The Dying Place (34 page)

Rossi smirked. ‘We’re going to do our job.’

‘Always,’ Murphy replied.

Murphy stretched and checked the time again. Only early in the evening, but already the few hours of sleep he’d caught that afternoon were fading into memory. The fact that he’d done nothing but stare at screen after screen, report after report, wasn’t helping.

‘Coffee?’ Rossi said, without looking up.

‘No, don’t bother. You found anything?’

Rossi shook her head. ‘He’s got property, but it’s all under the company’s name. Nothing about him personally. DVLA can’t match the cars we know are his, as they’re all registered to the company. Alan Bimpson exists, but at the moment we know
molto poco
about him.’

‘Probably not his real name.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Why else would you go to the trouble of hiding so much information? Why wouldn’t he own any of these things personally … his house, his car?’

‘I know the answer to that,’ DC Harris said from the open doorway to their office. He looked, at last, older than the young boy Murphy always thought he resembled. Losing sleep hadn’t agreed with him.

‘Go on,’ Rossi said, leaning back in her chair and accepting the energy drink Harris held out to her.

‘It’s a security thing. If anything happens to the business – if he’s found liable for anything personally – he can pretend he has no assets, so he wouldn’t be able to pay fines or whatever. Saw it in the
Echo
about some dodgy investors last year.’

Murphy pursed his lips. ‘What if the company goes down though?’

DC Harris shrugged, collapsing down into his chair.

‘He’s probably paying himself a nice wedge as a director, or something like that,’ Rossi said. ‘All the cars, the houses and that, they go through the company. Then he gets a pot of money to store away.’

‘In which case …’

‘We look at who’s listed as a director of the company and go through each name,’ Rossi said with a smile.

‘Exactly,’ Murphy replied.

‘Onto it,’ Rossi said, leaning forward and tapping away at her keyboard.

‘Any more from our man at the hospital, Harris?’ Murphy said, turning towards the DC.

DC Harris shook his head. ‘Doctors said it’s best Stanley rests now. Left a couple of uniforms with him, but he was sleeping anyway.’

Murphy heard commotion outside in the main office but ignored it. ‘Any news on him being released so we can get him charged and that?’

DC Harris was trying to peer around the office door. ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ he said after a few seconds.

Murphy’s phone started buzzing in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw Sarah’s name flash up. He swiped the screen, feeling pleased with himself when it worked first time and answered. ‘Hello, was just about to ring …’

‘What’s going on? Are you there now? Are you okay?’

Murphy sat up straighter, the concern and breathlessness in Sarah’s voice worrying him. ‘What’s up? I’m fine, just at the station …’

‘Oh, thank God. I thought you’d be there.’

Murphy scratched at his beard, shifted the phone from one ear to the other and watched DC Harris stand up and begin to walk out of the office. ‘Where, babe?’

‘I’m watching it on the news now. It’s gone nuts on Sky and it’s on the BBC News channel as well. They’re saying there could be up to ten people dead.’

Murphy was still frowning as DC Harris came back in, beckoning them to join him outside. ‘I don’t understand, Sarah. Who’s dead?’

‘That guy you’re after. He’s been in Toxteth. He’s shot people, David.’

Murphy reached the office door and looked across the now-manic incident room.

‘I’ve got to go, Sarah. I’ll call you later.’ Murphy stabbed at the end call button on his phone and rushed out the room across the main office, an empty chair banging to the floor as he made his way without abandon. ‘Someone want to tell me why I’m finding out from a member of the public about what’s been going on?’

Rossi turned to him, moving a step away from the DS she’d been talking to. ‘Because we didn’t know. Press found out first. They were filming there when it kicked off. Firearms are on their way now.’

‘How many?’

Rossi shook her head. ‘No idea.’

Murphy stood still for a second, then made up his mind. ‘Rossi, stay here. Harris, come on.’

30

You can’t choose the last words you ever say to your child – and that’s what they are, no matter what age – as they leave the house. Off to school, off out with friends. Off to work, or on a date. You don’t think of them as last words. Just another part of the ongoing conversation, the never-ending role as a parent.

Two lads went down first in Toxteth. Dead before they hit the ground, as the saying goes. Took longer than that, of course, but it’s the little things you tell yourself.

Matthew Collins and Cameron Wilkins. Colly and Wilko to their mates. Seventeen and eighteen years of age. Still living at home.

Colly was the first to be hit by Alan Bimpson’s gun. He’d left home only half an hour earlier, meeting up with Wilko after the older lad had texted him.

Got some. Outside in ten.

Colly lived with his mum and two younger sisters, an older brother who lived away. That’s what they told the two girls anyway – Millie and Leah. They didn’t need to know that their twenty-year-old brother, the man of the house in many ways, was doing five years inside for being caught dealing class As. It was a stitch-up, he’d told Colly. Wrong place, wrong time. Didn’t matter to the bizzies, or the courts though. One look at where he lived told them all they needed to know. Liverpool 8, fuck ’em. All the same. Liz Collins knew the score though. Just get your head down and power through. Hope for the best. Knowing this was about as
best
as it was ever going to be. Four kids, all to the same dad though. She wore that badge with a bit of pride. At least she only got fucked about by the one bloke. Listened to his lies, then threw the bastard out when Matthew was born. Made the mistake of letting him back in, before fucking him off again when Leah was about to turn one.

Now Matthew was getting older. Making the same mistakes as his brother. She’d played the game before so knew the signs.

‘Where are you going?’ she shouted to him before he left that evening, hearing him coming down the stairs like a herd of elephants. ‘Hope it’s not out.’

Her son, seventeen years old, but only a little boy of four a moment before. Years flitting by without realising.

‘I’m just meeting Wilko. Be back in a bit.’

‘Don’t be spending any money,’ Liz said, pausing the Sky box. ‘You still owe me leccy money.’

‘I know, I know,’ Matthew replied, shifting on his feet now, pulling his jacket together. ‘I’ll get some while I’m out if I can.’

‘You better. Not having you leech off me forever, son. Need to stand on your own two feet a bit more. Stop taking the piss around here or I’ll sling you out.’

‘Yeah, yeah, Mum. Whatever. I’ve got to go.’

‘Course. Your mates are always more important. Just like that brother of yours. I swear, if you’re getting into trouble …’

‘I’m not …’

‘Don’t, I’m not stupid. I know what you’re up to. Think on, son. Don’t be like him, you hear me. Be back early. We can watch a film or something.’

‘Yeah I’ll try, Mum. See you later.’

Liz watched her son leave the room, the faint musk of aftershave hanging in the air after he left. Shaking her head as she imagined what he was doing out there.

Matthew ‘Colly’ Collins at least had a family who cared. Cameron Wilkins was sick of his own home. The succession of uncles and stepdads getting to him after a while. The last one was sticking around though. And unfortunately he was the worst of the lot.

‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going? There’s dishes in the sink.’

‘Just out,’ Wilko replied, eyeing the bloke who had taken over his house in the past six months. ‘I’ll do them when I get back.’

‘It’s all right love, I’ll do them …’ his mum began.

‘Don’t be soft, Karen. He needs to learn.’

‘I said I’ll do ’em,’ Wilko said, itching to get out and smoke a bit, but never wanting to back down to the prick. Greg Shaw. Who the fuck was called Greg, anyway? ‘God … why don’t you ever listen.’

‘Don’t fuckin’ talk to me like that …’

‘Or what?’ Wilko said, coming further into the living room. ‘Do something.’

‘You want to watch your mouth, or I’ll fuckin’ shut it for you.’

‘You gonna let him talk to me like that, Mum?’ Wilko said, looking past the dickhead who thought he could just come in and be the man of the house. ‘Mum?’

‘Stop fighting, boys,’ his mum answered wearily. ‘There’s no need for it.’

‘He started it. Coming in here and acting the big man,’ Wilko said, clenching a fist. Wondering what it’d be like to knock the knobhead out. ‘He shouldn’t be ordering me about.’

‘I’ll do what I like in my house, you little shit,’ Greg said, stepping towards him. ‘You should remember that …’

‘It’s not your house …’

‘I fuckin’ pay the bills,’ Greg said, his voice now bouncing off the walls. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you and your mum would be on the streets. You’d do well to think on that. My roof, my fuckin’ rules. You hear me?’

‘Mum … are you gonna let him say this?’ Wilko wanted so much for her to stop this. To stand up to this wanker.

‘He’s right, Cameron. You do need to show a bit more respect to Greg. He’s been more of a father to you than your own.’

‘I can’t believe this,’ Wilko said, zipping up his jacket. ‘I’m gone. You can both fuck off. I’m done with the both of youse.’

The slam of the door timed with Greg sitting back down on the sofa, letting out a heavy sigh. ‘He needs to learn, love. You’ve let him get away with murder over the years, you know.’

‘I know,’ Karen replied, shaking her head. ‘He’s needed a male figure in his life for ages.’

‘He’ll come around,’ Greg said, stretching out and kicking his shoes off into the middle of the floor. ‘Do us a cuppa, love. Parched here.’

Two boys, one classed as an adult, one still a child really. Both teenagers. Only a few months between them. Smoking weed in a kids’ playground on a weekday evening. Nothing better to do with their time. Black jackets, hoods up. Black trainers and trackie bottoms on. Knowing exactly how they looked to others, doing it on purpose. Enjoying the looks on the faces of those who were afraid of them.

The only bit of power they really had.

Matthew’s mum heard first.

Liz was just putting Leah back to bed for the second time when her mobile started going downstairs. She took the stairs down two at a time but still missed it. Checked the missed call and rolled her eyes when she saw Elaine’s name there. Probably just wanted a moan about her useless husband again. She ignored the next call as well, but when the phone went again, she frowned and picked up, not used to being tried this often.

‘Hello,’ she said, trying to sound breathless.

‘Liz, it’s me. Have you heard what’s going on?’

‘No,’ Liz replied, already bored. ‘I’ve been trying to get Leah to sleep, but she’s not going down. Can I ring you back?’

‘Listen, there’s something going on down by Granby Street. A shooting or something.’

‘Another one? I’ll ring you back later, yeah. It’s just I’ve got to get this child down at some point.’

‘It’s not the usual. Apparently it’s some mad bloke shooting people in the street. They reckon he’s already done in three or four.’

Liz stopped. ‘Where did you say it was?’

‘Pat from next door reckons it’s to do with that bizzie getting shot today, but I reckon she’s talking shite. I turned around to her and said she should stop listening to that gossip from over the way, you know the one who robbed the wheelie bin from number twenty-three and thinks she’s got away with it.’

‘Where was it, Elaine?’ Liz said, her voice louder now.

‘Granby Street, apparently. The park down there. Two lads went first, they’re saying. Place is crawling with bizzies. God knows how anyone will be getting any sleep tonight if they’re out there all night. Not like they’re going to be quiet, is it …’

Liz had stopped listening. One night, around two or three months earlier, she’d had a knock on the door. Just as she was getting to the end of an episode of Corrie or something like that. Her son stood next to a copper in full uniform, hat underneath his arm. Stern look on his face. All
Matthew has been caught drinking and smoking where he shouldn’t be
and
caution this time, but don’t let it happen again.

Caught in a kids’ playground, at the bottom of Granby Street. With that lad he was always with.

‘Oh no …’

‘What’s up Liz? Hello … hello?’

Liz had already dropped the phone to the floor.

Sometimes, a mother just knows.

Cameron Wilkins’ mother didn’t know. Not until the police officer knocked on her door an hour or two later. She’d been watching the news, just like everyone else in the city was by that time. Shaking her head, alongside Greg, at the state of Liverpool these days. Not like back in the day. She couldn’t remember if she was thinking those things, or if it was just absorbing what Greg was saying over and over. Scallies this, scallies that. Drugs and gangs. The end of society. Jeremy Kyle generation.

‘Are you Karen Wilkins?’

‘What’s he done now?’ Karen replied, expecting the worst she could imagine. Already resigning herself to having to go down the police station and retrieve that stupid son of hers.

‘Can I come in?’

‘What’s going on now?’ Greg said, having scraped himself off the sofa and entered the hallway. ‘If it’s that little shit, he’s on his own. Not helping him out any more. Isn’t that right, Karen?’

‘I’m afraid it’s a bit more
delicate
than that. Let me come inside and we can talk.’

Karen had begun to calculate things in her head by then. ‘Be quiet, Greg,’ she said, stepping aside and letting the uniformed copper inside, followed by a short woman with tied-back blonde hair.

It was when Karen saw her face that she’d realised for certain.

Her son had lain dead on the soft tarmac of the play area for the past couple of hours and she hadn’t known. Hadn’t felt a thing.