DEAD GONE (15 page)

‘I don’t know. The bloke has a record as a teenager, few scraps here and there. There’s that complaint that was made against him by the ex, but that could be something or nothing. Maybe it’s as her mum has said, she just disappears every now and again. There’s something not right about the whole thing though.’

‘Maybe. What now then?’

‘I’ve been on all night and I was only doing this as favour because the mum knows the boss. I need to get home and have a kip. Going for a meal later with Sarah and the parents.’

‘Anywhere nice?’

‘No idea. Knowing them, it’ll be the Italian in town. They love that place.’

Murphy turned the ignition and drove off. Allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. He and Sarah were happy, already discussing the right time to start trying for a baby. His parents had accepted her, even knowing her past. Even work was going well for once.

Maybe he should book a surprise weekend away for them both. They could even use it as an excuse. If not start trying, at least get a bit of practice in.

Only a few weeks away from his world collapsing in on itself.

It had been too long.

She’d been convinced he was going to try something. Violate her more than he already had. But there’d been nothing.

She’d gone back to looking for a way out. A crack, a loose bit of wall, or a defect in the door she could exploit. She’d done it many times, and knew what she’d find, but she tried all the same. She spent so much time trying to force her way out of the solid door. Open the hatch from the inside so she could crawl out.

It was amounting to nothing. A perfect seal around her, keeping her locked away down there for days already.

Days. Weeks maybe. She didn’t know. Time was a stranger in the room. Sleep came in bursts, the boredom taking over and sleep breaking it up.

The only interruption came when the hatch clattered down and food dropped through.

‘What do you want from me?’

She’d said the words over and over, desperately hoping for a reply, a sign, anything that would suggest something was going to happen. Sometimes quietly, sometimes screaming it so loud, it began to hurt her throat. Then, she’d drink the water from the tap over the sink, the metallic taste making her gag at first, before the need to quench her thirst overtook it.

The room was beginning to smell of sweat and fear. Or how she thought fear would smell. It seeped into her pores, up through her nose, in through her mouth. She attempted to clean herself over the sink, but it wasn’t helping.

She waited for the hatch to move. It happened after what seemed like hours, but could very well have been minutes for all she knew.

A glint of light appearing, and then seconds later being snuffed out.

A face. Featureless, imaginary. Looking in at her. She could hear his short breaths quiet in the darkness which had followed.

She counted.

One one thousand, two two thousand, three three thousand, four four thousand, five five thousand, si …

The hatch closed.

Five and a half seconds.

That’s what separated her from the outside.

The dim face in the darkness and all that represented. Her mind worked overtime trying to place it, her memory of it fading within seconds. There was just nothing to hang onto, no prominent features she could place, compare to anything else.

Footsteps walking away, echoing back up the stairs, coming to a sudden stop. She imagined him turning, coming back and opening the door properly.

Her heart was racing. He could come in there and do whatever he liked to her. She barely had the strength to walk the length of the room, never mind fight him off.

She was helpless.

The footsteps began again. She strained her ears to work out in which direction they were heading. Realised she was holding her breath after ten seconds or so.

She waited for what she thought would be enough time and then moved.

She felt around the hatch again, knocking the food out the way as she reached the door. Where the hatch was built into the door, it felt different. Smoother than the heavy material surrounding it. She tapped her knuckles against it, a metallic clanging emanating from within. She felt around the ridges.

It was big enough. She’d have to be quick. And there was no telling what he’d do to her if she got it all wrong.

But she had to try.

Her stomach growled, the feeling of hunger she’d been experiencing on and off washing over her once more. She hadn’t eaten a morsel in all the time she’d been down there. It was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. The lack of energy, the weight slowly falling away from her.

‘How long have I been here? Let me out now.’

Her throat was hoarse, but still she screamed. She got no answer. The man hadn’t spoken to her in a while.

She had to eat.

She tore off the wrapping, biting into half of the sandwich. She almost choked on the first swallow, her mouth dry and cracked. She spread her other hand across the floor, finding the bottle of water, and unscrewed the cap, not caring it wasn’t sealed properly. She took a large swig, noting the metallic taste she’d experienced from the tap water wasn’t there. She went back to the sandwich. She finished the first half quickly, moving onto the second half once she’d finished. It tasted like tuna mayo, with watery cucumber as garnish.

She finished eating and drained the rest of the bottle of water. Her stomach seemed to balloon as if it was going to explode, sharp pains hitting her like she was being repeatedly stabbed in the stomach.

She sat back against the wall, head between her knees, breathing deeply to try to stave off the sickness she was feeling. She swallowed several times to fight down the overwhelming urge to purge the food which had entered her body.

She needed to keep as much in her as possible.

She’d need her strength if she was going to attempt an escape.

He watched her on a small monitor as she ate. Looked at the clock on the wall, and marked the time.

Just over seventy-five hours it had taken for her to relent to her hunger. To give up that scrap of control.

He had to monitor this one carefully. Experiment two. Note everything down. Study her actions, her progress.

It was important.

There was a long way to go.

Another student. Just like the first victim.

Stephanie Dunning. Twenty-seven years old. She’d gone back to further education the previous year, performing well in her access course, and landing a spot on a degree course at the university.

Now she was dead, lying in a morgue only a few hundred yards down the road in the Royal hospital.

Murphy sat across from her husband at their dining room table. Open plan room, St Francis Xavier’s Church looming over the small house opposite. Only a few minutes’ drive from the station, just up the road near Browside Gardens. Two young children, both boys, sat in the living room in front of the TV.
Spongebob
was their distraction as Rossi took the photograph back from Nathan Dunning. He’d confirmed it within seconds. He knew his wife’s features, even when they’d been so damaged. Murphy watched him closely as he’d shown him the picture, looking for some kind of reaction. His face had betrayed nothing, only his eyebrows shifting north indicated he’d even been surprised. Now, he looked between his two children, and the two detectives who had brought death to his house.

‘Can I see her?’

Murphy looked to Rossi, raised an eyebrow. Suspicion was rising by the second. He’d given out bad news plenty of times, so recognised the subtle differences. There was no shock here. Not yet. Maybe he needed to see her body first, Murphy had seen that before also. Nothing was real until it was in front of them. Stark and unambiguous. Still, he made a mental note of his reaction in case other things didn’t add up.

Rossi spoke up, ‘Yes. Do you have someone who could come around and watch the children?’

He nodded and went through to the kitchen to use his phone.

‘She’d been gone four days,’ Murphy whispered as soon as he’d left. ‘He keeps them somewhere.’

‘We’re looking at a double then?’

Murphy nodded. ‘Both students at the same university. Both left with letters attached to them, talking about psychology. You know where this is leading.’

‘The university,’ Rossi replied, her attention moving from Murphy to the living room. He followed her eyes.

He didn’t want to be around when they were told.

‘Do the press thing and then go there?’ Rossi said, closing the car door.

Murphy fastened his seatbelt. ‘Sounds like a plan.’

‘Maybe I should try the psychology department at the university. The experiments so far have had a psychological basis to them, probably best to go to the source, don’t you think?’

‘Yeah. Good idea,’ Murphy replied. ‘What subject did that Will study?’

Rossi paused then answered. ‘Music.’

‘Hmm. Still think there’s something with that lad. I know we’ve been sidetracked, but sort out a meeting with the girlfriend.’

‘Okay.’

Within minutes they were back at the station, pulling into the car park. Rossi turned the engine off and looked to Murphy. ‘Is everything okay?’

Murphy reached across to take his seatbelt off. ‘I’m sound. I wish people would stop asking me if I’m okay, but other than that, I’m good.’

‘Just concerned, that’s all. You look a bit tired?’

Murphy gave Rossi a stare. ‘Let’s get upstairs, yeah. If I need anything I’ll ask. Okay?’

‘Fine,’ Rossi replied, getting out of the car. Murphy sat for a second or two, then followed.

Fine. She’d said fine. Murphy knew what it meant when a woman said fine. Never anything good. He sighed, catching up to her quickly.

‘Laura. Listen, you don’t need to worry, okay. I’m in the right frame of mind for this. If I wasn’t, I’d have Brannon instead of you working with me. Then we’d know I’d lost it.’ He tried a smile.

Rossi returned it, looking reassured.

‘Okay, sir. We’ve got an hour before the press conference. I’m going to ring the university whilst you get ready, okay?’

Murphy wondered if he had enough time to get changed before he made an appearance in front of the cameras. Silently prayed that nothing would go wrong.

‘If anyone has any information, we urge them to speak. Tell someone what you know. It’s our daughter today, but it may be yours tomorrow if you don’t say anything.’

Murphy was impressed by the performance of Donna McMahon’s parents in the face of the media. There was hope that their impassioned pleas would help with the investigation, but Murphy was pessimistic. They didn’t have much to go on. She’d been missing days before she was found. He was also uncomfortable under the glare of the lights, wishing he was anywhere other than behind a long desk on a platform, staring down the lens of far too many cameras.

DCI Stephens spoke for a few minutes, before Murphy had to give them information on how the investigation was going.

‘Coordinated searches were undertaken at the scene and the vicinity. We ask that anyone who may have seen a car or small van in the Aigburth Drive area of Sefton Park between the hours of two and five a.m. on Saturday morning, to please call the helpline.’ Thank you the hoarder who witnessed a vehicle in the early hours of the morning. Thank you indeed, Mr Reeves. That’ll result in around four thousand calls, none of any use probably.

Murphy had been surprised when he stepped on the platform earlier. The news of Donna McMahon’s death had gone national, with Sky News, BBC and ITV reporters dotted about. A few broadsheet journalists and the usual tabloid crew. Her background played no small part in bringing it to the fore. Middle-class, good upbringing, well spoken and well presented. Murphy wondered if the other victim would be similarly scrutinised, but doubted it. A mature student, with kids at home. He could already see the
Daily Mail
headline being written.

‘Detective Inspector, do we have a serial killer in the city?’

‘Should students in particular be worried?’

‘Have you arrested anyone yet?’

‘Will you be interviewing all the lecturers at the university?’

Murphy patted away the questions, long answers which essentially made the same point over and over as a subtext.

We don’t know yet
.

He spotted a reporter he knew from one of the local papers. A rotund man, with thick dark glasses. Murphy had had run-ins with him before. And from the look on his red sweaty face, he was about to have another.

‘Detective Inspector Murphy. Russell Graves from the
Liverpool News
. Do you think you’re the best man to be heading up this investigation?’

Murphy was about to answer when DCI Stephens interrupted.

‘DI Murphy has the full confidence of this force to investigate this murder.’

The large reporter pushed his large round glasses back up his greasy nose. Murphy attempted to gain eye contact with him, but he was busy looking at the notes he was holding. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his own forehead.

‘With what happened in his recent past, don’t you think a high-profile case such as this should be dealt with by someone other than him?’

‘My past has no bearing on this case,’ Murphy said, affecting confidence. ‘My focus is only on giving Mr and Mrs McMahon justice for their daughter’s murder.’

‘Come on, Detective Murphy,’ the journalist cut in. ‘Are you trying to tell us you’re the best person to be dealing with a potential serial killer in our city, someone who can’t even keep his own family safe?’

Murphy shot up off his seat. ‘Listen, nobhead, I’ve worked more cases than you’ve got stories correct in your shitty newspaper. Now unless you’ve got something worth answering to ask, will you kindly shut the fuck up.’ The noise level increased in the room as Murphy’s outburst was digested. He shook his head, knowing he’d made a mistake. Above the din, Murphy heard Graves ask the same question over and over.

‘How does the Phillips family feel about Detective Murphy taking this case?’