Then She Was Gone

by Luca Veste

‘What do you mean?’ Murphy replied, frowning a little as he unlocked the car and got in. ‘Scared to say what?’

  ‘You’re messing me round, right? I’m not only a woman, but a Muslim one as well. If I was a lesbian I’d have the trifecta. Since we’ve been here, I haven’t heard one “bomb in your headscarf” joke whatsoever. They’re all shit scared you’ll pitch them through the window or something.’

  ‘Well, it’s good to know that, I guess. Although I would have hoped it being 2016 would have made a bigger difference to people’s views.’

  ‘You’d be surprised how much people don’t like change.’

  Murphy shook his head and started the car, driving out of the car park and onto the main road. It was a ten-minute drive to Anfield on a good day, but it was fifteen minutes later when they turned off Walton Breck Road and onto Feltwell Road. A mass of terraced houses, most of which looked as scruffy as the residents within, greeted them. A few kids played in the road, booting a football which had probably been brand new a decade earlier. They sauntered onto the pavement as Murphy drove slowly towards them. A bare-chested man sat outside one of the houses, smoking and watching the kids, whilst two women wearing bright pink vest tops stretched to maximum capacity chatted outside another.

  ‘What number is it?’ Murphy said, turning to DC Hashem and then back to the road in case another couple of kids came out.

  DC Hashem told him and continued peering out of her side window. ‘Here it is,’ she said, already snapping out of her seat belt.

  Murphy slowed and pulled into an empty space. There hadn’t been many cars parked along the road, but there seemed to be more the further down they had gone. The houses on one side had also begun to change, seemingly nicer in appearance than further up, with dark-wood double glazing and well-kept front yards.

  Murphy turned off the engine and pulled the key from the ignition.

  ‘Anything I need to know before we knock?’ DC Hashem said, one hand on the door handle. ‘Only, I don’t much like surprises.’

  ‘Just follow my lead, don’t interrupt but don’t be afraid to ask any questions. Take as many notes as you can.’

  ‘Right, cool,’ DC Hashem replied, getting out of the car. Murphy followed, joining her on the doorstep as she pressed the doorbell outside. Within, they could hear the tinny response to the push of the button, then a dog barking.

  ‘I don’t like dogs,’ DC Hashem said, glancing up at Murphy then back at the door. ‘They don’t seem to like me all that much either.’

  ‘Sounds like one of those tiny ones.’

  ‘They’re the worst,’ DC Hashem said, a nervous laugh spilling from her lips.

  ‘It’ll be sound, don’t worry.’

  The door was unlocked and a voice from behind the door began shooing away what Murphy assumed was the dog they’d heard. The door opened slowly and a face appeared.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Vicky Whitlaw?’ Murphy said, trying to keep his voice as light as possible.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  That would be a yes then, Murphy thought. ‘Detective Inspector David Murphy and Detective Constable Abs Hashem from the Major Crime Unit, can we have a chat please?’

  The door opened a little more, the face peering at them both. ‘ID?’

  Murphy already had his in his hand and showed it to the woman. DC Hashem fished around in her pocket and finally produced hers.

  ‘What can I do you for?’

  Murphy tried his most trustworthy look and tilted his head a little. ‘You think we could do this inside?’

  ‘Have you got a warrant?’

  ‘Do we need one?’ DC Hashem said, tilting her own head now. ‘It’s not like we’re here mob-handed. We just want to have a little talk with you, that’s all.’

  There was a moment when Murphy thought the door was going to be slammed in their faces. Instead, Vicky Whitlaw stepped to one side and let them in.

  ‘Thanks, Vicky,’ DC Hashem said, stepping forwards into the room immediately in front of them. She rubbed her hands together and looked around as Murphy followed her in. ‘Hey, it’s nice in here.’

  ‘What were you expecting?’ Vicky said, standing at the doorway with her arms folded. ‘Some dosshouse, just because of what I do?’

  ‘No, just surprised because my place is a bloody pigsty. I can never be bothered doing anything. Do you live on your own? Only I do, so that’s my excuse. If I’m the only one to see it, who cares?’

  Murphy watched as Vicky’s shoulders relaxed a little, giving a casual shrug. ‘I just like a nice house, that’s all. Although the whole place ain’t mine, like. Got Polish neighbours upstairs.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘They’re not bad for foreigners, like,’ Vicky replied, unfolding her arms and coming into the room. She stood in front of the window and leaned on the ledge, hands behind her. ‘Had to have a word when they were hanging their washing out the upstairs window. But, yeah, not noisy or anything. Was worried when they moved in, with them being not English like. No offence.’

  ‘Why would I be offended?’ DC Hashem said, accent thicker than ever. ‘I was born in the Women’s, love. Grew up in Bootle. Don’t come more Liverpool than me.’

  Murphy enjoyed DC Hashem’s ability to make even a barbed response sound like a jokey retort.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean it like that . . . what are you here for anyway?’ Vicky said, as if she was suddenly remembering that strangers were in the house. ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Not saying you have,’ Murphy said, looking around to find somewhere to sit, then leaning on the mantelpiece instead. ‘Actually, we were more interested in whether you had a complaint to make?’

  Vicky’s brow furrowed. Murphy could see her mentally rewinding through her last few clients. ‘Not sure what you mean?’

  ‘Well, we’re investigating the death of Sam Byrne . . .’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake . . .’

  ‘And we found something interesting at one of his residences.’

  ‘I know what you’re talking about,’ Vicky said, standing up straight and folding her arms again. ‘And I’m telling you now, that little prick got what was coming to him. Had nothing to do with me though.’

  Murphy nodded, thinking out what he was going to say next, but DC Hashem spoke instead.

  ‘We found your blood at his apartment in town. How did it get there, Vicky?’

  Vicky dipped her head into her chest and when she spoke her voice was quieter than it had been. ‘Not by choice.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means, I’m glad he’s dead.’

  Murphy lifted his hand from the mantelpiece and rubbed it along his chin. ‘What did he do to you?’

  Vicky raised her head and looked at Murphy. ‘Would you believe me if I told you?’

  ‘Why do you think we’re here?’

  ‘Well, you’re here now,’ Vicky said, looking away from Murphy and towards DC Hashem. ‘I didn’t think I’d be telling anyone this. Once I knew who he was, I didn’t think anyone would care.’

  ‘How did your blood end up on his walls?’

  ‘He’s a monster. Well, he was anyway. You ask me, it’s better for everyone that he’s ended up dead. Before he killed someone himself.’

  Nineteen

  There was something about driving out of Liverpool and towards Manchester which set Rossi’s teeth on edge. It didn’t feel right, no matter how many times she did it. It was as if she were entering a foreign country, one in which she both didn’t belong and wasn’t wanted.

  It was the accent that did it.

  The two cities’ rivalry had grown with the football clubs, and their battles on the pitch, back when she was in uniform especially, had become something tangible and violent. Football hooligans may have been a thing of the past in most places, but on match days between the two biggest clubs in the north west, violence suddenly became a family pastime.

  Rossi and Kirkham got out of th
e car, walking in step as they headed towards the exit. The building which housed Simon Jackson’s offices was high above them, the ornate entrance from the car park only the first thing to impress Rossi. The second was the lobby of the building. All silver and white, the polished marbled floors gleaming beneath them. People zipped back and forth, all wearing well-cut suits and expensive aftershaves and perfumes. There was an air of privilege seeping out of every pore of the place. Rossi turned to check out a particularly well-groomed bloke as he walked past, before deciding there wasn’t enough to grab hold of there.

  ‘JC Enterprises,’ Kirkham said, reading from the list on a board next to the reception desk. ‘Eighth floor. Which is good. Was worried it was going to be higher than that.’

  ‘Not a fan of heights?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ DC Kirkham replied, looking around and spotting the lifts at the end of the vast space. ‘Have you ever been up the Radio City Tower in town?’

  Rossi shook her head, thinking of the tall building which stood out on the Liverpool skyline. It had been dwarfed only by the Liver Building in the past, but since all the new investment had been ploughed into the city centre, taller office buildings had overtaken it. She remembered hearing a comedian a few years earlier describing the tower as looking like an upside-down lampshade and finding it difficult to disagree with him.

  ‘I have,’ DC Kirkham said, pushing the button for the lift and stepping back. ‘It’s windows all around you up there. Floor to ceiling. Great view, but I couldn’t really appreciate it as I was edging around the place, scared to get anywhere near the glass to look out.’ DC Kirkham turned to her and grinned, the image of a little imp springing to Rossi’s mind.

  ‘Used to be a revolving restaurant,’ Rossi said, letting DC Kirkham enter the lift ahead of her before following him inside. ‘Imagine the same thing, but only moving around as well.’

  DC Kirkham shivered for effect, the same grin plastered on his face. Rossi looked down at the notepad she’d taken out of her pocket as soon as she’d entered the lift. She read the notes she’d made before leaving the office an hour earlier, annoyed with how brief they were.

  ‘What does this guy do again?’ DC Kirkham said, stepping out after Rossi when the lift came to stop. He lowered his voice. ‘Something swanky by the looks of this place.’

  ‘Some kind of legal firm, apparently. Not sure what his role is.’

  The lift had opened up to a small corridor, decorated in the same silver and white as the downstairs lobby. In front of them were large glass doors with the words JC Enterprises etched in curling script.

  Rossi pushed her way through the doors, putting her other hand in her pocket and removing her ID, keeping it palmed.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the impossibly tanned woman behind the reception desk said, giving Rossi and Kirkham the once-over.

  ‘We’re here to see Simon Jackson,’ Rossi replied, keeping an even tone. She tried and failed to hide her accent, which earned a raised eyebrow from Tan Woman.

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  Rossi raised an eyebrow of her own. ‘Should be.’

  ‘Right,’ Tan Woman said with a nod. She may as well have said No, he’s bloody not and never will be, in Rossi’s opinion. ‘And your names are?’

  This was the bit Rossi had been looking forward to. ‘Detective Sergeant Laura Rossi and Detective Constable Jack Kirkham. From the Major Crimes Unit in Liverpool. Think that’ll be enough?’

  Tan Woman moved quickly, picking up the phone and turning in her swivel chair. She spoke into the receiver in a hushed tone. She was done in seconds, turning back to them with a toothy smile. There was a smudge of red lipstick on one dazzling white tooth.

  ‘He’ll be with you in a few seconds.’

  Amazing what a title can do, Rossi thought. ‘That’s excellent to hear,’ she said instead, stepping back from the desk. ‘We’ll wait here nice and quiet.’

  Tan Woman had lost a little bit of confidence now and simply nodded meekly in response. Rossi almost felt guilty for a millisecond, then forgot Tan Woman existed as Simon Jackson entered the lobby.

  ‘Is this them?’ Jackson said to Tan Woman, eyes darting between her and Kirkham. Rossi was given a slight once-over, but his attention was on Kirkham.

  This will be fun, Rossi thought.

  ‘Simon Jackson?’ Rossi said, interrupting Tan Woman before she had chance to speak. ‘Have you got somewhere private we can have a chat?’

  ‘Yes, please, follow me.’

  Rossi glanced towards Kirkham and then followed Jackson. She could see rows of desks to one side, behind glass-panelled doors, but was led away from them. She was glad of it, the banks of people all wearing headsets had set off something nasty inside of her.

  ‘Just here,’ Jackson said, holding an office door open. ‘Can I get you anything, tea, coffee . . . my solicitor?’

  It was said as a joke, but Rossi didn’t smile in return. She was pleased to see DC Kirkham didn’t either. ‘No, thank you. Hopefully we’ll be out of your hair quite quickly.’

  Rossi walked over and plonked herself down on one of the chairs facing the only desk in the room. She waited for DC Kirkham to do the same, then had a gander at her surroundings. It was much as she’d expected the office of someone like Simon Jackson to be – neat, orderly, sparse. Very white, to match the outside decor, with a few certificates on the wall behind where Jackson now finally sat down. There were a couple of photographs underneath the degree certificates and another one in a frame on his desk, next to the Apple Mac taking up most of the room. Rossi leaned forwards to look at it. ‘Family?’

  ‘Yes, wife, Sophie, daughter, Emily.’

  ‘Very nice,’ Rossi said, sitting back in the chair and looking out of the large window to the side of where they were sitting. ‘Nice view as well.’

  ‘Thank you, although I didn’t have much to do with it,’ Jackson replied, running a hand through his hair. It was longer than Rossi had expected, and had a Hugh Grant foppish look to it, a single curl flopping down onto his forehead after he’d finished with it. Jackson wasn’t particularly tall, but only if you were looking for it. He was slim, but well built with it. There was a nice figure underneath the suit he was wearing, she guessed, but the whole look wasn’t exactly impressing her.

  ‘What’s this about then?’ Jackson said, affecting an air of relaxation. Rossi wasn’t buying it, but took it anyway. ‘Not often I get a visit from Her Majesty’s finest.’

  ‘You know where we’re from?’

  ‘The accent does really give it away. Liverpool, I assume?’

  ‘You’re right. Somewhere you know well?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jackson replied, leaning back in his chair and crossing his fingers over his midriff. ‘I studied at university there a fair few years ago.’

  ‘You’ve done well, getting your own office before you’ve even turned thirty.’

  ‘Yes, well, hard work, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re not here with the best of news,’ Rossi continued, ignoring the remark. ‘It’s my duty to inform you of the passing of someone you knew quite well when you were a student.’

  ‘Really . . . who?’

  Rossi shot a look at DC Kirkham, who was silently studying Jackson.

  ‘Sam Byrne. He was found dead yesterday morning.’

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible. What happened to him?’

  Rossi was trying hard, but she was unable to quieten the annoyance Jackson’s performance was provoking. ‘I was sure you would know already, what with it being on the national news. You don’t keep up to date with what’s happening around the country?’

  Jackson hesitated, caught in a lie, Rossi presumed. ‘I went home yesterday and went straight to bed. Didn’t catch up on things, sorry. It’s a total shock to me.’

  ‘Really? Then it’s a shame you had to hear it from us.’ Rossi decided to move past what was obviously an untruth. ‘Did you keep in touch with Sam once you’d graduated?’<
br />
  ‘Well, I’m not sure what you’ve been told, but we weren’t all that close really. We had some time together at university, but we weren’t good friends. Certainly not lately, anyway. I haven’t spoken to him in a long time.’

  Rossi nodded, removing her notepad from her jacket pocket. ‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’

  ‘Oh, it will have been years ago. Maybe three, four years ago. I’m not sure. I’ve been so busy–’

  ‘Do you keep in touch with many people from university?’ DC Kirkham said, cutting in. ‘Any relationships that have lasted since then?’

  Jackson shifted in his seat, removing his hands from where they’d been resting on the desk and placing them on the arms of his chair. ‘No, not really. I don’t keep in touch with anyone. I’m too busy working and they have their own lives to lead. It was all such a long time ago now. Years, in fact. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Help me understand this then,’ DC Kirkham said, lifting a finger and pointing to the wall behind Jackson. ‘Why would you keep a picture of yourself with Sam Byrne and six other gentlemen, if you weren’t all that close?’

  Rossi almost grinned, watching as Jackson opened his mouth, becoming more pale by the second.

  Twenty

  There was a noticeable change in the atmosphere now, Murphy feeling like a spare ornament as Vicky sat down and wrapped her arms around herself. The room had grown colder somehow, as if they had let an evil spirit inside, allowing it to fester and become bitter.

  ‘He was wrong,’ Vicky said, the bravado she had shown when they had first arrived now a distant memory. ‘Gone in the head. I’ve had some shit in my work before, I know the worst of the worst. Men who treat us like scum, just there to satisfy whatever they need. This was different though. He wasn’t normal.’

  ‘Tell us what happened,’ DC Hashem said, sitting on the threadbare sofa opposite the one Vicky was slowly drawing back in to.

  ‘He picked me up on a Tuesday night, about a month ago, I think. No, I know it was. It’s not like I would forget really.’

  Vicky smiled, but there was no warmth to it. Murphy shifted across and perched himself on the arm of the sofa DC Hashem was sitting on.