The Dying Place (36 page)

He checked his weaponry, closed his eyes for a few seconds, spoke to his dad in his head and then left the car.

It didn’t take long to find them.

A group of five or six, pushing and shoving each other, laughing and shouting as they walked down Stanley Road from the direction of the Marsh Lane junction. A big Lidl shop on the corner with a car park which Alan Bimpson headed towards, empty of cars apart from one or two. He briefly considered the manager and their assistant finishing off inside, a hard day’s work behind them, a late night and broken sleep ahead, only to do it all over again the next day.

Then he saw the gang approaching him. None of them over the age of nineteen, he guessed. One perhaps as young as thirteen or fourteen. Swaggering, staggering. Arrogant, self-satisfied. Blind to the danger, too brash and confident. They’d heard of what had happened in Liverpool 8 and wanted to prove something … that they were different. That some old guy couldn’t scare them straight.

They came towards him, which was commendable. Until he took the now fully reloaded rifle out of the backpack he had slung over his shoulder.

‘Shit. Fuck! It’s him, on your fuckin’ toes …’

He didn’t really take much pleasure in killing these scummy bastards, with their baggy jeans, jogging bottoms, hoodies, caps, black jackets, shaved heads; shouting in their broken speech patterns. Shooting them in the backs, as they ran away from him, dropping like flies, one after the other. Looking down the rifle for better aim, met at first with silence, then by screaming coming from behind him.

The junction was busy, but he found he had no appetite for more. He stood instead, observing the reaction from those who stayed to watch what unfolded. Most ran, the sounds of his gunshots tapping into their fight or flight responses and choosing the latter. The others … they stopped to watch what would happen next, as if he was the star of a new reality show.

They took out mobile phones and started filming and taking pictures, from what they thought was a safe distance across the main road. Holding up their phones to record the moment when they were in his presence.

He wheeled around, wide-eyed as he took in the one, two, five, ten separate people doing this. Filming him, filming this. Later to be played back on the news, no doubt with a warning before it was shown. Zooming in on the broken bodies which lay on the edge of the Lidl car park, blood pooling around them. Turning the screen red. Blurred out on TV – but the viewers at home would know what was there.

He wanted to go, leave, to get away. They didn’t understand. Would never understand.

‘Why are you doing this? Please stop.’ A woman’s voice came from a few yards away. Alan Bimpson turned, saw the light of a camera phone and snapped back.

He needed to think. ‘I need to go back. To where it all started. I need to go back.’

He dropped the spent rifle on the ground, moved out of the car park and began walking, as those ahead of him scattered. Moving to the other side of Stanley Road, as if a few more yards of distance would save them if he decided to take care of them as well.

The shotgun in his backpack banged into his shoulder blades, so he removed it, holding it loosely in one hand as he walked, the shouts and screams drifting behind him as he left them to run and hide.

Another group ahead of him on the now almost-empty street. Four of them, all looking the same. He wanted to make them disappear, make them all disappear, but he couldn’t do it. One group down, more to gawk and replace.

‘Bang. You’re dead. Bang. You’re dead.’

Two of them on the ground as he pointed the shotgun at them, scrambling around to run. A third taking to his heels as soon as he’d come close to them.

One stock-still, shaking. Quivering.

‘You. If you come with me now, I won’t kill or hurt you. Just come with me now.’

The lad in front of him trembled, looked left and right, but the shotgun under his chin snapped the attention back to Alan Bimpson.

Bimpson tensed as he heard sirens coming towards them. ‘Now. You need to drive me somewhere.’

32

The major incident room back at the station was already starting to resemble a ghost town as Murphy and Harris entered. All available officers were on the ground, showing their faces, keeping a presence going.

It was a manhunt now. That was according to the Breaking News ticker on the rolling news channels. A couple of detective constables Murphy didn’t recognise were sitting in front of the TV screen showing the footage, just staring.

Murphy kept walking, finding Rossi back in their office. He watched her from the doorway for a few seconds, seeing her wince as she reached across her desk for a file.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’

‘I knew you were there,’ Rossi said, without turning around. ‘I was just doing it to wind you up.’

‘Course you did,’ Murphy replied, moving around her desk to his own. ‘Anything new?’

‘Not really. I’ve got a list of the company directors being sent over ASAP. Other than that, we have a picture of him in the
Echo
, with no name or any real information at all, a list of the properties the property company owns, and that’s about it.’

‘Well, we should have more soon enough. Plus, the whole of Merseyside Police seems to be out there. He’s not going to get very far.’

DC Harris appeared at the doorway. ‘They’ve got his car. Followed him on cameras, but lost him near the docks …’

‘Let me guess … firearms are now in that area?’

Harris nodded. ‘Found nothing but dead bodies and the injured in Toxteth.’

‘How many?’ Murphy asked, bracing himself.

‘Four dead on scene. Six injured. Two critical.’

‘All young?’ Rossi said, turning around in her chair. ‘I mean, were they all teenagers?’

Harris shrugged. ‘Not sure.’

‘They won’t be,’ Murphy said. ‘He’s gone nuclear now. Anyone in his path is a threat to him.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Rossi said, breaking the top off another energy drink.

‘I saw it on the video. He didn’t even pause when he shot at one point. It’s anyone and everyone now. He’ll either burn out quickly, top himself within a few hours, or we’ll catch him somewhere and shoot him before he kills himself. It’s what always happens.’

‘Always? Can’t remember this happening before …’

Murphy drummed his fingers on his desk, ‘Not here, no. But elsewhere. He’ll have had a cause – probably still thinks he does, but it’s too public now for it to be controlled. That’s key now. There’s little we can do here, other than hope he’s caught before anyone else gets in his way.’

Only two hours later, Murphy’s hopes were extinguished.

Reports started coming in quicker this time. Multitudes of people ringing any emergency number they could get hold of. 999 was picking up calls every few seconds, the CID offices were getting calls direct.

‘Where exactly is it?’ Murphy asked, to someone who had finally put the phone down.

‘Bootle, sir.’

‘I know that you div, I meant where in Bootle?’

‘Oh,’ came the red-faced reply. ‘Stanley Road and Marsh Lane junction. The Lidl on the corner.’

Murphy thought about it, then moved to where Rossi was standing, watching the TV. ‘Any news from the ground?’

Rossi shook her head. ‘Nothing yet, but it’s only happened in the past half hour or so. Look at these idiots,’ she said, pointing a finger at the screen. ‘Just standing around, filming.’

On the TV was a video of the scene, shot by a passer-by and given to the news channels rather than the police first.

Such was policing in this age.

‘Why are they just standing around filming the thing?’ Rossi said, her voice getting more high-pitched as she continued watching. ‘Either get the hell out of there, or do something.’

Murphy didn’t get it either, this prevailing wind of change that was occurring where everyone was suddenly recording events themselves. ‘It’s like slowing down to see a car accident on a motorway. You know you shouldn’t but you can’t help yourself. Now everyone has a camera in their pocket, so it’s just the next step from staring to recording it.’

‘Sick is what it is.’

Murphy stared at the screen, watching as Bimpson turned and spoke to the camera. He looked different than in the picture they had of him. More drawn in the face, older, dark circles under his eyes. His hair wasn’t gelled back and in perfect position now. The cap he’d been wearing had been discarded, revealing an unkemptness which didn’t seem to suit him. The backpack he was carrying was making him walk a little bent over, as if the effort was becoming too much, as if the gun in his hand was heavier.

‘Wind it back … can you do that on this one?’ Murphy said as he kept watching. ‘Well?’

Rossi was fiddling with the remote, ‘Can’t remember if we lost Sky Plus in the last cuts …’ she replied, finding the rewind button and pressing.

‘Good. No, too far. Right before he turns. That’s it …’

Murphy and Rossi watched in silence as something was said by Bimpson to the camera.

‘I need to go back. To where it all started. I need to go back.’

Rossi paused and rewound it again, playing it a few more times.

‘What do you think that means?’

Murphy shook his head but took out his phone. Found the number he wanted and started calling.

‘Stephens.’

Murphy had expected a tired voice to come through, but DCI Stephens sounded bright, alert.

‘It’s Murphy. Are you following what’s going on?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m about to meet with DSI Butler to talk strategy going forward.’

Murphy pursed his lips, surprised a little. ‘Oh right. It’s just … there’s something in the latest video that’s on the news.’

‘From Toxteth?’

‘No,’ Murphy replied, wondering when the media became the forefront of information in policing. ‘The Bootle one. Bimpson says something to the camera …’

‘Of course,’ the lie came back. Murphy wondered when it had become easier for his boss to do that. ‘Remind me what he said again.’

‘He says he’s going back to where it all started …’

‘We’ll discuss that in the meeting, I’m sure. For now, see if you can find out any more about this guy. That should keep you busy.’

Murphy stared at the phone display as DCI Stephens ended the call. ‘Well … I think that pretty much settles it,’ he half mumbled to himself.

‘Settles what?’ Rossi said, eyes still locked on the TV screen.

‘We’re to continue our efforts in finding out more about Bimpson.’

‘We knew that anyway.’

Murphy tucked his phone back into his pocket. ‘There should be more we can do …’

‘Like what?’

Murphy shrugged, walking the floor space next to where Rossi was perched on a desk. ‘Like, anything. Why have we been left to it, here on admin duty basically? Does it really matter what we find out here?’

‘You never know …’

‘I think we do,’ Murphy replied, stopping in front of Rossi, shaking his head as she tried to peer around him.

‘Look, once this guy started shooting people in the street, what did you expect? They’re hardly likely to let us knock on doors without firearms officers going in there first …’

‘Shoot first, ask questions later …’

‘Whatever,’ Rossi said, standing up and walking back to the office. ‘I’ve already been shot at once today. I’d prefer it if I didn’t have to do that again, and I certainly don’t want it happening to you either.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Murphy said, following Rossi across the room.

‘You’re a bigger target,’ Rossi replied, sitting down at her desk. ‘He’s hardly likely to miss you, is he?’

‘Cheeky.’

Rossi hushed him, pointing at her computer screen. ‘Details are in on the directors. A lot of names on here.’

‘Let me look.’

Murphy squatted next to Rossi’s desk as they read the names on the screen. None jumped out at him at first glance.

Rossi staring at the side of his face made him look twice.

‘Thornhill …’

‘A Kevin, which I imagine is our dead youth club guy. And a Simon …’

‘I’ll ring Brannon,’ Murphy said, moving around to his desk. ‘Find out the score. Bit strange that Kevin was a director of that company.’

Rossi leant over her keyboard and began typing. ‘I’ll check out the other names. See if we can eliminate a few straight off.’

Murphy rang Brannon from the desk phone, wondering if he’d even answer, let alone speak to him, given what had happened earlier in the day.

It could have been worse … he could actually have broken the fat prick’s nose like he’d wanted to. Silver linings …

‘Yeah.’

A glorious way to answer the phone. ‘It’s Murphy.’

‘Called to apologise?’

Fuck’s sake … ‘Yeah, that, and some actual important stuff.’

‘Look, I’m with Kevin Thornhill’s missus at the moment. Can it wait?’

‘No. Listen, we’ve just got the list of directors of Alan Bimpson’s property firm back …’

A sigh. Murphy could almost smell the cheese and onion breath. ‘And?’

‘Kevin’s name is on there.’

Silence. ‘That could mean anything or nothing.’

‘There’s also a Simon Thornhill.’

A hand over the mouthpiece, ill-placed as Murphy could hear a muffled voice say, ‘Who’s Simon? Right … didn’t know that …’ Static shifted as Brannon took his hand away. ‘Apparently Kevin had a brother. They weren’t on the best of terms.’

‘We need to know where he lives. He might be in danger as well.’

‘Hang on …’ This time the hand was better at its job, as the line went silent for a good thirty seconds. Murphy chewed on the end of a biro as he waited, cracking the lid. ‘You still there?’

‘Of course.’

‘No one knows where he lives. No one really knows anything about him. Kevin’s missus met him once, years and years ago. He didn’t even go to the funerals.’

Murphy removed the biro from his mouth. ‘What funerals?’

‘Fucking hell, do you not look into these things or something? Kevin’s mum passed away last year, then his dad a few months later. Broken heart they reckon. He was getting on, like.’

‘And the mum?’

‘That’s another story …’