by Luca Veste
She moved past the second key and tried the third key instead.
The lock turned. She swung the door inwards and took a step sideways, expecting the girl to come rushing out. Not wanting to be knocked over by a screaming banshee.
She waited a few seconds, but no one came out of the room. She stepped back into the open doorway, the dim light from the basement offering her a little sight.
She stood, open mouthed, in the entrance.
It was empty.
She jumped back as the screams started again. Louder now, with the door open and with her standing close to it.
From the walls. The sounds were coming from the walls.
She opened and closed her mouth, suddenly dry. Stepped back until she was clear of the basement. Confused.
It wasn’t real.
She turned to go back up the stairs, when she heard a shuffling from behind her.
‘You fucking bitch.’
He was rising to his feet.
‘No …’
She moved quickly, towards the stairs, her injured knee sending a wave of pain through her body as she twisted. She cried out, but kept moving.
‘Come back here. I haven’t finished with you yet.’
She reached the stairs, not willing to risk looking over her shoulder. She took them two at a time at first, before the pain became too much. She could hear him shuffling forward behind her.
She stumbled as she reached the top.
There was a moment when she thought she would regain her balance, become upright and stable, reach the door, run for safety.
Why did she go back? What an idiot. Always thinking of others. She should have just run. Why didn’t she just run?
She wanted it more than ever.
To sleep in her own bed. Eat hot food, lie in a bath. Go for a run.
See daylight. Sit and watch TV, or go for a walk down the front. Look over the Mersey and see the ferry.
Instead, she found herself falling backwards.
Laughter came from behind her as she fell down the steps, her shoulder taking the first impact, before she rolled over and her legs took over.
It was over in an instant. She threw her arms out to try and stop herself falling, every joint seemingly on fire with pain. As she crashed to the floor, her hands took most of the weight, her body thrown around with no control.
She was on her back, her surroundings seeming to pulsate. Her eyelids felt heavy. She could hear screaming but didn’t know if it was coming from her, or the walls.
The walls. A failsafe. Played on her compassion, so she couldn’t escape.
She had been so close. Freedom, escape, only mere moments away. Now she was gone.
Why did she go back down?
The air around her changed. She moved her head to the right, seeing the man loom above her.
She could swear she heard him smile, actually hear his lips smack as they lifted, his cheeks swelling. She imagined him, blood running down his face onto his sweating neck.
Smiling at her idiotic attempt to save the day.
Smiling at tricking her into thinking she wasn’t alone down there.
That was what she was. Alone. Dead soon. She’d be dead soon.
She wanted it now. Anything but going back into that room. Death instead of darkness. A good trade.
She let herself go. Her eyes closing, slow laughter, the feeling of being under water.
So close.
The silence shifted around her as she came swimming back to the surface of consciousness.
When she opened her eyes, she was back in the darkness. Her escape attempt already a fading memory, even though she didn’t feel she’d been unconcious long.
Down there.
She wasn’t dead, but she may as well have been. Nothing to do but wait. So, that’s how she’d spent her time in the days and weeks which followed her attempt at escape.
Waiting.
Waiting for another chance.
She’d been in there too long. She’d lost count of the amount of times she’d slept since her time outside the room. In those minutes, hours, days following her escape, she barely moved from her bed. She couldn’t have, even if she’d wanted to. She rubbed her wrists as she remembered the shackles which had kept her in place after her failed attempt to get out.
The empty feeling in the pit of her stomach as no food was delivered. Hunger making her weak, the lack of water finishing the job.
As she lay on the thin mattress, her voice sounding worse and worse as she sang to herself, the voice had spoken to her once more. Coming through the walls again. Telling her why she was there.
He went on for so long, her attention slipping constantly as various images of food and drink fought for space in her mind. She heard him talk about experiments and death. She didn’t understand any of it. She hadn’t seen one beaker full of bubbling potions since she’d been in that hell hole.
Some time later, the door was changed. The hatch was smaller now. No chance of getting out that way again.
After that, he didn’t talk to her again. Just dropped food and water through the now smaller-sized hatch, without pause.
She’d all but given up. She was just waiting to die. She didn’t want to live like this any more. She wasn’t living during all the days and nights down there. She was existing. That was all.
It was February when she was taken and put in this place.
Over eleven months had passed since then.
She didn’t know that though. She didn’t know she’d been in the darkness that long. Almost a year. Time meant nothing. Her unravelling mind was just trying to keep track of what she was supposed to be doing. Eat, drink, sleep. Sing if she fancied it.
Talk to people who weren’t there.
If someone had told her she’d been down there that long, she’d laugh and think they were crazy.
It had to be at least ten years. Twenty, more likely. That’s what she would say. When she got out.
If she got out.
24
Thursday 31st January 2013 – Day Five
The early evening had become darker as they waited for the arrest warrant, the streetlights providing slight illumination to the scene of twelve officers waiting a few seconds for a door to open.
Scotland Road runs from the city centre, the turn-off for the Wallasey tunnel indicating the beginning of the long stretch that works its way from there towards Everton. In stark contrast to the concrete paradise of the Liverpool One shopping centre, Scottie Road is the beginning of the other face of Liverpool. Graffiti marked, shuttered shops. Burnt-out pubs and fire-scorched grass verges. The odd garage, which at first seems to be abandoned, before you look closer and see the boarded-up front is for security rather than to indicate closure.
A rundown set of flats, above three different businesses: a bookies, newsagent, and launderette. Access from a shared side door, which looked new, thick and hopeful.
It was a long way from the house Murphy had visited Rob in a year earlier. He wondered how far he had fallen. Whether that fall now extended to a moral one as well as a financial one.
Whether Jemma Barnes had been his first.
They were about to raise the enforcer to knock the door down, when Rob Barker exited the newsagent’s a couple of doors down from the flat entrance.
Took one look at the officers, turned, and ran.
Murphy was closest.
Rob pulled away quickly, as Murphy sprinted to catch up. Turning left onto Hopwood Street, Murphy had already fallen at least a hundred yards behind. Railings on the main road prevented the cars from following, but Murphy could hear a few officers trying to catch them up as they ran down the side street, passing bemused hooded kids on bikes, and one stout woman in a dressing gown.
Rob ran straight on ahead, Murphy turned right.
He knew the area better. He was counting on that.
He sidestepped a purple wheelie bin as he ran down an alley, his shoes echoing around him as he upped the
pace down the cobbles. He reached the end of the alleyway within seconds, turning left onto Bangor Street, deep into the housing estate which ran behind the main stretch of Scotland Road.
Then he came to a stop, waiting.
Rob appeared around the corner, panting, out of breath, but still moving forward. Murphy stepped back, trying to melt into the brick of one of the buildings that lined the main road.
Rob closed the gap, the effort of the run becoming clearer on his face as he passed a streetlight.
Twenty yards, ten yards, five …
Murphy stepped out, extended his arm, and dropped Rob to the floor.
Murphy stood next to a handcuffed and scared Rob Barker. He looked different close up. He could see the effect of the last year written all over his face.
He hadn’t spoken.
‘You know why we’re arresting you, Rob?’
He received a blank look in return.
‘Course you do. Where did you keep them?’
Rob shook his head in response, finding the concrete path of sudden interest.
Murphy helped him into the van which would take him down to the station. Processed and locked up overnight. They’d start questioning him the next day. Early. Let him stew for a few hours, and see if he’d talk then.
‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand, Rob?’
A nod. About as much as they’d got so far.
Murphy looked towards Rossi, who was sat to his right. Allowed her to begin.
‘Do you understand why you’re here, Rob?’
Rob didn’t look up at them. ‘Yes.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘You think I’m him.’
‘Who, Rob?’
‘The man you’re looking for. The man who took Jemma.’
Rossi looked down towards her notes. Murphy continued to stare at the crown of Rob’s head.
‘Jemma was your girlfriend.’
‘Is.’
‘Sorry?’
‘She is my girlfriend. We never split up.’
Rossi looked towards Murphy. Carry on, he thought, trying to indicate with his eyes.
‘Of course. She’s been missing almost a year now. That’s not why we’re here now though, Rob. We’re speaking to you about the three people who have been murdered in the last week, okay? What do you know about them?’
Silence crowded the room for ten seconds, then twenty. They waited.
His voice was quieter. ‘I think he took them too.’
‘Who, Rob?’
‘The man who took Jemma.’
‘Do you know who that is?’
Rob looked up at them then. Bloodshot eyes, dark rings underneath. His eyes found Murphy’s, staring through him. One word passed his lips at first.
‘No.’
A pause, lick of his lips, then, ‘I don’t want to speak any more. I’d like a solicitor in here now please.’
‘It doesn’t make sense. Why was he picked up on the cameras if he wasn’t involved … why else would he be there?’
Murphy was standing in the small kitchen area off the major incident room, facing the sink. Rossi stood with arms folded, leaning against the counter to his right, the kettle boiling behind her.
‘He looked lost,’ she replied.
‘He looked guilty.’
She shrugged, pursed her lips. ‘Reckon we can hold him?’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you. We’ve got nothing on him. They’re tearing his flat apart looking for something, anything. They’ve not found a thing. Just unpaid bills and stained dishes. Fuck all.’
He didn’t realise what he’d done until Rossi jumped beside him. The mug he’d been rinsing under the tap was reduced to just the handle.
‘Sorry,’ he said, taking the broken pieces out of the sink carefully. ‘Don’t know what came over me.’
‘It’s okay. We’re all stressed out.’
Murphy smiled, dropped the broken mug into the bin under the counter top. ‘Shall we try again?’
Murphy sighed and sat back in his chair, folded his arms and rested them on his disappearing gut.
‘No comment.’
That’s all they had received for the past hour and a half. The time was growing short, it had been almost twenty hours since they’d arrested Rob Barker.
Rossi was relentless. He admired that, but even she was waning in the face of the stonewalling. Murphy knew he was hiding something, but the more time went on, he looked more scared than guilty.
‘Why did you run from us, Rob?’
‘No comment.’
‘When you said you think someone is holding Jemma, and it’s the same person who we are looking for, how did you come to that conclusion?’
‘No comment.’
‘If you believe that, Rob, why do you not want to help us?’
‘No comment.’
The solicitor who had been provided to Rob wore a shit-eating grin which grated with Murphy no end. He was young, power suit, power tie. Nothing like the guys Jess worked with and had introduced him to over the past few years. They’d looked harried, harassed. This man was fresh faced and confident, not ground down by defending scallies who’d shoplifted a frozen turkey at Christmas, or a packet of razorblades to sell at the local pub.
He was enjoying it.
‘Rob. Listen to me,’ Murphy said, holding up a hand to Rossi, indicating for her to stop. ‘If you’re not the person we’re looking for. If you didn’t kill three people, three people who are connected to the university where you work, but know who that person is, now is the time to tell us. Because I’m not buying it. It’s too coincidental. You’re near a murder scene, minutes before Colin Woodland was placed there. Why? What possible explanation is there for you being at that place, at that time?’
Rob looked up at him, something etched across his face. Murphy knew it. ‘No comment,’ he whispered.
‘I think my client has made his position quite clear, detectives,’ the cocky lawyer said. ‘If you have nothing else, I think it’s time to bring this charade to an end. Don’t you?’
Murphy stared at him, wanting to dive across the desk and force feed him his stupid royal-blue tie.
‘Interview terminated at four-seventeen p.m.’
‘We can’t keep him any longer. You’ve got nothing, David.’
Murphy sat forward in his chair opposite DCI Stephens, running his fingers over his face and hair. ‘I know. I don’t think he’s our man anyway.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He’s scared of something. I don’t know what it is, but he’s scared.’
Stephens sucked her teeth. ‘He remains a person of interest, but for now he’s out on bail.’
Murphy nodded. ‘Look, we could do with some help with deciphering the psychology shite that keeps popping up in these letters.’
‘You know the score, David. I can’t bring anyone in to help right now. Do you know how much a psychologist would cost? Sorry, for now you’re on your own with it.’
He’d known the answer before she said anything. Had to try though. He let the silence grow in the room.
Stephens pursed her lips. ‘How about that professor you saw a few days ago? Do you think he’d be willing to help out?’
‘I’m sure he could be persuaded.’
Murphy met Rossi outside Stephens’ office. She looked tired, the day catching up on her.
‘Well?’
‘He’s got to be released.’
‘Shit. I thought we’d get him eventually. That bastard solicitor.’
Murphy half smiled. ‘Just the way it goes sometimes. You think he did it?’
Rossi pondered on the question. ‘I think he seems as likely as anyone. You don’t?’
Murphy indicated with his head for Rossi to follow him over to the kitchen. Once in there, he spoke quietly. ‘No. I
think he’s scared of something. I just don’t know what. We need to find out more about the girlfriend. It’s been almost a year, and she’s still gone. I think we need to find out why.’
He’d managed to convince Stephens to allow them to show the professor the letters, and Rossi had set up a meeting at the university.
‘We’ll have to wait until Monday,’ she’d said, tucking her hair behind her ear, ‘but hopefully it’ll make a difference.’
It didn’t seem enough. They were reacting constantly, being led by the killer’s actions. If he decided to go to ground, do a Jack the Ripper and never come out again, they’d be screwed. Murphy leaned back on the toilet cistern, escaping into the bathroom for a bit of peace. He pulled his phone out, opening his eyes to see what he was doing. The lights causing his head to pound once more.
What time do you finish?
He sent the message, hoping Jess was finishing early.
The phone buzzed in his hand.
Half an hour. Meet you at yours?
He was typing out a reply, when the bathroom door opened with a bang.
‘Did you see him before? Looked like he’d been crying or something?’
‘Don’t think he was, his eyes were all red though, maybe he’s drinking. Going full cliché on us.’
Murphy tried to place the voices. He thought one of them belonged to a young DC, Alex something. Wore too much gel in his hair, looked like he was auditioning to be a Next model most days.
‘Maybe. Can’t believe he’s still here. Thought he’d of been bombed out by now. Three dead in a week? That guy they arrested as well, no way he did it.’ Smythe, Murphy thought, that’s the other guy’s name.
He knew they were talking about him. He’d noticed the looks from other officers around the station. It was as if they were searching for something, a weakness which would confirm their suspicions. It had been that way since he’d married Sarah, the way in which they’d met causing problems with fellow officers from the start. It only intensified after his parents were murdered. Now, a week and three bodies later, with Murphy seemingly getting nowhere, the rumours would start. He knew this, had seen it happen previously to other detectives. They’d been forced out eventually, moved quietly to small areas where the crime rate wasn’t so high as it was in a city of the size of Liverpool. Less pressure, less stress. That’s how it worked. Murphy had just never thought it would be him on the receiving end.