The Dying Place (6 page)

‘Sir … you still with me?’

Murphy blinked back the images and looked out the windscreen towards the slowing traffic in front of him.

‘Yeah … I’m fine. Just … doesn’t take much, Laura.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I’m sound. This is nothing like the last one.’

And it wasn’t. Not yet.

Murphy held his phone in one hand, comparing it to the photo which was staring back at him from the computer screen. ‘I can’t really tell,’ he said, squinting and moving the phone around to try and see better, ‘this phone keeps going dark.’

Rossi leant across the desk. ‘Give it here, will you.’

Murphy allowed her to snatch the phone out of his hands. One day he’d learn how these things worked, but for now he was happy to let others do it for him. ‘All right, you do it then.’

‘See,’ Rossi said, flashing the phone in his face before going back to studying it again, ‘here’s your problem. You’ve turned off autorotate. And you have to keep your finger on the screen to keep it backlit.’

A lot of words which meant pretty much fuck all to Murphy. ‘Of course,’ he replied.

‘What do you reckon?’

Murphy nodded. Rossi had managed to enlarge the photo of the victim, which had been sent to his mobile a few minutes earlier, so that it fit the screen. ‘Obviously can’t be sure, but certainly looks like him.’

A photo of Dean Hughes filled his computer monitor. A mugshot taken during his last arrest. ‘This is eight months old, but I’m almost sure it’s him. Look at the scar above the eyebrow.’

‘Yeah,’ Rossi replied, leaning over him to look closer, ‘looks like it to me.’

Murphy began reading the information which was attached. ‘Arrested and then cautioned for Section Five. Hughes was “drunk and aggressive – believed all cofppers to be complete ‘twats.’” Sounds delightful.’

‘How many arrests are there?’

Murphy scrolled down the list. ‘Jesus … at least twenty. That’s just page one. That guy Hale was right. He was used to dealing with us.’

‘When was the last time we had any contact with him there?’

Murphy frowned as he went back over the record. ‘Odd. Seems like he was in trouble quite regularly up until seven months ago. Then … nothing.’

‘Weird. Was he banged up?’

Murphy checked further. ‘No. Nothing about that. No court appearances scheduled or anything.’

Rossi tapped a pen against her teeth, far too close to Murphy’s ears for comfort. ‘What’s his address?’

‘Clanfield Road. Norris Green.’

‘Check to see if there’s anything else.’

Murphy clicked through to the HOLMES database. HOLMES 2 as it was officially called, after an upgrade during the nineties, stored information on a variety of features, most of which Murphy never had time for. Case management, material disclosure … it was really just a dumping ground for every piece of information anyone working in the police received.

‘Here we go,’ Murphy said, sitting up in his chair, ‘he was reported missing.’

Rossi came back around the desk. ‘When?’

‘Get onto this … seven months ago.’

‘Well, that explains things. He’s been off getting into all kinds of shit, and now it’s caught up with him?’

‘Maybe,’ Murphy replied, leaning back in his chair. ‘But it didn’t look like he’d been living on the streets or anything. He looked, well, normal. Like he’d been looking after himself. For someone dead, anyway.’

‘I guess. I didn’t really look at him all that closely, to be honest.’

Murphy drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking back to the image of the victim he’d taken in his mind earlier that morning. A snapshot, something to keep in his head whilst he was working. ‘Clean fingernails,’ he said, after a few moments of silence.

‘What?’ Rossi replied, holding her hand out in front of her and studying it.

‘He had clean fingernails. I’m sure of it.’

‘Okay …’

‘We’ll have to check at the PM of course, but I’m pretty positive they were clean. If he was living rough, or in some dosshouse somewhere, they wouldn’t be, would they?’

Rossi looked at him with a blank face, which set Murphy on edge. He didn’t like being thought of as spouting rubbish. He’d seen that look reflected at him too often in the past, and he thought he was finally getting away from it.

‘I’m serious, Laura,’ he went on, after waiting a few seconds for her to respond and not getting anything. ‘This could be important. If he’s been missing seven months, we’ll need to know where he was. We can narrow the search straight off if he’s been somewhere where he’d have been able to keep clean.’

Rossi finally nodded, sparks hitting her eyes as she realised what he’d been implying. ‘I get you now. Good thinking, sir.’

‘It’s what I’m paid to do. Now, let’s get a picture of him from Doctor Houghton – get it over to the family. I want an ID sorted quickly.’ Murphy stood, leaving the smaller office and crossing into the wider office which housed the rest of the CID team. He strode over to the whiteboards which detailed the ongoing cases and began making a few notes underneath where someone had added that morning’s new victim.

‘Right,’ Murphy said, turning to face the few DCs who had been watching him. ‘Who’s going through initial neighbour reports?’

DC Sagan raised her hand. ‘Me, but there’s nothing there at the moment. No one heard anything in the adjoining street to the church. Only four houses were occupied when uniforms knocked though, so there’ll be more later when they’re back from work or whatever.’

‘Okay,’ Murphy replied, eyeing a particularly unpleasant sight trundling over towards the group. DS Tony Brannon, polluting the air as he walked, eating a packet of crisps, spilling crumbs across the carpet. A pain in the arse, but one Murphy had in check, he hoped. ‘Keep collecting reports,’ Murphy continued. ‘I want you in constant contact with the uniforms at the scene. Plus, DC Harris and DS Brannon, I want you to go down to the scene and help with enquiries.’

DS Brannon managed to pause in between mouthfuls to blurt out, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake …’

‘Don’t want to hear it, Tony. Just get your arse down there. I want something before the media start getting involved.’

‘Fine,’ Brannon replied. ‘Come on, Harris.’

Murphy spied Rossi coming out of their office, beckoning him over. He turned back to the group of five DCs still looking at him. ‘The rest of you go back to what cases you were doing before this morning. See if you can get anything sorted before being dragged into this one.’

‘Death notice?’ Rossi said, as Murphy reached the office door.

‘We don’t know yet, do we?’ Murphy replied, moving past her and grabbing his suit jacket from the back of his chair. ‘Let’s get there and find out. You got the address?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay then. Give me a minute. Want to make sure the DCI knows what’s going on.’

DCI Stephens was already standing in the doorway as he reached her office, down the corridor from his own. Her office was around the same size of his, but with the benefit of being for her alone.

‘Was just coming to let you know the latest,’ Murphy said, realising he was still holding his jacket. He began putting it on.

‘I know, I heard. Didn’t want to interrupt. Looks like you’ve got the basics covered. ID yet?’

‘Almost sure of it. Some teenager from Norris Green …’

‘Not a frigging gang thing, is it?’ DCI Stephens said, running a perfectly manicured hand through her loose hair. ‘That’s the last thing we want.’

‘Not sure yet. There’s a few things not adding up at the moment. I’d stay open-minded for the time being.’

‘Okay. Well, the Chief Super has taken an interest already.’

‘Really?’ Murphy replied, surprised to hear notice had been taken.

‘Body found in church grounds? He’s already imagining all kinds. Don’t worry about him, I’ll keep him quiet for now. You concentrate on finding out who the vic is, and how he ended up dead outside a church.’

Murphy mocked a salute. ‘Got it, boss.’ Received a roll of DCI Stephens’s eyes in response. He walked away before she could say anything more, finding Rossi in exactly the same position as he’d left her. ‘Ready?’

‘Of course.’

5

Murphy fiddled with the lever underneath the passenger seat, attempting to find the right motion which would move the seat backwards, removing his knees from underneath his chin. Sliding the chair back with a sudden bang, he ignored the stare from Rossi and went back to reading the criminal record of Dean Hughes.

It could have been his own from that age, had he not been much savvier. Every time Murphy had been in trouble as a teenager, he’d managed to get away with a warning here, a run away there. Not so much as an official caution, which was handy, given that he ended up joining the dark side himself.

Not that he saw it that way. The police service had given him purpose, a grounding. He could have been another lost statistic from the Speke estate. No drive to do anything other than get pissed with his mates and cause a bit of trouble. Boxing had helped, given him a sense of discipline, but when it became clear that he wasn’t going to make it above domestic level, he jacked it in. Waste of time.

Murphy remembered his dad talking to him once, dragging him out of bed at around ten in the morning, which had annoyed Murphy no end, given he hadn’t got home until four. His dad then had one of those conversations with him where he asked the questions Murphy had no answer for. What was he doing with his life … was this all he wanted … and where’s your keep, you little shit?

Just about to turn nineteen and he had no clue. Working every few days or so, cash in hand, and then blowing it on cider.

He couldn’t remember who’d suggested joining the police. It had just happened one day. He wandered into Canning Place near Albert Dock, having passed the initial application, and sat down to do a Maths and English test. Then it was the physical, which he’d passed with ease, still retaining the fitness from the boxing. Then two years on probation.

Fifteen years later and here he was, a detective inspector a good few years ahead of schedule, and at the forefront yet again.

‘What was the address again?’ Rossi said, disturbing Murphy’s trip down memory lane.

‘Clanfield Road,’ Murphy replied, checking the notes on the top of the file. ‘Head for Dwerryhouse Lane and I’ll direct you from there.’

‘Good, ’cause I get lost in all the back roads around there.’

Murphy sniggered, knowing what she meant. Norris Green was a larger place than most people expected. A council estate with one of the worst reputations in Liverpool at that moment – mainly for gang violence. Since the murder of a young boy outside a pub in nearby Croxteth, the result of a longstanding feud between rival gangs in Croxteth and Norris Green, with the eleven-year-old boy, an innocent bystander, shot in the back, the area had begun to change. Gangs had been shown on TV in exploitative
documentaries
– and subsequently shunned for revealing supposed secrets of ‘street-life’ – and the DIY show from the BBC had made over the local youth club, giving some kids a place to go which wasn’t in danger of falling down around them.

It was still a tough place to grow up though. Not much upward mobility in those kind of estates. And not many people trying to change that.

‘Take the next left,’ Murphy said, as they approached the end of Muirhead Avenue – Croxteth Park off to their right, still hidden by houses – the church where Dean Hughes’s body had been found that morning close by, only a few minutes further away.

‘Right here,’ Murphy said, looking at the derelict patch of field which lay to their left. An upturned Iceland shopping trolley was the main attraction, along with empty carrier bags, various bottles and rubbish. ‘You’d think they’d do something with that.’

‘With what?’ Rossi replied, indicating to turn.

‘That big patch of green. Just going to waste. It just looks like an eyesore, ’cause no one’s looking after it.’

‘You know why. They’re not willing to spend money around here. Reckon it’d just get wrecked, so they won’t bother.’

‘I suppose.’

Rossi slowed the car, looking for the right house number. ‘It’s bollocks though. That argument, I mean.’

‘You think?’

‘Course I do. If you put people in places like this, where everything is left to go to shit, what do you expect them to do? Everything’s grey, dark. That’s how your life is going to feel like. It’s the
Broken Windows
theory.’

‘The what?’

‘The theory that if the area you live in looks like shite, then the people who live there will act like shite as well.’

Murphy smirked. ‘And that’s how it’s put in the books, I imagine.’

Rossi snorted. ‘More or less.’

Murphy thought she had a point, but didn’t have chance to say so as she slowed the car and parked up.

‘I really wish we could have phoned ahead,’ Rossi said, unbuckling her seatbelt. ‘I hate just turning up with no warning. Makes it worse.’

‘Home number we had for them was out of use. Everyone has mobiles these days.’

The house they’d stopped outside of didn’t scream ‘house of a tearaway’. A sort of mid-terrace, with light brown stone brickwork. An archway separated the house from next door, but it was still connected on the top level. There were three wheelie bins on the small driveway, a few crisp packets lifting slightly in the breeze before settling back down against the fence. It was May, but Murphy shook his head as he noticed the house next door still had Christmas decorations hanging from the guttering – the clear icicles he’d noticed on market stalls in town, the previous December.

‘You ready?’ Murphy said as he pushed open the metal gate, the screeching sound as it slid across the ground making his hairs stand on end. It needed lifting, fixing or replacing.

‘Are you?’ Rossi replied, walking ahead of him and knocking on the door. Four short raps – the rent man’s knock, as his mum used to say.

They stood waiting for a few seconds before Rossi knocked again, pulling back as they heard the barking.

‘
Porca vacca
,’ Rossi said under her breath.

‘You don’t like dogs, Laura?’ Murphy said from behind a smile.