Bloodstream (15 page)

He was just crazy, wanted to rob the house, or do something else. He didn’t know. Couldn’t tell.

‘He knows you’ve done something. This is to punish us. Maybe he’ll let us go if you just tell me the truth. Tell me the truth, Hannah.’

The last sentence hadn’t matched the almost calm volume of those preceding it. Instead it was spat with venom and loud enough that she hoped her neighbours heard it.

The door opened softly, Greg ignoring it and continuing to fire questions at her. Hannah finally tore her gaze away from Greg and waited for the man to appear behind him, hoping this was going to be the end of it.

Knowing somehow it wouldn’t be.

When she’d walked into her home, closing the door behind her, he’d been standing in the hallway waiting. Dressed all in black, a ski mask covering almost his entire face. Her first instinct had been to fight, but he’d overpowered her easily. Not that she let that be the end of it. She’d used everything in her arsenal to attempt to escape from his heavy grip. Her scream had been cut off quickly and with a practised ease, she’d thought. Gagged with duct tape across her mouth, she’d fallen to the floor when he’d tackled her. He had ignored her scratches, attempted headbutts and kicks, and had dragged her into the living room. Getting her into the chair had proved difficult for him, giving her a chance to escape. He had stopped, releasing her for a second, giving her no time to run before delivering a short, sharp blow to the side of her head, knocking her to the floor again.

Things had become blurry for some time after that. When her senses had come back to her, she couldn’t move her arms or legs. Strapped to a chair which she couldn’t rock over without hurting herself. Made to wait in silence, her shouts and screams muffled. Only audible in her own mind.

The man now stood behind Greg, Hannah’s eyes locked on his position in the darkness. She couldn’t see features, only his form, guessing that even if there were light in the room she still wouldn’t be able to make out what he really looked like behind that mask.

Greg stopped talking, finally sensing the presence behind him. He tried to crane his neck to see, but he was too fixed in place to do so.

‘Well, this was disappointing,’ the man said. ‘I was hoping you would have saved all this bother and told Greg the truth, Hannah.’

‘I knew it . . .’

‘Be quiet, Greg.’ The man spat out the name with a disgust that shook Hannah. ‘You’re just like the others. You don’t know what love is. There is no truth in this room, only lies. You could be better people, but you’re not listening to me. You don’t believe what I can do.’

It wasn’t just her he was angry with. She should have guessed that, otherwise only she would be the one who was strapped down and unable to move.

‘I think it’s time we played a game,’ the man said moving between them. He settled on his haunches between them, Hannah saw the flash of a grin in the darkness. ‘It’s called, how long can I hurt Hannah before she tells you the truth, Greg.’

Murphy read the report on Chloe and Joe in silence, waiting for answers to appear as if by magic from the page. Forensics. Not as useful as they make out on TV, but usually useful all the same.

In this instance, not really useful at all.

It was the afternoon of the second day, already coming up to the thirty-hour mark of that magical forty-eight-hour period when the case was supposed to stand or fall. Not that Murphy ever bought into that kind of thinking. If anyone wanted to see a police service who didn’t give up because they hadn’t solved a case within the first few days, it was Merseyside Police. Sometimes a few months wouldn’t even be a cause for worry. Two high-profile cases in the previous decade had taken more than a year before a charge was made.

Murphy focused on the forensics report once more, trying to discover the key thing that he may have missed in his first three reads. It hadn’t taken him long to read it, it was mainly a list of items from which no usable information could be gleaned.

‘Laura, you got anything from this?’ Murphy said, giving in and throwing it open.

‘Not really,’ Rossi replied.

‘That’s not a no. What are you thinking?’

Rossi was still staring at the report across from him, one foot raised up on her chair, an arm casually strung around her knee. ‘Just how clean it is.’

‘I got that too. Could just mean we have someone who knows about forensics? They’d only have to watch any cop show on TV these days.’

‘Guess so. Still, all that preparation with the magazine covers, the newspaper articles, and not one bit of DNA at all? That’s strange. Not a fresh fingerprint in that room, or the area we found the victims? It feels . . . I don’t know . . . prepared in some way.’

Murphy thought about it for a second, decided there was something he’d been considering himself.

‘A kill site?’

‘Yeah,’ Rossi replied, letting her foot fall to the floor and pulling herself closer to her desk. ‘Which could mean knobhead’s case from over the water isn’t linked to this one at all.’

‘Killed in their own home, whilst our guy kills in a specific place outside of it? Unless there’s another reason we’re not seeing?’

‘Possibly.’

‘The set-up is too similar though. Bound to chairs facing each other. One killed by asphyxiation, the other by overdose of unknown origin. No, there’s something else there. The security at their apartment, CCTV and the like. Bet that could put off someone . . .’

‘Bet you’re right. That could be why it was a different location. The killer scouts out his victims, decides it’s too risky killing them in their own home.’

‘Let’s speak to that agent again,’ Murphy said, standing up and grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘See if there’s anything he’s not told us yet. Or that we just haven’t found out.’

The media presence outside the station had dispersed. Murphy had heard the house in Anfield was still attracting a few ghouls who wanted to stand by police tape and look at a couple of bored uniformed coppers. Outside Thomas Parker’s house, it was different. A cavalcade of journalists descended on them as Murphy and Rossi pulled up to the driveway of Parker’s house, flashes going off in the afternoon light.

It was the questions which always struck Murphy as odd.

‘Are you here to arrest Thomas Parker?’

‘Is Thomas Parker a murder suspect?’

‘Did Thomas Parker kill Chloe?’

Murphy wondered if they actually expected an answer. It was as if they were hoping there would be a slip and the two detectives would suddenly give up all their information. It must have worked at some point, as what type of person tries the same thing over and over, expecting different results?

Murphy waited for the gates to open, spying the CCTV affixed to the pillar on the driver’s side of the car, and angled towards them. They had phoned ahead, so Murphy hadn’t expected too long a wait to gain entry, but thirty seconds was beginning to feel like thirty minutes.

Murphy had known from the address that they weren’t going to be visiting a three-bedroomed terraced house. Or even the nice semi-detached where Chloe’s mother lived. He knew where the money was located within the city, the houses kept for footballers, local celebs and people with much better-paid jobs than a detective inspector.

Formby.

‘Not far from the professor’s house this,’ Murphy said as they waited. ‘Not been back here since.’

‘I’m not surprised. You were almost killed that time. Lucky that you had Jemma Barnes on your side. Wonder how she’s doing . . .’

Murphy thought of the young woman who had been held in captivity for almost a year. How she had emerged from a dark basement and killed her captor, saving Murphy’s life in the process. His thoughts turned to Amy Maguire and whether she was safe somewhere or in trouble like Jemma Barnes had been, without anyone suspecting.

Or, whether she was dead already. Her body waiting to be found.

‘From what little I hear, she’s doing well,’ Murphy said, nosing the car onto the drive as the gates finally opened. ‘She’s kept out of public life as much as she can. Three years ago that was now.’

‘Time flies and all that.’

The house was concealed within high, red-bricked walls. The house itself eventually revealed itself, the car’s tyres crunching on gravel stones as they drove the short distance to the entrance. It wasn’t palatial but it still screamed money. Built from dark red brick, with large windows, trimmed in a deep brown colour. Murphy could see a multitude of outhouses to one side and a front entrance framed by large pillars of brick masquerading as marble.

‘There’s even a bloody fountain,’ Murphy said, pointing to Rossi’s side window.

‘Honestly,’ Rossi said, taking in the grounds and shaking her head. ‘You would never think places like this exist only a short drive from some of the shite we see on a regular basis. Like a different world. It’s still in Liverpool and not bloody Southport though. No matter how hard they try to make it so.’

Murphy pulled to a stop near the entrance, gave Rossi a look. ‘Don’t let the money intimidate you,’ he said, earning himself a muttered response from Rossi. ‘I’m just saying, we treat him like any other guy.’

They were greeted at the door by a woman in an old-fashioned tabard apron – the hired help, Murphy assumed. She was the epitome of old English maid, with silver hair in a bun, wrinkled skin and thick gold-framed glasses. She ushered them through to the main living area, where Parker stood with his back to them, speaking on his mobile and gesticulating with one hand towards an ornate mantelpiece.

‘Real marble that,’ Murphy said pointing towards the fireplace. ‘Classy.’

‘And you’re telling me not to be intimidated . . .’

Parker turned as they spoke, covering the mouthpiece of the phone.

‘Thanks, darling,’ Parker said to the woman who had shown them in before speaking into the phone again.

Rossi nudged Murphy as she turned to watch the woman leave. ‘Bet she came free with the house,’ she said covering her mouth slightly with one hand.

Murphy waited patiently for a second or two before clearing his throat and speaking louder. ‘When you’re finished.’

Parker turned, almost bowing with apology, before going back to his phone call. ‘Course, course. I’ll call you back . . . I don’t know when, just don’t say anything until I tell you to.’

Murphy decided to cross the room to get closer to Parker, drawing himself up to his full height in the vast space of the living area.

Parker stabbed at his phone, shaking his head as he turned to face Murphy and Rossi once more. His eyes widened as he took in Murphy’s size directly in front of him.

‘S . . . sorry about that,’ Parker said, a slight shake to his hands as he returned the phone to his trouser pocket. ‘Is, erm, everything okay? I mean . . . obviously not, but . . . erm . . . what’s going on?’

Murphy fought against the temptation to grin madly and get even closer. ‘Well, things are progressing, Mr Parker,’ he replied, his voice flat and non-committal. ‘We’re here about Chloe and Joe, of course.’

‘Yes, of course . . . sorry again about that,’ Parker said, pointing to his empty hand before realising he’d already replaced his phone. ‘It’s all gone very mad around here, as you can imagine.’

‘No, actually. Tell us what’s been going on?’

Parker frowned. ‘In what way?’

‘Who you’ve spoken to, that sort of thing.’

Murphy allowed Parker a few seconds to think before sighing and checking his watch.

‘Well, there’s all the press of course. They all want to speak to me. Trying to get access to the families and that. I’ve been putting them off for now, but eventually it’ll get to the point where we’ll have to say something.’

Murphy shook his head. ‘How about – just for once – we concentrate on things other than stories in newspapers and magazines, Mr Parker? Leave dealing with the press to us.’

Parker let out a nervous laugh, before realising the gravity of the situation. ‘I didn’t mean that . . . I understand, but these people won’t stop until they get something they can write, tweet, or blog about. That’s just the way things are.’

Rossi stepped up in line with Murphy. ‘Let’s leave this conversation for now, what do you reckon? Talk about dead Chloe Morrison and dead Joe Hooper. You know . . . important things?’

Murphy bowed his head, took a step back and leaned on the arm of one of the large sofas. Parker raised his hands in mock surrender but didn’t move. ‘I want to help. I’ll do anything I can, of course.’

‘Good,’ Rossi replied, flipping through pages in her notebook. ‘Then we’re going to ask a few questions and let you get back to whatever it is you were doing. Sound fair?’

Parker nodded, his eyes still wide enough for Murphy to see the red streaks of blood in the whites. Coupled with the dark rings underneath his eyes, Murphy guessed sleep had evaded Parker since seeing the bodies of his two clients.

‘What was the state of the relationship between Chloe and Joe?’

‘I . . . in what way?’

Rossi didn’t look up, still standing with pen in hand. ‘How were things between them? To the best of your knowledge.’

Murphy watched Parker clasp his hands together lightly. One hand massaging the other.

‘Things were good, I think.’

‘No arguments or disagreements?’

‘Everyone has those,’ Parker replied, his hands still wringing together. ‘I hadn’t heard anything out of the ordinary.’

‘What about Joe?’

Parker’s face darkened a little, his expression becoming even more drawn in on itself. ‘What about him?’

‘How was he taking to the celebrity lifestyle?’

Hesitation. Murphy could see words being discarded, chosen carefully.

‘It’s a shock to the system for those who have no experience of it. Everything is scrutinised. Your whole life is there to be commented on. They build you up, then spend all their time trying to knock you down. Joe . . . he enjoyed that. He didn’t get anywhere near the scrutiny Chloe got, of course, but he loved it all the same. Couldn’t believe the money they were getting for doing events, interviews, that sort of thing. I know he was earning a tidy sum playing football, but even at that level, he was earning a month’s wages just for turning up at a restaurant or a club, being photographed next to the sign, then going back home.’