
‘Not real. This isn’t real.’
Dark grey clouds hung low in the sky over Anfield Cemetery, seemingly unmoving, waiting until their work was done. Rain fell in short bursts. Mourners entered the small chapel, black umbrellas being held by a few. Others allowed the light drizzle to dampen their heads.
Murphy and Rossi kept a distance from the few family members and friends that were slowly filing past them. Murphy watched as Rob’s father was led to the front by another family member.
‘His dad looks ill,’ Rossi said behind a gloved hand to Murphy.
‘His mum died a few years back. Apparently the father didn’t take it so well. He’s not been well for some time. They weren’t really on speaking terms since his mum died,’ Murphy replied.
‘Are you sure you want to stay?’ Rossi asked, soft eyes tracking his.
‘Yes,’ Murphy said firmly.
Rossi nodded once, then pointed to a couple of chairs on the back row. They sat down, listened to the eulogies, scanning the small gathering for anyone who didn’t fit.
Murphy was doing okay until they played the final song. ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ was piped in through the speakers, a standard at so many funerals in the North West. The famous football anthem bringing tears to the eyes of most of those gathered around him.
Murphy felt a pat on his back, turned to see Rossi motioning her head towards the exit. It was at that point he noticed the dampness under his eyes, the lump at the back of his throat. He nodded at Rossi and followed her out.
The low winter sun had broken through the clouds, the smell of damp grass surrounding them as they moved to the side of the building, still able to see the exit.
‘You okay, sir?’ Rossi said, once they’d moved away.
‘Yeah fine. Just that song.’
‘I know. I’m guessing it was played?’
Murphy sighed, looked around at the gravestones which were close to the crematorium building. ‘At the funeral.
Carousel
. It was Mum’s favourite musical. It had nothing to do with Liverpool really. Although Dad was a season-ticket holder for a long time. Spent ages trying to get me to go with him, but I was never that interested in football as a kid.’
‘They had a good turn out that day. I remember it was packed in there.’
‘They made a lot of friends. That was the type of people they were,’ Murphy said, leaning against the stone wall for support.
‘Have you been back since?’ Rossi asked, standing next to Murphy against the wall. She adjusted her jacket to try and keep some more of the cold out.
‘No. I get the odd letter from one of the old dears who live on the same road, but I can’t go back there.’
They heard gentle murmurings as people started to file outside. They recognised some faces from the week’s investigation following Rob’s death. Others they could tell were family members.
‘Jemma’s mum,’ Rossi said, indicating with her head to the small figure emerging from the doorway. ‘Wonder how she’s doing?’
‘Can’t be good.’ Murphy watched as she dabbed at her eyes. ‘She blames herself. Doesn’t matter what anyone will say to her, she’ll carry that for a while.’
Murphy pictured her crying across from him. Quietly weeping into an old tissue. Rob had been to see her recently, she’d told them, talking about finding her daughter. Now, it looked like he’d instead been targeted, led to his death.
Rossi went quiet, taking the opportunity to scan the remaining faces. It was something they’d done for all the murder victims in the previous week, attending their memorial sevices to see if anyone turned up who shouldn’t have. At some point, a murderer must have attended the funeral of a victim, but Murphy had never found it useful.
‘The best friend. What was his name?’ Murphy asked.