The Dying Place (9 page)

Murphy had been there. Growing up on a council estate in South Liverpool, the line between making something of your life and screwing it up was thin. Sometimes even blurred.

Murphy took out his phone as they reached their office, the silence he’d been hoping for denied due to DC Harris sitting behind the desk speaking into his mobile, his back to them. He turned as they entered, redness creeping up his neck. Private call then, Murphy thought.

‘I’ll call you back,’ Harris whispered into the phone, which made little difference considering the size of the office. ‘I don’t know when, I’ll just ring in a bit, okay?’ He stabbed at the phone, slamming it down on the desk with more force than Murphy thought he’d intended.

‘You all right?’ Rossi said, taking her jacket off and placing it over her chair. Murphy was already taking his phone out of his pocket.

‘Yeah, just … doesn’t matter. Boring shite.’

Rossi went to reply but stopped herself as Murphy shot her a look. Domestics. Best not to get involved. Murphy went back to texting.

Body this morning. Won’t be late though. Bit knackered, so can I just pick up an Indian?

Murphy hesitated before pressing send. He hoped Sarah would understand that he wasn’t taking her out, but he could never tell how she’d respond. In many ways they were still treading on eggshells with each other. Learning how to be with one another after they’d spent the best part of a year apart, following the death of his parents and all that had brought with it.

‘Just send it,’ Rossi said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘She’ll understand.’

Murphy smirked. And they say women’s intuition doesn’t exist. ‘Supposed to be taking her out,’ Murphy said, phone still in hand, the screen darkening. ‘Forgot to book a table though, so now I’ve got a perfect excuse.’

‘She’ll be fine. Take her tomorrow or next week. All the time in the world,’ Rossi replied.

Muttering came from Harris’s direction, accompanied by a loud sigh.

‘What’s up with you?’ Murphy said, sending the text as he spoke.

‘Nothing,’ Harris replied. ‘Just, you know, they’re not always as understanding as that.’

Murphy shared a smile with Rossi. ‘I’m sure it’ll work itself out. Don’t let it get to you.’

Harris shrugged in response. Three of them in the office and Murphy realised his relationship was probably the most secure. A strange feeling, given what had happened the previous couple of years.

He was mentally admonishing himself for allowing a crack to appear in the veneer of stability. Allowing work to affect things. He couldn’t let that happen again.

His phone buzzed on the desk in front of him.

Glad you said that. I’m knackered. Get home in time for
8 out of 10 Cats.

Murphy allowed himself a small smile before checking the time. Almost six p.m. Just enough time for a conversation he was dreading.

‘Where’s he been? That’s what I want to know. Where’s he fucking been for over six months, while you all sat on your arses doing nothing?’

Sally Hughes spat the last question out directly at Murphy, as if he’d been involved in the whole thing. He remained stoic, eager to allow Sally to get her initial anger out so they could move forward. ‘That’s what we’re going to find out, Sally. It’ll help us if you could tell us a few things though, okay?’

‘Oh, you want to hear all about it now, don’t you? When it doesn’t matter any more. Fucking useless, the lot of you.’

Murphy moved the box of tissues she’d been using to dab her tears away, just in case she decided to chuck that at him, which, going by the whitening of her knuckles on the table between them, could occur at any second. ‘Give us a chance to prove we’re not useless, okay, Sally?’

She sat back in the chair, finally breaking eye contact with him to bury her head in her hands, tears springing forth once more. ‘God, what happened? Are you going to find out what happened to him?’ Sally said, raising her head and facing Rossi this time.

‘That’s what we want to do, Sally,’ Rossi replied. ‘That’s why we need your help.’

‘Okay. Ask me anything. I’m not gonna lie to you.’

Unlike usually, Murphy thought, before giving himself an internal slap.

‘Right,’ Rossi said, reading the first question off the list they’d prepared before going into the room. ‘Dean went missing in the early hours of 6 October. When was the last time you saw him?’

‘The evening before. He was going out with mates and he came in to say bye. About half six, I think, because
Hollyoaks
was about to start.’

‘And did he seem okay … anything different about him?’

Murphy watched her as she thought back. Memory is a stranger; it plays tricks on you. He knew they might learn more from the original report, but having scan-read it earlier, he wasn’t holding out much hope. Some uniform had taken it without going into much detail. Even the follow-ups from higher-ups had been perfunctory at best.

‘Maybe a bit quieter, but nothing really. It was a Friday, so I knew he’d be in late, if at all. He was nearly eighteen, so I couldn’t really say anything. Not that he cared at sixteen or fifteen, for that matter. Always had his own mind, Dean. He’s … what’s the word … stubborn. That’s it. Always was. Does things his own way and woe betide anyone who tries to stop him.’

‘Did he say where he was going that night?’

‘Out. That’s what he always said. I knew he’d be drinking, of course. Maybe more, who knows with kids these days? But he always let me know if he was staying over at a mate’s or something. Send me a text in the early hours, just to stop me worrying. When I woke up the next morning and didn’t have anything from him, I knew something was wrong. Our Jason – that’s my youngest one, just turned seventeen a couple of weeks ago – went looking for him on the Saturday afternoon but couldn’t find him.’

‘Where did he look?’ Murphy said, easing into the conversation.

‘Couple of lads he knew that hung around with Dean,’ Sally continued, taking a lighter out of her hoodie pocket. ‘I’m guessing I can’t smoke in here?’

Murphy shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have a break soon.’

‘I rang you lot Saturday night. We found out more than youse did though.’

‘I’ve got some of it here,’ Murphy replied, flipping back a couple of sheets of the report. ‘He was last seen by a Steven Waites at around three a.m. Said he left him in West Derby Cemetery with “some bird I can’t remember the name of”.’

A whisper of a smile played on Sally’s lips before being lost with a knock of the lighter in her hand on the table. ‘We found out who that was. Some slut from up the road. Amanda Williams. Sixteen, she was. Glad I have boys, I’ll tell you that.’

‘And …’

‘She was pissed. Last thing she remembers was throwing up behind some grave and then her dad pulling her into the house. Reckons Dean must have took her home.’

Murphy found the part of the missing person’s report which referred to this.

Took girlfriend home.

Murphy shook his head at the lack of investigation. He knew it was down to time, resources and all that bullshit. The oft-quoted statistic relating to missing persons. Quarter of a million a year. Most turning back up again quickly. Still, a bit of effort might have saved at least one life.

‘And that was it,’ Sally continued. ‘No one saw him again. We tried getting in the papers and that, but they weren’t interested. Eighteen-year-old lad with his history … they couldn’t care less. Just assumed he’d done something wrong and got what was coming to him. We stuck posters up and that, but when we got the letter in January, we kind of stopped and just waited around.’

Murphy looked towards Rossi, who looked back at him, mirroring his own reaction. Flicked through the report to make sure he hadn’t missed something, came up with nothing.

‘What letter?’

8

Murphy wrote on the board under the details of Dean Hughes’s murder case. Adding the new information they’d gleaned that day, his last act before going home.

He was going to be late.

Someone had sent Sally Hughes a message. An envelope dropping through the letter box one January morning. No stamp or address on the front. Just one word.

Mum

Inside, a short note which explained how he was fine and was getting help with his problems. He’d be back soon, when he was better and ready to make something of his life. Not in her son’s handwriting, but typed out.

She’d assumed he was at some kind of religious thing. Actually felt okay about it. Two words in her son’s handwriting …
Mum
and
Dean.
And a few kisses, she’d said. Murphy shook his head at the naivety of it all. Someone sends you a message saying your son is somewhere you have no idea of until he’s
better
. It was ridiculous. And all she had to show it was actually written by her son were two words in his handwriting.

He guessed what the real reason was behind her supposed giving up. Apathy. It was a neat little explanation for everything. Meant she didn’t have to worry any more
.

Murphy slammed the marker pen back in the shelf at the bottom of the board. Looked at his watch and decided to make a move.

It was becoming a ritual for Rossi to do this. Every time there was a death, suspicious circumstances or not, she went to her parents’ house. She’d thought she would have grown out of it once she’d gone through the process a few times, but the draw was still there.

Rossi’s parents lived near the scene from earlier that morning in West Derby. Only a few minutes away really. She drove past the church – saw a couple of uniforms standing outside the entrance, keeping away any ghouls who wanted to have a poke around, but other than that, things had quietened down now. Only twelve hours on, and already people’s attention was being drawn elsewhere.

She was putting off the inevitable. The questions, the judgements. Willing to go through it all, as usual. The lure of her mama’s food was a much more appetising thought, but she knew it came at a price.

She parked up her car, turned off the engine but left the radio playing some bland pop song which she couldn’t help but enjoy. Rossi switched off the radio with a turn of her key and got out the car. She’d managed to get a parking spot, which was becoming more and more difficult these days. It was a mid-terrace house in a quiet road which seemed to contain every different type of house you could find. Opposite, four detached bungalows; further down, semi-detached housing; to either side, terraced houses which seemed to run the length of the street.

She rang the bell, a snippet of
Greensleeves
emanating from within.

‘
Bambina
!
Entare
,
entare
. What is all this talk today? What is happening here in our beautiful city? You look hungry.
Hai mangiato
? Never mind. You eat now.’

Laura was still standing on the doorstep, waiting for her mother to finish. It was always the same. Isabella Rossi –
Mama
– didn’t believe in easing into conversations.

‘I’m fine, Mama,
bene
,’ Rossi said, finally being allowed to step into the house and taking her jacket off. ‘I wanted to make sure you were both okay, that’s all.’

Mama Rossi stood, her arms folded. ‘You check on us? We check on you! That is how it is. Now go through. Sit with Papa and I’ll bring food. Go. Sit.’

Rossi did as she was told, moving through into the living room where her father was sitting in his usual chair, waiting for her to brush his cheek with a kiss before lighting a cigarette.

‘Come
stai
?’ Alessandro Rossi said, fiddling the cigarette between his fingers before flicking his Zippo and inhaling the smoke.

‘I’m fine, Papa. You heard about what happened at the church?’

‘Of course.’

‘Looks like a bad one already.’

‘How young?’

‘Just turned eighteen,’ Rossi replied, moving back as her mama entered the room and placed a cup of tea in front of her, before hustling back out.

‘Terrible, terrible business. The whole city is changing. You should really be doing something about that,’ Mama Rossi said from the kitchen.

‘I’ll get right on that, Mama,’ Rossi replied, earning a smirk from her father.

‘He was eighteen. So an adult really, but still …’ Rossi said, lifting the china cup her mother always served tea in. Remembering why she never drank the stuff unless she was home. Not that it had been her home in a long time.

‘Bad, was it?’

‘It always is, Papa,’ Rossi replied, looking around the room.

Papa Rossi leant back in his chair. ‘You need somewhere else to go.’

‘I like coming here.’

‘No. You come here to be a child again. A
bambina
running into the arms of her mama. You need something else. It’ll make it easier.’

Rossi wasn’t sure about that. Even less so when her mama returned with pasta
al forno
, piled high on a plate. Parmesan cheese in a small bowl.

No. This was still preferable to some bloke messing up her house.

Murphy pulled into the driveway, spying Sarah through the front window watching TV. He left the car and watched her for a minute or so. She’d have heard him pull up but didn’t seem to react. He considered, not for the first time, if she enjoyed knowing he was watching her. Wondered what she was thinking, what she was so engrossed in that she didn’t turn her head and look at him through the window, breaking the reverie.

He left the car, opening the front door to the house, smiling as the blaring noise from the TV snapped off. Murphy seemed to spend most of his life asking her to turn the bloody thing down, but she always waited until he wasn’t paying attention before gently increasing the volume, complaining she couldn’t hear it properly. Thankfully, the only neighbour they had was on the other side of the semi-detached house. Not that it mattered much anyway. Mr Waters. Eighty-odd and happy to let them get on with things.