Bloodstream (8 page)

‘Well, you have to remember the camera thing,’ Rossi said. ‘Could be one filming at any point. Last thing we need right now is one of us giving hell to a journo.’

‘Still, it’s always nice to give them a bit of agro back. Bane of our bloody lives most of the time.’

Murphy stepped forward and knocked on the door. It was opened a few seconds later by the family liaison officer, sent to the house ahead of them. Murphy went first, ushered into the living room. The walls felt like they were closing in on him as he stepped inside; the smell of damp and nicotine mixing together, creating something he struggled to imagine living in. Yellowing paper on the walls, peeling in places. Black mould in the corners of the room. A rhythmic cough coming from the only occupant. A man in his forties, who could have passed for late fifties if Murphy hadn’t already known the guy. The coughs coming each side of drags on a rolled cigarette, the can of lager not doing anything to stop them.

‘The cavalry’s arrived then,’ the man said, purposefully not making eye contact with Murphy or Rossi. ‘What kept youse?’

‘Hello, Chris,’ Murphy said, waving away the family liaison officer who, judging by the speed of his departure, was relieved to escape the confines of the room. ‘Long time no see.’

Chris Hooper looked up, appraised him with a weaving head and sniffed. ‘I remember you,’ he said, placing his can of lager on the threadbare carpet at his feet and replacing it with a lighter. ‘How the fuck could I forget a big fucking lummox like you though, eh?’

Murphy looked at the stained couch behind him and decided against sitting down. Mainly for his own health. Rossi had likely made the same decision, leaning against the now closed wood-panelled door.

‘Keeping yourself out of trouble?’

‘Better than my boy by the sounds of things.’

Murphy didn’t remember many faces from his uniform days, but Chris Hooper’s was one of them. Not the name, not at first. And definitely not the familial connection to that morning’s victim. He didn’t keep tabs on the family members of men he’d arrested countless times back in those days. He remembered Chris Hooper though. The amount of times he’d had to battle with him, drunk and endlessly violent.

A regular.

Murphy nodded towards Chris. ‘Nothing confirmed as yet, of course, until you ID him. But we think it’s him, Chris.’

Chris’s head dropped to his chest, the rolled cigarette between his fingers burning out, waiting to be relit. ‘Yeah, I know.’

‘When was the last time you saw Joe?’

‘Years ago,’ came the slurred reply. ‘Not interested in his auld fella once he’d become famous. Embarrassed about me probably. Can’t believe he went over and played for those fucking wools anyway. Tranmere bloody Rovers? Hardly Anfield or Wembley, is it? Still looked down his nose at us, though, didn’t he?’

‘Spoke to him recently?’

‘Tried to. Wondered if he’d see his way to giving us some money to get out of here and that. Brought him up, didn’t we? Deserved a bit of payback. Never got back to us though. Now . . . now he’ll never get the chance. And we’re stuck here forever. Poor kid.’

Murphy waited for Chris to light his cigarette, and for another coughing fit to finish, before speaking again. ‘You never met Chloe then, I gather?’

‘That bint he was in the papers with all the time? Nah. He wouldn’t bring her here, would he? Ashamed of us. Didn’t even see his brothers and sisters either. Cut himself off. What good’s that done him? Christ.’

‘So, when did you actually speak to him last?’

‘Years ago,’ Chris said, sniffing and choking on whatever came up. He swallowed and then took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Don’t know anything about his life now. Never sold our story though. Tried to tell him that, but he didn’t care. Not even now, to those two dickheads out there. I’m better than that.’

Murphy looked towards Rossi, raising an eyebrow which indicated a dead end.

‘We’re going to be speaking again, okay, Chris? But for now, the family liaison officer will be here to answer any questions and to take you down the Royal to ID the body.’

A slow nod was the only response.

‘Chris, look at me,’ Murphy said, his voice a little louder in the small room. Chris lifted his head slowly, looked at Murphy with bloodshot eyes.

Murphy bent down a little. ‘I’m going to find out what happened to your son. Understand?’

Chris stared at Murphy for a few seconds before taking a drag on his cigarette. ‘You were always one of the good ones,’ he replied.

‘We were never going to get anything from him anyway,’ Murphy said, sitting back in the passenger seat and forgoing the opportunity to stick a middle finger up at the two journos who were now sitting on a car bonnet on the opposite side of the road. ‘He hasn’t seen any of his kids for years.’

Rossi started the car and fiddled with the satnav on the dashboard before giving up on it. ‘Guess not. Had to be done though.’

‘One of the perks we have on this job.’

‘Vaffanculo
’

Murphy let out a short laugh at Rossi’s response and took out his phone as the police radio crackled into life, looking up to make sure Rossi turned it down. He scrolled down his mobile phone screen looking for Sarah’s name in his contacts list, before giving up and going back to recent messages instead. He sent her a short text to tell her he’d be late home and not to fall asleep on the sofa. She replied instantly.

Murphy smirked and put his phone back in his pocket.

‘Ring the office while you’ve got that out,’ Rossi said, indicating to turn right, onto Rice Lane. ‘Find out when the PM is scheduled for.’

‘PMs, Laura,’ Murphy replied, trying to find DC Harris’s number on his phone. ‘Plural.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Murphy called Harris as Rossi made the trip back to the station, the drab houses of Walton becoming the drab houses of Kirkdale and Everton, as County Road became Walton Road.

‘Not until tomorrow morning,’ Murphy said, ending the call. ‘Chloe’s mum has come over to ID her, though, so I imagine Chris Hooper won’t be far behind.’

‘Why the wait?’ Rossi replied.

‘I don’t know. Maybe Houghton is getting too old? Probably has a few in the queue ahead of them or something. Nothing can be rushed with him.’

‘Suppose. Would have thought with the shit storm that’s about to rain down on us he would have got the word to sort it sooner.’

‘I’m sure that’ll come in time.’

They fell into an easy silence as the five mile trip back to St Anne Street passed quickly. Murphy rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and allowed his eyes to close briefly. He opened them as he felt the car slow down and turn off, seeing the station loom into blurred view.

‘More of them now,’ Rossi said, waiting for the barrier to lift before driving on.
‘Parassiti.
’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ Murphy replied.

The office was even busier now, a few detective constables had returned from the crime scene and were back at commandeered desks. Murphy started considering the future of the case. Although they all answered to people of higher ranks, essentially the team of detectives and officers was under his command; it would be him they would come to. To be told what to do, how to
proceed.

If he had an ego, he would be dangerous. As it was, he was barely interested in telling himself what to do, never mind a whole load of other people.

‘Quiet down,’ Murphy shouted over the din of raised voices. ‘Meeting room, five minutes. I want to know everything we have so far and update you on what’s been going on here.’

A few ‘Yes, boss’ and ‘yes, Sir’s could be heard before the conversations started up again. Murphy checked the murder board for any updates, saw only Rossi’s sloped handwriting and carried on to DCI Stephens’s office.

‘Back so soon, David?’ Stephens said once he was sitting down opposite her.

‘Yeah,’ Murphy replied, stretching his already tired legs out in front of him. ‘Father hadn’t seen the victim in a while. Wasn’t a good relationship, but we knew that anyway. I know the guy from old—’

‘Your days in uniform?’

‘Of course,’ Murphy said, accepting the interruption. ‘Low-level stuff. Alcoholic, so always fuelled by drink. Violence mostly. Pub fights and so on.’

‘The mother?’

‘Dead a couple of years. Alcohol got to her a lot sooner than it’ll get to him. Joe – the victim – moved on pretty quick by the looks of things. Still a lot to work out on that side.’

DCI Stephens pushed a few grey strands of hair behind her ear where they had come loose from her tight bun of a hairdo. ‘Possible suspect?’

Murphy shook his head. ‘I’m not ruling it out, but I think we need to look at their personal lives outside of family at the moment. That room in the house, all the magazine cuttings and that? That’s saying something to me.’

DCI Stephens raised an eyebrow. ‘Enlighten me, Poirot. What’s it saying?’

Murphy took a second, tried to work out what he wanted to say but failed. ‘Honestly, I’m not sure yet. There’s just something about it that isn’t right. It was like a shrine to them, but . . .’ Murphy struggled to find the words to describe what it was that was niggling at him.

‘It’s a bad one, that’s what you’re saying?’

‘Not just bad,’ Murphy replied. ‘Something we’ve come across before.’

DCI Stephens waited for him to continue, but Murphy didn’t have any more. Except one thing.

‘Obsession,’ he said after a few seconds. ‘This is someone who was obsessed with them or what they represent. That’s my feeling. Not some domestic murder–suicide ridiculous situation. This is something worse.’

There was a question he thought of often, never receiving an answer that placated him. It niggled at him late at night, when he slept fitfully in the adjacent room to the one he stood in now. He asked Number Four, not waiting for an answer.

‘Do you believe in fate? Some guiding force which brings us all together? Loads of people do. I’ve noticed that over the years, talking to people in work and other places. In pubs, betting shops, supermarkets. You hear them all the time, talking about karma and saying things like
It was written in the stars.
Millions of people read horoscopes in newspapers, believing the things they say, as if they could apply to hundreds of millions of people simultaneously.’

Did he believe in fate?

‘It’s what people say in new relationships all the time, you know. Circumstance had driven them together, but they believed they were always
meant
to be together.’

His voice went up an octave, a mocking tone to it. ‘It was fate that he missed his bus. That she decided not to eat her lunch in the same place she always did that day.’ He ignored the fact Number Four shrank back from him as he laid the palm of his hand on the top of her head. He stroked her hair, and she whimpered from behind the duct tape across her mouth.

His voice went back to normal. ‘Fate supposedly made sure they were pushed together, so they would meet and get married and have kids and grow old and have grandchildren and then die a few months apart. Blah, blah, blah, life, blah.’

He sniffed and shook his head. Lifted Number Four’s face by her chin, staring directly into her eyes. ‘I don’t think I believe in it. But I sometimes wonder if fate brought you to me. To give me purpose. To make someone see what true love is. To make you understand that what I feel is more than what you think could be possible. Without that, I wouldn’t be making them see that what they’re doing isn’t right. That their love is wrong.’

He was almost sure that fate didn’t exist. However, the way he had met Number Three was almost too coincidental. It was that meeting that had set him on the course he was on now.

‘I’d only been working there a few weeks when I met Number Three. Still learning people’s names, making sense of the layout. Just a normal evening shift. Jane. Simple name, for a simple girl. I’ve told you this before, haven’t I?’

Number Four closed her eyes as he traced a finger down her cheek. The noise of the chains against the radiator echoed in the almost empty room.

‘When I fall in love, I want to devour them, immerse myself within them and take total control. Become one and the same person. She wasn’t overly attractive. Just plain Jane. If people passed her on the street, they wouldn’t look twice. Not like you, Number Four. It was easy for me to see past the imperfections, though. I noticed other things about her. The way her mousy-brown hair flicked up slightly near the ends. The pear-shaped curves, which only accentuated her best feature. Her face in pale light, clear and line free.’

He stood above Number Four, watching her chest move up and down, then turned away and moved over to the window. He shivered against the cold coming through the single glazing. ‘I watched her during breaks in work, reading a book or eating a sandwich. Her lips parting to reveal off-white teeth, a small gap between the front two. I had to have her.’

He pursed his lips at the memory of the days it had taken to work up the courage to speak to her. The memories of too many wrong paths taken. Bad things said, which had almost stopped him.

‘She was more than willing to speak to me. I’d say she was excited. Meeting me on breaks and discussing whatever book she was reading at the time, or the state of politics in the country, the latest news in the world. She was from over the water, so we would talk about the differences between the loudmouth, Boris Johnson-wannabe Mayor of Liverpool and the invisible Wirral mayor. I pretended to listen and be the normal person. I really tried to do things the “right” way.’

He shook his head at his own stupidity. Slammed a closed fist onto the window ledge, causing flakes of paint to drift to the floor. ‘I tried being direct this time. I didn’t flirt, I was much less subtle. So stupid of me.’

He turned back to Number Four. She was still slumped against the radiator, her shoulders juddering up and down. He moved across the room to her, his bare feet feeling the cold from the floorboards.