Murphy listened as the overnight staff updated him on the few things which had occurred during the late shift. He sighed, the sum total amounted to bugger all. Almost twenty-four hours since they had found Chloe and Joe, and the layout was already beginning to rely on two things – people who knew the couple and the post-mortem.
‘CCTV doesn’t cover anywhere near there really,’ DC Hale said, looking suitably haggard from being out at crime scenes most of the previous day. ‘Could go further out, but I’m not sure how useful that would be.’
‘No,’ Murphy replied, eyeing his chair, knowing he wouldn’t get a chance to sit down and relax much that day. ‘Unless he’s wearing a big sign announcing himself, I suppose not. Still, won’t hurt to check. I’ll let you know the timeframe after the PM this morning. Anything from the neighbours?’
‘There really wasn’t any. Closest one was at least a few minutes’ walk away. Didn’t even know we’d closed the road off.’
‘I owe Laura a fiver then. Keep an eye on any reports from Crimestoppers coming in. Hopefully someone somewhere noticed something.’
DC Hale nodded and walked off, slower than usual. Someone else who hadn’t slept all that much the previous night, Murphy thought.
‘Anyone seen Laura about?’ Murphy asked the few people milling about the desks. The negative response only lasted a second as the doors behind him banged open.
‘I’m not late,’ Rossi said as she hurried towards him.
‘Didn’t say you were.’
‘Before you do then,’ Rossi replied, a hand selfconsciously sweeping through her hair, ‘what time are we going to the Royal?’
‘Now,’ Murphy said, buttoning his jacket up. ‘Ready?’
‘Of course.’
The Royal Hospital was situated just outside the city centre, the largest in the county of Merseyside by some stretch and about to become even larger. Building work had been going on for the previous few years, providing another reason for Liverpool to be proud of itself. Rossi had bored Murphy with the details on another trip there previously, the links to the nearby university and its medical students something she was proud of. As if her attendance at that university – studying something entirely different – meant she was a part of it.
All Murphy knew about the place was that it housed arguably his most visited scene outside the station.
There was something they’d never told Murphy about all those years before in training. Post-mortems are boring, painstakingly slow and protracted. Only made worse by the fact his favourite doctor carried them out.
Dr Stuart Houghton, rotund purveyor of death, who Murphy had a difficult time getting along with for seemingly no reason at all. Not one that Murphy could fathom anyway. The good doctor had taken an instant dislike to him years earlier and Murphy wasn’t really interested in changing that perception.
Maybe it was the beard, Murphy thought.
‘You’re here then,’ Houghton said as they passed through to his office – cluttered with every box file and piece of paper in the hospital in Murphy’s eyes. The doctor greeted Rossi with a warm smile. Murphy not even receiving a cold one. ‘Come on then. Let’s get down to it.’
Murphy bounced lightly on his feet as he watched Houghton and his assistant get to work, two bodies doubling the workload but not the number of workers.
‘Cutbacks,’ Houghton had said as way of explanation. ‘Can’t even claim for petrol on call-outs at the moment.’
‘I bet it’s a real strain on your wallet,’ Murphy replied, his acerbic tone earning a withering look from the doctor.
‘We’ll do the girl first,’ Houghton said.
Murphy never understood the need to be there, not when Houghton could just print up his report and send it on. Yet, it was the done thing for a DI in Liverpool North division. You gave press conferences for no reason and watched a portly doctor dissect a corpse for the same.
It’s the habits passed down generation by generation that get you through life.
‘There is nothing to suggest she was beaten,’ Houghton said, a digital recorder capturing his voice in the silent theatre, ‘other than some minor contusions on her wrists and legs. From the restraints, I would deduce at this point. Some reddening to her face, evidence of tackiness.’
Duct tape, Murphy thought. Bound and gagged. No need to deduce anything there.
‘Puncture marks on her left forearm. Two in total. Evidence of bruising.’
A while later, organs removed and checked, Houghton made a sound like he was agreeing with himself and began to move on.
‘Rush on tests,’ Murphy said to Rossi.
She nodded back at him and noted it down.
The morning was getting away from them by the time Joe Hooper was in the spotlight. Murphy could see the condition of his body was very different from the pale glow of Chloe’s.
‘Multiple contusions to the head, caused by a blunt instrument. Possibly a hammer, the claw part.’
Rossi winced beside Murphy, earning her a look from him.
‘Mannaggia,’ Rossi said, turning away. ‘I hate the claw end.’
Murphy let out a soft laugh, turning back to the table and Houghton’s work.
‘Slash marks to the torso. Seven in total. Caused by a sharp instrument. Strangulation, with a ligature, to the neck. Possible cause of death.’
Murphy’s phone was buzzing in his pocket with text messages every few minutes as he received details of the interviews currently occurring. Chloe and Joe’s friends going over what they knew, which appeared to be very little. He showed Rossi the more interesting ones. The detective constables were being made to feel useful though, so every cloud . . .
‘Two very different bodies, David,’ Houghton said, once he had finished. ‘The lovely Chloe’s death will be drugs related – an overdose of some type of opioid possibly – but we won’t know until the report comes back on that one. Mr Hooper was not so fortunate.’
‘How long were they dead in that house?’
‘Around forty-eight hours, I’d say. Approximate time of death is between nine p.m. and six a.m. on Friday night, Saturday morning for both of them.’
Murphy thought of the murder-suicide theory and how stupid it seemed now. The discovery of what lay beneath the clothes of Joe Hooper had ended that theory for him.
‘Who went first?’
Houghton dried his hands on some paper towels, before squirting some alcohol from a pump dispenser onto them for added effect. ‘Sorry?’
Murphy shook his head. ‘Which victim died first, Doctor?’
Houghton matched Murphy’s shake of the head. ‘Not sure. That’ll require much more investigation and even then we’d likely still not know for sure. If their deaths occurred within minutes of each other, it’s unlikely we’ll be able to tell.’
Murphy looked at Rossi, waiting to see if she had any questions, then, when she didn’t, they exited the theatre before Houghton and his assistant had a chance to leave them in there alone.
‘What are you thinking?’ Rossi said as they left the hospital and walked towards the car.
‘That this case just got a little bit more interesting,’ Murphy said, unlocking the car from a few feet away. ‘And annoying.’
* * *
The media presence outside the station on St Anne Street had grown overnight, the waiting press attempting to get any kind of word from them as they drove in. The car was surrounded by people as soon as they’d pulled up to the gate, word spreading quickly that they were of importance to the case. Murphy knew his face had become more recognisable to the local media over the years, but it seemed the nationals had also been tipped off to his notoriety. His name hadn’t been shouted in public so much since his ill-fated return to Sunday league football a few months earlier.
At least it wasn’t accompanied by shouts about his uselessness this time.
Inside the office, the number of detectives on the team had increased. DCI Stephens was standing silently at her office door, coming to life as Murphy and Rossi entered.
‘Meeting, two minutes.’
Murphy mocked a salute and slipped his coat and jacket off. He stood near the radiator and placed a hand on it. ‘Christ, this thing’s barely warm.’
‘No one is going to complain,’ Rossi said to him, cupping a hand conspiratorially in front of her mouth. ‘Winter finished in February according to those holding the purse strings. And everyone here is scared they’ll take something away if they move money in the budget for heating.’
Murphy laughed and hung his coat back on his chair after it fell off again. ‘Bit pointless having lukewarm radiators on, though. Bloody freezing out there and not really any better in here. We’ll be wearing a vest and long johns by the end of the week.’
‘I’m sure that’s a good look on you.’
Murphy shrugged and made his way over to DCI Stephens’s office.
‘Tell me we have good news from the PM, David,’ Stephens said as he closed her office door behind him.
‘Only in the sense that no news is good news,’ he replied, standing behind his usual seat. ‘Joe Hooper was beaten and strangled by the looks of it, but we’re not sure on Chloe as yet. Drug overdose is the likeliest option at the moment.’
‘That’s all we’d need. Plan of action, David? Make it a good one.’
‘I assume the meeting is to keep everyone up to date?’ Murphy waited for the nod, and went on. ‘Once that’s out the way, we finish up with family and friends and see where that gets us. We still have a number of different things here.’
‘Press conference in a little while. Give them something before they shut our phone system down or finally come up with a good enough price for someone out there.’
‘Boss . . .’
‘Don’t want to hear it. Platitudes will do, but we need to get out there and show ourselves. So far, we’ve given them that scrawny tit from media relations and that’s it. It’s not keeping any of them happy. They want us out there.’
Murphy sighed, gripping the back of the chair a little tighter. ‘Right, course, boss. Just that there’s not much we can tell them right now.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I had no idea how bloody famous these two were. Everyone is talking about it and we’re doing nothing to calm that down. We’ve got to get a handle on things now.’
Murphy let go of the chair. ‘Got it.’ He turned and left the room, following the other detectives to the large meeting room at the other end of the office. Rossi fell into step with him as he walked.
‘Let’s just do the usual,’ Murphy said as he stood at the door into the room and waited for a couple of stragglers. ‘Not much else we can do.’
‘You never know,’ Rossi replied, fiddling with the bottle cap on the sports drink she was holding. ‘One of them might have solved it already for us.’
Murphy looked at the back of the heads of the people within the room. ‘I doubt it.’
The meeting room was a little larger than the one they’d had in the past, with windows on one side from floor to ceiling and blinds running down the length. Someone had placed a few plants in the room, trying to spruce the place up a little. The browning leaves on them suggested they weren’t going to help.
‘Settle down,’ Murphy said, standing at the front as faces turned towards him one by one. ‘Okay, here’s where we are. Two victims, found in an abandoned house in Anfield. Post-mortem is inconclusive, but Chloe Morrison’s death is possibly drug related, but the male victim – Joe Hooper – was badly beaten and then asphyxiated.’
A snigger caused by Murphy’s pronunciation of the word, his Scouse accent having trouble with the middle syllables, was quickly snuffed out. Murphy aimed a stare in the general direction of the noise before continuing.
‘We don’t know who died first, so we’re not concentrating on that aspect just now. What we need to know is how these two people ended up in that house and whether anyone else was there with them. Who’s been doing interviews?’
A few hands shot up.
‘Anyone get any kind of usable information?’
One hand remained in the air. ‘Couple of things, one from a close friend of Chloe. From the circuit.’
‘Circuit?’
The DC who had left his hand in the air shifted in his seat. ‘The celebrity circuit. Apparently there’s a group of them who all do the same events, clubs and that sort of thing. One of them was in Hollyoaks or something, done some reality shows since. I’d never heard of any of them though—’
‘Right, that’s great,’ Murphy said, cutting in. ‘Stay behind. The rest of you, I want double the effort on the private lives of the two of them. Anything that comes up, no matter how small and insignificant you think it is, I want to know. There has to be something which explains how they ended up in that house. Go through bank accounts, receipts, everything. We’re going back to their apartment now, so Laura here will let you know which of you is coming with us.’
Rossi started scanning faces; Murphy imagined her checklist of who in the room she liked and disliked was being put to use.
‘That’ll do for now,’ Murphy said, dismissing the meeting and leaning on the desk behind him. ‘And I hope I don’t have to remind you not to talk to the media. I don’t care how much they offer. It won’t replace that nice pension you’re going to get in a few years. Which I’ll make sure disappears faster than you can say “brown envelope”.’
A few muted laughs, but otherwise silence. Murphy wondered if the weight of the situation, the case, was beginning to make itself clear.
‘DC Kirkham,’ Murphy said to the lone figure left behind – late twenties, early thirties, he guessed. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
He got an eager nod in response. ‘Yes, sir. It wasn’t the Hollyoaks girl I wanted to tell you about . . .’
Another of those university graduates, fast-tracked into CID and moved up the ranks. This one was different from DC Hale, however. More old-school looking, with closely cropped hair and sharp features. Apart from the nose which had been broken at some point and not set properly, so now there was a slight deviation to it.
‘Tell me on the way to the house,’ Murphy said, smirking at Rossi as her shoulders slumped at him taking the decision away from her. ‘I trust you haven’t got anything better to do?’
‘Course not, sir,’ Kirkham said, jumping to his feet. He was tall, almost reaching Murphy’s height but falling a couple of inches short.
‘Good,’ Murphy replied, trying not to yawn. ‘Bloody knackered already. I hope you’ve got more life in you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Kirkham replied, standing a little straighter as if to show he did.
Murphy gave him a little shake of his head. Tried to remember a time he had been so eager to please. Realised it wasn’t that long ago.
‘Come on then,’ Murphy said, extending an arm towards the door. ‘Lead the way.’
Murphy yawned again, then thought back to the reason for his tiredness. He smiled and pulled out his phone to text Sarah.
They were like newlyweds lately, Murphy thought. He hoped it lasted a bit longer.
Greg
Greg had gone his whole life without getting into fights, not even so much as a scuffle in a playground. He’d shied away from violence with other men, never wanting to experience it. It was violent enough in his head without wanting that in reality. He would raise his voice but then hate himself for it. Would see women he supposedly loved cowering below him and he’d run to the bathroom and step into a cold shower.
Some part of him wished he was one of those big guys he saw walking around, conflict and war etched into their expressions. Just waiting for the wrong person to look at them. He wanted to be that kind of man. The kind who didn’t worry about groups of teenagers hanging around street corners. The kind who protected his woman and did the right thing at the right time.
The type who wouldn’t have frozen. Who wouldn’t have let himself be led into his own back room and tied to a chair.
Listening to words which on the surface made sense.
Hannah had been there already. She was the one the man had wanted him to see. The relief in her eyes as he’d entered the room turning to desperation as he hadn’t rushed to her rescue, instead allowing himself to be bound to the chair opposite her.
There was a song Greg always loved playing before he met Hannah. An old one, but still relevant. Couldn’t even remember the band’s name most of the time, but he knew every word of those lyrics.
‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’.
He’d believed that was true until he’d met her. Every relationship he’d had until that point had ended badly. Not just arguments and the usual bullshit, but with complete and utter heartbreak in most cases.
When Greg fell in love, he fell hard. Off-a-cliff-onto-jagged-rocks hard. Devotion was too slight a word to describe how he would feel during a relationship.
He needed someone, always. Couldn’t be alone. He had an overwhelming desire to be in a relationship. To have someone in his life. And that had led to situations he would never allow himself to think about. Blurred images fleetingly entered his mind – tears and blood – before he shut them down.
Hannah was different. He’d been different. Too often he’d been told he’d come on too strong and scared women with his attentiveness and dedication at the beginning of a relationship – as if that were really a bad thing. He’d decided with Hannah to dial that part of himself back a little. An experiment of sorts.
Try being Normal Greg. Never revealing his true feelings. Bottling everything up.
It had worked.
He wasn’t aloof, or disinterested. He just hadn’t turned up to her house at three in the morning with flowers and a shit-eating grin. He hadn’t talked of joint bank accounts after a couple of dates. Named their future children. Greg fell in love with Hannah naturally, over a proper time period, and only when he felt sure she returned his feelings.
Four years together. That’s what they had managed. Keeping down the old feelings of wanting to control everything was a constant battle. When Hannah wanted to go out with friends, or didn’t respond to texts or emails instantly, he wouldn’t snap or sulk. Instead, he’d breathe in and out, close his eyes, and calm himself.
If she talked about going out clubbing, he’d actively encourage it. He would spend all night wondering what she was getting up to, but would welcome her home with a ‘How was your night?’ and a smile. Two hen weekends abroad and he’d pretended to be excited for her. Asked if she needed any spending money and helped her pack.
Then he’d spent the three days she was away drinking and staring at his phone. Pacing the small flat they then shared, throwing accusations about her infidelity at the wall. Never receiving an answer. When she’d arrived back, he’d smiled and asked if she’d had a good time.
Now, it didn’t matter. A man in dark clothing had taken over the show. Normal Greg was a memory. Now he was shit-scared Greg.
Greg wondered if there was anything that could have made him fight back. At least try to save himself, save her.
‘We’re surrounded by lies. We live with them every day, don’t we?’
The hairs on Greg’s arms stood on end as the cool air within the room settled on his skin. What was once so familiar – his own bloody dining room – now so alien. He shivered, once, remembering his mother saying Someone’s just walked over my grave.
The man talked in a flat monotone, ignoring Hannah’s cries behind the duct tape covering her mouth. Directing his words towards Greg, facing him as he stood between them. The man shifted to his right, a step aside, leaving Greg with a clear view.
Greg dropped his head and thought of Millie.
She had turned two years old already. A walking, somewhat talking, little person that Greg was supposed to be the protector of. To always be there for her, that was his job as her father. He pictured her, the blonde curls, the round cheeks which always had a rose of red in them. The absolute spit of Hannah. The smile that came naturally and easily. The personality which was developing, the way she would talk to her toys, bringing them to life.
They were parents. A family. Greg Bowlby and Hannah Flynn. An engagement ring lay in a box at the back of Greg’s wardrobe, waiting for the right time.
Now, he didn’t know if there was ever going to be a time.
‘You don’t know me, Hannah. Not really. But I know you. I know your kind. I’ve seen your type everywhere I’ve been. Always looking down your nose at others, as if your life, your decisions, are better. As if you have never done anything to regret.’
The man slithered round in front of Greg, moving through the darkness and almost sitting on his lap. He spoke into Greg’s ear, the whisper invading him. ‘She has a problem with living honestly, Greg. Hannah can’t keep her stories straight. There are things she hasn’t told you, things that need to be said.’
The man moved behind Greg, resting a hand on his shoulder and tapping his fingers. ‘He deserves to know what he’s doing, doesn’t he Hannah? What he has been responsible for? We all need to know the truth. We all just need a little more honesty.’
Greg lifted his head, the face of his daughter fading as the man’s words played with him. Honesty. That was all he wanted. Now, this man was bringing the doubt to the surface.
Hannah was no longer looking at Greg. Wouldn’t look at him, he decided. As if she was ignoring him, had forgotten he was there. There was something in her eyes as she looked at the man standing to the side of them.
She was pleading with him.
‘Wh . . . what are you talking about?’ Greg said, his voice catching at the back of his throat as he fought the urge to vomit. ‘If you want money, we’ve got some, haven’t we, Hannah?’
The man laughed softly, mocking him, Greg thought. His presence still hanging behind him, the tap of his fingers on Greg’s shoulder incessant. ‘Hannah is going to tell you her secrets, Greg. Or you’re both going to die. She has a choice now. I hope she chooses the right one.’
The man came round and crossed the room towards Hannah. He tore off the duct tape that covered her mouth, a short scream escaping her as he did so. He placed a gloved hand across her face and shushed her, pushing her head back.
‘Scream again and I’ll cut your daughter’s throat, you understand?’
Hannah didn’t move. Greg watched as the man gripped her face tighter.
‘Do you understand?’
Hannah nodded slowly, pushing against the man’s hand to do so. ‘Good,’ he said. He dropped the tape to the floor and turned away from them both.
‘Let us go,’ Hannah said through gritted teeth. Spittle flew from her mouth and almost reached Greg. ‘Now, you fucking bastard. We haven’t done anything wrong.’
The man didn’t reply, simply walked away and out of Greg’s line of sight. A door closed behind him, leaving Hannah to curse in a low voice at no one.
‘Greg,’ Hannah said once she’d stopped. ‘What’s going on? Is Millie okay? Is she still at my mum’s house? Are you okay? I don’t know what’s happening.’
Greg tried looking at Hannah, but couldn’t. He had to look away, towards the shadows.
‘Greg . . . talk to me. We need to get out of here.’
The breathing wasn’t helping. She had ignored the man’s words, so maybe they didn’t mean anything. Maybe he was just a madman, someone who didn’t know what he was talking about. But Greg didn’t know. Not for sure. And he couldn’t have that.
He blocked out Hannah’s voice as it started up again. The whispers and low shouts for attention fading into the background as he breathed in and out.
The duct tape holding his right hand to the back of the chair was looser than the left. With a little effort, he could probably get it all the way out. That wasn’t what he was thinking about though.
His voice started as a whisper, but became louder as he repeated himself.
‘Tell me what you’re hiding, Hannah. Tell me. Tell me now. Tell me, now.’
