Читать книгу DEAD GONE - Luca Veste, Luca Veste - Страница 8

Frosty, brisk air swirled around Sefton Park and its surrounding area, the early morning mist only just beginning to lift above the tree line. Detached houses, set back from the main road, lined the street on one side, where flashing lights from multiple vehicles had drawn out bleary eyed gawkers. They stood on the pavements shifting on cold feet in the early morning light. Mostly, they wouldn’t say two words to each other, but the early morning excitement had driven them out, even caused conversation to break out. At one time the houses had contained whole families, now most were converted apartments, selling for six-figure sums.

Detective Inspector David Murphy turned his attention back to the park over the road; not your small, family friendly, swings and slide type of park. Instead, acres of greenery, beautiful old trees, and enough space to see something new each time you walked through there.

And the odd dead body turning up unannounced.

It was usually suicides. Hanging from a tree, or a bunch of pills in the middle of a field. Hoping no one finds them before they go.

But at times it was something else.

He saw the lights in the distance. Blue, red, shifting from left to right. The constant pattern having a seemingly hypnotic effect on those straining to see further into the park beyond. Murphy was sitting in his car, the engine settling as he summoned up the energy to get out and make his way over. The lights of the marked cars parked in front of his Citroën reflected off the dark interior inside, a strobe effect bouncing off the dashboard.

Murphy shook his seatbelt off and leaned forward, attempting to see past the lights and people milling around the park. He slumped back in the seat when it became clear he wouldn’t see anything.

He scratched his beard, the trim he’d performed the previous night giving it a coiffed edge, which he decided said ‘distinguished’ rather than ‘hiding a double chin’. He stifled a yawn and opened the car door, stretching his long legs out, the tight feeling in his calves telling him he’d maybe overdone it on the cross trainer the previous evening, trying to shift those last few pounds of weight.

He’d been awake no more than fifteen minutes when his DCI had called. That made it less than an hour into the day for him, and he was walking towards the body of a dead girl.

Not how Murphy usually liked to start off a day, especially a Sunday. A phone call from work before he’d even had chance to drink his coffee. Have a slice of toast. Put a fresh suit on.

Death could be incredibly selfish.

‘Murphy,’ he’d answered once he’d finally located the phone hiding in his jeans pocket on the bedroom floor. Stabbed at the screen, trying to answer the stupid thing.

‘David?’

Murphy’s shoulders slumped. DCI Stephens. Which, outside of normal hours, usually signified nothing good. ‘What’s happened?’

‘A body. Suspicious circumstances. Found in Sefton Park.’

‘Shit. Bad?’

‘Not sure of all the details at the moment.’

‘I’m wanted?’

‘Why else would I be calling you, David? I’m not your bloody alarm clock.’

‘It’s been a while, that’s all. Was starting to wonder if I’d be stuck on break-ins for another six months.’

‘Well you’ve got something else now.’

‘Who’s with me?’

‘Rossi or Tony Brannon. Your decision.’

‘Great. Not exactly Sophie’s fucking Choice.’

‘Language. Weren’t you taught never to swear in front of a lady? And anyway, beggars can’t be choosers. How long until you can get down there?’

Murphy crooked his phone between his shoulder and ear. Grabbed his trousers from where they had been lying next to his jeans. ‘Which end?’

‘Which end of what?’

‘The park.’ Jesus wept.

‘Oh, Aigburth Drive. Just look for the lights. Sounds like half the bloody force is there.’

Murphy zipped up his trousers and gave the previous day’s shirt a sniff. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

He left the house five minutes later reversing out the driveway, and onto the road. Decided twenty minutes was probably a little optimistic. It’d probably be double that this time of the morning, even without the usual weekday traffic through the tunnel. He shook his head, tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth, and turned right out of the small winding road which surrounded the small estate, lamenting the fact he was already going to be playing catch up when he got there.

The commute may have been bad, but at least it gave him a chance to wake up. Within five minutes he was on the motorway heading for the Wallasey tunnel, which separated the Wirral and Liverpool.

The Wirral hadn’t always been home. In fact, he’d only been able to call it that for the previous few months. The Wirral was historically known as simultaneously living in Liverpool’s shadow, whilst also enjoying much more wealth than most of Liverpool. These days, the link was closer. Whilst the wealth was still strong in the west of the Wirral, with the likes of West Kirby and Heswall, the destruction of the shipping trade at Cammell Laird’s on the east side meant that the Wirral now had its own pockets of deprivation. Even the kids spoke in a Scouse accent now, albeit a bastardised version of it. Murphy was comfortable living there, even if the subtle differences became more apparent every day, needling at him.

He loved the city of Liverpool. The people, the buildings, the history. He just needed some time away. Working there was enough for now.

He used his fast tag when he arrived at the Wallasey tunnel booths, and broke the forty mile an hour limit going under the River Mersey, but it was still forty minutes after the phone call by the time he’d pulled the car to a stop.

He walked out into the damp and cold January morning, zipping his coat as he walked towards the railings which lined the path, hastily strung-up crime scene tape strewn across them. The wide main road was shadowed by high trees on both sides, which masked most of the view. A couple of uniforms stood guard at the park entrance – a quick flash of his warrant card and he was able to pass through.

He could see the hive of activity a couple of hundred yards or so ahead, near a stone path which cut through the grass on either side, leading from the entrance into the distance. The main activity seemed to be concentrated on a grass verge which went up into the treeline. Murphy dropped his head as the wind rose, and began walking towards it.

‘Sir!’ Detective sergeant Laura Rossi, second generation Italian. Five and a half foot tall, dark long hair. Strong looking, from the broad shoulders which made her stocky, to the Roman nose which complemented her features. Most of the single, and quite a few of the married lads at the station had tried and failed with her. Murphy wasn’t one of them. She came bounding towards Murphy and brushed her hair away from her face, tucking strands behind her ear. ‘You all right?’

‘What have we got?’ Murphy said as she reached him.

‘Morning to you too, sir.’

Murphy looked down at her, Rossi being at least eight inches shorter, and about half his weight. He smiled as she looked up to him, before realising where they were and adopting a stoic face once more. He was glad she was there. In a weird way, and completely without context given he had no kids of his own, he wanted to look after her; be a father figure of some sort. She was inexperienced, he supposed. Needed some guidance. Which, if this was a bona fide murder case, he could definitely do without. Especially considering his last effort. ‘Let’s get on with it. And stop calling me sir, how many times do I have to tell you.’

‘Course. Sorry, sir. Young female, found by a corpse sniffer around six a.m. Fully clothed. Nothing here but the body, laid out beneath a tree.’

Murphy looked around and spotted the man she was referring to, talking to some uniforms. An older guy, probably in his mid-sixties, his dog sitting next to him, silent on his lead.

‘He have anything to say?’ Murphy said.

‘Not much, dog ran off into the trees, he went looking for it and found the girl.’

‘Is nobhead here?’

Rossi looked confused. ‘Who’s a nobhead?’

Murphy smiled, still finding it amusing that the Scouse accent didn’t match the Mediterranean looks. ‘Brannon. Is he around?’

Rossi attempted to hold back a laugh behind a hand. Murphy noticed her fingernails, bitten down rather than manicured. ‘Yeah, he’s off on the hunt for clues. His words, not mine.’

‘Good.’ Murphy replied. ‘Fat bastard could do with some exercise. SOCOs here yet?’

‘About twenty minutes before you.’

‘Any other witnesses?’

‘Not at the moment.’

‘Okay. You looked at the body yet?’

Rossi shook her head.

‘Well then. Let’s not keep her waiting.’

Murphy snapped on his gloves, extra-large, and began walking towards the scene. He could see the Palm House, a large dome building which was the centrepiece of the park, in the distance, past the trees. The great glass windows gave it the appearance of a huge greenhouse looked dull and lifeless in the muggy morning light.

Murphy and Rossi entered the tent that was being erected around the body. The treeline was thicker there, the ground, still not completely unfrozen from the harsh winter, crunching underneath his feet.

The click and whirr of photographs being taken was the only soundtrack to the scene. Murphy let his eyes be drawn to the girl. Early twenties he figured. Plain looking, dressed conservatively in black trousers and a red v-necked jumper. One earring, which meant either one was missing or was now a souvenir.

His money, as always, was on the latter. Always to the morbid thought first. To be fair, he was usually right.

Murphy side-stepped around the edge, carefully avoiding anything that looked important, and stood at the foot of the body, taking it in. She had the distinctive pallor of the dead; pale, the colour drained out of her as the blood stopped flowing. The clothes looked new, unworn, the creases on the jumper looking like they were from packaging, rather than wear.

She was spread-eagled, arms outstretched in a V, her legs doing the same. Carefully placed in the position. It looked unnatural, posed, which was probably the intention, Murphy thought. Her face was what drew his gaze. Half-lidded eyes, staring right through him. Blue, glazed, the last image they’d captured that of whoever had left her here. Her mouth was slightly parted, the top row of teeth on show in a final grimace. Ugly, red marks over her bare neck.

Dr Stuart Houghton, Stu to his friends, was crouched next to the girl. He’d been the lead pathologist in the city for as long as Murphy had been working. His grey hair was thinning, his posture stooped, as he stood up from his haunches. His short, squat stature only enhanced by the ever-growing paunch he was cultivating around his middle. He turned to look at Murphy.

‘Dr Houghton, what have we got?’

‘Took your time, Dave.’

Murphy shot his hands to his mouth. ‘Calling me Dave when you know I don’t like it? You never fail to shock. And it was only because I knew you’d be here already. What can you tell me?’

‘Are you running this one?’ Houghton said.

Murphy gazed at the pathologist and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I just do as I’m told.’

Houghton pursed his lips at him. ‘Well then, can’t tell you much at the moment,’ he said, gesturing towards the young woman. ‘This is how she was found, her arms and legs outstretched like she’s doing a star jump, only lying down. There’s no evidence around the body as far as we can tell so far, and she’s been dead around twelve hours. No ID, handbag, purse, nothing. Other than that you’ll have to wait for the post-mortem. We’re moving her out now.’

‘Why suspicious then?’ Murphy asked, knowing the answer but wanting to piss off the doc a little more.

Houghton muttered something under his breath before continuing. ‘As you can no doubt already see, there’s bruises around her neck which indicate asphyxiation. First paramedic on the scene noticed them, and, in my opinion correctly, assumed it was better to call in the big boys.’

Murphy looked closer at the girl. Large bruises under her chin, turning darker as time passed. A large birthmark, or mole, the colour of strong coffee on the lower left side of her neck.

‘Did she die here?’

‘Not certain yet, but I’m almost positive she didn’t. No signs of struggle around the area. The grass is flattened only in the immediate vicinity of the body.’

‘Any other distinguishing features aside from the mole, I need to know about straight away. And let us know when the post-mortem is.’

Houghton nodded, and went back to work.

Murphy left the tent, Rossi trailing behind him. ‘We’ll take a statement from the witness and then we should try and find out who she is.’

Rossi nodded and set off towards the witness. Murphy began the process of removing his gloves and looking around the area, seeing a few familiar faces from older crime scenes about the place. He nodded and exchanged greetings with some of them.

No one stopped to talk to him.

He wasn’t surprised. He gave one last look at the finished tent, the uniforms walking around the area, looking under the bushes and scouring the ground.

Back to it.