There are parts of Liverpool that look entirely different from what some people might expect. Leafy suburbs, newly built detached houses, mansions even. Streets kept clean, well looked after. You could drop some parts of Liverpool into more affluent areas of the country and no one would think they looked out of place.
And other parts of the city looked much as an outsider might expect.
‘Well . . . this is different from Chloe’s parents’ house.’
Murphy turned towards Rossi, raised his eyebrows then opened the car door. Passenger side this time. Rossi had made it clear it was her turn to drive, so he’d had to squeeze himself into her car. She was still refusing to drive one provided from the pool at the station, even though Murphy had relented and begun picking one up for most journeys.
Rossi was right though. It was different. The terrace house in front of them had seen better days and was a direct contrast to the well-kept, large, semi-detached house owned by Chloe’s parents. Even for Walton the street wasn’t in the best condition – the main attraction being a tired string of England flags blowing in the breeze high above them, tied from lamp posts and strung across the road. Wheelie bins were dotted about the place, house numbers daubed across them in magnolia paint.
‘It’s got character,’ Rossi said, joining Murphy outside Joe Hooper’s father’s house. ‘I’ll give it that. Bet they’ll even say they have a sense of community.’
Murphy ignored the comment and instead basked in nostalgia. He felt more comfortable on streets like these than the one they had spent time in that morning.
‘This is where proper people live, Laura.’
‘Oh, I know that. Six kids in a three-bedroom house, remember?’
Murphy smirked, recalling the time he had tried to work out the logistics of Rossi’s upbringing.
‘Come on,’ he said after a few more seconds. ‘Let’s get this done.’
Murphy began to walk towards the metal gate which was hanging on only one hinge, and sidestepped a smear of what he hoped was only dog shit on the pavement. He managed to place one hand on the gate before the voices rang out. Not from inside the house, but from behind him.
‘Are you from the police?’
‘What’s happened to Joe Hooper, Detective?’
‘Is it true he was found in a drugs den with Chloe?’
Two journalists crossed the road with purpose, both had obviously been camped in separate cars waiting for them to arrive. Murphy turned and shook his head, allowing Rossi to step in between them as he reached through the gate and pulled up the handle, scraping the metal against the doorstep.
‘We’ll be making a full statement later. For now, we’ll neither confirm nor deny anything. Thank you.’ Rossi turned away.
The journalists followed Rossi, still shouting questions as if they were part of a media scrum, rather than two middle-aged blokes in clothes that would have looked fresh on three days earlier.
‘Keep your voices down,’ Murphy said, unable to keep his mouth shut as the noise level went up another notch. ‘Have a bit of decency. We’ll speak to you later. Down the station, not here.’
Murphy wasn’t sure if it was because a six foot four bloke had said it, or whether they had actually dredged up a sense of decorum, but the journalists stopped talking. He assumed the reason for their sudden silence was the third option – they had simply run out of questions to ask. The voices of the two men died down as they moved back towards their cars.
‘You’re always more polite than I am with them.’
‘Well, you have to remember the camera thing,’ Rossi said. ‘Could be one filming at any point. Last thing we need right now is one of us giving hell to a journo.’
‘Still, it’s always nice to give them a bit of agro back. Bane of our bloody lives most of the time.’
Murphy stepped forward and knocked on the door. It was opened a few seconds later by the family liaison officer, sent to the house ahead of them. Murphy went first, ushered into the living room. The walls felt like they were closing in on him as he stepped inside; the smell of damp and nicotine mixing together, creating something he struggled to imagine living in. Yellowing paper on the walls, peeling in places. Black mould in the corners of the room. A rhythmic cough coming from the only occupant. A man in his forties, who could have passed for late fifties if Murphy hadn’t already known the guy. The coughs coming each side of drags on a rolled cigarette, the can of lager not doing anything to stop them.
‘The cavalry’s arrived then,’ the man said, purposefully not making eye contact with Murphy or Rossi. ‘What kept youse?’
‘Hello, Chris,’ Murphy said, waving away the family liaison officer who, judging by the speed of his departure, was relieved to escape the confines of the room. ‘Long time no see.’
Chris Hooper looked up, appraised him with a weaving head and sniffed. ‘I remember you,’ he said, placing his can of lager on the threadbare carpet at his feet and replacing it with a lighter. ‘How the fuck could I forget a big fucking lummox like you though, eh?’
Murphy looked at the stained couch behind him and decided against sitting down. Mainly for his own health. Rossi had likely made the same decision, leaning against the now closed wood-panelled door.
‘Keeping yourself out of trouble?’
‘Better than my boy by the sounds of things.’
Murphy didn’t remember many faces from his uniform days, but Chris Hooper’s was one of them. Not the name, not at first. And definitely not the familial connection to that morning’s victim. He didn’t keep tabs on the family members of men he’d arrested countless times back in those days. He remembered Chris Hooper though. The amount of times he’d had to battle with him, drunk and endlessly violent.
A regular.
Murphy nodded towards Chris. ‘Nothing confirmed as yet, of course, until you ID him. But we think it’s him, Chris.’
Chris’s head dropped to his chest, the rolled cigarette between his fingers burning out, waiting to be relit. ‘Yeah, I know.’
‘When was the last time you saw Joe?’
‘Years ago,’ came the slurred reply. ‘Not interested in his auld fella once he’d become famous. Embarrassed about me probably. Can’t believe he went over and played for those fucking wools anyway. Tranmere bloody Rovers? Hardly Anfield or Wembley, is it? Still looked down his nose at us, though, didn’t he?’
‘Spoke to him recently?’
‘Tried to. Wondered if he’d see his way to giving us some money to get out of here and that. Brought him up, didn’t we? Deserved a bit of payback. Never got back to us though. Now . . . now he’ll never get the chance. And we’re stuck here forever. Poor kid.’
Murphy waited for Chris to light his cigarette, and for another coughing fit to finish, before speaking again. ‘You never met Chloe then, I gather?’
‘That bint he was in the papers with all the time? Nah. He wouldn’t bring her here, would he? Ashamed of us. Didn’t even see his brothers and sisters either. Cut himself off. What good’s that done him? Christ.’
‘So, when did you actually speak to him last?’
‘Years ago,’ Chris said, sniffing and choking on whatever came up. He swallowed and then took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Don’t know anything about his life now. Never sold our story though. Tried to tell him that, but he didn’t care. Not even now, to those two dickheads out there. I’m better than that.’
Murphy looked towards Rossi, raising an eyebrow which indicated a dead end.
‘We’re going to be speaking again, okay, Chris? But for now, the family liaison officer will be here to answer any questions and to take you down the Royal to ID the body.’
A slow nod was the only response.
‘Chris, look at me,’ Murphy said, his voice a little louder in the small room. Chris lifted his head slowly, looked at Murphy with bloodshot eyes.
Murphy bent down a little. ‘I’m going to find out what happened to your son. Understand?’
Chris stared at Murphy for a few seconds before taking a drag on his cigarette. ‘You were always one of the good ones,’ he replied.
* * *
‘We were never going to get anything from him anyway,’ Murphy said, sitting back in the passenger seat and forgoing the opportunity to stick a middle finger up at the two journos who were now sitting on a car bonnet on the opposite side of the road. ‘He hasn’t seen any of his kids for years.’
Rossi started the car and fiddled with the satnav on the dashboard before giving up on it. ‘Guess not. Had to be done though.’
‘One of the perks we have on this job.’
‘Vaffanculo’
Murphy let out a short laugh at Rossi’s response and took out his phone as the police radio crackled into life, looking up to make sure Rossi turned it down. He scrolled down his mobile phone screen looking for Sarah’s name in his contacts list, before giving up and going back to recent messages instead. He sent her a short text to tell her he’d be late home and not to fall asleep on the sofa. She replied instantly.
Had a feeling you would be late. Heard the news. Don’t worry, I’ve got plans. Hope you don’t come home too tired 😉 xx
Murphy smirked and put his phone back in his pocket.
‘Ring the office while you’ve got that out,’ Rossi said, indicating to turn right, onto Rice Lane. ‘Find out when the PM is scheduled for.’
‘PMs, Laura,’ Murphy replied, trying to find DC Harris’s number on his phone. ‘Plural.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Murphy called Harris as Rossi made the trip back to the station, the drab houses of Walton becoming the drab houses of Kirkdale and Everton, as County Road became Walton Road.
‘Not until tomorrow morning,’ Murphy said, ending the call. ‘Chloe’s mum has come over to ID her, though, so I imagine Chris Hooper won’t be far behind.’
‘Why the wait?’ Rossi replied.
‘I don’t know. Maybe Houghton is getting too old? Probably has a few in the queue ahead of them or something. Nothing can be rushed with him.’
‘Suppose. Would have thought with the shit storm that’s about to rain down on us he would have got the word to sort it sooner.’
‘I’m sure that’ll come in time.’
They fell into an easy silence as the five mile trip back to St Anne Street passed quickly. Murphy rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and allowed his eyes to close briefly. He opened them as he felt the car slow down and turn off, seeing the station loom into blurred view.
‘More of them now,’ Rossi said, waiting for the barrier to lift before driving on. ‘Parassiti.’
‘Can’t argue with that,’ Murphy replied.
The office was even busier now, a few detective constables had returned from the crime scene and were back at commandeered desks. Murphy started considering the future of the case. Although they all answered to people of higher ranks, essentially the team of detectives and officers was under his command; it would be him they would come to. To be told what to do, how to proceed.
If he had an ego, he would be dangerous. As it was, he was barely interested in telling himself what to do, never mind a whole load of other people.
‘Quiet down,’ Murphy shouted over the din of raised voices. ‘Meeting room, five minutes. I want to know everything we have so far and update you on what’s been going on here.’
A few ‘Yes, boss’ and ‘yes, Sir’s could be heard before the conversations started up again. Murphy checked the murder board for any updates, saw only Rossi’s sloped handwriting and carried on to DCI Stephens’s office.
‘Back so soon, David?’ Stephens said once he was sitting down opposite her.
‘Yeah,’ Murphy replied, stretching his already tired legs out in front of him. ‘Father hadn’t seen the victim in a while. Wasn’t a good relationship, but we knew that anyway. I know the guy from old—’
‘Your days in uniform?’
‘Of course,’ Murphy said, accepting the interruption. ‘Low-level stuff. Alcoholic, so always fuelled by drink. Violence mostly. Pub fights and so on.’
‘The mother?’
‘Dead a couple of years. Alcohol got to her a lot sooner than it’ll get to him. Joe – the victim – moved on pretty quick by the looks of things. Still a lot to work out on that side.’
DCI Stephens pushed a few grey strands of hair behind her ear where they had come loose from her tight bun of a hairdo. ‘Possible suspect?’
Murphy shook his head. ‘I’m not ruling it out, but I think we need to look at their personal lives outside of family at the moment. That room in the house, all the magazine cuttings and that? That’s saying something to me.’
DCI Stephens raised an eyebrow. ‘Enlighten me, Poirot. What’s it saying?’
Murphy took a second, tried to work out what he wanted to say but failed. ‘Honestly, I’m not sure yet. There’s just something about it that isn’t right. It was like a shrine to them, but . . .’ Murphy struggled to find the words to describe what it was that was niggling at him.
‘It’s a bad one, that’s what you’re saying?’
‘Not just bad,’ Murphy replied. ‘Something we’ve come across before.’
DCI Stephens waited for him to continue, but Murphy didn’t have any more. Except one thing.
‘Obsession,’ he said after a few seconds. ‘This is someone who was obsessed with them or what they represent. That’s my feeling. Not some domestic murder–suicide ridiculous situation. This is something worse.’
Fate
There was a question he thought of often, never receiving an answer that placated him. It niggled at him late at night, when he slept fitfully in the adjacent room to the one he stood in now. He asked Number Four, not waiting for an answer.
‘Do you believe in fate? Some guiding force which brings us all together? Loads of people do. I’ve noticed that over the years, talking to people in work and other places. In pubs, betting shops, supermarkets. You hear them all the time, talking about karma and saying things like It was written in the stars. Millions of people read horoscopes in newspapers, believing the things they say, as if they could apply to hundreds of millions of people simultaneously.’
Did he believe in fate?
‘It’s what people say in new relationships all the time, you know. Circumstance had driven them together, but they believed they were always meant to be together.’
His voice went up an octave, a mocking tone to it. ‘It was fate that he missed his bus. That she decided not to eat her lunch in the same place she always did that day.’ He ignored the fact Number Four shrank back from him as he laid the palm of his hand on the top of her head. He stroked her hair, and she whimpered from behind the duct tape across her mouth.
His voice went back to normal. ‘Fate supposedly made sure they were pushed together, so they would meet and get married and have kids and grow old and have grandchildren and then die a few months apart. Blah, blah, blah, life, blah.’
He sniffed and shook his head. Lifted Number Four’s face by her chin, staring directly into her eyes. ‘I don’t think I believe in it. But I sometimes wonder if fate brought you to me. To give me purpose. To make someone see what true love is. To make you understand that what I feel is more than what you think could be possible. Without that, I wouldn’t be making them see that what they’re doing isn’t right. That their love is wrong.’
He was almost sure that fate didn’t exist. However, the way he had met Number Three was almost too coincidental. It was that meeting that had set him on the course he was on now.
‘I’d only been working there a few weeks when I met Number Three. Still learning people’s names, making sense of the layout. Just a normal evening shift. Jane. Simple name, for a simple girl. I’ve told you this before, haven’t I?’
Number Four closed her eyes as he traced a finger down her cheek. The noise of the chains against the radiator echoed in the almost empty room.
‘When I fall in love, I want to devour them, immerse myself within them and take total control. Become one and the same person. She wasn’t overly attractive. Just plain Jane. If people passed her on the street, they wouldn’t look twice. Not like you, Number Four. It was easy for me to see past the imperfections, though. I noticed other things about her. The way her mousy-brown hair flicked up slightly near the ends. The pear-shaped curves, which only accentuated her best feature. Her face in pale light, clear and line free.’
He stood above Number Four, watching her chest move up and down, then turned away and moved over to the window. He shivered against the cold coming through the single glazing. ‘I watched her during breaks in work, reading a book or eating a sandwich. Her lips parting to reveal off-white teeth, a small gap between the front two. I had to have her.’
He pursed his lips at the memory of the days it had taken to work up the courage to speak to her. The memories of too many wrong paths taken. Bad things said, which had almost stopped him.
‘She was more than willing to speak to me. I’d say she was excited. Meeting me on breaks and discussing whatever book she was reading at the time, or the state of politics in the country, the latest news in the world. She was from over the water, so we would talk about the differences between the loudmouth, Boris Johnson-wannabe Mayor of Liverpool and the invisible Wirral mayor. I pretended to listen and be the normal person. I really tried to do things the “right” way.’
He shook his head at his own stupidity. Slammed a closed fist onto the window ledge, causing flakes of paint to drift to the floor. ‘I tried being direct this time. I didn’t flirt, I was much less subtle. So stupid of me.’
He turned back to Number Four. She was still slumped against the radiator, her shoulders juddering up and down. He moved across the room to her, his bare feet feeling the cold from the floorboards.
‘She had someone. His name was Stuart. Twenty-eight years old, worked in an accountancy firm. He’d proposed a year earlier. She didn’t wear the ring to work as she was worried about losing it. Her parents loved him, thought he was a good guy.’
The pulsing in his head was growing as he spoke. His palms glistened with sweat as he imagined this Stuart and the things he and Jane had done together. He placed his hand on Number Four’s arm, squeezing it slightly, so he could remember she was still real.
‘Yet another barricade put down between me and happiness. What could he have that I didn’t? They’ll think Stuart and Jane were the first. When they start putting things together. But, we know that’s not the truth, don’t we? We know this didn’t start with them. Or those stupid celebrities.’
He breathed deeply, once, closing his eyes, and he caught her scent. It was still there, faint now, battling with the sweat and tears which emanated from her more often now. He had bought the perfume she wore, spraying her down once a day, but it was already running out.
‘I became obsessed with this Stuart’s life. I wanted to know why he had Number Three and I couldn’t. All these questions running through my mind. I wanted his life to end and become my own. You know what I learned though. Stuart wasn’t Stuart. What was known wasn’t real.’
He hesitated before speaking into the silence once more. He knew that he hadn’t told Number Four everything. He found it hard to admit to himself, but he had also wanted to destroy Number Three and her Stuart. To put them in the same situation he was in. Alone, no one to care for him.
‘You became Number Four after that. That’s when I knew I had to start from the beginning. Break you down and make you mine. To show you what real love was. I’d watched you for a long time. Your age put me off. I didn’t think you’d be interested in me. But, the heart wants what the heart wants.’ He smiled at her, as she opened her eyes and glanced at him. She averted her gaze so he took a fistful of her hair in his hand and pulled her closer to him.
‘That’s what you’ll be, isn’t it? When I’ve shown you everything I can do for you. To prove that our love is different. That it will be different. You’ll be mine, forever.’
His dad used to say they were all the same. One woman was no different to any other. Drummed into him, the same things over and over. Keeping him up late just so he had some company as he drank and shouted at mute images on the television.
He was going to prove him wrong.
He let go of Number Four, ignoring the muffled cry which came back at him as he stood. ‘My first instinct was to tell Jane, but it wouldn’t have helped. She wouldn’t run to me for care and protection. It just makes them angry and resentful towards me for opening their eyes to the truth. I become as much to blame as the bloke, as if I am somehow complicit in the betrayal.’
He blinked and looked down at Number Four, imagining a time when she wouldn’t cower from him. When she would be glad to see him. Once he had shown her everything he could do.
‘Maybe if I had never spoken to Number Three, I would have meandered throughout life with no purpose. I may never have discovered the joy, the satisfaction, the power I felt over them in that room. The moments as they finally accepted their fate, as I tightened a length of cord around the liar’s throat. Saw the hatred in their supposed loved one’s eyes as they watched them die. It’s what I was made for.’
Fate or coincidence, it didn’t really matter. It only mattered that he did things correctly. Discovered the secrets and lies and then exposed them. To make them see the light, to see what was right.
‘I’ll never be lonely again. Not now I have you. Because you’re going to be mine, no matter what anyone says. I’ll change you. You’ll be something more. Soon, you won’t be just a number. You’ll be a living, breathing epitome of everything that I know to be right and just. You will know what love really is. You’ll love me with everything you have. Your life will be mine.’
He breathed in and out and faced the window again. The street lights outside cast a long shadow across the bare floor inside the room, providing just enough illumination to keep out total darkness. He ignored the noise coming from behind him and closed his eyes.
‘Everyone is going to see what I did to them. The third couple. I know who they are and what they’ve done. Everyone will see my work and they will see what I have done is right. But that won’t matter. All that will matter is that you understand what love is really all about.’
That was the way it had to be.
‘I just need to show you again, don’t I? I need to prove myself worthy of your love.’
He ignored the shake of her head and the screams behind the gag across her mouth.
‘I’ll be back soon, my love. With more tales to tell you.’
