Bloodstream (29 page)

You could never be too careful though.

‘Can we just ask you a few questions, Joyce?’ Murphy said, needing to know for sure.

‘Yeah, of course. What’s this all about?’

Murphy turned and looked at the Blaupunkt flat screen TV in the corner. He picked up the remote. ‘Do you mind?’ Murphy said, keying the buttons before Joyce had the chance to answer.

The now familiar scrolling black text on yellow background appeared on the screen. Along with a view which Joyce recognised.

‘That’s the bottom of this road!’ she said, a high-pitched exclamation escaping her mouth. ‘What are they doin’ – Oh, no.’

Across the bottom of the screen, words appeared.

Murphy pressed mute on the remote and placed it down on the mantelpiece. ‘Joyce, have you got anything to say?’

‘I . . . I have nothing to do with anything like that. Honest, you’ve got to believe me. I’m a pensioner. I’m seventy-nine years old, for Christ’s sake. I couldn’t do anything like that even if I wanted to. Didn’t you see the Stannah on the stairs?’

Murphy had, which had been the first indication that something wasn’t right.

‘Is there anyone else who lives here with you, Joyce?’

‘No, just me now. Gerry passed away three years ago, God rest his soul. This would have killed him off if he hadn’t already gone to the other side. Always had a dodgy ticker.’

‘So, there’s no children, grandchildren?’

‘We only had the one. My Barbara. She’s got two kids. Both girls.’

Murphy was beginning to wonder whether technology was all it was cracked up to be.

‘Did we get the wrong house?’ he whispered to Rossi.

‘No,’ she said, writing something down in her notebook and then scanning the room. ‘Do you have a computer at all, Joyce?’

‘Oh, yes, but I never use it. Barbara gave me her old laptoppy thing, but I can’t work it. Told me I could be one of those golden surfers . . .’

‘Silver surfers,’ Rossi said.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Joyce said, perking up slowly. ‘That’s what she said. Truth is, I haven’t had it out for months. It’s in the cupboard, next to the good plates, in the back room, if you want to see it.’

‘Do you have internet here, Joyce?’ Murphy said, looking for a router. ‘A box that lets you connect to the internet?’

‘Yes, it’s behind the telly. The cable people told me I needed it to watch all the old programmes they have on the planner thing. I’ve never touched it. I leave all that to Barbara to sort out for me.’

‘Can you just excuse us for a moment, Mrs Langdon?’ Murphy inclined his head to one side at Rossi and walked away into the hallway. ‘She doesn’t have a clue what the internet is,’ he said, once they were out of earshot. ‘Never mind how to use the thing for posting videos and that. There must be someone who comes here.’

‘Maybe,’ Rossi said, digging around in her pocket and producing her work phone. ‘I’m just thinking there might be something else.’

‘Because technology has done well for us so far . . .’

‘Shush a second, Grandad.’

‘I’m hurt by that comment,’ Murphy said under his breath. ‘Not even forty yet.’

‘Just give me a second.’

Murphy held up his hands, shaking his head.

‘Here we go,’ Rossi said a minute or so later, turning the phone to face Murphy. ‘Her Wi-Fi is unlocked.’

‘Shit . . .’

‘Anyone parked on the street could hook up to it and then everything traces back to here. That’s why we’ve got this address.’

‘That’s if she’s sure there’s no one else who has access to this house,’ Murphy said, rubbing his temples. ‘What if it’s her daughter, or her son-in-law? It could be anyone.’

‘I think my idea makes more sense than the suggestion that this woman has forgotten about a load of visitors.’

‘How would our guy know the internet wasn’t protected here? Tell me that then.’

Rossi went silent for a few moments, before raising a finger in the air. ‘He was looking for one. He knew if he did anything online, we’d eventually trace him. He could have an untraceable phone for all we know. Chuck a pay-as-you-go SIM card in it and it’s job done.’

Murphy mused for a few seconds. ‘Okay, if we can really prove that there isn’t anyone else with access to this house, then fine, I’ll go along with it. Still seems a bit strange that he could drive here and use Wi-Fi like that.’

‘That’s modern technology for you,’ Rossi said, putting the phone back in her pocket and walking towards the living room. ‘Unless you know how it works, it’s all so confusing.’

Murphy aimed a push towards Rossi’s back, but she skipped away with a smirk.

He was transfixed by the television as shifting graphics ran across the screen and collided with the edge. Images flashed up on one side of the screen while an impossibly dapper man with a suitably serious face talked from the other. The images were repeated over and over; the same faces and same voices, saying the same things. Nothing new being reported, nothing new being spoken.

It was all because of him.

He was expecting a live interview with Kay Burley and him sitting in his home to appear at any point. Always at hand to appear at any tragic event or ongoing incident.

That was how it was now – the same faces at every tragedy, ready with a microphone and a po-faced look.

The way it all worked sickened him.

He remembered how he’d watched two buildings collapse on the other side of the Atlantic on a balmy September day. It was an aberration; their destruction something that united people across the world as they watched it unfold. An event unlike anything they had seen before; the mass killing of thousands of people live on television.

He had watched it, almost hypnotised by the images: planes slamming into buildings, scared New Yorkers running through dust-cloud-ridden streets, flailing bodies disappearing into nothingness.

Since then, violence had become prevalent on news channels, he thought. Beamed into living rooms, all for the viewers’ pleasure. The Iraq war, dead civilians piled up on streets, suspected terrorists tortured and humiliated. Hostage situations in Sydney and Paris. The London bombings, the armed sieges. The Boston Marathon bombing and its subsequent man hunt.

Raoul Moat, Derrick Bird. Mass killings as entertainment.

All shown live on a flat screen television or an electronic device of your choice. Twenty-four hours a day.

He had watched all these events. Looked up videos on the internet when the TV channels decided not to show them live. Beheadings and executions. He wanted to experience them all.

Society loved violence. It was everywhere, on every TV, inside every newspaper, at football matches, nightclubs – every event with more than one person. It lurked beneath the surface, just waiting to be examined, enacted. Love was the ultimate violence. He believed that with everything he had to give. Now, he was giving them what they wanted. Violence.

He thought back to a couple of years previously, when Liverpool had gained notoriety with the man who called himself Alan Bimpson. The image of him walking down the streets of the city with an automatic rifle, gunning people down, teenagers and elderly alike, had been burned into viewers’ minds.

The same detective who’d failed to save that final victim now hunting him.

Society had changed. Violence was the new norm, making them all so different.

Today he was responsible for the latest story which was keeping people riveted and engrossed.

Later, back in that room he was now so familiar with, his voice spoke into the shadows. ‘I’m not sure when things changed. When this became entertainment for so many of us. I think it might be twenty-four-hour news. Now we have the ability to change channel at any point and ingest a small morsel before moving on. Or there’s the invention of the internet, imparted to the masses to consume and enjoy. With that comes social media, the new conduit of society, the way in which conversation and argument is held. Offence given and taken. What do you think, Number Four?’

He didn’t wait for an answer.

‘I consume it all. I’ll read and watch everything I can manage.’

He allowed it to fuel him, scrolling through comments on the various websites which were all talking about him and his actions. The account he had created to post the video online had been taken down in the hours since, but there were still comments naming him by that stupid moniker he had chosen.

‘I’m trending on Twitter,’ he said with a chortle. ‘I never expected that to happen.’

He had needed only one email. Somewhere local, so he didn’t have to travel. The emails he had received had reached the hundreds within an hour. Most were calling him every insult imaginable, listing the violence that should be inflicted upon him. The things he should do to himself, before he was caught and cost them money by being imprisoned.

One email was all he required.

It had come an hour or so after the address had been posted online. A Liverpool-based couple, with a secret held on each side. He had noted down the details after accessing the email account via an open Wi-Fi spot he had found at a house near where he worked. He’d discovered that lots of people were still not up to speed with current technology and left their internet open to anyone passing, unprotected by a password.

The easiest way for him to stay under the radar.

They could trace the IP address, he guessed, but all they would find was a confused silver surfer in a two-bedroomed terraced house.

Not enough.

He had opened a few other emails but there was something about the first story that he had been attracted to. Concise and explicit. He had deleted the emails he had looked at, emptying the trash folder so no one else would see them. He left the rest there unread.

‘This is the new couple. What do you think?’

He sat beside Number Four, leaning into her as she shifted. He laid his head on her shoulder and moved the mobile phone into her eye line. ‘It’s the same story you always hear. Someone trapped in a lie. Choosing what they know and are comfortable with, rather than what could be. That’s not how it should be. I can save them. This couple will be the ones. They’ll see what I’m trying to do. I can feel it.’

Back at that anonymous street, he had sent one final email, hoping it would be all that was needed to make his point. He’d found the email address easily enough. Typed out a one-line message and clicked the send button, before logging off the free Wi-Fi and returning back to Number Four.

To Merseyside Police. The password for this account is loveisviolence.

It was a few hours later when Murphy finally left the station. The clock in his car announced he’d been at work for almost fourteen hours, which wasn’t a record, but it had been a while since that had happened. His phone had been buzzing in his pocket periodically for a few hours. Murphy knew who it was so he hadn’t even bothered to look.

He drove away from the station and down St Anne Street, waiting until he was a good distance from it before turning down a side street and pulling out his phone.

Stacey Maguire – six missed calls.

Murphy keyed the call back button and lifted the phone to his ear.

Stacey answered after only one ring. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages,’ she said, without a greeting.

‘I’ve been busy,’ Murphy said, suppressing a yawn. ‘You know I’m involved in the other case.’

‘Yeah, that bloody ChloJoe one. How could I forget? Now my Amy doesn’t have a chance of anyone doing anything, does she?’

‘That’s not true, Stacey . . .’

‘Of course it is. I know the score. Tell me you’re still trying to find out where she is, David. They’re not telling me anything down here. Just putting me through to some kid who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow.’

Murphy rubbed the bridge of his nose with his free hand. ‘The guy who came in at the beginning of the week . . .’

‘I still can’t believe they let him out. He must know something. Why would he just confess like that and then say he was lying?’

‘Listen, Stace, what I’m about to tell you stays between us, okay? I’m serious, if this got back to anyone, I wouldn’t be able to help any more.’

‘No problem. I won’t say anything.’

Murphy paused, still unsure if it was a good idea to tell her or not. Decided it wouldn’t come back on him and would save the detectives in Liverpool South any more questions. ‘I went to see him.’

‘The guy who confessed? What did he say? Did you find out where she is? Oh my God, oh my God . . .’

‘Calm down,’ Murphy said, immediately regretting saying anything. ‘I would have led with that if it was good news.’

There was silence over the phone for a second. ‘What happened then?’

‘I asked him a few questions. Made sure he was telling the truth . . .’

‘He could be lying still.’

‘No, he’s definitely not. He had nothing to do with this. He doesn’t know where Amy is, Stacey. I’m sorry.’

‘Are you sure?’

Murphy felt a growing pain behind his eyes. The start of one of his oh-so-bloody-wonderful tired headaches. ‘I’m sure. We’re no closer, I’m sorry.’

‘What am I supposed to do now, David? I thought you were going to help me. Help us both. You haven’t been there for her for almost nineteen years, you should be doing more.’

‘Why haven’t I been there for nineteen years? Because I didn’t know she existed until a week ago.’

‘There’s no need to shout,’ Stacey replied, huffing down the line at him. ‘I need someone in the police to help me find my daughter. That’s all.’

‘I’m doing all I can. I think it’s best that we leave it to CID near you now. If I get involved any more, they’re going to start asking more questions. I’ll keep in touch with them, though. Make sure they know the importance of it. And I’ll do the best I can to ask more questions around the place. Make sure every copper in the city knows to be on the lookout for her.’