Then She Was Gone

by Luca Veste

  ‘It’s never as bad as that.’

  Rossi tapped her fingers against the dashboard as she leaned forwards. ‘Think about it. I’ve heard coppers themselves say they don’t want to go to Liverpool One or the Trafford Centre because they’re worried about being killed in a terrorist attack. We have domestics every damn day, which seem to be becoming more violent every time. People are starting to treat life like it’s a bloody video game.’

  ‘It’s never as bad as you think,’ Murphy said, grin now disappeared. It was a conversation he’d had with Sarah on occasion. Especially now. What kind of world were they living in? ‘There’s always bad in the world. That’s just the way of things. Before these bad guys, we had other bad guys. We just know about every move this lot make, because they want us to know. We know every damn thing these days. I’m not even forty and I remember a time when I didn’t know everything a shitty group halfway round the world was doing. It keeps them going, knowing we’re afraid.’

  ‘We shouldn’t fear?’

  ‘Of course we should,’ Murphy said, trying to look past Rossi as they pulled up to a junction. ‘But we can’t let it control us. We’re scared of the wrong things, that’s all. We should be scared about how we’re going to fill the time we have on this planet. Not what could end it.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ Rossi replied, moving back against her seat finally and allowing Murphy to see out of the passenger-side window. ‘It’s still frightening.’

  ‘I don’t think we’re in the best position to judge how violent society is anyway. We see too much of the bad to be non-biased. It’s like some coppers – uniforms usually – who think everything they see on shift is the truth about society. They think there’s a bunch of scroungers and benefit cheats out there, because that’s all they deal with day to day. They think all the residents from certain estates are lost causes, and that Katie Hopkins is the voice of bleeding reason.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ Rossi said, but even Murphy could tell she wasn’t in total opposition to what he was saying. ‘And it’s not like CID is much better.’

  ‘True. We’re all human. Some of us can’t think much for ourselves, that’s all. We’re all led by our own prejudices.’

  ‘Confirmation bias.’

  Murphy turned to look at Rossi, a question mark on his face. ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘It’s a psychology thing. You need to learn this stuff now Sarah is studying it. Basically, we all look for things that confirm our own preconceptions. So, you have someone who has grown up believing a certain group is a certain thing, usually by being taught that information from a parent or similar. They become a copper, spend every night breaking up fights and taking down burglary reports. That all feeds into that bias. Like people who think all students are lazy, or all Muslims are terrorists. Doesn’t matter if you come along and show them it’s a small minority doing those things, it’s already in their head that a certain group of people who are all the same.’

  ‘How the hell did we get here?’

  Rossi peered through the windscreen. ‘It’s the right way, what are you talking about?’

  ‘I don’t mean on this road,’ Murphy said with a laugh. ‘I meant onto this subject. It’s a bit heavy after the day we’ve had.’

  ‘I have no idea. Nice to know you have a soapbox though. Big improvement from the dour one-note guy you were when we first started working together.’

  ‘Careful, Laura,’ Murphy said, giving Rossi the side-eye. ‘I’m still the boss round here.’

  Rossi mimed pulling a zip across her mouth and throwing away a key.

  ‘I’m just tired, that’s all,’ Murphy continued, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting against his forehead. ‘I have no idea what the hell has happened the last couple of days. We weren’t even supposed to be given a case like this in the first place. Now we have a dismembered body, a possible historical sexual assault and a Z-list probable MP with a secret flat filled with bloodstained walls and bed, and a bunch of sex toys I don’t even want to think about.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ Rossi said, digging around in the glove compartment. She pulled out her phone. ‘I’m going to find the seven other people in that photograph. Even if it bloody kills me. Simon Jackson is the first on my list. Put me down for a late one tonight.’

  Murphy grunted in response. He stopped in the car park behind the station before pulling out his own phone.

  ‘I’ll follow you up,’ Murphy said. Rossi raised a hand in response, still staring at her phone as she walked away from the car. Murphy checked a few emails, deleted some updates. He brought up his contacts and scrolled to W. For wife.

  ‘Hey, it’s me,’ Murphy said when Sarah answered. ‘Going to be late home, so don’t wait up if you’re tired or anything.’

  ‘No worries,’ Sarah replied, the sound of the TV being muted suddenly in the background. ‘Might still be up anyway. First lecture tomorrow.’

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘A little bit, yeah. Also want to get ahead of the others. Do a bit of studying, you know?’

  ‘There’s a bottle of white in the fridge, but keep the red on the side for me, will you? I will drink it at some point.’

  ‘That’s what you always say. I think Jess had that the other day.’

  Murphy shook his head, adding ‘ring Jess’ to his internal list of things to do. ‘Of course she did. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Have you eaten? Only I know what you’re like . . .’

  ‘I will get something here now.’

  ‘Make sure you do. And be careful. I’m not paying off this mortgage on my own if anything happens to you.’

  ‘I’ll be at the office, so unless there’s a terrible stationery injury, I think I’ll be OK.’

  Murphy heard a muffled laugh over the line, quickly shut down. ‘Watch those staplers. Speak to you later.’

  Murphy said goodbye and ended the call. The car park was quieter now, the light fading around him. He could hear the traffic from the nearby road, still busy for a Tuesday night, as it always seemed to be.

  The incident room was bustling with activity when Murphy entered it a few minutes later. The detective constables still on duty were huddled in front of screens, going through CCTV from various sites in the city, a few sergeants were being updated by Rossi in another part of the room. DCI Stephens’s office was empty and dark, which was unsurprising. The perks of being higher up in the food chain, Murphy thought.

  ‘Graham,’ Murphy said as he reached his desk. ‘How are you getting on with the CCTV?’

  ‘It’s much as the guy at the scene said,’ DC Harris replied. ‘Here we are, I’m just piecing the whole thing together now.’

  Murphy waited for DC Harris to cue up the footage, then watched the screen from over Harris’s shoulder.

  ‘There’s the car being driven down Queens Drive, approaching the roundabout. He goes onto Edge Lane, then takes a right into Warnerville Road. Reappears at the bottom of Talbotville. You obviously can’t drive back onto Edge Lane from Talbotville, so it looks like the site was chosen specifically for the fact that it was on a busy road, but not easily accessible.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Murphy replied, studying the footage, wishing not for the first time the technology was better. ‘Seems to be being driven carefully. Nothing erratic or irregular there.’

  ‘If I could get closer, I bet he’d have his hands at the ten and two position.’

  ‘So, where did he come from before Queens Drive?’

  DC Harris sighed and opened another file of footage. ‘I’ve got him joining from Mill Lane, near the Premier Inn in West Derby. Before that, we’re trying our best. Looks like they’ve come from the Croxteth area, but it’s difficult to pick him up at that time of day. We’ll get there.’

  ‘OK, I understand. What about after the car is dropped off, have we got him leaving?’

  ‘Yes,’ DC Harris replied, moving to another file now. ‘Here we go.’

  The car
appeared on screen again, parked up near the bollards at the end of the street. A figure in black got out of the car and moved to the boot of the car, his back to the camera. ‘He’s working very quickly,’ DC Harris said, leaning back in his wheelchair. ‘Confident like.’

  ‘There’s our friend there,’ Murphy said, pointing to another figure nearby. ‘Look at the way he’s just hanging around waiting. On the rob or what?’

  ‘Look,’ DC Harris said, slowing down the footage. ‘It’s almost like he glances towards the camera here, but his face is covered.’

  ‘Zoom in as much as possible,’ Murphy said, looking around for a chair but settling for leaning against the desk when he couldn’t see one. ‘That’s it, is that the best we could get?’

  ‘Yeah, pretty much. Sorry, but I think we’re dealing with someone who didn’t want to be seen.’

  ‘Where did they go after that?’

  ‘Back down Talbotville Road and into the estate there. Lost him, sorry.’

  Murphy stood up, shaking his head. ‘At least we know our friend from the scene was telling the truth. Keep looking. See if he reappears anywhere nearby in the hours afterwards.’

  ‘Returning to the scene, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Murphy replied, looking over towards where Rossi was crouched behind another desk. ‘Sometimes they do that.’

  ‘No problem. I think Jack has something from the flat for you.’

  Murphy nodded and looked around for DC Kirkham, but couldn’t see him. The television at the end of the room caught his eye. He grimaced when he saw who was on screen.

  DSI Butler, in all his livery, stood holding court in front of the media. He had a grave look upon his face as the ticker along the bottom of the screen informed the country of the breaking news.

  PROSPECTIVE CONSERVATIVE MP FOUND DEAD IN LIVERPOOL

  You

  You watch the television, perched on the edge of a sofa which cost more than a small car. They are discussing your handiwork. Your act of murder.

  The thrill of it threatens to overwhelm you. You sneak a look at the door, expecting it to crash open at any second.

  You wait. Your heart hammers in your chest, so fast you wonder if you could have a heart attack right there and then.

  They are talking about what you’ve done, in serious tones, beamed into living rooms around the country.

  You are infamous.

  Infamy. You wonder if your name will soon be spoken in the same breath as some other notorious killers. You wonder how you stand up next to a Jeffrey Dahmer or Richard Ramirez. A Levi Bellfield or Ted Bundy.

  Aileen Wuornos. Fred and Rose West.

  There’s always a clamour to find out why someone has ended the life of another. People need to know why and how. That’s just the way things are. Why did someone have to kill another person? Why did they deserve to die? Questions, questions, questions.

  Murder isn’t as bad as it’s made out to be. It’s even lauded in some circumstances. It’s something people don’t mind, as long as certain rules and boundaries are adhered to. No one thinks too much about the loss of life of an enemy, or people deemed to be in opposition to them. In war, all bets are off.

  This is a type of war. You are certain of that. People may not understand, but these eight men have to be stopped. They can’t be allowed to continue, infecting humanity with their presence and lust for more and more influence. There has to be an end point for them.

  They must pay for what they have done.

  Cause and effect. They have done wrong and now they will face the consequences.

  Guilt can make people do things they never thought possible. That is something else that has become clear. Living with one of the strongest emotions known to humankind is almost impossible. Unless you have moved on from such things as conscience. Unless you know how to counteract the guilt and live through it.

  That knot in your stomach can disappear. So can that feeling of unending dread, the fear of a knock at your door ending your mission before it has come to its natural end. There’s a way of making your way through life without those feelings.

  You sit back and watch the drama you have created unfold. Planning your next move.

  Seventeen

  Murphy yawned for what felt the thousandth time and shrugged when Rossi looked up from her desk at him. The incident room had thinned out a little as the evening drew on, but there were still a few people dotted about. Each with their own little task to be getting on with. Hoping to be noticed for doing their jobs.

  ‘Knock it on the head if you want,’ Rossi said, looking at her computer screen again. She had a laptop open to the other side of her, switching between the two screens as she saw fit. ‘You’ll only end up missing something.’

  ‘I’ll give it a bit longer,’ Murphy replied, rewinding CCTV images back again and rewatching what he’d missed during his stretch and yawn. ‘You can bet they’ll be wanting a better answer than we don’t know a thing tomorrow morning. We need a timeline.’

  ‘What have you got so far?’ Rossi asked, moving away from her desk and coming around to his side. ‘He was reported missing when, Sunday or Monday?’

  ‘Over the weekend, but I think he was gone by Friday. He left the office on Thursday, so we’re working back to that point.’

  ‘Someone at the apartment block said they saw him Thursday evening?’

  ‘Heard him,’ Murphy said, sketching out the timeline for the umpteenth time on a blank piece of paper. ‘Could have been someone else, I suppose. They weren’t exactly sure of the time.’

  ‘CCTV covers the entrance?’

  ‘We haven’t got that yet, so I’m working from the nearest one we can get. Outside the Tesco, just a few doors away. It’s busy, though, so it’s slow work.’

  ‘Thursday evening, I’m not surprised. Start with a narrower timeline and work from there?’

  ‘Tried that,’ Murphy said, dragging the images back to the beginning again. ‘I think this is him, but I’m not sure. Could be anyone.’

  Rossi leaned forward and studied the freeze-frame, seeing only a blurred image which was of no use to anyone. ‘Did the resident say what time they thought he left?’

  Murphy shook his head. ‘I’m going to have to go through it completely. Or wait for the CCTV from the apartment block.’ He left the images running and turned to Rossi. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Think I’ve found Simon Jackson,’ Rossi said, placing a hand on the back of her neck and rubbing some life into it. ‘Graduated from university the same year as Sam Byrne, now lives just outside of Manchester. Works in the legal sector or something. I’ll contact him tomorrow morning, when it’s a more suitable hour.’

  ‘Good work. Could do with the other names on that list, though.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Rossi said, looking past Murphy at the images on the screen playing behind him, then back to Murphy. ‘The names that Mary Byrne gave us the other day are probably right, no matter what they both say now. I’ve looked through all of Sam’s social media accounts and got a few possible positive matches from that. I think I’ve found one – Matthew. His Facebook profile states that he attended the same university as Byrne, and he shared a few messages with Sam a while ago. Nothing of interest within the messages, but there’s a connection of sorts. He’s a strange one as there doesn’t seem to have been any activity on his social media accounts for a few months now.’

  ‘What’s his full name?’

  ‘Matthew Williams,’ Rossi replied, checking the notepad in her hand. ‘I’m trying to work out where he lives now.’

  ‘OK, cool. Making some sort of progress . . . What?’

  Murphy turned to see what Rossi was frowning at. The screen behind him was still playing through the CCTV, now a few hours on from the beginning.

  ‘Take that back a bit,’ Rossi said, leaning forwards and taking control of it herself before Murphy had chance to. ‘I’m sure I’ve just seen something.’

 
Murphy slid back on his chair, allowing Rossi to take over. ‘What time is this at?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . wait . . . there, do you see it?’

  Murphy peered at the image on the screen, trying to see what Rossi had noticed. ‘Give us a clue, what am I looking for?’

  ‘There, look, that woman,’ Rossi said, pointing at a figure moving away from the camera. ‘Here, let me show you again.’

  Rossi took the footage back a little, a woman appearing, looking around, then moving away. She was brushing past people as if they weren’t there, bumping into a couple as she moved between them. Then, she was gone.

  ‘She was getting away quick, but I’m not sure what . . .’

  ‘You don’t recognise her?’ Rossi said, rewinding the footage once again. ‘No, you won’t, you didn’t meet her. Remember that case I was telling you about, the old man and the prostitute?’

  ‘You told me about it last week,’ Murphy said, motioning for her to continue. ‘My memory isn’t that bad yet.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she was the sex worker.’

  ‘Right. You can tell that from this picture?’

  Rossi nodded, taking the footage back further, trying to work out the exact moment when the woman entered the scene. ‘Definitely. You can tell from the hair, look,’ Rossi said, pointing at the screen. ‘See that there, that’s the beads in her hair. The ones that got stuck.’

  ‘Right, well, that’s all well and good, but I’m not sure what that means . . .’

  ‘Well, this isn’t her usual place of work for a start,’ Rossi said, watching the scene unfold once more. ‘She’s definitely trying to get away from somewhere. Is it just a coincidence?’

  ‘There are no coincidences,’ Murphy replied, staring at the woman leaving the frame. ‘Someone once told me that.’

  ‘Think about it. Sam Byrne has a secret flat that’s used for God knows what. The state of that bedroom, what if he uses it to bring women back there and something went wrong.’