The Dying Place. Luca Veste
erecting the white tent around him. ‘Anything on him?’
Houghton finished fishing around the pockets of the black joggers which the victim was wearing. ‘Nothing at all. Was expecting a psalm or bible quote or something, given where we are.’
Murphy shrugged. ‘Could be nothing religious about it. Something we’ll be looking into, obviously.’ A religious nut or someone with a grudge to bear against the church. Murphy didn’t like the thought of either.
‘He’s been laid here on purpose, in this manner. Almost looks peaceful, just curled up. Like he just came here, lay down and went peacefully. As always, first glance is deceiving. Looks like he was strangled with some kind of ligature. Not before he was quite severely beaten.’ Houghton paused, rolling the torn T-shirt up over the victim’s flat teenaged stomach. Wisps of fine hair tracing a line towards a recessed belly button, barely visible behind angry red markings turning purple and black. ‘Bruises to his abdomen. Some old, some new. This boy was beaten severely before death. I’m guessing four … no, five broken ribs. Pretty sure there’ll be more broken bones to find as well. Also, there’s his face of course.’
‘This has been going on a while then. The older bruises, I mean.’
‘Could be. I’ll have more answers after the PM of course.’
Murphy nodded before beckoning over a forensics tech from the Evidence Recovery Unit – ERU – towards him. ‘Prioritise this one, Doc. The media will be all over us before we know it. Dead teen in suspicious circumstances and outside a church, with these injuries? Easy headlines.’
Houghton sighed at him in response, but before he could give a fuller answer Murphy moved away to meet the ERU tech – a white-suited woman with only her deep green eyes on display before she removed the mask covering the bottom half of her face.
‘Yes?’
‘I want a fingertip search of the whole area of the church. Inside and out. Pathways which run alongside it as well. I’ll see how far we can cordon the place off.’
‘We know the drill. Just make sure none of your uniforms get in the way.’
Murphy attempted a smile, which obviously looked more sardonic than he’d meant, judging by her reaction – a roll of the eyes and a turn away. He was always making friends.
‘Laura?’ Murphy called, Rossi lifting a finger which told him he was to wait whilst she finished talking to Houghton. She’d always got on well with the doctor, annoying Murphy no end. He still wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done in the past to piss off the old bastard, but was now so used to it he wasn’t sure he was all that arsed.
Rossi eventually finished her conversation a few seconds later, straightening up and strolling over to him.
‘What do you want to do first?’
Murphy finished removing the latex gloves, walking away as he did so. Rossi followed him. ‘Interview the priest, vicar, whatever he’s called, first. Then the kids who found the victim. Tell the uniforms to take them back to the station. Inform the parents, get social services to meet us. They might need counselling or whatever.’
‘Okay. Anything else?’
‘Door to doors,’ Murphy replied, looking up towards the main road at the bottom of the gravel drive which led to the church. ‘Although there aren’t that many in the immediate vicinity.’
‘There’s more houses on the other side of the church; Meadow Lane leading into Castlesite Road. Close enough. There’s some flats above the shops on the main road as well.’
‘Okay, good. Make sure the uniforms know this is a murder investigation. I don’t want them thinking it’s just some scally who got in a fight.’
‘Sir?’
‘Call it a gut reaction, Laura. Some of those bruises are old, fading. Signs of abuse. Something’s not right.’
Rossi nodded slowly, writing down the last bit of info in her notebook before looking back at him. ‘That it?’
‘Yeah. I’ll see if the vicar can accommodate us.’
Goldie was alive, there was that at least. When he’d first been grabbed off the street, beaten until he could barely breathe without feeling the pain all over his body, he’d felt for sure that was it. That he’d pissed off the wrong person once too often and was now going to pay the price. He’d heard stories about the gangsters out there in the city and what they could do to you if they wanted.
He was expecting the end. Tried to work out which dealer he hadn’t paid properly or what he’d promised that he hadn’t delivered, but couldn’t think of a thing.
When he was dragged along the muddy track outside, a sawn-off shotgun pointed at his chest the whole way, Goldie was thinking about all the things he was about to lose.
It amounted to very little.
There was his family, he guessed. What was left of it, anyway. One brother locked up, doing at least fifteen years for manslaughter. Hadn’t seen his dad in years – didn’t much care.
Now there was just him and his mum. And whoever she was seeing at the time, of course.
That was all gone. All he had now was the large room they’d shoved him in, the darkness within masking its real form. He ached from the ride in the back of the van and the beating inside. His breathing was shallow, as the adrenaline he’d been feeling earlier began to wane and he became used to sucking in full lungfuls of oxygen again.
That’s the thing they never showed you on TV. When your mouth is gagged, you have to breathe through your nose. Goldie’s had been broken a few years before that night, which had left it resembling one of those shit paintings he’d seen in art, by the bloke with one ear or something. Or that other one. Art wasn’t exactly his strongest subject. That earlier injury had left his nose skew-whiff, at an angle. Bone blocking one nostril, so breathing with his mouth closed became difficult after a while.
He waited a few minutes, just kneeling down in the dark, breathing in and out. Wondering why they’d left him there.
‘Hello?’
The voice came from across the room as a whisper, shitting Goldie up big time. He scrabbled back, only being stopped by the solid wall behind him and the pain that resulted from hitting it.
‘Who’s there?’
The voice was a little louder now, more hiss than whisper. Goldie sensed something behind it.
Fear.
He felt the same way.
Goldie stood up, his eyes still adjusting to the pitch black, and began slowly feeling his way forwards. Arms out in front of him, sweeping his legs back and forth.
‘I’m Goldie, mate. Where are you?’
‘Over by my bed.’
Goldie stopped as he heard the reply come from a couple of feet away from him to his left. His eyes were adjusting now, the shape and form of things becoming clearer. He could make out a bed, two in fact, on his left. Mirrored to his right. That was it though. No other furniture.
He could smell piss coming from further away.
‘What’s your name?’ Goldie said, coming to a stop at the bed opposite.
‘Dean. Just got here?’
Goldie nodded, before thinking better of it. ‘Yeah. What’s going on? Why do you keep fuckin’ whispering?’
There