DEAD GONE (6 page)

Murphy tried to clear his head. He needed to focus and find a name for the girl. He started reading the names of the missing. They had DCs doing the same work in the room, yet Murphy would share the load. There wasn’t much else he could do at the moment. No CCTV to look at, witnesses to interview. Finding the name of the victim was the most important thing they could do right now.

An hour later, it came.

‘I’ve got it. Donna McMahon.’ Murphy looked up from his computer screen at the DC standing over him. DC Harris. Murphy was sure this time.

‘Positive, Harris?’ Murphy replied, hoping he was right.

‘Pretty much,’ DC Harris replied, smiling briefly, before quickly becoming serious-faced again.

At least he remembered some names, Murphy thought.

‘What do you mean “pretty much”?’

‘It was the mole that did it. The only distinguishing feature we had to go on really. Matches the description we have, just getting a picture now.’

‘Who is she then, where’s she from?’ Murphy said.

‘Twenty years old, from Leicester originally. She’s a student at the City of Liverpool University. Her housemates reported her missing six days ago. Her parents still live in Leicester, but they’ve been staying up here the last few days. We’ll contact them to confirm the ID.’

‘Good work, Harris,’ Murphy said. ‘Rossi is at the PM now, get the picture sent to her phone just to check it.’

‘Okay, sir.’ DC Harris scuttled off. Murphy watched him go back to his desk. They had a name. And parents who had to be told their daughter was dead. The thought of informing them began to filter through to Murphy’s mind, sending a shudder through him. That was a conversation he really didn’t want to have. Nerves jangling again. Voice in his head repeating itself.

‘Don’t screw up again … don’t screw up again …’

A student. Has to be a boyfriend then. All that psychology talk in the letter pointed to a fellow student.

Talk to her friends, find out if she was seeing someone. Murphy would bet good money there’d been arguments.

Case would be closed within a couple of days. Tops.

He sat back in his chair, his mind wandering. Tiredness washed over him, his eyes threatening to close, the sounds of the busy office becoming muffled as he lost himself in his own thoughts.

What if he was wrong?

Early evening. Late spring turning into a summer which would see more rain than sun. Night was drawing in, the fading light turning the world outside grey.

The text message that had been sent to him, drawing him here had been simple, yet effective.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CHECKED ON YOUR LOVED ONES DAVID?

He’d opened the door using the key usually kept under the fake rock in the front garden.

The rock had been moved. The key tossed to one side. A red smear on the fob. He’d held the key carefully, trying not to disturb the mark. Knowing what it was, refusing to believe it meant anything.

He entered the house, his movements slow and methodical, an overbearing silence greeting him. A smell in the air that was familiar, yet his conscious wouldn’t place what it was. He moved through the hallway, the living room door to his left, closed. Something drew him towards the door at the end of the hallway which led to the kitchen. He moved slowly along, his senses heightened. He could almost track the progress of every hair as it began to creep up on the back of his neck, his heart hammering against his chest.

He reached out to push the kitchen door open, noticing his hand was shaking.

It was empty. No one there. Nothing out of place. The sun, low in the sky, was shining through the window which overlooked the garden, creating an orange tinge to the light inside. He turned and left the kitchen, going back down the hallway towards the closed living room door, knowing that was where he was supposed to have gone first. Being drawn to the kitchen was his mind trying to keep him from entering, drawing him to the safe place.

He stood at the closed door, somehow knowing what lay behind it. Not wanting to see, knowing he had to. His hand moved of its own accord – in his head he was screaming at himself to stop, not to see, not to feel.

The door opened, and all was red.

Mid-afternoon on the first day. Rain battered the windows, as the weather turned to its usual Northern charm. Murphy sat forward in his chair, grinding the palms of his hands against his eyes.

‘It’s on Radio City and Merseyside, but that’s it. No nationals yet.’

Murphy took his hands away from his face, his eyes unfocused for a split second, turning everything into a blurred mess around him. DS Brannon stood by his desk, running a bloated tongue along his bottom lip.

‘That’s good. Anything else?’

‘Just … you know I’m here right? To pick up any slack, that sort of thing.’

‘Yeah. Course. Did you get around the houses near the scene?’

Brannon straightened up. ‘Yes. Everyone was asleep. No one saw anything. Except that nutty bloke you spoke to. I organised the uniforms into teams, got it done quicker. Time is of the essence and all that.’

Like a child with a painting of nothing more than a blob of colour, brought home from nursery, expecting a parade to be thrown in his honour. Murphy just nodded at his work. Let him squirm.

‘Right. I’ll go chase up that CCTV then?’

‘Okay.’

Brannon left Murphy. The atmosphere around his desk becoming less polluted as a result.

He checked his phone again, waiting on a response from Rossi. He’d messaged her twenty minutes previously to let her know they had a name. His phone was still blank.

Murphy had updated HOLMES himself, internally complaining about having to use the computer to do so. Every piece of information on an investigation was stored on the HOLMES system, leaving no chance for a piece of evidence to be overlooked. Just more admin for him to sort out.

The TV shows get at least one thing right. The first forty-eight hours are crucial. The longer time goes on, the less likely someone is to remember something they may have witnessed, or that an offender will still be in the area. Yet Murphy was stuck on his arse, transferring information from one place to another.

At that point he had a name, and from the look on the face of the young DS making her way to Murphy’s desk, a partner who was struggling to hold down whatever food she’d been able to grab that day.

Murphy smiled, sitting back in his chair and lacing his hands together across his stomach.

‘Fun?’ Murphy said, as Rossi stopped next to him.

‘You know. Could be worse I suppose. Death was caused by asphyxiation.’

Murphy smiled. ‘I knew the letter was bollocks. Bet it’s an ex.’

Rossi noticed something under a fingernail and used another one to scrape underneath it. ‘Not necessarily. Houghton has a theory. In the letter he doesn’t specifically state she’d actually died from the overdose, only that the last dose was fatal. Houghton said it’s unlikely any human could die from an LSD overdose. Well … he actually said near impossible at first, but changed his mind. The level needed to OD on LSD is far too large to be ingested at one time. Plus by the time they’re able to take more, the last dose is beginning to wear off. He’s sent samples off to the lab though and expects there to be a large amount in her system. But cause of death was asphyxiation, nonetheless.’

‘Interesting. I still think it’s bollocks though.’

‘How so?’ Rossi said, perching herself on the edge of Murphy’s desk.

‘The letter wants us to believe she died as the result of some weird experiment,’ Murphy said, pulling a copy of the letter out from underneath a coffee cup. ‘When really he’s just distancing himself from the fact he killed her with his own hands. He sees himself as something he’s not. Possibly thinks he’s better than any other murderer, when in fact he’s strangled some poor girl. My money is still on a boyfriend. He’s just created this thing to tone down his own guilt.’

‘What if it’s real?’

Murphy paused. Experiment Three, the letter had said. That would mean two others and a pattern. And he really didn’t want to start thinking about what that would mean.

‘We cross that bridge if we come to a river of evidence.’

Rossi nodded slowly. ‘At least we have a name now.’

‘Yeah. Harris got it. Donna McMahon. She’s a student at the university.’

‘Are the parents on the way? Houghton is waiting for them to ID her.’

‘Harris is sorting it out.’

‘Time for something to eat?’

Murphy raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Feeling better already? Usually it takes a while for you to be feeling okay after a PM.’

‘I’m getting better at it, sir.’

‘Good. And how many times do I have to tell you? Stop calling me sir. There’s barely five or six years between us.’

‘Sorry. Habit.’

Murphy sighed, rising up from his chair. ‘We’ve got nothing from canvassing the surrounding area. CCTV will be here soon. Brannon is chasing it up.’

Murphy smiled as Rossi snorted at the mention of Brannon’s name. ‘He causing you problems?’

‘Nothing I can’t handle. To be honest, nothing a five year old couldn’t handle. He’s not exactly quick with the insults.’

‘Yeah, well. If he crosses a line let me know. I’d love an excuse to tear him a new one.’

They walked side by side towards the lift. Rossi’s shorter legs moving quicker as she tried to keep pace with Murphy. He allowed her to move ahead of them as the lift doors opened, pressed the button on the lift as they both entered.

‘It’s been a while since we’ve dealt with a suspicious. Even then it’s usually the husband or wife,’ Rossi said as the lift doors closed.

‘True. What was that one last year we worked together? Wife did her husband in with the spud peeler he’d bought her for her birthday?’

Rossi laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls of the small lift. ‘That’s right. That was a good one. Stuck him right in the neck with it. Blood everywhere. Do you remember what she said in the interview?’

Murphy smiled remembering. ‘He got my birthday wrong. It’s not for another three months.’

Rossi tried to stifle her laughter. Failed.

Murphy sniggered quietly along with her, remembering the DCI’s face when they’d gone into her office after the interview.

Murphy snorted. ‘We’ve got a proper case here, and you’re with me all the way. Hopefully it’s open and shut, and we have a closed one for your record. We just have to make sure there’s no cock-ups, and we catch the bastard.’

‘We will. He’s given us a lot to go on.’

Murphy sighed, leaning against the back of the lift compartment. ‘Yeah. You’re probably right. It was the mole you know, that got us the name. All these advances in technology and it’s a bloody birthmark that gives us the lead.’

‘The mole eh? Always good to have a distinguishing feature. It’s why I’ve got the tattoo.’

‘Of course that’s why. Nothing to do with being young and foolish I’m sure.’

Rossi turned away, suddenly finding the lift display interesting.

Murphy smiled to himself. The smile disappearing as the images of that morning entered his mind again.

Not as easy. Not as easy as it used to be.

Cold. It was always cold down there. No matter how many times he was told it was normal room temperature in the corridors away from the rooms where post-mortems were held, Murphy had to stop himself from shivering when he was there.

It had been a while.

Heels smacking against hard floors, echoing around a colourless corridor. Houghton’s assistant came to a stop near their group of four. Two detectives, two parents. One of them silent as the other rambled on.

‘I apologise. We’ve never had any dealings with the police before. Hoped we never would, to be quite frank.’

The assistant pathologist entered behind them. Murphy was distracted by the sight of her wheeling a bed up to the window, waiting for the cue to pull back the sheet.

‘We’re really sorry, but we need you to confirm this is your daughter,’ Rossi said, directing Donna McMahon’s parents closer to the glass separating them from their daughter.

They’d introduced themselves in plummy voices, a world away from the accents you would hear on most Liverpool streets. John McMahon looked half broken. Tall, lean, with a shock of grey hair which was slicked back, wearing a suit that looked like it had been tailor made for him. Professional. Moneyed. Donna was obviously a daddy’s girl. Carole was holding back tears, trying to keep a stiff upper lip. She was shorter than her husband but not by much. Her skin was tanned and leathery looking. She fiddled with a large beaded necklace which was worn with a smart trouser suit.

Murphy noticed John’s hands were shaking as he turned to face him. Murphy cued the assistant through the window to pull back the cover and Carole turned away, burying her face in her husband’s shoulder. Murphy watched as the realisation hit Carole as she moved her face away from John’s shoulder.

John could see what she was doing and pulled her back. ‘Don’t Carole, it’s … it’s her,’ he said.

‘No. No, it can’t be. John, don’t say that. She’s halfway through her degree, she can’t be … be gone.’ Huge, racking sobs suddenly filled the corridor.

John put his arms around her, clutching her in a desperate embrace.

The temperature increased. Gone was the chill he always felt. Murphy could feel the heat in the place, seeping out of the drab, beige walls. Memories flooded in, crowding his mind. One minute the girl’s parents stood there, the next, him.

Her.

Murphy looked down at his hands, wringing themselves together. Began shifting on his feet, wanting to be anywhere else. Wanting the cold to come back.

Rossi glanced his way and frowned at him. Turning back to the McMahons, she remained stoic. ‘Mr and Mrs McMahon, I know this is difficult. Are you sure that’s Donna?’ she said.

‘I know my daughter, officer.’ John said.

Murphy had an overwhelming temptation to correct his terming of Rossi’s rank, but bit back on it. He wasn’t thinking straight. Why were they still crying? It was too hot to cry. He needed to get out of there. He was burning up, his chest tightening.