The Dying Place. Luca Veste
seen popping up everywhere a couple of years back. Sell your old clothes for sixty pence a kilo. Minutes up the road from the middle-class suburbs in the outskirts of the city and the differences could be seen everywhere.
Murphy didn’t like to ponder too much on the endless paradoxes of his home city. Enough to send anyone mad. How could the well-off and the poor be so close together? It didn’t make any kind of sense to him. He just assumed it was the same all over the country – probably more so in these post-recession times – and tried to get on with his life.
‘What’s the plan then?’ Rossi said, interrupting his thoughts.
‘Confirm the ID of the victim, interview the kids who found him, then go from there,’ Murphy replied, spying the Radio City tower in the distance – the signal that he was almost in town and would be at the station before long. ‘You know, the usual.’
‘I almost hope we’re done by the end of the day. I know we’ve not been busy, but I could do without a murder investigation.’
‘Couldn’t we all,’ Murphy replied.
‘Just let me know if it starts getting to you. We haven’t had one since … well, you know.’
Murphy didn’t answer straight away, but his thoughts instantly went back to the scene at his parents’ house two years ago. The violence inflicted on them, the death. It was always there, just on the surface of his memory, the slightest trigger bringing it forth again. Breath going shallow as he fought to keep the emotions down, determined not to slip into the same situation he had found himself in the year before. Lead detective on the biggest murder case his division had seen in years – a serial killer at that – but he’d been toyed with and manipulated. Mentally and physically.
‘Sir … you still with me?’
Murphy blinked back the images and looked out the windscreen towards the slowing traffic in front of him.
‘Yeah … I’m fine. Just … doesn’t take much, Laura.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’m sound. This is nothing like the last one.’
And it wasn’t. Not yet.
Murphy held his phone in one hand, comparing it to the photo which was staring back at him from the computer screen. ‘I can’t really tell,’ he said, squinting and moving the phone around to try and see better, ‘this phone keeps going dark.’
Rossi leant across the desk. ‘Give it here, will you.’
Murphy allowed her to snatch the phone out of his hands. One day he’d learn how these things worked, but for now he was happy to let others do it for him. ‘All right, you do it then.’
‘See,’ Rossi said, flashing the phone in his face before going back to studying it again, ‘here’s your problem. You’ve turned off autorotate. And you have to keep your finger on the screen to keep it backlit.’
A lot of words which meant pretty much fuck all to Murphy. ‘Of course,’ he replied.
‘What do you reckon?’
Murphy nodded. Rossi had managed to enlarge the photo of the victim, which had been sent to his mobile a few minutes earlier, so that it fit the screen. ‘Obviously can’t be sure, but certainly looks like him.’
A photo of Dean Hughes filled his computer monitor. A mugshot taken during his last arrest. ‘This is eight months old, but I’m almost sure it’s him. Look at the scar above the eyebrow.’
‘Yeah,’ Rossi replied, leaning over him to look closer, ‘looks like it to me.’
Murphy began reading the information which was attached. ‘Arrested and then cautioned for Section Five. Hughes was “drunk and aggressive – believed all cofppers to be complete ‘twats.’” Sounds delightful.’
‘How many arrests are there?’
Murphy scrolled down the list. ‘Jesus … at least twenty. That’s just page one. That guy Hale was right. He was used to dealing with us.’
‘When was the last time we had any contact with him there?’
Murphy frowned as he went back over the record. ‘Odd. Seems like he was in trouble quite regularly up until seven months ago. Then … nothing.’
‘Weird. Was he banged up?’
Murphy checked further. ‘No. Nothing about that. No court appearances scheduled or anything.’
Rossi tapped a pen against her teeth, far too close to Murphy’s ears for comfort. ‘What’s his address?’
‘Clanfield Road. Norris Green.’
‘Check to see if there’s anything else.’
Murphy clicked through to the HOLMES database. HOLMES 2 as it was officially called, after an upgrade during the nineties, stored information on a variety of features, most of which Murphy never had time for. Case management, material disclosure … it was really just a dumping ground for every piece of information anyone working in the police received.
‘Here we go,’ Murphy said, sitting up in his chair, ‘he was reported missing.’
Rossi came back around the desk. ‘When?’
‘Get onto this … seven months ago.’
‘Well, that explains things. He’s been off getting into all kinds of shit, and now it’s caught up with him?’
‘Maybe,’ Murphy replied, leaning back in his chair. ‘But it didn’t look like he’d been living on the streets or anything. He looked, well, normal. Like he’d been looking after himself. For someone dead, anyway.’
‘I guess. I didn’t really look at him all that closely, to be honest.’
Murphy drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking back to the image of the victim he’d taken in his mind earlier that morning. A snapshot, something to keep in his head whilst he was working. ‘Clean fingernails,’ he said, after a few moments of silence.
‘What?’ Rossi replied, holding her hand out in front of her and studying it.
‘He had clean fingernails. I’m sure of it.’
‘Okay …’
‘We’ll have to check at the PM of course, but I’m pretty positive they were clean. If he was living rough, or in some dosshouse somewhere, they wouldn’t be, would they?’
Rossi looked at him with a blank face, which set Murphy on edge. He didn’t like being thought of as spouting rubbish. He’d seen that look reflected at him too often in the past, and he thought he was finally getting away from it.
‘I’m serious, Laura,’ he went on, after waiting a few seconds for her to respond and not getting anything. ‘This could be important. If he’s been missing seven months, we’ll need to know where he was. We can narrow the search straight off if he’s been somewhere where he’d have been able to keep clean.’
Rossi finally nodded, sparks hitting her eyes as she realised what he’d been implying. ‘I get you now. Good thinking, sir.’
‘It’s what I’m paid to do. Now, let’s get a picture of him from Doctor Houghton – get it over to the family. I want an ID sorted quickly.’ Murphy stood, leaving the smaller office and crossing into the wider office which housed the rest of the CID team. He strode over to the whiteboards which detailed the ongoing cases and began making a few notes underneath where someone had added that morning’s new victim.
‘Right,’ Murphy said, turning to face the few DCs who had been watching him. ‘Who’s going through initial neighbour reports?’
DC Sagan raised her hand. ‘Me, but there’s nothing there at the moment. No one heard anything in the adjoining street to the church. Only four houses were occupied