The Dying Place (25 page)

‘The same type of kids then. We need to find this place he mentioned,’ Rossi said. ‘This farm or whatever. If he has that past and is involved, I don’t want to think about what the man who shot him is capable of.’

Murphy looked to the sky. Dark, angry clouds had formed since they’d entered the woods.

Rain was coming.

21

The hospital waiting room was almost empty. Murphy and Rossi took up two seats in the room, the occasional visitor joining them for short periods, but otherwise leaving them to discuss things without interruption.

There wasn’t even a clock on the wall to count the seconds down.

Murphy’s back had begun aching within minutes of sitting in the small seats. He was used to it though. Nothing in the world seemed to be made for anyone over six feet in height, never mind the extra four or five inches he carried around. A dull, familiar throbbing started in his lower back, one he knew would require more walking space than the small room could provide.

‘I’m just saying, how hard would it be to just paint the walls a different colour? A nice deep red or a sky blue. Would really make a difference, I reckon.’

Rossi rolled her eyes at him as he complained. He thought it was a good idea, but she seemed unwilling to agree.

George Stanley had been sent into surgery an hour or so earlier, DCI Stephens making it clear that they weren’t to leave until they’d spoken to him and found out more details.

‘We should be doing something,’ Rossi eventually said, breaking her ten-minute vow of silence.

‘What can we do?’ Murphy replied. ‘We have someone who has already admitted to being involved in Dean Hughes’s murder in custody. That’s our best option right now … to get more answers from him.’

Rossi sighed and stood up, fidgeting with the broken water cooler, the water tap refusing to budge into a working position. There weren’t any cups in there anyway.

‘It just seems useless, sitting here waiting around. Could be hours.’

‘Think of the overtime,’ Murphy tried, forcing a smile on his face.

He received a harrumph and shrug in reply.

Murphy checked his phone again. Still no reply to the text message he’d sent Sarah when they’d first arrived. Another missed meal. Another missed conversation.

If she wasn’t becoming used to his old ways, the job, she would be now. She’d never complained in the past, but Murphy got the feeling something was shifting.

Now the subject had turned to children, and when they were going to start having them.

‘Let’s lay it out again. From the beginning,’ Murphy said, trying to bring Rossi back into it.

‘If you want.’

‘It might help,’ Murphy replied, pulling out the murder folder. ‘Dean Hughes’s body is found on Friday morning. We speak to the vicar and the boys who found him. His mum says he’s been gone for over six months, a letter was delivered to her saying he’s safe and will come home soon. Enquiries lead us to the youth club. We speak to a possible girlfriend, who turns out to probably be the last person to see him alive.’

Rossi banged out a beat on the wall with open palms. ‘You sound like Poirot summing things up.’

‘It helps.’

‘I’m sure it does,’ Rossi said, with a theatrical wave of her arm. ‘Please continue, Hercule.’

‘I thank you. We receive a call from someone calling themselves “Ian”, who says he was there when Dean Hughes died, and that some unnamed leader has gone berserk and killed more people. There’s also more stuff about a farm and other teens being held. We find “Ian”, who turns out to be the father of another dead youngster. And he’s been shot.’

‘You’re missing out the bloke from the youth club.’

Murphy frowned. ‘Of course. How did I forget that?’

Rossi smiled thinly. ‘It’s this place. The drabness of it makes you dull and prone to memory lapses. And psychotic behaviour as well, probably.’

Murphy laughed, the sound echoing around the small space. ‘Fine. So we have …’

‘Alan Bimpson.’

‘Alan Bimpson,’ Murphy repeated. ‘A bloke who rocks up at the youth club and tells the kids there what’s wrong with them.’

‘And probably worse. That Kevin Thornhill doesn’t strike me as the most trustworthy bloke we’ve ever come across.’

Murphy yawned, stretching his legs out. ‘Well … we’ll know more when we speak to Mr Stanley when he’s well enough …’

‘Which could be hours.’

Four, to be exact.

The surgery was successful and minor according to the surgeon. A quick bullet removal – the way he’d said it, as if it was the most common thing in the world – and George Stanley was arguing, first with the nurses, then with consultants about being allowed to speak to Murphy and Rossi.

Rossi, in particular.

‘The second he shows any signs of distress,’ the consultant said, playing his role perfectly as the harried medical expert who was just thinking of the patient, ‘then I’m afraid any interview will have to be terminated.’

Murphy nodded along, each second inching closer to the door which separated them from the patient.

‘No problem at all.’

The consultant made a show of heaving a big sigh and shaking his head before stepping aside.

Murphy blamed TV. Fiction was influencing everyone these days.

Once inside Stanley’s room, the noise from outside was silenced quickly, the only sounds coming through the slightly open window from the traffic outside. Rossi excused the DC who had been stuck to George Stanley’s side throughout his stay at hospital. Murphy wondered if he’d even been in the theatre with him.

‘Mr Stanley,’ Murphy said, allowing Rossi to take the visitor’s chair, standing at the foot of the bed instead. ‘I’m going to repeat the caution which was said to you when you were found. Just in case you were unaware at the time.’

George Stanley gave him a dismissive wave, seeming to squint through him. Murphy repeated it anyway, never stumbling over the words which were now second nature to him.

‘I want you to start at the beginning if you can.’

George Stanley winced as he tried to sit up a little more. Gave up trying after a few attempts. ‘Have you found them yet?’

Murphy shared a look with Rossi. ‘Let’s just start at the beginning.’

‘Fine,’ Stanley replied. ‘I was approached at the pub.’

‘Which pub?’ Murphy said, his own underused notepad in his hand.

‘The George and Dragon in West Derby.’

Murphy nodded. He knew the place and made a note of it. ‘Go on.’

‘So, this old guy starts talking to me one night. I’d seen him there a lot. Used to give him a nod when I’d go in after work and that. It wasn’t long before we were talking every night. The pub’s quiet these days, with the smoking ban. So you get to know the same faces quite well. Anyway, soon we became a little group.’

‘Who did? Who else was in the group?’ Rossi said, laying a hand on the bed as she leant forward.

‘Six of us, in the beginning. I don’t know all their last names. There was Andrew. Then Bob and Joanne. Married couple. Don’t think he worked any more but he used to be a brickie. She was working in the local supermarket.’

‘That’s three. Four including you. The old man makes five … who’s the sixth?’

Stanley’s pale face clouded over, to somehow become even more grey than it already was. ‘Alan. Not that he ever really introduced himself. Joanne knew his real name though ’cause she saw him in the
Echo
one time.’

‘Right …’

‘He’s the one who’s done this,’ Stanley said, using his good arm to point to his injured shoulder. ‘I think he killed them all …’

Tears sprung up in Stanley’s eyes, Murphy watching as he tried to blink them away.

‘Okay. So how did it get to that point?’

‘We just thought we were doing some good, you know? No one else was doing anything. The old man and Alpha had us all convinced. We’d have a few drinks and put the world to rights. About kids these days and that. Anyway, one day … I thought they were joking at first. But the auld fella says, we could do something real. Teach these kids a lesson.’

Murphy shook his head and made a note of Stanley’s words. ‘And that means more to you than most, doesn’t it George?’

Stanley eyed him again, clockwork whirring behind his gaze. Murphy could almost see the pieces falling into place. ‘It’s you.’

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, and Murphy nodded in reply. ‘Ten years ago now, isn’t it?’

‘Glad to see you’ve done well for yourself,’ Stanley said, looking past Murphy now and staring at the wall. ‘You had a bit of … what’s the word … compassion about you. The rest of you lot we spoke to back then couldn’t give two shits.’

‘What happened?’ Murphy said, wanting to move on.

‘I was broken. I needed something, a purpose. You don’t know how I was feeling. Those little bastards that killed my boy got out years ago. And now the streets are crawling with hundreds, thousands, just like them.’

‘You wanted to make a difference,’ Rossi said, soothing voice in play.

‘Exactly,’ Stanley said, his speech gaining a little strength. ‘But we didn’t know what to do really. That’s when the old man told us of his plan. He said one night, “I’ve got the tools, but I just can’t do it now I’m old.” We’d all had a drink, and it seemed like a great plan.’

‘What was the plan?’ Rossi said.

‘Alpha … Alan, I should say. He had this farm. Only it wasn’t even a farm any more. He’d no animals any more, just the land. A few outbuildings and a little farmhouse.’

Stanley’s voice grew quieter.

‘The auld fella told us it’d be easy. Pick a few of these little bastards up off the street. Give them a bit of National Service, old-school style. Teach them some respect. I never expected it to go this far.’

Murphy stood up tall, blowing out a breath. ‘Where’s the farm, George?’

‘I … I’m not sure …’

‘Don’t come over all coy now, George,’ Murphy said. ‘It’s over. Now you have to help us. You’re only guessing at what’s happened. You don’t know for sure. Don’t have any more blood on your hands.’

Stanley let his head drop, exhaled deeply. ‘It’s out of the way. Near Netherley. I’m not sure what the name of the roads are or anything, but it’s off Netherley Road. I know that.’

Rossi leant forward. ‘Think you could draw us a map?’

Stanley closed his eyes. His hands shaking a little. ‘I’m … I’m left-handed.’

Murphy stared at the bandage on his bloodied left shoulder.

‘We’ll get a map. I’m sure you can point with your other hand.’

Home

When they talked about what he was going to do over the next few days, they would use words like
manic
,
crazed
,
out of control
.

It was none of those things.

It was a specific plan. Put into place long before, without him even realising. He knew on some level it would come to this. It was a path he’d been travelling on for years. Each passing month, day, minute leading to the moment when he awoke from the daze he’d been living in. Woke and grasped what had been beyond his comprehension before then.

He had to do this.

Time was the only worry now. He had rushed from room to room when he’d first arrived. Sprinted up the driveway, almost breaking the key in the lock as he tried to open it quickly. He had to force himself to become calmer.

They would be looking for him. Sooner rather than later. He had no time, but he had to stay in control.

They would have Delta before too long.

That moment back at the farm, when time had slowed; those people he’d shared space and his life with were already fading. His conscience was clear. It was simple when he dwelt on any thoughts of it. Made perfect sense.

It was
his
job. Always had been. No one else was prepared to do it. Others had tried –
snapped,
they called it – but never on the scale he was going to achieve.

Anger was there, of course. But there was no room for it. He’d been beaten down for so many years that anger, hurt, pain – it was all second nature. Things he’d acquired rather than been born with. He could hide it well, keep it safely locked away inside him. Methodical. Logical. That was his first nature. That was what he had been born with.

He planned. He checked maps. Made notes. Over the course of one day, he referred to old scraps of paper he’d kept over the previous months.

Group of boys – around five or six – maybe fourteen/fifteen in age – one on a bike – Breckfield/Everton

Three boys, two girls – older than fifteen – Admiral St/Toxteth

They were infecting the city. His city. Had been for so long now. And they’d just let them do it. Intimidation and violence. They didn’t care about anyone, just themselves. Parasites who just scrounged around, making everyone else’s life worse. Normal, hardworking people shouldn’t have to deal with those types of no-hopers.

Well. No more. He was going to fix it.

He was sad about what had happened at the farm. Of course he was. He’d liked them, the others. He was glad in a way that not all of them had died. He was sure by now that Delta would have found his way to the police.

What could he tell them, really? That an old man in a pub had brought them together, given them the tools to do what he thought would work, provided the place and the means, and then died. That they’d taken it too far, in some people’s opinion. That they would never know if it would have worked eventually.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter even that Delta
knew his name was Alan Bimpson.

He didn’t plan on coming back from this.

What was there to come back to anyway? A lie of a life. No. He’d done enough before then, and he would do even better after this moment.

Over the next few days he would ensure his name and life was spoken about for decades to come.

Alan Bimpson stood up from the armchair in his living room, crossing the small space to the wooden coffee table in the middle of the room. All laid out on top, everything he would need.

He wasn’t feeling nervous. He thought he would have been.

Alan Bimpson had used guns for so long, they felt natural in his hands. There were so many people like that, even in a country which seemed to openly shun firearms. Trained operators in weapons that would turn even the hardest guy out in town on a Saturday night to a piece of quivering dogshit on the floor.