DEAD GONE (10 page)

‘Not that I remember. Maybe once or twice if we made too much noise.’

‘How about in the library at uni a couple of weeks ago?’

That got his attention. His eyes darted about, looking for an exit. Murphy tried to keep a smile from breaking out. This was going the way he wanted. Nice easy solution.

‘Yeah, we had a little conversation about something.’

‘What was that about then?’

Long pause. Will began pulling at a thread on his grey joggers. Ran a hand over his shaved head.

‘If I tell you something, you won’t say anything to Bec will you?’

Murphy’s hand wavered in the air. Maybe, maybe not.

Will sighed, looked to the ceiling. ‘Okay, it was a one-off. I don’t want you thinking I do this sort of thing all the time. I was out in town a few weeks back. Got absolutely wrecked, and kissed some random girl. Donna saw it happen. Didn’t even know she was there. Pulled me up about it and I had to practically beg her to not say anything.’

‘And she didn’t?’

Will smirked. ‘Do you think I’d still be here if she had? Bec would have thrown me out on my arse. Doesn’t like cheaters.’

Murphy looked over at Rossi. Couldn’t read her expression. ‘So you just left it at that then?’

‘Yeah. Thought she was going to say something eventually, but just hoped she’d listened to me. I told her how upset Bec would be if she found out, played that emotional stuff, you know. Promised it was a slip, just the drink, never happen again. She seemed to accept that. Doesn’t matter now of course.’

‘Are you sure that’s all? You never saw her there again, argued?’

‘Yeah,’ Will replied, sitting forward off the settee, ‘that’s it. Look, I’ve got nothing to do with what happened to her. You’ve got to believe that.’

Murphy sighed, checked his watch. ‘That’ll be all for now. We’ll probably want to speak to you again, okay?’

Will looked relieved, which pissed off Murphy more than the state of the room. ‘Yeah, no problem.’

He showed them out, leaving Murphy and Rossi to walk down the stairs towards the exit of the building. Murphy tried to make sense of his thoughts. He was so sure he’d got his man, but the performance of the young lad had been too convincing. He was scared, not of being caught, but of being questioned. Being thought of as anything less.

Murphy didn’t know what to think. Only that he was pissed off he wasn’t arresting the cheating scrote. Open and shut case, to keep the wolves at bay. A murder case at that.

‘Well?’ Rossi eventually said as they sat in the car.

Murphy gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter than he already was. ‘I’m not convinced. I want you to speak to the girlfriend. On your own. I think you’ll get somewhere.’

‘Okay.’

They drove back to the station in silence.

Murphy sighed and leaned back in his chair. The day was coming to an end, an endless round of interviews with various possible witnesses and students getting them nowhere.

‘Anything from DC Harris yet?’

‘Not yet. He’s the last one,’ Rossi replied from her desk opposite.

‘We might not have got anything from those interviews, but I think we need to keep focus on the university. If it’s not Will, it’s someone there.’

Rossi pursed her lips, seemingly wanting to say something in rebuttal, before thinking better of it and saying nothing. She was learning quickly. Murphy liked that.

There was something more bothering Murphy though. He kept coming back to the letter, the words seeming to mock him personally. He’d attempted to dismiss them as the ramblings of a spurned student, trying to put them off track. Yet he kept coming back to the passage about death, unable to stop thinking about it. The words burned onto his memory.

Death is inevitable, yet people are always surprised when it happens.

He shook his head. He needed to go home, eat, sleep, shower.

Murphy stood up, taking his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘I’m getting off, Laura. Nothing more we can do right now. Get some sleep, okay?’

‘Oh, okay sir. Meet you here at eight?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ Murphy replied. He turned and headed out, entering the lift which was thankfully already at his floor.

Murphy leaned against the back of the lift, closing his eyes. The pain was back, rocketing across his head behind his eyes. Brilliant flashes of stinging light.

Stop thinking about her. Stop it. He repeated the mantra softly to himself for the entire lift journey, only stopping when the doors opened again.

The image of the dead girl, Donna McMahon, lying pale and peaceful, laid out on a bed made from damp earth, stuck in his mind. The image flickering across his conscious, soft, sharp, in focus, blurred.

The pain became worse. The image didn’t fade.

Murphy had to sit in his car for fifteen minutes, eyes closed, before he felt well enough to drive.

The pain subsided. The image didn’t. The way it always was. The pain was good in a way. At least it dampened down the worst of the flashbacks. The images of red flashing across his eyes, the pounding of his heartbeat as his breath shortened and became shallow.

They were always there. Ready for him. He just wanted to be normal again. Not some clichéd version of himself. Donna’s face blurred and became others. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He was haunted. The past, the present, forever blighted by his life. He couldn’t see any end to it.

This was just him now.

Rossi watched Murphy leave, entering the lift and resting his head against the back wall, his eyes closed.

Merda
. He was losing it already. Great.

She could see Brannon watching her from his desk, a dirty smirk on his face. He could see it too. All she needed.

She checked the time; just before half past seven on day two. She pulled the letter from her desk and read it again.

It was too neat, too academic. Non emotional. If it was someone the victim knew, wouldn’t there be more there? Could someone who killed her, strangled her to death with his own hands, then put this together so sufficiently?

No. She didn’t think so.

She was using pop psychology. 101. Garnered from her first year at uni, when she’d taken a module just to see if it was of interest. It wasn’t for her. After the interesting bits had been and gone, she’d been left with a bunch of long words, which didn’t mean anything really. She was happier with sociology, learning about the world around her, how capitalism works, theories, and all that sort of thing. How social policy affected all their lives.

And she’d still ended up in the police. At least the degree had meant she moved out of uniform quicker.

She couldn’t put it off any longer. She had to leave. Pay her dues.

Be the good daughter.

Alessandro and Isabella Rossi lived in a small terraced house in West Derby. A fifteen-minute drive from the station, a straight run on West Derby Road to the town, and then down a few side streets until she hit their road.

They’d lived there the past forty years, ever since they’d been talked into coming into the country with promises of endless work and riches. Alessandro ended up on various building sites, and then on the docks later in life. He got caught up in the dockers’ strikes of 1995 and now existed on their meagre pensions, bringing in just enough to buy the food that was always needed, and keep Papa Rossi in his Sky Sports and Lambert & Butler cigarettes.

They loved life, and each other. It was plainly obvious to anyone who met them. Always well liked in the quiet street, more middle class than the estates, but still maintaining the sense of community.

Laura Rossi was their youngest, and she was reminded of the fact constantly. The baby of the family, and only girl of seven. Six older brothers. She hadn’t been able to bring a man to visit until she’d been twenty-five. The first family dinner had sent him running for the hills.

Literally. He was backpacking somewhere in Africa, last she’d heard. Wanted to climb Kilimanjaro or something equally ridiculous.

Rossi sat in her Astra, letting the engine cool as she braced herself for entry. When she couldn’t put it off any longer, she walked up the small path and knocked.

Mamma Rossi opened the door, mocked fake surprise and ushered her in. ‘
Bambina
, we haven’t seen you in so long. Andro, look who has returned to us!’

It had been five days since her last visit. Typical.

‘
Ciao, Mamma, come stai
?’

‘Come in, I have some
polpette
left over, you’ll eat.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

She walked behind her mother, who went directly through into the kitchen at the end of the hallway. Rossi hung her coat on the banister and went into the living room. Her Dad was sat in his usual spot, the leather armchair facing the TV.

‘
Ciao, Papa
.’

‘Hello, beautiful. How are you?’

The accent rolled from his tongue. He still looked good for his age, almost seventy, but his tanned skin and full head of grey, slicked-back hair made him look at least ten or fifteen years younger. Thick, dark-haired forearms on show, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. He removed a cigarette from a packet and turned the TV down.

‘Good. Got a new one yesterday, so I’ve been busy.’

‘The girl in Sefton Park? Nasty business. It’s been on Radio Merseyside all day.’ He crossed himself with his free hand, and then lit his cigarette, waving smoke away from where Laura was sitting near him on the end of the settee.

‘Yes.’ Hoping that would be the end of the conversation. Papa Rossi peered at her over his cigarette and seemed to make his mind up about carrying on further.

‘
Oggi in figura, domani in sepoltura
,’ he said finally.

‘Today in person, tomorrow in a grave,’ Rossi repeated in English.

Her mamma appeared then with a mountainous plate of meatballs and spaghetti, topped with parmesan cheese. It was worth the feeling of guilt for not visiting as often, for the food she knew would be waiting for her.

Later, once she’d cleared her plate and decided that would be enough food to last her the rest of the week, the three sat in almost silence, only the gentle murmur of the TV providing a soundtrack. Mamma was stroking Laura’s hair, just as she had when she was a child. She could feel her eyes growing heavy, as the rush of the previous couple of days caught up to her.

Peaceful.

No dead girls threatening to ruin her tranquillity.

Murphy was right. It was a simple case, a fake letter, and definitely someone close to the victim. She let her mind wander to Murphy. She knew of his recent past, the horror of it, the pain. She felt drawn to him, not in a romantic sense, but as a pupil. She knew of his success, his power and tenacity. She wanted to learn from him, get close and hopefully always be his first choice. Make a real push forwards in her career, breaking free of the shadow that was her family, becoming her own person. She just needed Murphy to get back to his normal self.

She let herself close her eyes and sleep in her mother’s arms.

Rossi woke to the sound of her phone ringing. Her mother had covered her with a blanket and left her on the settee. She answered wearily, her voice croaking a greeting.

And then … everything changed.

Rob pulled up outside his house ten minutes after leaving Carla’s. The car settled as he looked through the window at the semi-detached house. He remembered the first time they’d seen it together. He and Jemma must have looked at maybe fifty houses before deciding it was the one for them. Three bedrooms, one for them, one for the future, and one for an office that neither had ever used. Needed some work doing to it when they’d first moved in, but one loan from the bank later, and they had the money. They’d worked hard making it just right. This was supposed to be it. Their first home.

Rob stepped into the house, slipping his coat off after closing the door behind him. He paused as he began to hang it up, placing his free left hand on the black woollen coat he’d bought Jemma for Christmas.

‘Helen?’ he called.

‘Through here.’

Rob hung up his coat and turned to enter the living room. Helen was in the doorway. Her eyes were tinged with red, slight mascara stains underneath.

‘Anything?’

Rob shook his head, then collapsed to a sitting position on the staircase, his head in his hands. Too much, it was too much. He wanted to scream out. Didn’t think he could.

Helen stood over him, placing a hand on his shoulder. The second woman that night to do so. ‘It’s okay. Rob, she’s okay.’

He looked up, his eyes trying to find hers. She wouldn’t meet his gaze though.

‘You think?’

‘Carla just called. She told me you’d just been around.’

‘Yeah. But you can’t think the same as her, can you?’

‘Look. Jemma has always been her own woman. Even as a young girl, I couldn’t get her to do anything. I remember once, she’d have been about eight at the time, sitting for two hours at the dinner table waiting for her to finish her mash. I gave up before she did. Jemma had eaten them twice a week for years, but one day just decided she didn’t want them anymore. She’s headstrong, knows her own mind. Always has.’ Helen took her hand away, and turned towards the kitchen. ‘Carla said you didn’t know that she’s done this before.’

Rob stood up too quickly, a sudden swirling feeling in his head. ‘She never said anything. Are you telling me you think she’s just left, in the middle of the night, without saying a word?’

‘She was happy before you, you know, with, erm … whatever his name was. It didn’t stop her leaving. This is what she does.’

‘But just leaving like that, she’d do that?’ Rob knew the answer before it came.

‘She’s done worse. You may have been with Jemma a long time, but there’s a lot you don’t know about her.’

‘I know her now. She’s not like that, not with me.’

‘Come on, come and sit down. I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

Helen turned and walked up the hallway towards the kitchen. Rob sighed and followed her. As he walked up the hallway, he paused in front of the collage of photographs that took up the centre of the wall. Jemma had spent days, weeks maybe, putting together snapshots of their lives together. Friends, nights out, the day at Aintree races, him suited and booted, her in a long cream-coloured dress. The holidays they’d taken, Tenerife, Rome, and Florida. He traced his fingers across the photographs. Watched as they blurred into one. Became a final image. The bare bulb which hung in the hallway illuminating the frame, placing a glare across the top third.