From the outside, it was just another normal semi-detached house in one of the better areas of Liverpool – Litherland, just past Bootle as you headed north from the city centre. The more affluent areas of Crosby and Formby were a little further up the road. ‘Not many cars about,’ Murphy said as he suited up next to Rossi. ‘Most of the drives are empty.
‘All out at work, I imagine. Ten in the morning on a Friday, it figures. Probably not expecting to come home to this.’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you? They’ll know what’s happened here before lunchtime.’
Rossi tied her hair up and pulled the cap over her head. ‘I thought we wouldn’t be doing this again. He’s moving quicker.’
Thursday had been quiet, but the storm was simply resting. ‘Three days since we found Greg and Hannah. He’s definitely not hanging around.’
An ordinary house, in an ordinary street, full of ordinary people going about their ordinary lives, now surrounded by uniformed officers and white-suited SOCOs. People in neighbouring houses tapping out messages to people they didn’t really know, updating their Facebook page before ringing a parent or partner. Retweeting the latest comment from the Liverpool Echo account. Never believing that something like that could happen to them. Scarcely believing it could have happened in the same street, never mind the same city. That was the thought that picked at Murphy late at night, when he closed his eyes and sleep evaded him. The idea that it could happen to anyone, at any time.
Rossi let Murphy go in first, the smell inside not as bad as the first house in Anfield. The curtains were still closed across the windows in the living room, but it wasn’t in there that most of the activity was taking place.
‘I’m guessing through here,’ Rossi said, taking the lead.
Murphy knew what to expect now and wasn’t disappointed. The small dining table, which he assumed would have usually taken up residence in the middle of the room, had been pushed back and replaced with two chairs facing each other.
‘He didn’t remove the duct tape this time,’ Murphy said, his voice muffled behind his mask. The mouths of both victims were still blocked by the tape, one bloodied and almost torn away, the other untouched.
‘This took some force,’ Dr Houghton said from near the male victim. ‘He was well on the way to decapitation here.’
Murphy had deliberately chosen not to look at the male victim too closely, but now he allowed his gaze to drift over to where Dr Houghton’s gloved finger was pointing. ‘Bloody hell . . .’
Houghton was right. The wound was wider and deeper than Hannah’s had been, evidence that a significant effort had been made to increase the torture.
‘Those last moments . . . I don’t even want to think about them.’
‘More violence used this time around,’ Houghton said, moving round the body. ‘Numerous contusions and bruise marks. Slash marks on the victim’s face and back. Looks like he was beaten with something round, if you look at the bruising.’
Murphy moved closer, looking at the circular marks on the back of the male victim. ‘Hammer?’
‘Possibly,’ Houghton replied. ‘This is a bad one, David. I’d prefer it if these were the last ones, if that’s okay with you?’
‘Yeah, yeah. We’re working on it.’
Murphy muttered something under his breath, catching the doctor’s eyes and then averting his gaze.
Houghton moved towards the female victim opposite, examining her as best he could without moving her body too much. Murphy stepped to the side to allow more photographs to be taken, ducking out of the way as someone swept past filming the scene.
‘Needle mark in the same place as the other victims,’ Houghton said, pointing towards the right arm. ‘He’s consistent at least.’
‘How long have they been here?’ Murphy said, looking towards the patio doors, the floor-length blinds blocking his view to the outside.
‘Hours. Around twelve, I think. I’ll be able to tell you more later, of course. I’ll make this top priority.’
Murphy thanked the doctor and left the room, Rossi following behind him. He stood in the hallway for a second, looking at the walls.
‘What are you thinking?’ Rossi said, closing her notebook.
‘Marks on the walls,’ Murphy replied, pointing to where he was looking. ‘Where the colour doesn’t match.’
‘He’s taken photographs off the walls again. Created his collage from the personal photos.’
Murphy moved closer to the wall, above a radiator with fading enamel paint. ‘Look though,’ he said, his finger brushing against the wallpaper. ‘The pictures have been ripped off the wall this time. The picture hooks have been torn, taking half the plaster with them.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Rossi said, peering over his shoulder. ‘He took them off the walls last time.’
‘It’s not that. Think back to that scene with the third couple. There was nothing like this. The hooks were still on the wall. These have been ripped from the wall with force.’
Rossi was silent for a second, then began doing her best Bobblehead doll impression.
‘He’s angrier, that’s what’s happened here. He’s not keeping control of his emotions. That’s why the male victim has more injuries, why he’s doing things like this.’
Murphy pointed to the wall and then turned to Rossi. ‘If he’s angry, he’ll make mistakes. Come on.’
Murphy took the stairs two at a time, not feeling out of breath as he reached the top for a change.
‘Not using the lift in work is starting to kick in,’ he said to Rossi, once she’d joined him on the landing. ‘Feeling the effects already.’
Murphy kept on walking, ignoring the two bigger rooms upstairs and making his way to the smallest bedroom at the end of the landing. The door was open but it was empty inside, low voices coming from the other two rooms. He slowed as he reached the doorway, spotting the empty picture frames discarded on the floor.
‘Not very big in here,’ Rossi said, standing in the doorway as Murphy stepped into the room.
‘He’s used that Pritt Stick stuff again, by the looks of it,’ Murphy said, studying the photographs on the wall. ‘The photo frames have been smashed.’
Rossi leaned further into the room, looking to the floor past Murphy. ‘It could have been that he was in a rush, maybe? Worried about being disturbed?’
‘No,’ Murphy said, reading the words inked across several of the photographs. ‘It’s not that.’
WE CAN’T ALLOW THE LIARS TO WIN
‘Look at some of these photos, Laura,’ Murphy said, sweeping a gloved finger across them. ‘They’ve been torn and damaged. Slashes right through some of them.’
‘We’re back to angry then. Although, I have to say the other scenes weren’t exactly a picture of calm.’
‘No, this one is very different. He’s losing it, Laura.’ Murphy turned to her with a grin, which faded when he remembered what was downstairs.
‘Wonder what the secret was between them,’ Rossi said, leaving the room and standing out on the landing.
‘I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough,’ Murphy replied, calling one of the techs from the main bedroom and pointing towards the box room. ‘Get that photographed and printed. I want full forensics done as soon as possible. There’ll be something in there.’
Murphy headed past Rossi after having a quick look in the other two bedrooms. Nothing leapt out at him: small main room with a double bed, a couple of wardrobes and a flat screen TV fixed to the wall. The other was quite plainly used as a spare bedroom for visitors, doubling as a home gym, with a weights bench and exercise bike taking up the rest of the space within.
‘I want the list of people who were named in those emails,’ Murphy said as he made his way down the stairs. ‘We need to see if Carly and Will were on that list and not informed. If someone’s screwed up, I won’t be happy.’
‘No problem,’ Rossi replied, walking past Murphy and out the front door, removing her gloves as she left the house.
Murphy padded into the living room. He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. There were more faded marks on the walls where pictures had been removed. A glass picture frame lay smashed on the floor, the photo had not been removed.
‘Sir,’ a voice said from behind him. ‘You got a second?’
Murphy turned slowly, finding it difficult to tear his gaze away from the jagged image of the couple. The photo had once sat in the middle of the mantelpiece; an A4-sized, happy, smiling vision of the pair. They were dressed up and looked content, his arms wrapped around her as she stood in front of him, facing the camera.
‘What is it, Hale?’ Murphy said, once he’d stopped looking.
‘We’ve got names for the two of them,’ Hale said, holding on to his notepad as if he were worried about dropping it. ‘Will Callaghan and Carly Roberts. Lived here for about three years.’
‘Who found them?’
‘Carly’s sister. They were supposed to meet, but Carly didn’t show up. She gave it until this morning then came round. Had a spare key. She’s outside in the van, but I wouldn’t advise talking to her just yet. Think they’re going to take her to the station and try and calm her down. She’s trying to beat up anyone and everyone.’
‘Okay,’ Murphy said, leaning against the cold radiator on the nearest wall to the doorway. ‘Did you give Laura the names?’
DC Hale nodded, his head dipping low enough for Murphy to see the white of his scalp showing through his over-gelled hair.
He wondered if anyone was willing to take a bet on Hale losing his hair before him.
‘Right, well, let’s hope our killer didn’t find these two from one of the emails. Or we’ll look pretty stupid.’
Murphy left the house, finding Rossi sitting in the car outside, talking on her phone. He slipped into the driver’s seat, waiting for her to finish.
‘Okay, cheers,’ Rossi said, ending the call. ‘Names don’t match any of the emails we went through.’
‘How long was that email address running for before we started monitoring it?’
‘Only a few hours,’ Rossi replied, loosening her hair before retying it. ‘All the messages were unread though. I think he was just messing with us.’
‘Possibly,’ Murphy said, rubbing the palm of his hand across his cheek. ‘Could be that I was right and he deleted some before sending us the password. How many emails have come in so far?’
‘Thousands.’
Murphy shook his head. Despite releasing a press statement asking people not to send anything to the email address and convincing the newspapers and news programmes not to publish the address, there were still messages trickling in.
‘We could have blocked it,’ Rossi said. ‘Taken it down.’
‘It’s the only thing we can link to him, though,’ Murphy replied, taking in the scene through the windscreen. A helicopter flew overhead, the noise making some officers look skywards. ‘We had to keep it up. I didn’t think so many people would actually send messages to it.’
‘That’s the world we live in.’
They’d had to contact fifty people in the city the previous day, warning them to take extra precautions for their safety. There had been conversations about whether they should tell the people why they were getting in contact. However, Murphy had known it wouldn’t have taken them long to work out why, even if they’d kept the reason quiet. The headline in the late edition of the Echo had made it crystal clear. The story had run without many details, but there was enough to make readers understand what had happened.
All over the world, people had sent in emails detailing the lives of couples who they thought deserved to die. Murphy was still trying to wrap his head round that.
‘If we don’t find him soon, we could be in for a busy few days.’
