Bloodstream (43 page)

What should have broken his nose instead galvanised Ben. Murphy lost his grip with his left hand, leaving only his right holding Ben’s wrist. He didn’t pause, he threw a left hook to Ben’s side, into the space his old boxing trainer had drummed into him to aim for. Underneath the ribs, taking any air Ben had left in his body.

Ben began to weaken, his legs losing the will to carry his weight, as Murphy kept a tight grip on Ben’s wrist.

Then there was a noise Murphy hadn’t heard before. A wild, guttural sound which blared into his face. Murphy finally lost his grip as Ben pushed back, the knife coming towards him.

Murphy stepped away and allowed the knife to follow its own trajectory.

Ben looked down. He was still holding onto the knife. He looked back up and grinned at Murphy.

He couldn’t see the blood through the black clothing, but Murphy thought it was there. The knife was buried in Ben’s midsection, only he no longer looked like Ben. Or The Man in Black. He’d become a child almost. The boyish features, unlined and untouched, turned into a grin which was rapidly fading as he crumpled to the floor.

Murphy turned and went to Sarah, carefully taking off the duct tape across her mouth.

‘Are you okay?’ Murphy said, brushing a hand across her face. ‘Did he hurt you?’

‘I’m fine, I’m all right,’ Sarah said, leaning her face against his. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes. Let me get this off you.’

Murphy went round to stand behind Sarah. Taking a grip on the duct tape he ripped it free. He moved to the front and did the same for her legs. Sarah came slowly to her feet.

‘Is he . . .’

‘I don’t know,’ Murphy replied, looking over to the shadow where Ben had fallen. ‘I don’t care. As long as you’re okay, I don’t care.’

They embraced, Murphy holding on to his wife, her shoulders beginning to hitch as she buried her face in his chest.

He heard movement from the shadows, turned but couldn’t see anything.

‘Right,’ Murphy said, lifting Sarah’s face away from him. ‘Go upstairs, lock yourself in the bathroom and wait. I’ll stay with him until people get here.’

‘I’m not leaving you . . .’

‘You’re not leaving me, you’re being safe. Go upstairs, take the phone with you. They’ll be here within seconds, honestly.’

Sarah nodded, kissed him on the mouth and then left the room through the open doorway.

Murphy watched her go, frowning as she left.

‘Wait, no,’ Murphy shouted, bounding across the room and reaching the door, spinning into an empty hallway.

‘What? What’s the matter?’

Murphy walked back into the dining room, switching on the light on the wall as he did so. He looked to the spot where Ben had fallen.

‘Shit,’ Murphy said, his voice echoing back at him. ‘Sarah, don’t move.’

Murphy went back into the hallway, switching on the light as he went. As Murphy moved closer to the front door, he realised it had been opened and not shut properly.

‘Do what I told you to,’ Murphy said. ‘No, wait . . . I’ll go with you first.’

Murphy walked Sarah up the stairs, waiting for Ben to jump out at them, before hurrying her into the bathroom and waiting for the lock to click.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ Murphy said. He took the stairs two at a time, bursting into his living room, seeing it was empty. He went back into the hallway and grabbed his jacket as he opened the front door with his foot.

Outside, it was dark, the street lights not giving much illumination. He heard a car on the street rev its engine. Murphy slipped his feet into his almost new walking boots, used once and then left in the hallway. He didn’t bother with the laces, instead he walked through the doorway and out, checking either side of him as he paced quickly to the end of the front path and leaned on the gate.

A car sped past him, a figure in black at the wheel.

Murphy rummaged in the inside pocket of his jacket, producing his keys and phone. He dropped his jacket to the floor and within seconds was starting his own car up and backing out of his drive.

‘This is Detective Inspector David Murphy with Liverpool North,’ he shouted into his phone, cradling it on his shoulder as he placed both hands on the wheel. ‘I’m in pursuit of Ben Flanagan . . . Yes, that one, don’t you think it’d be big a coincidence if it was a different one? . . . He’s travelling in a black Ford Fiesta towards Melling Road, past the golf course.’

Murphy saw the car up ahead weaving across the road, attempting to right itself. ‘He’s wearing all-black clothing and a black ski mask over his head . . . he has an injury . . . a knife wound to his abdomen. He assaulted two people at their home before escaping.’

He rattled off his home address, shifting into fourth gear and speeding up.

‘He is struggling to keep his car on the road . . . how long until air support can get here?’

Murphy watched as the car in front slowed down, twisted to the right, then straightened up and sped off again.

‘I’m right behind him . . . who do we have in the area?’

Murphy lifted his foot off the accelerator as Ben slowed down once again.

‘Where the hell are you going to go?’ Murphy muttered to himself, his eyes never leaving the road in front of him. The streets were quiet, which was at least something in his favour. ‘Continuing down towards Fazakerley train station. Longmoor Lane,’ he shouted into his phone.

The car in front approached the traffic lights just as they turned to amber; instead of stopping the car veered to the right and turned off.

‘Onto Lower Lane,’ Murphy said, turning the car. As he shaped to put his foot down, another car coming from the opposite direction blared its horn.

‘Shit.’

Murphy slammed on the brakes, turning the wheel back as the car whipped round. His mobile phone slipped from the crook of his shoulder and bounced out of sight. His car came to a stop in the middle of the junction, more traffic appearing, almost trapping him there. ‘Bollocks. I don’t know if you can still hear me, but I’ll keep a running commentary.’

He shifted into gear and accelerated again. He peered into the distance, hoping to see Ben’s car in front appear once more. There were no street lights on the tree-lined road of Lower Lane, his own headlights the only illumination. He spied a car ahead, dim lights shining as it dipped behind a small hill in the road.

‘Got you,’ Murphy said, slowing up as he approached. He wasn’t going to play his game, he decided. ‘Still on Lower Lane, reduced speed to make him think he’s lost me.’

Murphy kept the car in front in sight, but followed at a distance. ‘Where are you going?’

Ten minutes later, he had his answer.

Ben almost pounded the wheel with excitement. He’d felt for sure it was over, once when that detective had overpowered him in the house, and again when he had caught up with him in the car. Now, looking in the rear-view mirror at nothing but empty road, it looked as if a simple right turn had been enough.

He laughed, quietly at first, before the inside of the car rocked with his laughter. He simply couldn’t believe it was as simple as that to outmanoeuvre a copper in a chase.

He felt invincible.

Ben took one hand off the steering wheel, eyes locked forward. He peeled away his jacket and rolled up the layers so he could feel the damage to his midsection. It was sore to the touch, a definite wound opening up there. He quickly calculated how long the journey back to the flat – and Number Four – would take, he decided it was enough time. There was a first aid kit there; he could patch himself up and make a move.

He thought of Number Four. Imagined the delight on her face when he walked back through the door, ready to take her away, far from this place. The knowledge that this final act proved that he had been right and true all along. The wound he had suffered was testimony to the fact he was worthy of her love.

The thought of it brought a wider smile to his face. The fact that there was nothing that would hold her back now.

Ben kept checking the rear-view mirror, waiting for it to fill with blue flashing lights, and for his pathway to salvation to be blocked. But despite some minor traffic here and there, there was no sign of anything.

He was going to make it, he thought. As he took a few turns here and there, just in case he was being followed, he opened the window and listened over the engine noise for the sounds of a helicopter above, but received only silence, save for his own car.

He allowed himself to smile once again. He was safe. As he reached Speke Hall Road he began to think of the future. Where they would go, what they would do. He had been stashing money away for months, almost as if he knew something like this was going to happen. The sale of his dad’s house had gone through six months earlier, which with a fully paid-off mortgage meant a nice profit had been made. The reason he had come back to Liverpool.

Bury his father – find Number Four.

Ben knew they would be freezing his accounts, but they wouldn’t find the money. He was too clever for them, he thought. Even when overpowered by their best detective, he had escaped. And now he was going to be with Number Four for ever. Comfortable and in love.

He reached Western Avenue and pulled the car to a stop behind the row of buildings where the flat was located. He waited a few seconds to see if anyone was there watching out for him.

Ben slipped out of the car, looked round the quiet street, his shadow bouncing off the pavement, and began to walk quickly to the flat entrance.

All he had to do was get Number Four and start driving. He was going to be free. They were going to be free.

No one was going to get in their way. He wasn’t going to let anyone come between them any more.

Keith Hudson heard the voice again. Through the walls. Like they were talking to him when he knew they weren’t. He turned up his television but it made no difference. They were in there now. In his head. In the hallway. In the way.

He had tried to be normal like everyone else, but it hadn’t worked. The girl had gone and it had been his fault. He wanted them to know that he was sorry, but they never listened.

He had seen it all. The man they were all talking about on TV. In front of his window, in his hallway, in his head. Banging around in the top flat.

It was his fault, Keith’s fault, his fault. He’d written it down somewhere, but had forgotten where he’d put it. He made lists. That’s what he did. Of things he could and couldn’t do. Could and couldn’t say.

The big detective’s voice was out there now. Shouting his name. He didn’t like him. He was the reason he wasn’t getting better. Only worse.

‘Go away,’ Keith shouted, wanting everyone to leave. ‘You’re not here.’

Real life was getting harder and harder to cling on to.

‘Leave me alone.’

Keith put his hands over his ears and stared at the window as the noise banged on and on.

‘I’ll make you go away,’ Keith said, standing up with his hands still over his ears. ‘I’ll open the door and it’ll stop. Then what will you do?’

Keith crossed the room, almost falling over a bin bag full of clothes, and gripped the Yale lock on the door, but didn’t open it straight away. ‘I’m opening the door and you’ll disappear.’

The voice continued, so Keith opened the door and then crossed to the outer door and opened that as well.

‘Oh, you’re real.’

‘Yes, I am,’ the big detective said, looking past Keith and into his home. Keith shrank back.

‘Have you come to try it on with me again, ya big knobhead?’

‘No, Keith, I need you to help me . . .’

Murphy began to put it together as he followed Ben onto Western Avenue in Speke. His old home town, the familiarity bleeding from every street light and paving stone.

From a hundred or so yards away, Murphy watched Ben pull his car to a stop. With his headlights switched off so he blended into the darkness, Murphy waited a few seconds, his car idling at the side of the road as he watched Ben slip out onto the street.

Murphy risked moving his car closer, just as Ben disappeared into an alleyway behind a row of buildings.

Opposite the shop Amy Maguire worked at. The same row of buildings which housed Keith Hudson – the man who had confessed to murder.

The man who said he heard Amy’s voice.

‘You took her,’ Murphy whispered into the silence of his car. ‘She’s Number Four.’

Murphy waited a minute or so more before pulling the car closer. Once he was stationary, he searched the passenger footwell, finally locating his phone. When he hadn’t been joined by a fleet of marked cars, he suspected the call had been lost. He checked the screen and his fears were confirmed. All his shouted directions had been in vain.

He quickly dialled and waited for a connection.

‘Detective Inspector David Murphy from Liverpool North,’ Murphy said into the phone, his voice still barely above a whisper as he rattled off his ID. ‘Bottom of Western Avenue in Speke, the flats opposite the shops . . . The buildings there are flats . . . No, I don’t know the fucking number, just get down here . . . Everyone, get everyone.’

Murphy placed the phone down on the passenger seat, without ending the call, then checked the pocket at the side of his seat. He pulled out the telescopic baton he kept there, before opening the glove compartment and moving aside the few papers stuffed in there. He pulled out the pepper spray and tucked it into his trouser pocket. He picked up his phone again and spoke into it.

‘They need to get here now. Is someone at my house?’

He waited for an answer in the affirmative and then placed the phone into his other pocket and pulled on the door handle. There was a brief second when he stilled himself, asking himself if what he was doing was the right thing. Then the image of Amy Maguire came to his mind, and it drove him forward.

He left the car, blinking into the dark ahead of him as droplets of rain started to drift down onto him. Stilted illumination came from the occasional street light that still worked, making the path ahead even less inviting. He made his way across to the front entrance of the buildings, knocking as softly as he could, before moving across to the window at the side.