Читать книгу The Dying Place - Luca Veste, Luca Veste - Страница 18

The first day was winding down, the light fading outside in the early May evening. Murphy and Rossi crossed the incident room, heading back towards their office. There’d be a short meeting before they left for the day, but other than the list of names they’d accrued, there wasn’t much else they could do. Overtime was currently a dirty word in the station, and unless the DCI suddenly got pressure from above, Murphy couldn’t imagine they’d change that for a single victim. Especially when he knew what most minds in the hive would be thinking.

Some scally kid had got what was coming to him.

It still troubled Murphy. Any death still had that effect on him. Sometimes he wondered if he had been born in the wrong era. It seemed to Murphy that there were more victims than ever that supposedly deserved their fates, in a growing number of people’s opinions. Even if they were only a few years on from being nothing but kids. Not having a clue what the reality of their actions could eventually lead to.

Murphy had been there. Growing up on a council estate in South Liverpool, the line between making something of your life and screwing it up was thin. Sometimes even blurred.

Murphy took out his phone as they reached their office, the silence he’d been hoping for denied due to DC Harris sitting behind the desk speaking into his mobile, his back to them. He turned as they entered, redness creeping up his neck. Private call then, Murphy thought.

‘I’ll call you back,’ Harris whispered into the phone, which made little difference considering the size of the office. ‘I don’t know when, I’ll just ring in a bit, okay?’ He stabbed at the phone, slamming it down on the desk with more force than Murphy thought he’d intended.

‘You all right?’ Rossi said, taking her jacket off and placing it over her chair. Murphy was already taking his phone out of his pocket.

‘Yeah, just … doesn’t matter. Boring shite.’

Rossi went to reply but stopped herself as Murphy shot her a look. Domestics. Best not to get involved. Murphy went back to texting.

Body this morning. Won’t be late though. Bit knackered, so can I just pick up an Indian?

Murphy hesitated before pressing send. He hoped Sarah would understand that he wasn’t taking her out, but he could never tell how she’d respond. In many ways they were still treading on eggshells with each other. Learning how to be with one another after they’d spent the best part of a year apart, following the death of his parents and all that had brought with it.

‘Just send it,’ Rossi said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘She’ll understand.’

Murphy smirked. And they say women’s intuition doesn’t exist. ‘Supposed to be taking her out,’ Murphy said, phone still in hand, the screen darkening. ‘Forgot to book a table though, so now I’ve got a perfect excuse.’

‘She’ll be fine. Take her tomorrow or next week. All the time in the world,’ Rossi replied.

Muttering came from Harris’s direction, accompanied by a loud sigh.

‘What’s up with you?’ Murphy said, sending the text as he spoke.

‘Nothing,’ Harris replied. ‘Just, you know, they’re not always as understanding as that.’

Murphy shared a smile with Rossi. ‘I’m sure it’ll work itself out. Don’t let it get to you.’

Harris shrugged in response. Three of them in the office and Murphy realised his relationship was probably the most secure. A strange feeling, given what had happened the previous couple of years.

He was mentally admonishing himself for allowing a crack to appear in the veneer of stability. Allowing work to affect things. He couldn’t let that happen again.

His phone buzzed on the desk in front of him.

Glad you said that. I’m knackered. Get home in time for 8 out of 10 Cats.

Murphy allowed himself a small smile before checking the time. Almost six p.m. Just enough time for a conversation he was dreading.

‘Where’s he been? That’s what I want to know. Where’s he fucking been for over six months, while you all sat on your arses doing nothing?’

Sally Hughes spat the last question out directly at Murphy, as if he’d been involved in the whole thing. He remained stoic, eager to allow Sally to get her initial anger out so they could move forward. ‘That’s what we’re going to find out, Sally. It’ll help us if you could tell us a few things though, okay?’

‘Oh, you want to hear all about it now, don’t you? When it doesn’t matter any more. Fucking useless, the lot of you.’

Murphy moved the box of tissues she’d been using to dab her tears away, just in case she decided to chuck that at him, which, going by the whitening of her knuckles on the table between them, could occur at any second. ‘Give us a chance to prove we’re not useless, okay, Sally?’

She sat back in the chair, finally breaking eye contact with him to bury her head in her hands, tears springing forth once more. ‘God, what happened? Are you going to find out what happened to him?’ Sally said, raising her head and facing Rossi this time.

‘That’s what we want to do, Sally,’ Rossi replied. ‘That’s why we need your help.’

‘Okay. Ask me anything. I’m not gonna lie to you.’

Unlike usually, Murphy thought, before giving himself an internal slap.

‘Right,’ Rossi said, reading the first question off the list they’d prepared before going into the room. ‘Dean went missing in the early hours of 6 October. When was the last time you saw him?’

‘The evening before. He was going out with mates and he came in to say bye. About half six, I think, because Hollyoaks was about to start.’

‘And did he seem okay … anything different about him?’

Murphy watched her as she thought back. Memory is a stranger; it plays tricks on you. He knew they might learn more from the original report, but having scan-read it earlier, he wasn’t holding out much hope. Some uniform had taken it without going into much detail. Even the follow-ups from higher-ups had been perfunctory at best.

‘Maybe a bit quieter, but nothing really. It was a Friday, so I knew he’d be in late, if at all. He was nearly eighteen, so I couldn’t really say anything. Not that he cared at sixteen or fifteen, for that matter. Always had his own mind, Dean. He’s … what’s the word … stubborn. That’s it. Always was. Does things his own way and woe betide anyone who tries to stop him.’

‘Did he say where he was going that night?’

‘Out. That’s what he always said. I knew he’d be drinking, of course. Maybe more, who knows with kids these days? But he always let me know if he was staying over at a mate’s or something. Send me a text in the early hours, just to stop me worrying. When I woke up the next morning and didn’t have anything from him, I knew something was wrong. Our Jason – that’s my youngest one, just turned seventeen a couple of weeks ago – went looking for him on the Saturday afternoon but couldn’t find him.’

‘Where did he look?’ Murphy said, easing into the conversation.

‘Couple of lads he knew that hung around with Dean,’ Sally continued, taking a lighter out of her hoodie pocket. ‘I’m guessing I can’t smoke in here?’

Murphy shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have a break soon.’

‘I rang you lot Saturday night. We found out more than youse did though.’

‘I’ve got some of it here,’ Murphy replied, flipping back a couple of sheets of the report. ‘He was last seen by a Steven Waites at around three a.m. Said he left him in West Derby Cemetery with “some bird I can’t remember the name of”.’

A whisper of a smile played on Sally’s lips before being lost with a knock of the lighter in her hand on the table. ‘We found out who that was. Some slut from up the road. Amanda Williams. Sixteen, she was. Glad I have boys, I’ll tell you that.’

‘And …’

‘She was pissed. Last thing she remembers was throwing up behind some grave and then her dad pulling her into the house. Reckons Dean must have took her home.’

Murphy found the part of the missing person’s report which referred to this.

Took girlfriend home.

Murphy shook his head at the lack of investigation. He knew it was down to time, resources and all that bullshit. The oft-quoted statistic relating to missing persons. Quarter of a million a year. Most turning back up again quickly. Still, a bit of effort might have saved at least one life.

‘And that was it,’ Sally continued. ‘No one saw him again. We tried getting in the papers and that, but they weren’t interested. Eighteen-year-old lad with his history … they couldn’t care less. Just assumed he’d done something wrong and got what was coming to him. We stuck posters up and that, but when we got the letter in January, we kind of stopped and just waited around.’

Murphy looked towards Rossi, who looked back at him, mirroring his own reaction. Flicked through the report to make sure he hadn’t missed something, came up with nothing.

‘What letter?’