The Dying Place (29 page)

Political correctness gone mad.

Murphy was the worst type of this new breed of detective, Brannon thought. Too eager to please. Like a fucking modern Dixon of Dock Green. Wanting to know everyone’s name, everyone’s problem. Being the problem solver. Problem was, the knob had the memory of a goldfish with dementia sometimes, so could never do the job he wanted to do.

Big fella though, Brannon thought as he reached the end of Muirhead Avenue and turned right onto Dwerryhouse Lane. He tried to avoid antagonising him as much as possible.

Brannon knew he shouldn’t be checking this out alone. He knew it was all connected. Something had happened to Kevin Thornhill and Murphy had dismissed it out of hand, just because it was Brannon who had brought it to him.

Well, he was going to make a mug out of him. Again. Murphy had got away with fucking up the previous year, but Brannon had just been waiting for his chance. Brannon knew Murphy wasn’t the same guy he was before his parents got snuffed, but didn’t give a shit.

He wanted DI. Soon. He’d earned it. He wanted the extra money and of course, the power that came with it. If Murphy had to be seen as a screw-up for it to happen, fuck him. Wouldn’t be his fault, so it wasn’t like Murphy could blame him.

Brannon pulled the car over outside the youth club and got out. The sounds of the playground drifted over the metal railings of the school on the other side of the road. He inwardly shuddered at the noise. He fucking hated kids. Especially the scallies that lived around there. He had no idea how Kevin Thornhill put up with them. Must do his head in.

The youth club was closed up and quiet. No answer when he knocked on the door and then banged on it for good measure. He was starting to think he was wrong, that something might have happened to Kevin, when he spotted something in the window. The reflection, to be more precise. Brannon turned around and walked towards the car which was parked a few yards away from his.

Kevin Thornhill’s car.

Brannon banged on the door louder.

‘Kev? It’s Tony. Open up, mate.’

Nothing.

Brannon kicked at the bottom of the door and instantly regretted it. Solid, probably metal.

‘Shit.’

His Asda shoes didn’t exactly give him much protection.

Brannon limped around the side of the building to where Thornhill’s office windows were situated. The blinds were shut on most of them, but he tried peering through each pane anyway. The sun shining behind him made it difficult to see anything beyond his own reflection.

‘Kev? Are you in there?’

Now he thought about it, just because Kev’s car was here, didn’t mean he was. Kev had always had more luck than he had with women, so it was more likely he’d got some bit on the side up this way and slept in. Brannon almost laughed out loud at the thought of Kev waking up late and realising what had happened.

‘Must have been quite the sess—’

The muttering under his breath stopped as he heard a noise coming from the front of the youth club. Brannon turned and began moving back there.

He’d heard the banging but hadn’t been able to distinguish it from the vivid dream he’d been having. Alan Bimpson heard the voice but still didn’t marry it to the outside world. Instead he tried to stay in the cocoon of the dream world. Malleable to his own wishes. He could have anything he liked in there, any situation he could possibly imagine.

His own subconscious was trying to mess with that, but it wasn’t winning; the images of darkness and blood attempting to overpower his dreams being replaced by the good within him.

The banging stopped. The voice was closer than before.

His eyes snapped open. Blurred vision at first, along with an ache in his neck. The realisation of the small arsenal he’d been cuddling up to next to him. The shotgun lying to one side, a pool of blood zeroing in on its position.

In a matter of milliseconds it all came back to him.

More banging. On the windows in the corridor. Accompanied by a more insistent voice, then the sound of laughter.

He shouldn’t be there. Not now. Not when he hadn’t finished.

Alan Bimpson had made a mistake. He wasn’t supposed to make mistakes, not this character – this man – he’d created.

He got to his feet and grabbed the gun from the floor. Gathered up his rucksack which he had lain on, the weapons inside the reason for the ache in his neck, and walked out of the office without looking at the body he’d left there.

Whoever was out there wouldn’t stand in his way.

Alan reached the front entrance, sliding the bolts across in silence, and then the key he’d left in there the previous night.

He was sweating already. Heart pumping, hands shaking. A million thoughts running through his mind.

Bimpson opened the door, sunlight streaming through and into his face so he had to shield his eyes.

He span to his left, the shotgun held in both hands.

‘Kev … wait, who are you? What’s going …’

Bang.

25

Murphy was taking a breather and the chance to grab a coffee from a dodgy-looking vending machine in the hospital corridor. Eighty pence and it tasted like boiled shite.

Should have gone for the hot chocolate. More difficult to get that wrong.

Officers had spoken to the landlord of the George and Dragon pub where the group had first met, but he hadn’t been able to give them an actual name for the ‘Major’ character. More detectives would be out to question the regulars when the pub started filling up somewhat during the evening, but Murphy wasn’t holding his breath.

He walked over to where DC Harris had sat down in a small waiting area, just a few plastic chairs bolted to the ground near a desk with a bored receptionist behind it, rummaging through her handbag. The seats were empty other than the two detectives, silence permeating the corridor.

‘Lunchtime,’ Harris said, looking at his watch and gesturing towards the receptionist.

Murphy nodded and took another swig of his coffee, grimacing at the taste.

‘Any closer to finding him?’ Harris said, his hands clasped together between his knees as he leant forward opposite Murphy.

‘Nope,’ Murphy replied, placing the plastic cup of coffee on the ground. ‘Where do you even start with something like this? Guy could be anywhere.’

‘At least we have a picture.’

Murphy murmured his agreement. He’d confirmed with George Stanley that the Alan Bimpson who had been featured in the local paper and who had been visiting the youth club were one and the same person.

‘I expect it’ll all be over the media soon enough. We have a witness, so it’s not like we have to worry too much about mistaken identity.’

‘DCI taking over that?’

Murphy nodded, bending down to pick up his coffee before deciding against it. He needed a kip. Just a few hours would be nice.

‘So, has he been talkative at all while you’ve been watching him?’ Murphy said, interlocking his fingers behind his head and stretching.

‘Not really. Just keeps saying he never meant for any of this to happen. Told him I couldn’t really discuss it as he was still under caution. Then he slept for a bit. Guess he didn’t get much the last few days.’

‘Guilty conscience can do that to you.’

‘You think he’ll get charged with murder?’

Murphy thought on it for a few seconds. ‘I imagine so. Probably just for Dean Hughes. He’ll have a whole list of other charges on top of that though. He’ll get life, even if they don’t get the murder charge.’

‘Doesn’t make sense at all. Why would someone like him get involved in all this? He lost his kid and then takes someone else’s, as what? Revenge?’

‘Grief makes you think and do things differently. Especially when it’s forced upon you. Having something – someone – taken from you screws with your brain.’

Murphy attempted to keep Harris’s eyes on his own, but the DC found the ground more of interest.

‘Not that it makes it right or understandable,’ Murphy continued, talking more to himself than DC Harris. ‘But it makes you think, if nothing else. George Stanley had his whole world ripped from underneath him when his son was killed. Then to see those responsible for that given light sentences and being able to move on, it must have done something to him.’

‘Doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be punished just the same,’ Harris’s reply came after a few silent moments. ‘Now we have a nutcase with a gun on some kind of rampage.’

Murphy let the last comment hang in the air. They were just waiting for something else to happen now. For Alan Bimpson to make his next move, most likely. He would have gone to ground, Murphy thought, knowing the scene at the farm would have been discovered not long after his actions.

Especially considering George Stanley was alive.

Murphy pondered on that fact. It didn’t fit the profile of someone who was experienced in this type of thing, leaving a witness like that. It spoke of someone acting on impulse, a burst of anger, rather than months of plotting. Or maybe he was wrong and Alan Bimpson had just been unlucky.

‘He won’t have gone far,’ Murphy said, causing DC Harris to finally look up from the floor.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because I agree with Mr Stanley. He’s not finished. I don’t believe this was the endgame, the scene at the farm. I think it was the beginning. He’s been slowly disintegrating until he tried to wipe them all out. Now he’s gone off on one, he could turn on anyone.’

‘Surely he’d try and get as far away as possible? He’ll know we’re looking for him.’

Murphy shook his head. ‘They never do really.’ He rubbed his eyes, trying to free the tiredness, thinking about possible targets. ‘Alan Bimpson quite plainly has young people – certain types of young people, anyway – in his sights. Which means he could become bolder in his abductions, or just cut straight to murder. Also, those who he believes are protecting them? God knows what he’s thinking …’

Murphy stood up and, scuffing his shoes against the linoleum floor, walked away from the increasingly horizontal DC Harris. He reached into his pocket as he walked, taking out his mobile phone and bringing the screen to life.

Just the four missed calls from Sarah.

He’d spoken to her the evening before, telling her he would be working through the night once they’d discovered the scene at the farm. Still, he should have called her before then, the time now getting on for midday.

He pressed the call button once he’d messed around with swiping the screen. He swore things were better when everything had a proper button on it.

‘Hey,’ Sarah’s voice came through the earpiece and Murphy relaxed. Not angry. He would have got a more formal greeting if that had been the case.

‘Hey, you.’

‘Still there?’

‘Yeah, hopefully I’ll get a few hours this afternoon. Could do with some sleep, to be honest. Bloody knackered.’

Murphy could hear the noise of traffic in the background as Sarah took a second or two to respond.

‘Not surprised. You’ve been working for over a day. What’s going on? I saw something on the news earlier about a scene out near Netherley …’

‘Believe me, you don’t want to know right now. Let’s just say it’s a multiple and we’re still looking for the guy.’

‘Jesus …’

‘No need to take the Lord’s name in vain. What kind of Catholic are you?’

‘A recovering one.’

The instant response made Murphy laugh out loud, causing a passing nurse to shoot him an admonishing look.

‘That’s my joke.’

‘Well … you don’t own it.’ The traffic noise dissipated as he imagined her stepping onto a quieter street or inside. ‘Listen, I’ll be home later. We still haven’t finished our conversation.’

Murphy’s smile fell from his face. ‘Bit of a bad time at the moment for that type of thing.’

‘Don’t give me that,’ Sarah replied, with what he imagined was a grin on her face. ‘You’ve discussed worse in the middle of bigger cases …’

‘I wouldn’t be sure of that.’

‘So stop trying to get out of it,’ Sarah continued, as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘I’ll let you get some sleep first, but we
are
talking about it. Also, I want to hire someone to come and finish off the decorating. God knows when you’ll get to it.’

‘There you go again, taking His name in vain.’

‘We’ll speak later. I’m having lunch with Jess, and she’s bored of listening to me on the phone.’

Murphy leant with his back against a wall, alcohol gel dispenser next to his elbow. ‘Tell her I said hello.’

‘Will do. Speak to you later. Love you.’

Murphy replied in kind, then spent a few seconds trying to hang up before realising the call had already ended.

One day he’d get the hang of the thing.

Murphy ran a hand through his rapidly diminishing hairline and closed his eyes for a moment, the stinging sensation becoming almost too much. He felt old, the previous thirty-odd years conspiring against him. A relatively young man, as he’d been called ever since making DI by the time he was thirty. Every year that had followed had felt like four. He was chasing forty but felt closer to fifty.

Such was the life.

How could he be a father when a sleepless night made him feel as if he was lugging a suitcase of a body around, full of heavy, tired bones? Murphy was pretty sure one of the prerequisite terms for accepting parenthood was the knowledge that sleep was a distant memory for the first twelve or so months.

Murphy rubbed his temples, slowly opening his eyes to reveal the hospital corridor once more. Not for the first time, he repeated his focus mantra while he narrowed his eyes, almost straining the pain away. Pushed himself off the wall and made his way back to DC Harris and the waiting area. To his work. To the long hours of waiting around, hoping a mistake hasn’t cost you a case. Or a body.

Harris’s back was the first thing Murphy saw as he entered, but he already knew something was wrong. Rigid shoulders, one arm rising up before flopping to his side.

Plus, he could hear his raised voice, shouting into the phone.

‘Where …? Tell me fucking where …? He’s gonna go mad if you don’t tell me … don’t put her on … no …’