Bloodstream (31 page)

She had listened as Will was forced to confess what he’d been up to. Heard the stories of other women and what he had done. She wondered why she didn’t feel anything. No hurt, no betrayal. Just a nothingness.

There was no love between them.

She thought there had been, back at the beginning. She had thought there was something special about meeting one another at such a young age, then staying together for all that time. Despite all the things people had said to her over the years, how it would never last, how they would eventually want something else, they had stayed the course. They had just gone on and on. Stuck with each other.

Carly had been scared about what single life would actually be like. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t had someone at home, late at night. She was never alone. Not really. It didn’t matter that she knew he no longer fancied her, never mind loved her. He preferred a skinny, platinum blonde on his arm, not the size twelve-fourteen she was, dark roots showing through her badly dyed hair.

She knew she was attractive, just not to Will any more. Yet, she couldn’t make the break. Couldn’t make the change she needed to.

Strapped to the chair, she knew she should have made different choices. Tried to do something other than settle. She should have allowed this relationship to fester and die.

Stubbornness had overruled self-preservation. She could have been happier. She could have had a better life than the one she’d settled for. That’s what she thought now.

Now.

Now, all she could do was sit and watch as a man dressed in black began to cut into Will’s throat with a sharp blade.

This wasn’t love.

There was something there, he thought. Something underneath the surface. They weren’t begging for their lives like the others had. They just sat there, waiting. They knew who he was, what he had come to do. They weren’t prepared to fight for themselves or each other.

He didn’t understand it.

He had waited a day, after driving to the house the night before and deciding against doing anything so rash as not planning it further. It was now Thursday night, only two days on from Greg and Hannah. Six days after Chloe and Joe.

He could feel sweat gathering underneath the ski mask, the heat under his dark clothes increasing by the second. He blinked away moisture, held the blade in trembling hands and prepared to begin.

‘Finding you didn’t take long. Although being given your address was a nice head start. See, someone wanted me to come here.’

He looked from face to face. ‘I went online and trawled through what info I could find on you both. Facebook, etcetera. Yours was private, wasn’t it, Carly?’

He traced a finger across her face, enjoying the flinch she gave in response. ‘Could only see your profile picture and that was it. Will’s, on the other hand, is open and easy to look at.’

He crouched in front of Carly, staring into her blue-green eyes and then giving her a wink. ‘You know, when I first started out doing this, I would spend hours following people around, learning as much as I possibly could about them. The first couple I had in chairs facing each other, I didn’t have the luxury of being told what they had done. I had to find information on them first. On him. I knew he had been lying but I wasn’t sure what it was about.’

He crossed the room and rested an elbow on Will’s head, facing Carly. Will bucked underneath his weight, so he pressed harder.

‘I became a third member of that relationship, without them even realising it. I was a part of them. I heard conversations they had, listening for something underneath the surface. I wanted to find out if the lie was already known, if it was no longer hidden. They’re no longer with us, so I think you can guess at the answer to that. She knew at the end. I made sure of that.’

He grabbed Will’s jaw, forcing him to look up, and Will screamed behind the tape across his mouth.

‘You’re a bit of a fool, Will. An idiot. I sent you a friend request but it was a fake profile. You accepted instantly. All I needed was a few pictures of a blonde hairdresser, which I plucked from another profile. It’s easy enough to do. Do you remember the message you sent her?’

He tightened his grip on Will’s jaw. ‘Naughty, naughty boy, Will.’

He forced Will’s head back even further, before letting go and giggling to himself as he crossed back to Carly.

‘I wanted to find out as much as possible about you both, before it became time for me to show myself. I wanted to understand you and become a part of your lives. You look less plastic in real life, Carly. And are you really a Man United fan, Will? You’re brave, being that in this city. Although, I do know you weren’t born in Liverpool, so that probably explains it.’

He moved to the side, facing both of them.

‘I read through all your posts, Will. All your laddish bullshit, your right-wing idiocy. The way you talk about women, like they’re objects. Quite the catch you have here, Carly.’

He studied her once more, trying to see what was behind those eyes.

‘I don’t understand you, Carly. Why do you allow him to treat you this way? People notice, you know. They must wonder how he gets away with it. You didn’t accept my request, so I don’t know much of anything about you. I bet you dote on him though. That’s what I think. There to answer to his every beck and call. Dye job, and tan from a bottle. All to make him happy, I bet. But it makes no difference, does it? You mould yourself to be better for him, to make him happy, yet nothing changes.’

He stared at Carly, waiting for a response, but received nothing. As Will bucked in his chair and shouted behind his tape, Carly remained stock still. It was as if she were watching something being acted out in front of her, rather than being a part of it.

‘This . . . this is what happens when you can’t change. Which you both evidently can’t. You’re stuck together. There is no love here. No real love. You don’t deserve it. Carly, I’m going to make everything better for you. I’m going to get rid of him.’

He waited to see if anything changed, but there was only silence. Carly stared back at him, watery blue-green eyes almost glowing. The duct tape across her mouth remained tight and she made no attempt to say anything.

‘This is it.’

He could feel himself wavering, not knowing what to do. Then he felt the anger swelling inside him. How could these two people be given everything and not him? It wasn’t fair. They had every chance to love, they had found each other, and now sat there waiting for him to do something, rather than fighting for it.

It wasn’t right.

He slid the blade of his knife into the neck, holding the head steady as it rocked about, the noise increasing from behind the duct tape. He saw the blood begin to flow, and kept going. Not a clean cut this time. Not for this person.

He kept cutting. Blood pouring over his gloves as he continued. He could hear the noise from the woman on the other side of the room, her muffled screams filling the room.

He could hear himself talking over the gurgling noise which emanated from the man strapped to the chair, the sound slowing down as he cut further and further into his neck.

‘Not good enough. This isn’t good enough. This isn’t what you’re supposed to be.’

@SteffJelling1
Did anyone email that guy? #ManInBlack

@RockoGym99
I sent him a message. Told him to come to Liverpool if he thinks he’s hard. #ManInBlack

@ChloeFanGroup
Feel sorry for Chloe now. He never loved her. She should of just got rid. #RIPChloe

@WilkosMaxi
Only good thing about being made an idiot of is that she wasn’t around to see it. #ManInBlack #ChloJoe

@SteveHewson94
Can’t watch the news. Just keeps going on and on about Liverpool. #Whocares

@Pundertaker_12
I emailed that account. Told them to kill #ChloJoe again. #annoyingscousers

@UndercoverMother
Why is this even happening? Bet we’re not being told the whole story . . .

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.