The Dying Place. Luca Veste
them was out of use. Everyone has mobiles these days.’
The house they’d stopped outside of didn’t scream ‘house of a tearaway’. A sort of mid-terrace, with light brown stone brickwork. An archway separated the house from next door, but it was still connected on the top level. There were three wheelie bins on the small driveway, a few crisp packets lifting slightly in the breeze before settling back down against the fence. It was May, but Murphy shook his head as he noticed the house next door still had Christmas decorations hanging from the guttering – the clear icicles he’d noticed on market stalls in town, the previous December.
‘You ready?’ Murphy said as he pushed open the metal gate, the screeching sound as it slid across the ground making his hairs stand on end. It needed lifting, fixing or replacing.
‘Are you?’ Rossi replied, walking ahead of him and knocking on the door. Four short raps – the rent man’s knock, as his mum used to say.
They stood waiting for a few seconds before Rossi knocked again, pulling back as they heard the barking.
‘Porca vacca,’ Rossi said under her breath.
‘You don’t like dogs, Laura?’ Murphy said from behind a smile.
‘Not ones that bark.’
A few more seconds passed before they heard shuffling from behind the door. A mortice lock turning on the old-style door, the house not being adorned with one of the newer double-glazed models. It opened inwards a few inches, a face appearing in the gap.
‘Yeah?’
‘Sally Hughes?’ Murphy said, bending over so he wasn’t towering over the small-statured mother of Dean Hughes.
‘What’s he done now?’
Murphy raised his eyebrows at the instant recognition of them as police, even though they were in plain clothes. ‘Who?’
‘Our Jack. What’s he done? You’re either police or bailiffs. So he either owes someone or you’re trying to pin something on him.’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Laura Rossi, this is DI David Murphy …’
‘Jack was here last night …’
Rossi held her hands out. ‘It’s not about Jack, Mrs Hughes. It’s about Dean.’
Sally opened the door wider, a look of resignation flashing across her face before she swiped her hand across her forehead, moving damp, lifeless hair away from her face. ‘Right. Well you better come in then.’
Sally walked away from them, locking the still-barking dog in another room before going through to what Murphy guessed was the living room on the left. He went in first, wiping his feet on a non-existent doormat without thinking and following her inside. He took the few steps into the living room, some American talk show snapping into silence as he walked into the room, the clattering of the remote control on a wooden coffee table.
‘Scuse the mess. Haven’t had chance to tidy up yet.’ Sally lifted a cigarette box and in a couple of smooth movements lit a Silk Cut and took a drag.
Murphy savoured the smell of smoke which drifted his way, before perching on the couch which was to the side of the armchair where Sally was sitting, legs tucked underneath herself.
‘What’s he done then? Haven’t seen him in months, so fucked if I know anything about it.’
Murphy glanced at Rossi, suddenly unsure how to proceed. If they opened with the fact Dean was dead, any information that may have been gleaned from a less stark opening might be lost. On the other hand, Murphy decided if his kid was dead, he’d want to know straight away.
‘We found a body in West Derby this morning, Sally. We think it’s Dean.’
The reactions are never the same each time. Every time a quiet difference. During his career, Murphy had experienced the whole gamut of emotions being projected in his presence; from howling tears of grief to quiet stoicism. He’d learnt to not really put much stock in the initial reaction, not to make assumptions based on them.
‘Fuck off.’
He’d not heard this one before.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ Sally Hughes continued, laughing as she tried to take another drag on her cigarette, ‘look how serious you both are. Sorry lad, you’ve got the wrong house.’
Murphy breathed in. He’d seen the overall emotion of denial before – granted, it wasn’t usually accompanied by laughter, but once you got to the core of it, it was denial all the same. ‘Look at this picture for us, Sally,’ Murphy said, taking the blown-up, A4-sized photograph of Dean Hughes from the manila folder he was carrying. ‘Who do you see?’
Sally took a cursory glance at it, allowing her eyes to only alight on it for a few seconds. ‘Yeah, that’s not him.’
‘What about this tattoo?’ Murphy said, moving to another photograph which showed a tribal symbol found on the chest of the body.
‘Loads of lads his age have got the same thing,’ Sally said, still not looking at the photographs for more than a second.
Rossi moved out of the room beside Murphy, one quick glance passing between them. She’d be calling for support from family liaison officers, he hoped. Murphy leant forward, taking back the picture he’d handed to Sally and replacing it in the folder. ‘Sally, we think it is Dean, so someone is going to come and take you down the Royal to make an identification,’ – Murphy held up a hand to stop her interrupting – ‘and if it’s not him, then that’ll be it.’
‘It’s a waste of time, this. He can’t be there.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s only missing. Probably getting into all kinds of shit.’ She stubbed out the cigarette into a clean ashtray. ‘But I’d know if anything bad had happened.’ She banged an open palm against her chest. ‘I’d know in here. I’m his mum. I’d know.’
Murphy watched as her hands began shaking, struggling to pass a hand through her hair to brush it off her face. Her eyes betraying her as they filmed over.
‘Sally …’
‘Don’t.’ She interrupted as he began to speak. ‘I’ll go down there, but I’m telling you, it’s a big mistake. Have you got kids?’
Murphy shook his head.
‘Then you wouldn’t know. I’m telling you, I’d feel it if he was gone. And I’m not feeling anything.’
Murphy let the silence hang in the air, staring at the crown of Sally’s head as she leant forward, both hands grasping at her hair before sliding down and crossing over so she was hugging herself. Murphy blinked, and believed she’d aged ten years since they’d walked through the door, realising quickly it was a trick.
‘They’re on their way,’ Rossi said softly, returning to the room. ‘Be about fifteen minutes. Do you want a tea or something, Sally, while we wait?’
‘It’s all right,’ Sally replied, forcing herself upright, ‘I’ll do it. You want one?’
Murphy shook his head, leaning back as Rossi followed Sally through.
Denial. He was sure it was on one of those lists about grief he’d once read. He just hoped acceptance wasn’t too far behind.
Murphy and Rossi returned to the station, leaving the support officers with the task of taking Sally Hughes to the morgue to identify her son; Murphy hoped they’d managed to make Dean look presentable at least before showing his mother the body. Murphy was relieved that the next time they’d speak to her she might be more accepting of the reality. At the moment,