DEAD GONE (31 page)

‘And you couldn’t save her, Rob. She’ll be there for a little longer, and then I’ll be done with her. Your small efforts were wasted.’

Rob could feel himself fading. He tried to move, but all his strength was gone.

‘You never deserved her, Rob, you never appreciated her. You sapped her life, you were a drain. She’s going to be my masterpiece. A living death. Once I’m done with her, she’ll be unrecognisable, a zombified version of her previous self.’

The darkness enveloped him.

‘Now, number six. Let’s see what you’re made of.’

Rob came around slowly. His eyes opening and closing. Darkness replacing darkness. His mind wasn’t so fast. He couldn’t work out where he was. He thought he could hear an alarm sounding and was confused, as they didn’t have an alarm. He woke up to the radio, always had. He tried to turn over, to tell Jemma to turn it off. Annoyed his sleep had been interrupted.

He couldn’t move.

‘Hello, Robert.’

The voice came from above. Rob tried to focus his eyes, but they wouldn’t respond, there was just darkness. He blinked. And again. Nothing.

‘Can you feel what’s in your hands?’

There was something resting on his palms. He tried moving his fingers to feel what it was, but nothing happened.

‘Can’t have you staring at me throughout this, Robert.’

His mind couldn’t keep up. He looked to his left, where the voice was coming from, but nothing happened.

‘We’re going to do a little experiment. Do you mind?’

Rob tried to answer but his mouth wouldn’t open. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Told his body to sit up, but it didn’t respond.

‘How long do you think it’ll take Rob? If I cut your foot off, how long would you last?’

The words didn’t make sense. He was at home surely. Was the radio on? What was he tuned into? Some weird station, that seemed to know his name.

‘How about a leg? Or an arm.’

Rob tried to move his head. Clear it. He didn’t understand why it wouldn’t do as it was told.

‘Let’s try a few fingers first.’

Silence. He couldn’t even hear his own breathing. He was in a park. Someone had Jemma. But she was lying next to him wasn’t she?

Pain exploded in his right side. He screamed, filling whatever was in his mouth, cutting off the noise.

He didn’t understand.

Why couldn’t he feel his hand anymore?

He could smell burning, coming from below.

‘Just cauterising the wounds. Don’t want you bleeding out just yet.’

The voice. He knew the voice.

‘This little piggy went to market …’

He heard a snap.

It came to him. His fingers first. Now his toes.

Soon, he couldn’t feel his feet. Then his legs.

By the time the feeling in his arms left him, he’d closed his eyes.

Just darkness. Only that, nothing more.

He pulled the axe from the neck. The head toppled off the table and came to a rest near the wall. A pointless effort, the body having expired long before.

He exhaled, spat on the floor as he got his breath back.

Hard work.

The blood. Everywhere. He’d started on the fingers, removing them with a pair of pruners bought from B&Q.

The axe took care of the larger limbs.

He’d tried to stem the bleeding as best as he could, cauterising the wounds to try to make it last as long as possible. It was difficult on his own.

It was different this time.

He could feel it entering every pore of his body, as if the life he’d just ended was now looking for a new body to meld with. He felt energised, his heart beating fast, his hands shaking. He looked down at them, still holding the small axe he’d used. He threw it aside, blood splattering against more blood. His hands were turning dark. He rubbed them, smearing the dark red stains further.

He smiled. Then laughed as he realised the girl had started singing again. She couldn’t process what had happened not six foot away from her door. The eleven months she’d spent in there destroying her mind. She stopped after another verse, no sound following. He looked around, the sudden quiet unsettling him.

‘You’re okay, you’re okay.’ His voice echoed around him, strengthening him, supporting him.

He rose to his feet, wiping his hands down his front. Looking down at the body, he couldn’t place what he was feeling. Was it guilt?

Did he have a conscience still?

It was different this time.

He had barely known most of the people he’d terminated before. He knew this one.

Known this one.

Was this what he was supposed to do? Was this the reason for him?

He shook it off quickly, looking for the feeling of excitement he’d had previously.

Finding it.

He climbed the steps behind him, feeling the adrenaline fade from his body. The effort he’d just given catching up to him.

He didn’t have much time. He needed to get going.

He’d already prepared the things he would need. The bags, the twine to tie them shut. He went back down the steps, carrying what he needed.

The eyes though, the eyes were looking at him. Resting on the table where he left them after removing them from Rob’s hands. Staring up at him, judging him.

‘Stop it,’ he whispered. ‘Stop looking at me.’

He couldn’t take the stare. The eyes accusatory, damning him without trial.

It had to stop.

He puffed out a breath, breathing in and releasing it slowly. He laid out a few bin bags next to the torso, then rolled it over so it was lying on them. He then covered the top with more bags, taking the roll of tape and sticking the bags to each other. He’d learned early on this method made it easier to transport. ‘Practice makes perfect,’ he said under his breath, smiling once more.

It took him longer than he thought it would, but eventually he had all the body parts on the ground floor. He sat with his back against the wall, breathing heavily, sweating even more. He was exhausted from the night’s activities.

He would change his plans. He’d originally thought he’d leave the body to be found that night, but to do so could be risky. He’d come too far to make a mistake now. He needed to rest, work out what was next. Move on.

First he’d check in with the little lady. See how she was doing.

He moved slowly through to the room. His sanctuary. He sat in the chair facing the two monitors, eased himself back slowly. The bottle of water was where he’d left it, he unscrewed the cap and knocked it back, finishing the bottle.

Singing, still singing. He watched for a few minutes, before leaving the room.

‘
Frère Jacques, frère Jacques. Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? Sonnez les matines. Sonnez les matines. Din, dan, don. Din, dan, don.’

Jemma sang. Blocking out the noises. She couldn’t understand them, it’d been too long. She wouldn’t let herself believe.

She’d known that voice once. She was sure of it. But it couldn’t be him, not down here.

Rob. That was his name. Her partner, her lover, her other half.

He couldn’t be down here. It had been too long. It must be at least five years since she’d last seen him. Surely. He’d have moved on. Moved to the countryside or something. Got married. Forgotten her. Maybe he was a dad now. A little boy he’d call John, after his own dad.

She was alone now. He was long gone.

Jemma wondered what the boy would look like. The dimples in his cheeks, and the cleft in his chin, both being passed down. The blue eyes and dark thick hair. Curls when it grew a bit longer.

That’s what will have happened, Jemma thought. Rob wouldn’t be down there.

Not in the darkness.

Please God, not down there with her.

The Strand shopping centre in Bootle was a few minutes’ walk away from the small cul de sac of Georgia Close where George Duffy lived. His cab was parked on the short driveway of the semi-detached house, the window frames and door painted blue, new builds with light red paving stones leading up to the front.

‘No record?’ Murphy said as they pushed open the low steel gate which lay at the front of the property, sidestepped an overflowing green bin and approached the door.

‘Nope. Been a driver for the last fifteen years,’ Rossi replied.

They knocked and waited. Knocked again, louder. Eventually, they heard the sound of a key turning and the door was opened.

Duffy was in his late fifties. Bald, with a grey goatee beard, dark eyes and a weary expression plastered on his face. A paunch protruded over black jogging pants, which were the only thing he was wearing.

‘Yeah?’

Murphy introduced himself and Rossi, showing ID and being invited in. Duffy tidied up as they walked inside, picking up discarded magazines and underwear and putting them away. The smell of grease and cigar smoke was harder to mask.

‘It’s about the taxi isn’t it? I knew that was gonna come back to haunt me.’

‘We just have a few questions, Mr Duffy.’

‘He didn’t seem right from the off. Wanted everything done off the books but when someone’s offering you thirty-five grand in cash, you don’t ask questions do ya?’

Duffy pointed to a black leather settee, as he plonked himself down on a matching armchair. A fifty-inch flatscreen was screwed into the wall above the fireplace, dominating the room.

Murphy lowered himself down, Rossi moved a dirty plate from the other side and did the same. ‘So you sold it?’

‘Yeah,’ Duffy replied, scratching an armpit. ‘Picked a guy up from town one night and got talking. He took a card off me and called the next day.’

‘When was this?’

‘About a year ago. January I think. Yeah, not long after Christmas. Didn’t think he was serious at first. Said he wanted the cab and was willing to pay in cash. Offered thirty grand and I bumped him up to thirty-five. Bought that one outside for fifteen and still had a nice amount left.’

‘It didn’t seem odd to you?’

‘Course it did. What’s he done then? I’m guessing it’s some kind of fraud. Look, I just sold it on, nothing wrong with that.’

Murphy sighed. ‘It’s a bit more serious than that. Did you get a name from him at least?’

‘Said it was Steve something. Can’t remember now. It was ages ago.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I can’t really remember now. About your age maybe, looked well off. Clean cut, trendy maybe. I don’t know.’

Rossi took over then, trying to get more from him, but that was all Duffy had.

Murphy walked into the hallway as Rossi went over and over the description, seeing if he could remember any more. He called through to the station, putting out an alert for the cab’s licence plate. Automatic number plate recognition, or ANPR, would do the rest. As soon as the cab passed a camera, they’d have it.

It was all too late.

Murphy stood inside the white tent, staring at the lifeless form of a man. He was lying on his back, arms and legs outstretched, just like the last
four victims.

Yet, he was different.

‘Reminds me of that song,
the head bone connected to the neck bone …’
Houghton paused from his examination to say.

The body wasn’t whole. Not by any stretch. The toes were cut from both feet. The feet away from the calf, the calf cut away from the thigh and top part of each leg. And on and on. Only the torso was unmarked.

It was a human jigsaw puzzle, the pieces put back together again. Only the small gaps between the pieces marking a difference.

‘More like Humpty Dumpty,’ Murphy replied. ‘What is this?’

Dr Houghton sighed, lifting himself up. ‘I don’t know. He wasn’t killed here, I can tell you that much. No blood. And believe me, there would be a lot of it. Anything that could be removed, has been. Almost clean cuts in some places, skewed in others. I’m going to make a guess at a heavy implement, such as an axe. Something different on the smaller parts, pruners or something.’

‘Letter?’

‘Of course.’

The eyes had been removed. Dark holes where they once sat. The perfect O of the mouth matching the black of the eye sockets.

Murphy remained passive, trying to stay focused. Images interspersed in his head, his mum replacing the man on the floor. Intangible shifts of light, playing with his vision, as tiredness threatened to overcome him. He watched as the SOCOs went to work, bagging and tagging various body parts.

And he knew that face. They all did. Even with the damage that had been done, they recognised it, having only seen him a few days earlier.

Rob Barker.

Another link to the university.

And he’d let him go to his death. He’d screwed up again, and someone else had died. Murphy felt his legs threaten to buckle, fingers tapping against his thigh. Anxiety coursing through him.

This was too much.

Dr Houghton, the pathologist, was speaking to him, his features covered by the surgical mask. Murphy hadn’t been listening, lost in his thoughts. ‘What was that, doctor?’

‘I said, it’s shock due to blood loss most likely. He’s been dead at least eighteen hours.’

‘Looks like some kind of thin rope, or wire was used on his neck as well though. Choked him to death, first maybe. Hard to tell. The eyes …’ the pathologist paused, steeling himself. ‘The eyes were removed whilst he was still alive. And we can’t find them. Maybe whoever did this kept them?’

Murphy nodded. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

‘We’re bagging the letter now so you can read it sooner. I’m guessing we’re on more of a time limit here.’

‘Thanks, doctor.’

Murphy had to leave, he could feel himself swaying on his feet. It was too much. He pushed his way out, moving away from the tent. From death. Lights blinded him as he came outside, the images of his parents’ living room flashing in front of his eyes.

‘You alright, sir?’

Rossi was at his side. ‘Yeah,’ Murphy replied. ‘It’s a bad one.’

‘I guessed as much. We’ve got a witness. Saw a black hackney. Driving away from the scene.’

‘Good. Just give me a minute, Laura. Just need to catch my breath.’

‘Of course.’ Rossi moved away, leaving Murphy alone. He stared out on to the main road. It was a deserted side road, off the busy dual carriageway of Scotland Road. Yet there was lights only a few yards away, a busy road, houses. He turned around, looking towards the main road. Boarded-up shops and off-licences hanging on in there, selling six cans for a fiver.