by Luca Veste
‘Sit.’
Murphy and Rossi followed orders and sat on the chairs placed to one side of the organised desk, waiting for DCI Stephens to amble back to her chair and drop into it with a sigh and a shake of her head.
‘This is . . . well, it’s not the usual thing I would call you in for.’
Murphy glanced at Rossi, ready to raise an eyebrow, but she was focussed on the boss.
‘I have a missing persons report. Normally, it would be dealt with by uniform, as you know, but this is different.’
Rossi glanced at Murphy and his raised eyebrow.
‘This is a bit more delicate,’ DCI Stephens continued. ‘It’s a . . . well, it concerns someone we all know.’
‘Celebrity?’ Murphy said, having flashbacks to a case the previous year which had turned to awfulness within a few hours.
‘Not as such,’ DCI Stephens said, looking away and moving the notepad on her desk slightly. ‘An important person, shall we say. Someone who will be missed.’
‘Are we allowed to know his name?’ Murphy said.
‘It’s Sam Byrne.’
Rossi said something in Italian under her breath before Murphy had chance to answer. DCI Stephens spoke for him anyway.
‘Yes . . . that Sam Byrne.’
Two
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds as they waited for DCI Stephens to speak. Eventually, Murphy grew tired of the performance. ‘That young bloke who’s up for MP?’ he said, sitting back in his seat a little. ‘Surprised it hasn’t been in the Echo already. How long’s he been missing?’
DCI Stephens turned her gaze back to them and almost rolled her eyes. ‘It’s being kept quiet for now. We don’t want to have it come out if he’s just taking a break or something. He’s been gone for a few days at least. Last seen Thursday evening, leaving his campaign office.’
Murphy glanced at Rossi who was keeping her counsel. ‘This is the fourth day then. How do we come into it?’
‘I . . . sorry, we need someone to look into his disappearance. I’ve been asked by the higher-ups to put our best on it. Which means his parents have been exerting their influence. They want to see if we can find him before it becomes a story.’
Murphy couldn’t help but preen a little. It had been a while since he’d been categorised as the best at something. ‘What are the details? Who called?’
DCI Stephens brought the notepad on her desk closer. ‘Someone in his office. Assistant or something. Got into his car and vanished. No one has seen him, or the car, since. I imagine Byrne’s parents had already been onto their friends here, though, once she’d been in touch with them over the weekend. He didn’t turn up to the office on Friday, didn’t answer his phone that day or any other.’
‘He doesn’t have any significant other concerned?’ Rossi said, speaking aloud for the first time. ‘A girlfriend or boyfriend?’
‘He’s single, which makes things a little more difficult.’
‘So we don’t know if he has a girlfriend, or a partner we don’t know about, et cetera et cetera,’ Murphy said, finishing the sentence.
‘Exactly. I tried that one with DSI Butler, but he wasn’t having any of it.’
Murphy ran a hand over his beard – closely shorn, but dark enough to be noticeable. For now, anyway. He was finding more grey hairs by the day. ‘Comes from him then.’
DCI Stephens ignored his hard tone. ‘I just need you to look into it, see if there’s a simple explanation and then move on. That’s all. Nothing major, no big task force or anything like that for now. We want this kept in house.’
‘OK, we can do that,’ Murphy said, glancing at Rossi for support. She turned away from him slowly, eyebrows raising and dropping back to normal in the time it took to face the boss again.
‘Probably a partner we don’t know about. A weekend away has turned into something longer than intended? Have uniforms been to his address, his phone checked, that kind of thing?’
DCI Stephens gave Murphy a dismissive wave. ‘You can find all that out yourself. I’m sure they’ve at least knocked on his door. Just get over to his house and confirm he’s not bloody dead or something, then we can knock all this on the head and be done with it. Although I’m sure his mum and dad have already been inside.’
Murphy lifted himself out of the chair and gave a mock salute to DCI Stephens. ‘You got it, boss.’
‘Don’t be that guy, David.’
Murphy waited for Rossi as they exited the office, making their way back to their desks together in silence. A few heads turned expectantly, but Murphy ignored them. He sat down at his desk and waited for his computer to load up again.
‘Seems like scut work to me,’ Rossi said from opposite him. ‘Thought we’d left that behind when we reorganised.’
‘Friends in high places,’ Murphy replied, opening the short file on Sam Byrne’s disappearance that DCI Stephens had already emailed across. He printed it off. ‘We need to get some of those.’
‘Hardly a major crime, is it? Which is what we’re supposed to deal with.’
‘Were you prepared to put your foot down and say no?’
Murphy stood and waited to see if Rossi was going to reply. He collected the file pages from the printer when it became clear she wasn’t going to answer.
‘Nothing much here,’ Murphy said as Rossi made her way around to his side of the desks. ‘Uniforms visited his address but got no answer. Nothing out of place. No signs of forced entry or anything to indicate foul play.’
‘Means nothing . . .’
‘Of course not,’ Murphy said, continuing to read through the few paragraphs of information. ‘There’s bugger all here. We’re at square one with this thing.’
‘We’re best getting started then.’
‘Call those uniforms, get them to meet us at the house.’
Fifteen minutes later they were pulling out of the station car park and onto St Anne Street. Murphy shifted the pool car into gear and drove steadily away from the city centre, the area changing as he did so.
‘There’s a distinct lack of effort around here,’ Rossi said, fiddling with the satnav on the dashboard before giving up with it and pulling out her phone. ‘I know I say it every time, but they could be doing so much with this place. They can throw up a building in the city centre in a few months but everything else takes bloody ages to do around here.’
Murphy hummed a response. It was difficult to disagree with Rossi’s sentiments.
‘All those new buildings and regeneration projects going on down at the waterfront and they can’t find a bit of money to throw at Scottie Road.’
Scotland Road was the name for an A road which ran from the city centre towards the north of Liverpool and the towns there. What had once been a tight-knit community of people, was now a place of closed-down pubs, old churches, run-down shops, and more speed cameras than Murphy could remember seeing on any other road in the city. There were signs of change, but they were few and far between. ‘Everything just seems like it’s waiting to be knocked down and forgotten about. Where’s this place again?’
Rossi moved a leaf of paper to the top of the folder she was holding on her lap.
‘Blundellsands. House is on Warren Road. Won’t be a bad place around there. Can’t imagine he paid for it himself. He’s what, twenty-six, twenty-seven?’
‘Always nice to have rich parents. A world away from this type of place,’ Murphy said, leaving behind the rundown area of Scotland Road and turning onto Derby Road.
The drive was only twenty minutes, but the monotony of the dual carriageway with its endless stream of traffic travelling to and from the north of the city made it feel much longer. The sun above them kept threatening to make an appearance through large clouds of white, but Murphy’s sunglasses stayed in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
Soon the built-up areas of the city centre and neighbouring towns of Bootle and Waterloo were a memory as they entered the leafy streets of Blundellsands.
‘Any ideas whereabouts this place is?’ Murphy said, slowing down as they turned onto Warren Road. He attempted to peer through the trees that obscured the houses beyond.
‘Yeah,’ Rossi replied, mirroring Murphy and squinting through the foliage. ‘That was number twelve so only a few more up.’
Ten minutes and three wrong houses later, they found the correct address and parked up. The house was set back from the road and looked quite diminutive at first glance, but Murphy realised its appearance was deceptive, as the side came into view. A larger structure was attached to the front facade, almost as if it had once been a small cottage house or bungalow, before being extended into a larger dwelling.
It had been built of white stone, with traditional diamond-patterned leaded lights giving it a much older appearance. The house looked well-maintained and hanging flower baskets adorned either side of the front door.
A marked police car was parked near the entrance, looking almost abandoned, a lone officer sitting in the passenger seat. The driver appeared in the doorway as they approached.
‘We got the keys from the parents,’ the uniform said as Murphy and Rossi reached him. ‘There’s nothing different from the other day. No signs of struggle or forced entry.’
‘Anything look disturbed at all?’ Rossi said, shielding her eyes from the sun as it finally made an appearance.
‘No. Just a normal house really. Bit bare, if you ask me. Think he’s the only one living here and there’s a fair bit of house to fill.’
Murphy took a step closer, ducking underneath a hanging basket. ‘Have you been wearing gloves?’
The uniform hesitated before speaking. ‘I didn’t think–’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Murphy cut in, shaking his head. ‘Go and sit in the car with your mate until I ask you to move.’
‘No need to be like that. We weren’t told–’
‘I’m not interested,’ Murphy said, taking gloves out of his pocket and snapping them on. ‘Just be a good boy and do as you’re told.’
The uniform walked away, muttering under his breath. Murphy took his place in the doorway and waited for Rossi to finish putting on her own pair of gloves.
‘Any need?’ Rossi said, rolling her eyes at him. ‘Bloke obviously doesn’t think there’s anything going on here that requires us to be forensically aware.’
‘I’ll apologise to him at some point. If I remember. Always good to make friends.’
Murphy took the lead, entering the hallway of the house, the brightness of the outside not permeating within. He almost had to squint to see his way forwards, the lack of light giving a dingy tinge to the place.
‘You take the rooms down here, Laura,’ Murphy said, pointing towards the various doors, both open and closed, that ran off the hallway. ‘I’ll be upstairs.’
Rossi nodded and walked through into what Murphy assumed was the living room, he turned and ascended the stairs. A couple of framed prints were displayed on the wall: a vase of badly painted flowers and a country view, the trees of varying sizes and types. He made his way onto the landing and chose a door at random, finding an almost empty room which gave up nothing of interest. The next one was no better – a couple of bookshelves, sparsely filled. There were two more doors. Ignoring the bathroom, Murphy decided on the last bedroom.
A king-sized bed took up space on one side of the room, built-in wardrobes on the other. The curtains were open across the large window, the weak sunshine revealing only dancing dust motes. The room felt abandoned, as though it hadn’t been used for a while. It was as sparsely decorated as the other rooms, with only a few more pieces of furniture. He checked the drawers in the bedside cabinets, coming away with nothing much of interest. There were some framed photographs of Byrne as a teenager with various people. One photo pictured him with an older couple, who Murphy recognised as his parents – the well-known ex-MP and wife. A small selection of books of different genres lined a shelf. He checked the wardrobes and found a few suits on hangers, various items of clothing. There was nothing hiding in a shoebox, or anything as easy as that.
He took another look around the room, seeing if there was anything he had missed, and shook his head. He left the room and met Rossi in the kitchen.
‘Anything?’ Murphy said. ‘Shite all upstairs.’
‘Nothing down here either. Few bills, an empty diary and some films. An iPod dock, but no iPod. Outside is nice, though. Big, empty garden. Grass has been cut recently. Probably got a gardener for that.’
Murphy took a look around the kitchen, opening a few cupboards and a couple of drawers, before standing back. He looked across at Rossi and folded his arms.
‘Does this feel weird to you?’
Rossi smirked a little. ‘What? Walking into people’s houses and going through their stuff? Not really . . .’
Murphy smiled back. ‘Not that. It’s just . . . there’s something not right here. You would expect it to be like a bachelor pad. You know, messy and unkempt. It’s almost like–’
‘No one lives here.’
‘That’s it,’ Murphy said, uncrossing his arms and leaving the kitchen. ‘Just look at the place. It’s like no one has been here for months, never mind days. It feels empty.’
Rossi had followed him into the dining room and now followed him into the living room. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I don’t know.’
Which worried him.
Three
Murphy made his way outside, snapping off his gloves in the process and stuffing them back in his pockets. The marked car was still parked up outside, the uniform who he had encountered on their arrival now leaning against the door on the driver’s side with his back to them. Smoke was drifting from beside him, circling the officer’s head and then dissipating as it reached higher. The uniform turned his head as Murphy’s size thirteen shoes smacked against the concrete path as he made his way towards the car.
‘Anything?’
Rossi spoke before Murphy had chance. ‘Do you know if he had any other residences than this one?’
The uniform came around the car, the smoke not following as he flicked the cigarette away. ‘Robertson has been checking into all that while we’ve been here,’ he said, nodding towards the passenger seat. ‘She can tell you.’
Murphy gritted his teeth and made a beckoning motion to the other side of the car, a face within turning towards the sound of her name. He waited for her to exit and stopped gritting as he saw her roll her eyes at Uniform Dickhead. ‘What do you need?’
‘Brief history. Family, friends, other residences, that sort of thing.’
‘Don’t have everything yet, but can get it to you. We know about the parents, but no girlfriend or partner we can find. He seems to have this politics thing going on, but nothing else work wise. His campaign office is in Waterloo. Don’t have any info on other residences at the moment, but I’ve been in there. He must have somewhere else.’
Murphy nodded, glancing at Rossi for a second and then back to the female PC. ‘Good work. There’s a DC Harris back at Major Crime. Can you get in contact with him and tell him what you know. He’ll help you with everything else.’
He heard a mutter from the other side of the car, but bit his lip. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Robertson, sir,’ she replied. ‘Andrea Robertson.’
Murphy nodded again and then turned for his car. Rossi spoke to the uniforms for a little longer, and caught up with him at the car.
‘She’s cool,’ Rossi said, putting her seat belt on and tucking hair behind an ear. ‘I like her already. Think she’s been around a few scenes now. Him on the other hand . . .’
‘A dickhead. Hope we see much less of him.’
‘Where to then?’
Murphy shifted the car into gear and pulled back out onto the main road. The sun had disappeared once more, the greyness back outside. ‘His office? Can’t think of anywhere else we can go. It’s starting to feel like a moonlight flit.’
> ‘Same here,’ Rossi replied, fiddling with the passenger seat as they made their way out of Blundellsands and back towards the A road. ‘That house was weird. Why have a nice place and then live like that? It was a box. Nothing personal at all. No evidence of parties or anything. I know if I was in my twenties with a house like that, it would be full every weekend.’
Murphy indicated and waited for a car to pass before turning. ‘Only thing I can think is that it’s something like an investment. Waiting to rent it out or something as boring as that. Otherwise, it’s just a bit sad.’
‘Seems a bit pointless. Can’t be cheap to buy up here. Unless his parents own it and they’re just letting him stay there. Makes him feel like he’s obligated not to mess it up.’
Murphy murmured an acknowledgement and continued driving. The green and red-brick look of suburbia, soon turned back to the grey and brown of industrialisation.
‘What if this is the start?’ Rossi said, disturbing Murphy’s boredom. ‘You know . . . what if there’s something more going on?’
‘It always starts with a body,’ Murphy replied, waiting for traffic to pass across a roundabout before driving on. ‘You know that.’
‘Not always.’
Murphy didn’t reply, checking the satnav on the dashboard to make sure he was close.
‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation,’ Rossi said, leaning back in the passenger seat a little more.
‘Who are you trying to convince, me or yourself?’
Rossi made a noise in the back of her throat.
A few minutes of finding somewhere to park, a reverse parking job which only took three tries and a strong word with a passing cyclist later, they were standing outside Sam Byrne’s office. The converted shop, thick blinds covering the windows, didn’t seem befitting of the man Murphy had glimpsed in local papers and on TV – all tailored suits and trendy haircut
‘Looks closed.’
‘They always do, these places. Not usually the political party of choice for people in this city,’ said Murphy, noticing the blue and white flyers stuck to the window.