DEAD GONE (20 page)

‘Cheers.’

Murphy replaced the handset. ‘First victim had LSD in her system,’ he said to Laura over the desk.

‘Well, that kind of settles it then. The letters are real.’

Murphy sighed, ran fingers through his beard. ‘Shit.’

‘Indeed.’

Another hour passed. Murphy had been mulling over one name for a few minutes. Trying to place where he’d heard it before. Robert Barker. Worked in admin in the psychology department.

It rang a bell. The man only had a passing reference on the system. An ex-girlfriend had made an allegation but quickly retracted it.

But there was something about the name. He couldn’t quite place it. It was gone. Too many names and faces over the years.

One of the DCs who had been procured for the trawl through the records came over, breathless with tangible excitement.

‘Colin Woodland. History of complaints. Was given a conditional discharge for lewd behaviour. Only one that went to court.’

Rossi found the record and read off the screen. ‘Ten years ago. He was accused of cornering a twenty year old in a nightclub and trying to kiss her. She resisted and he grabbed her arms, pushed her against a wall and proceeded to fondle her.’ She sniggered. ‘Kneed him in the genital area and he went down. Bouncer saw it all and ejected him. Seems like she took it as far as she could. His defence was that he misconstrued the signals.’

‘How long has he worked at the university?’

Rossi reached over for the file which contained the list, flicked through to the end where Woodland was listed. ‘Six years. Wouldn’t have shown up then. A year had passed.’

‘So Mr Woodland has a history of trying to force himself on women, manages to get himself a job where he’s in contact with young women on a daily basis. CRB checks are outstanding aren’t they?’

‘Both of the victims showed no signs of sexual assault though.’

‘Hmm.’ Murphy replied, tapping his pen against his chin. ‘He did hold onto them for a few days though.’

‘I’ll call the university. See if he’s in work today.’

Murphy went back to the computer, looking to see what else they had on file for Colin Woodland.

A few minutes later, Rossi finished her call. ‘He was supposed to be in work at ten this morning. Hasn’t shown up.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Over an hour late.’

‘Spooked by our meeting yesterday, you think? Let’s go pay him a visit then.’

Colin Woodland’s house was a small two-up, two-down, in a cul de sac near Stanley Park. Murphy rapped on the single-paned blue door, the crooked brass numbers on the front rattling as he knocked.

No answer.

Rossi was in the entry which ran behind the houses on the street. Murphy waited a few minutes, and tried knocking a few more times, almost putting his fist through the flimsy excuse for a door. Still nothing. He moved over to the front window, standing in long uncut grass, cupping his hands to get a look into the living room. The blinds were open slightly, revealing a seemingly normal room, no TV left on, things spilled as if he was in a hurry to leave. A coffee table in the middle, four remotes laid out on it.

Normal.

After five minutes, Rossi returned. ‘Not here then.’

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

‘Why would he go now, he was telling us how much he loved his job twenty-four hours ago. It’s not right.’

‘Can’t argue with you.’

Murphy weighed up his options. ‘Okay, we need a list of known relatives. See if we can found out where he might have gone.’

‘Should we stick around, see if he turns up?’

Murphy checked his watch. Almost one in the afternoon. ‘I’ll stay here for now. Check with the neighbours. There’s a butty shop round the corner. I’ll have tuna mayo.’

Rossi rolled her eyes and began walking off.

Murphy looked back at the house. It looked sad, desolate. The drab net curtains at the upper two windows. The rotting windows.

He was giving houses characters now. He shook his head and started knocking on doors.

It all happened so fast.

Colin Woodland was just walking home from work. Late shift at the library again.

Home. Empty house, empty bed. Empty life.

Work wasn’t too bad though. Pretty girls on the first step into adulthood. Some carefree, some stressed out. Youthful and wide-eyed.

Sometimes they even talked to him. Asked for help. He enjoyed that part.

He thought about the detectives who had visited him that day. That was worrying. He worked hard, helped the girls when they needed him, sometimes when they didn’t realise they needed him. He didn’t want that taken away from him.

The campus was quiet, a few students dotted around the place. He plastered a smile on his face in case he bumped into anyone he knew. Keep up appearances.

As he turned onto a side street he began to speed up a bit. He didn’t like this road, its lack of streetlights making him feel claustrophobic.

Maybe he should go into town, see if anyone he’d been helping recently was out in the clubs or bars. Try to steal a kiss or two. They always liked that. Confidence.

He stepped past a short alleyway, pulling his collar tighter as a sharp wind bit at his bare neck.

Movement came from his left, a sudden change in the atmosphere surrounding him. He found himself on one knee, a ringing in his ears. He looked around, confused. The world span, the buildings folding in on themselves.

He was more aware of the second blow. Coming from a figure standing directly in front of him. Then, an arm curled around his neck.

It all happened so fast.

He waited for his wallet to be taken from his back pocket. His bag to be lifted off his shoulder. Thoughts crashing against each other as he struggled to stay lucid.

It was a mugging, of course it was.

His vision grew dark, as it became harder and harder to breathe.

He came around in stages. Blinking away the headache which was pounding in his temples.

He couldn’t move. Something was binding his body to a hard surface. He felt as if he was floating in mid-air.

He tried to call out, but his mouth wouldn’t open.

He remembered the feeling of passing out, and was expecting to wake up with his face in a puddle, minus the eight pounds and thirty pence he’d been carrying.

Not this. He hadn’t expected this.

He was in a room of some sort. Tried to look around, but his body wouldn’t respond. All he could do was stare upwards, at mottled brickwork.

And then the man appeared over him. He had to listen, unable to move his head away.

‘Do you understand what you are a part of here? Selfish, that’s what you are. You’re important, probably for the first time in your life. And all you can do is cry and moan about it.’

Was he crying? He couldn’t reach up and touch his face to check. Could he feel his face growing wet?

He sniffed, the smell of damp and bleach assailing him. He tried to speak, but his lips wouldn’t move. He looked down as much as he could, seeing something plastic across the bottom of his face.

‘Pathetic. What happens here tonight will be remembered forever. Your name will live well beyond our lifetimes. You’re worthless to me. A means to an end. A body. Pliable. Useable. That’s all you are.’

His face was wet. He could definitely feel it now. There were other places he thought he may be wet too.

‘So if you want to waste time crying, pissing yourself, fine, do it. But don’t expect my sympathy. I’m giving you infamy, and you’re throwing it back in my face.

‘You should be begging me to do this. To make you famous throughout the country. Isn’t that what everyone wants these days, their fifteen minutes of fame? I’m giving you so much more.

‘And it could be so much worse for you. This will be relatively quick compared to what’s happening in the other room. Can you hear her singing? She’s a special project.

‘Aren’t you feeling blessed?

‘You should be on your knees thanking me for finding you, including you in this. You’re barely worthy of being here. Stop crying. It annoys me.

‘We’re almost ready. Anything you’d like to say before we start?’

Colin attempted a pleading look, his screams kept silent behind his closed mouth. And all he could hear was Katy fucking Perry being sung at full volume and out of tune, and the breathing of a madman above him. The smells of bleach, of the washed away fluids which they masked, of dampness, darkness, crowding around him. The walls closing in, a droplet of sweat dripping down onto his nose from the man above.

‘She’s loud isn’t she? Trying to get my attention, of course. Don’t worry though, soon it won’t matter to you.’

He removed the knife, ran his gloved index finger across the blade to the point.

His aim was off with the first thrust down into his chest. Missed the heart. Screams from behind the gag. He needed to get it right.

He tried again. Blood seeping through from the first wound he’d made, joined now by that from the second.

‘Too high.’

He tried again. And again.

‘At this rate I’ll be able to see your heart anyway,’ he said, laughing.

He kept going. Decided he wanted to see it.

Cut away the skin surrounding his left nipple. Kept digging around the area now surrounded by holes where his knife had entered. He used the blade as a saw, hacking away at the muscle, determined to find it.

‘There it is.’

Inside the chest cavity he had created, much smaller than he had imagined. The heart, still beating, although slow and filling with blood.

The man on the table wasn’t screaming any longer. Shock had taken over and he was on his way.

He watched. The beating slowed.

He raised the knife, then, drove it straight through the middle of the pulsating heart.

Later, the man who had taken Colin Woodland sat down at his computer. Found the best route to where he needed to go, and planned it all out.

It was a risk. But he was willing to take it.

This was his one. His idea come to life and death.

Experiment Five.

Gone.

PC Hale grappled with the shaven-headed lad, simultaneously attempting to extricate his handcuffs. His heart was still threatening to burst out of his chest, his hands shaking as he got the cuffs on, quickly looking to his right to check his partner was doing the same to the girl.

‘I didn’t do nothin’, honest, officer. I was just walking past with me bird, and thought he looked a bit dodgy, that’s all. Hey, Shell, tell ’em will ya.’

‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder …’

‘Murder! We called you. Why would we call the bizzies if we’d done him in?’

The accent grated on PC Hale. He hated working in the city, but it was the only force taking on new recruits in the area so he had to put up with it. He continued with the caution, struggling to keep the tracksuit-wearing scally under control.

A police van arrived, navigating its way onto the paving stones which were usually only used for pedestrians and taxis picking up late-night drinkers from the dock’s new trendy bars. PC Hale let out a breath as the lad sank to the floor.

‘We’ll sort it all out at the station, mate.’

‘I’m not your fuckin’ mate,’ the lad replied. PC Hale wiped away a globule of saliva which had flown out of the lad’s mouth.

His hand reached for his baton, anger bubbling up inside him, before he stopped himself.

It was getting harder for him to stop.

Murphy exited the car, taking in the smell of the river front. He looked out over the water, seeing the Wirral in the distance. The ferry was on its way back, coming into dock on the Liverpool side. He imagined he could hear the song which was always played on board.
Ferry Cross The Mersey.

One for the tourists.

The Pump House was behind him, the old building looming over the scene.

He approached the huddle of uniforms, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together. He zipped up his coat as he reached them. ‘How long has he been there?’

Murphy looked around waiting for an answer.

‘We arrested a lad on the scene. He said he noticed him at two-thirty p.m. but he doesn’t seem all that reliable, sir.’

Murphy turned to face the PC speaking. ‘Where is he now, PC …?’

‘Hale, sir. He’s in the van over there.’ Hale replied, gesturing towards a marked van near the crime scene tape.

‘He’s a witness. Make sure nothing happens to him. Keep him happy.’

PC Hale looked as if he was about to disagree with Murphy, but thought better of it and instead nodded his head.

‘Where’s SOCO?’

Rossi appeared, putting her phone away. ‘Just chased them up. They’re on their way. You think he’s been here long?’

Colin Woodland was laid out in the now-familiar way. Lying on the ground next to an old anchor, now a photo opportunity rather than a ship’s tool. Murphy snapped on gloves. ‘He’s stiff. Reckon he’s been laid out here at least all morning. How many people do you think walk down the Albert Dock on a Thursday morning, Laura?’

‘Hundreds,’ Rossi replied, looking around. ‘At least. Always busy down here.’

‘First two have both been dumped at night. Any reason we should think this one would be any different?’

Rossi shook her head in reply. ‘Too many people here earlier in the night. Bars don’t shut until two. Then it’s busy in the mornings.’

‘Exactly. Which means it will have been late at night, around three or four in the morning.’

Murphy peeled back the jacket covering the victim, the shirt underneath falling away with it, exposing his chest. ‘Fucking hell.’

Rossi peered over his shoulder as he turned away. ‘What is that?’

‘His heart, Laura. That would be his heart.’

Murphy looked away, his wrist covering his mouth as he bit on the urge to vomit. Looked across towards the river, the scenery of the docks paling into insignificance when you were feet away from death. The Liver Building in the distance, one of the birds looking down on them disapprovingly, the other turning its head in dismay.

‘You think he’s been here for over ten hours?’ Rossi said, her eyes not returning to the body.