Bloodstream (12 page)

‘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 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.’