DEAD GONE. Luca Veste
in front of his Citroën reflected off the dark interior inside, a strobe effect bouncing off the dashboard.
Murphy shook his seatbelt off and leaned forward, attempting to see past the lights and people milling around the park. He slumped back in the seat when it became clear he wouldn’t see anything.
He scratched his beard, the trim he’d performed the previous night giving it a coiffed edge, which he decided said ‘distinguished’ rather than ‘hiding a double chin’. He stifled a yawn and opened the car door, stretching his long legs out, the tight feeling in his calves telling him he’d maybe overdone it on the cross trainer the previous evening, trying to shift those last few pounds of weight.
He’d been awake no more than fifteen minutes when his DCI had called. That made it less than an hour into the day for him, and he was walking towards the body of a dead girl.
Not how Murphy usually liked to start off a day, especially a Sunday. A phone call from work before he’d even had chance to drink his coffee. Have a slice of toast. Put a fresh suit on.
Death could be incredibly selfish.
‘Murphy,’ he’d answered once he’d finally located the phone hiding in his jeans pocket on the bedroom floor. Stabbed at the screen, trying to answer the stupid thing.
‘David?’
Murphy’s shoulders slumped. DCI Stephens. Which, outside of normal hours, usually signified nothing good. ‘What’s happened?’
‘A body. Suspicious circumstances. Found in Sefton Park.’
‘Shit. Bad?’
‘Not sure of all the details at the moment.’
‘I’m wanted?’
‘Why else would I be calling you, David? I’m not your bloody alarm clock.’
‘It’s been a while, that’s all. Was starting to wonder if I’d be stuck on break-ins for another six months.’
‘Well you’ve got something else now.’
‘Who’s with me?’
‘Rossi or Tony Brannon. Your decision.’
‘Great. Not exactly Sophie’s fucking Choice.’
‘Language. Weren’t you taught never to swear in front of a lady? And anyway, beggars can’t be choosers. How long until you can get down there?’
Murphy crooked his phone between his shoulder and ear. Grabbed his trousers from where they had been lying next to his jeans. ‘Which end?’
‘Which end of what?’
‘The park.’ Jesus wept.
‘Oh, Aigburth Drive. Just look for the lights. Sounds like half the bloody force is there.’
Murphy zipped up his trousers and gave the previous day’s shirt a sniff. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
He left the house five minutes later reversing out the driveway, and onto the road. Decided twenty minutes was probably a little optimistic. It’d probably be double that this time of the morning, even without the usual weekday traffic through the tunnel. He shook his head, tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth, and turned right out of the small winding road which surrounded the small estate, lamenting the fact he was already going to be playing catch up when he got there.
The commute may have been bad, but at least it gave him a chance to wake up. Within five minutes he was on the motorway heading for the Wallasey tunnel, which separated the Wirral and Liverpool.
The Wirral hadn’t always been home. In fact, he’d only been able to call it that for the previous few months. The Wirral was historically known as simultaneously living in Liverpool’s shadow, whilst also enjoying much more wealth than most of Liverpool. These days, the link was closer. Whilst the wealth was still strong in the west of the Wirral, with the likes of West Kirby and Heswall, the destruction of the shipping trade at Cammell Laird’s on the east side meant that the Wirral now had its own pockets of deprivation. Even the kids spoke in a Scouse accent now, albeit a bastardised version of it. Murphy was comfortable living there, even if the subtle differences became more apparent every day, needling at him.
He loved the city of Liverpool. The people, the buildings, the history. He just needed some time away. Working there was enough for now.
He used his fast tag when he arrived at the Wallasey tunnel booths, and broke the forty mile an hour limit going under the River Mersey, but it was still forty minutes after the phone call by the time he’d pulled the car to a stop.
He walked out into the damp and cold January morning, zipping his coat as he walked towards the railings which lined the path, hastily strung-up crime scene tape strewn across them. The wide main road was shadowed by high trees on both sides, which masked most of the view. A couple of uniforms stood guard at the park entrance – a quick flash of his warrant card and he was able to pass through.
He could see the hive of activity a couple of hundred yards or so ahead, near a stone path which cut through the grass on either side, leading from the entrance into the distance. The main activity seemed to be concentrated on a grass verge which went up into the treeline. Murphy dropped his head as the wind rose, and began walking towards it.
‘Sir!’ Detective sergeant Laura Rossi, second generation Italian. Five and a half foot tall, dark long hair. Strong looking, from the broad shoulders which made her stocky, to the Roman nose which complemented her features. Most of the single, and quite a few of the married lads at the station had tried and failed with her. Murphy wasn’t one of them. She came bounding towards Murphy and brushed her hair away from her face, tucking strands behind her ear. ‘You all right?’
‘What have we got?’ Murphy said as she reached him.
‘Morning to you too, sir.’
Murphy looked down at her, Rossi being at least eight inches shorter, and about half his weight. He smiled as she looked up to him, before realising where they were and adopting a stoic face once more. He was glad she was there. In a weird way, and completely without context given he had no kids of his own, he wanted to look after her; be a father figure of some sort. She was inexperienced, he supposed. Needed some guidance. Which, if this was a bona fide murder case, he could definitely do without. Especially considering his last effort. ‘Let’s get on with it. And stop calling me sir, how many times do I have to tell you.’
‘Course. Sorry, sir. Young female, found by a corpse sniffer around six a.m. Fully clothed. Nothing here but the body, laid out beneath a tree.’
Murphy looked around and spotted the man she was referring to, talking to some uniforms. An older guy, probably in his mid-sixties, his dog sitting next to him, silent on his lead.
‘He have anything to say?’ Murphy said.
‘Not much, dog ran off into the trees, he went looking for it and found the girl.’
‘Is nobhead here?’
Rossi looked confused. ‘Who’s a nobhead?’
Murphy smiled, still finding it amusing that the Scouse accent didn’t match the Mediterranean looks. ‘Brannon. Is he around?’
Rossi attempted to hold back a laugh behind a hand. Murphy noticed her fingernails, bitten down rather than manicured. ‘Yeah, he’s off on the hunt for clues. His words, not mine.’
‘Good.’ Murphy replied. ‘Fat bastard could do with some exercise. SOCOs here yet?’
‘About twenty minutes before you.’
‘Any other witnesses?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Okay. You looked at the body yet?’
Rossi shook her head.
‘Well then. Let’s not keep her waiting.’
Murphy