The Dying Place (32 page)

‘It’ll be okay. You were just tired, that’s all. They overwork you when it gets like this. You won’t make a mistake again, I promise.’

Murphy leant back, letting her arms fall away. He made to turn, then decided against it. ‘It’s this sort of thing I’m talking about, Sarah.’

‘What do you mean?’

Murphy screwed his eyes tight, rubbed against his eyelids. ‘This. My job. My career. I’m thinking of too many things. The last time this happened …’

‘Don’t …’

‘I can’t do it. Not now. I can’t be a father. I’m only just hanging on as it is, Sarah.’

He heard her move away. Risked turning around, but did so slowly.

She was turned away from him, her blonde hair almost to the middle of her back now she’d let it grow. Perfectly straight, full of life.

‘I need this, David.
We
need this. We’re never going to move on if we don’t start planning ahead. Everything is day-to-day with us. I need more.’

Murphy crossed the room, placing his hands on her shoulders. ‘That’s not true. Everything’s fine. Why change it, anyway?’

‘It’s not fine,’ Sarah said, pulling away from him as her shout echoed around the kitchen. ‘You came back to me last year, yeah. Great. But it’s like we’re on a cliff. Right at the edge. One gust of wind, and we’re on the rocks again.’

‘I don’t feel that way,’ Murphy said, taking a step forward.

‘Yes, you do. I can see it in you. The way you look at me, the way you are.’

Murphy shook his head, stepping backwards now. ‘I don’t need this right now …’

‘When, then, David?’ Sarah said, turning on him. ‘When the timing is all set for you to make your grand decisions?’

‘How about when there isn’t someone killing a bunch of people in Liverpool?’

Sarah breathed out, not looking at him any more. Staring at the floor, slowly shaking her head, arms wrapped around herself.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said, ‘but I’m just tired, David. Tired of feeling like we’re not moving anywhere. Like you’re scared of doing anything in case things screw up again.’

Murphy moved towards her. ‘It’s not that. It’s not that at all. Look, it’s just that … if I’m going to do something as huge as bring a life into this place, I want to be able to do it right. I want to be there, not out all hours with other people’s kids when things have gone wrong for them. I want a kid that will recognise me. Right now, being a DI, I’m at the front. The boss to those under me, the punchbag for those above.’

Sarah looked up at him, eyes dry. ‘Change things then.’

‘I’m trying,’ Murphy replied, pulling Sarah towards him. ‘First, let me catch the bad guy so we can all sleep well at night.’

Sarah laughed, muffled against his chest. Pulled away. ‘You need to stop watching those American cop shows.’

Murphy laughed back. Hugged her tight, kissed her.

Then left.

Because that was what he did. He always left her.

28

Murphy had just closed the front door when his phone started playing
Money
by Pink Floyd in his pocket.

He regretted ever asking Sarah how he could get one of those song ringtones on the thing. Now he was stuck with probably his least favourite Floyd track. He could ask again, he supposed, but he hated giving her any excuse to take the piss out of his technology failings, or his taste in music.

‘Murphy,’ he said in time with the beeps as the central locking on his car unlocked.

‘It’s me,’ Rossi said, her voice already set on
angry
. ‘Come get me.’

‘Wait a second,’ Murphy said, opening the car door and performing the ‘getting into a tight space when you’re six foot four’ dance. ‘What’s going on, where are you?’

‘I’m still at the Royal.’

Murphy knew Rossi’s feelings on hospitals, so wasn’t exactly surprised by her tone. ‘They’ve cleared you to be released already?’

‘Like I care. I’m fine, just a bit scraped up. Are you on your way?’

‘Hang on, maybe you should …’

‘
Mannaggia …
I’m not sitting around here any more. Come pick me up. I’ll be waiting outside.’

The phone went silent, Murphy still sitting in the driver’s seat with it clamped to his ear, trying to speak to emptiness. Muttering under his breath, he placed the phone in the hands-free set on the dashboard and started the car up.

When in doubt, don’t argue with the angry Scouse-Italian woman. Always a good motto to live by.

Murphy dialled the office and reversed out of the driveway as it rang. A DS answered, putting him through to DCI Stephens as well as any efficient receptionist.

Another cutback. At least this one hadn’t really affected anyone.

‘Stephens.’

‘It’s Murphy …’

The sigh filled the car with static. ‘David, I thought I told you …’

‘Yeah, I got a few hours and feel fine,’ Murphy said, looking left and right, waiting for a break in the traffic. Bloody rush hour. ‘What’s the latest?’

‘Nothing as yet. We’re getting CCTV pulled, but there’s nothing that close to the area. No witnesses as yet. The Super has pulled together every resource we can get. It’s going big.’

‘News?’

‘National.’

Murphy puffed his cheeks and turned onto the main road after spotting a gap. ‘Great. Live?’

‘Just updates now. Local are going big on it. Expect Pete Price to have a particularly angry phone-in show tonight.’

Murphy made a mental note not to tune in. ‘How big is the team?’

‘Me and DCI Carnaby from Sefton are nominal heads, but the Super is taking over main duties. We’ve got four DIs from Sefton coming over, two from Knowsley. A whole bunch of DSs and DCs, and about six million uniforms out there looking for him.’

Murphy shook his head. ‘You know that saying …’

‘Too many chefs spoil the scouse?’

‘Almost.’

‘There’s not much we can do about it. It’s the way of things now. They’re worried we’ve got a Moat, or that bloke in Cumbria. It’s all about armed response now. Bringing them in from all over, from what I can tell. They’re not telling us much.’

That’s what this situation needs, Murphy thought. More guns.

‘I’m on my way in. Be there soon.’

DCI Stephens hung up without another word, Murphy turning on the radio and skipping through the stations. The only station not talking about it seemed to be talkSPORT, which was something, he supposed.

He settled on Radio Merseyside, where the usual football chat at teatime had been replaced with a serious-sounding bloke who was taking calls about the day’s events.

‘I just want to know what they’re doin’ to keep our kids safe, you know? If even the bizzies are gettin’ shot, what will that mean for the rest of us, like?’

‘I understand your concerns, Kim, and I share them. What are the police in Merseyside doing to keep our children safe this evening? We’ll be back with more of your calls, the real voices of Liverpool, right after
Listen
by Beyonce.’

Murphy turned back to talkSPORT.

The Royal Hospital was undergoing massive change, money pumped in to renovate the whole place, turning it into something a private facility would be envious of. Sarah had told Murphy it would all be private soon enough anyway, so it hardly mattered.

Rossi was waiting at the front entrance, as he’d expected. Folded arms and narrowed eyes, jacket pulled tight across herself.

To hide the bloodstains, Murphy guessed.

He pulled up, parking in the taxi point and getting out of the car, leaving it running. He trotted over to Rossi who was steaming towards him, her head down.

‘Get back in the car,’ she shouted across at him. ‘I’m not a bloody invalid.’

Murphy stopped, thought for a second, then opened the passenger side door anyway. Waited for her to give him the evil eye and then get inside, Murphy shutting the door after her.

‘How are you feeling?’ Murphy said, as he got back in the car.

‘Fine. Shouldn’t have even gone to the place. Was expecting them to at least replace some of the blood I lost. Superficial, they reckon. Looks worse than it is.’

Murphy turned to look at her before driving off. She was perhaps paler than usual, her dark Mediterranean complexion a little faded. Scrapes and cuts which had been cleaned up on her face, and a bandage across one hand. The white padding which had been used to dress the wound on her shoulder was poking out the top of her jacket.

‘Do you want to go home?’

‘No,’ Rossi said, pressing the button which let the window down, ‘back to the station. I’ve got a clean shirt there.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good …’

‘Just drive, will you,’ she replied, lighting up a cigarette and blowing smoke out the window. ‘I’m okay, honestly. I’d be the first to try and blag some sick pay. I’m sure the boss needs all the heads she can get.’

Murphy turned to the front, thinking. ‘Okay. But you’re on desk duty for now. If we get a call-out, you’re staying there.’

‘Fine. Let’s just get going. I don’t want to miss anything else. I’m sure you don’t, either.’

Murphy pulled out of the hospital car park, the traffic even busier down there near the city centre. It took a good couple of minutes, and Rossi lighting another cigarette, before he was able to pull onto the main road of Prescot Street. It was only a short drive back to St Anne Street, but the rush-hour traffic added at least fifteen minutes to the journey. The silent journey. Every time Murphy thought to say something, he tried it out in his head first, and it just didn’t sound right.

He spoke when they pulled into the car park behind the station. The number of vehicles there had tripled since he’d left that day, people coming in and out of the building. The media were probably still mostly camped outside the scene at the youth club, but that hadn’t stopped a few turning up at the CID offices, hoping to get someone willing to speak off the record, he guessed.

‘Listen, about earlier. What you told the boss …’

‘Don’t …’

‘No. I have to. You shouldn’t have done that. If something comes up because of it later on down the line, it could screw up things, case-wise. I could have defended the decision, you know that.’

‘“Case-wise”? What do you mean?’

‘If they found out you hadn’t been sent there, well … it gives cause for a defence lawyer to give another angle.
Cop gone rogue
kind of thing.’

‘We haven’t even caught the prick yet, David.’

Murphy turned at the sound of his name.

Rossi never used his name.

He went to speak, but Rossi cut him off.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Rossi said, flicking her cigarette out the window and winding it up. ‘Look, they’re just looking for a reason to get you, you know that. If they hear you endangered a copper’s life … you wouldn’t last long. Brannon for one would never tire of it. You owe me, that’s all.’

‘
Ferrero Rocher
?’ Murphy said, turning to her and smiling.

‘A big box. Now let’s get in. See what the score is.’

Toxteth

Liverpool 8

He waited around the corner in the van he’d driven down there the night before. White, nondescript. Bought for cash, weeks earlier, with bogus details. Some dodgy garage out in Bootle.

Doesn’t matter how hard they tried, you couldn’t keep the dodgy ones out of Liverpool.

He had no doubt he wouldn’t last long with this vehicle, but it would do for the rest of the day, he thought. They had his picture – the radio had told him as much. He checked the news sites online, using the phone he’d have to throw away sooner than the van. There was his face, staring back at him from a four and a half inch screen.

He wasn’t top news story on some of them. Not yet.

He would be tomorrow.

The sound of sirens kept coming and going. It was getting more difficult to see anything of interest, as more and more people turned up for a gawp. He was parked a good distance away, off the main road, facing towards the side street behind the church. There was a pub a little further behind him, rapidly filling up with punters all eager for a gossip. Probably hadn’t seen business like it in years.

He should get some credit for that.

Parasites breeding parasites. The area was full of them. Kids killing kids over supposed gangland arguments that spiralled out of control. Innocents in the crossfire, not considered until it was too late.

Kids. That’s all they were. They might be adult in age, but that was all they were. Kids. Not taught properly.

He so wanted to start here. The cesspit of Norris Green.

Probably shouldn’t have done Kevin Thornhill first. There was no way he could do anything there now. Place was crawling with coppers.

He took his notepad out. Pulled his beanie hat further down to cover his head as another police car squealed past. They’d start on the area soon enough, looking for witnesses. A bloke sat in a van a few hundred yards down the road, staring towards the scene, was likely to get someone’s attention.

He scanned the list and picked the place.

Liverpool 8.

Toxteth.

Home of the riots in ’81. The butt of many a joke in the more affluent suburbs in the city. You didn’t want to end up there – that’s where everyone was on smack or crack, or whatever was the go-to drug of choice for the disenfranchised youth of that decade. Bad life choices, bad parents. That’s where you’d end up if you screwed around as a kid, didn’t make the right decisions. Just a wealth of unemployed scum, with no future to speak of.

That’s what some liked to say.

He knew differently, of course. There were many who weren’t like that in the area. Some had a greater sense of community, rallying around to try and give the place a better rep. It half worked. Still an area of low house prices and racial tension, high unemployment and derelict streets; houses torn down to pave the way for redevelopment that took years to occur.

It’d been a long time since he’d had to drive through the streets, the years in between giving him pause.

Single-mindedness only went so far.

They talk about being on autopilot – doing things without even realising you’re out of control. They would be wrong in his case. He knew every step, every thought that turned into action.