by Luca Veste
Always there, crushing her, squeezing the life out of her.
She was going to be out of there soon. She knew it. This would work. She just had to be very quiet, ignore the voice whispering in her ear, ignore the pain in her chest.
She shivered, tucking into herself slowly to feel more warmth, hoping the slight movements wouldn’t be picked up by the man.
Why had she got in that taxi … it had been dark, but she should have guessed something wasn’t right. He never turned to look at her, speak to her.
‘I just feel asleep, like a bleeding idiot.’
She laughed at the sound of her rasping voice. She didn’t even sound like herself anymore.
Stupid. That’s what she was. Too trusting. And where had that trust landed her? Stuck in the darkness, with only a dead man singing, things crawling around her, moving walls, and a hunger overridden only by the need for water which had now crept up on her.
And it wasn’t the first time she’d made a mistake.
She’d been nineteen, her mates from school now all at university or in full-time jobs. She didn’t go out all that much, working odd days here and there for a little bit of extra money. Shops mostly, sometimes pubs, but she tried to avoid them as much as possible.
Her mum was on her case constantly. Worried she’d disappear again or something.
That was what she did though, anything to get away from reality. Just take off, stay with her aunty on the east coast, friends she’d met online down south. Anywhere other than Liverpool.
She’d hated living there. Her more successful, happier friends, seeming to rub her nose in the bad choices she’d made.
She missed her dad.
And then she’d met her first proper love. She thought things could be better, she could be settled. They made plans to live together, a future.
She was happy.
Her mum was happy.
Then a few of the girls she was still mates with suggested going out round the uni bars. Told her it was a cheap night out, and loads of fun. That she shouldn’t miss out on the lifestyle just because she wasn’t still a student.
She’d got drunk, dancing on tables, getting free drinks handed over. It’d been a great night. Until those lads turned up, trying to pair off with each of them. She’d been seeing someone for over a year before that night. She was drunk, it was a mistake, but he didn’t see it that way. It was over and she vowed never to lose control again.
And yet here she was, after another night out had ended with her making a bad choice.
No, that wasn’t her fault. She was blaming the victim, something she always hated others doing. Blaming herself for what someone else had chosen to do. He had no right.
No right.
Her fists were clenched together, her bitten short, sharp nails digging into the flesh of her palms. She made herself relax.
It wouldn’t be long now, she thought. He’d come in the room, and she’d show him what she could with those nails. Teeth, head, legs, everything.
She was getting out of there.
42
Thursday 14th February
2013 – Day Nineteen
He sat opposite DCI Stephens, resigned to what was going to happen.
He’d lost control. Exactly what Tom had wanted to happen. And Murphy had played right into his hands.
‘What the hell where you doing in there? Do you think you’re Gene frigging Hunt or something?’ Stephens’ voice echoed in the small office.
Murphy shrugged. ‘You heard what he said. He’s a psycho.’
‘Yes, but at the moment we only have his word for what happened. If your actions have jeopardised that …’
‘Don’t worry,’ Murphy said with a wave of one hand, ‘he’s too proud of what he’s done.’
‘You don’t speak to him again. For God’s sake, David, if he makes a complaint he could retract the entire confession. I don’t know what you were thinking. I never should have put you on this case. It’s too soon.’
Murphy stood up. ‘If it wasn’t for me, we’d never have found him. Gratitude would be nice.’
Stephens sneered, ‘Thank you, David. Now get out of here. Cross your fingers that this doesn’t come back on us.’
Murphy left the station, got in his car and drove away. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white against the black.
Stupid. That’s what he was. He shouldn’t be anywhere near that place.
He knew where he had to go.
Murphy pulled the car to a stop outside the house and walked up the path towards the door, his heart rate increasing with each step. It reminded him of the day he got married for the second time; the same feeling he’d had waiting at the registry office. He was sweating underneath his thick coat, despite the cold. He stopped halfway up, took a deep breath in and let it out, noticing his breath was now visible. ‘You can do this,’ Murphy muttered to himself. Steeling himself, he carried on walking. ‘It’s stupid, you’ve walked up this path so many times. It’s no different.’ It was different though, he knew that. It had been so long, and now nothing was the same. And he didn’t know if it ever could be again.
He rang the doorbell, hearing the soft chimes from within. The door opened, revealing her.
‘Hello, David.’
Murphy smiled. ‘Hello, Sarah.’
It had been awkward at the door, neither of them knowing how to greet each other. They settled for a quick kiss on the cheek, Sarah bringing a hand to her lips as they touched his beard, Murphy smiling in return. She hadn’t changed much at all, he thought. She would have been tall in any other setting, but Murphy still had six inches on her, meaning she had to reach up to kiss his cheek, her blonde hair tied back neatly in a loose braid. Her deep blue eyes boring into him as he crossed the doorway.
He couldn’t help but stare as she walked ahead of him into the room which led off the hallway.
Then they were standing on opposite sides of the living room, Murphy looking around the room at all the familiarity which surrounded him.
‘Tea?’ Sarah said. Her voice cutting through the silence which had hung in the room since they’d entered.
‘Please,’ Murphy answered, wishing she’d offered something a bit stronger. Murphy walked around the living room after Sarah moved into the kitchen. The ornaments on the mantelpiece, the rug on the floor … even the position of the bloody coasters on the coffee table. All the same. It was as if the last eighteen months hadn’t happened, that Sarah had lived in a bubble, not existing whilst Murphy was away.
He turned and faced the wall he’d been avoiding since entering the room. Photographs tastefully placed on the wall by Sarah years earlier. His attention moved to one photo only. His parents on holiday, around two years before they died.
‘It’s been bugging me for ages. Where was that taken?’ Sarah asked from the doorway, the kettle boiling behind her in the kitchen.
‘Kos, that Greek island,’ Murphy replied, his hand touching the photograph. ‘June 2009. We paid for it if you remember, a fortieth wedding anniversary present.’
‘That’s right. They look so happy.’
‘They were. They hadn’t been before, and Mum wanted to see the active volcano there, it was off the island at a place called Nistros, or Nisyros … something like that.’
Sarah turned, hearing the kettle click off, not before Murphy noticed her bottom lip trembling slightly. He sighed, and moved away from the photograph, taking a seat in his chair. ‘My chair …’ he muttered under his breath, snorting. It hadn’t been his chair in a long time. Perfectly in line with the TV in the corner, so he had an uninterrupted view. He wondered if anyone else had sat here in the time he’d been away.
‘Still two sugars?’ Murphy heard being shouted from the kitchen.
‘Yeah.’
Sarah came in carrying a tray with two cups and a plate of biscuits on it. ‘Chocolate bourbons still your favourite?’ she asked, sitting on the sofa.
Murphy smiled. ‘Still m
y weakness,’ he replied. ‘You never liked them. Which means these are either going to be very stale, or you’ve bought them specially.’
Sarah raised her eyebrows in reply, a look Murphy was intimately aware of.
An awkward silence fell over them once more, Murphy concentrating on dipping his biscuits in his tea. It had never been this way before; in the past they had so much to say to one another. Now, there seemed to be nothing.
‘I saw the news. You got the Uni Ripper,’ Sarah said, breaking the silence, forming quote marks with her fingers around the words ‘Uni Ripper’.
Murphy winced at the name. ‘Yeah, but we don’t really call him that at the station.’
‘Sorry. Did he own up to it?’
Murphy sighed, sitting back in the chair … his chair … sipped on his tea, which seemed to be more biscuit than liquid after five or six dips. ‘Yeah,’ he said finally. ‘It was hard, he’s very clever, didn’t leave us anything to go on. We got lucky in the end really.’
She set her cup back down on the table. ‘Was this the first one since … since then?’
‘Yes,’ Murphy said without emotion. ‘They’ve been keeping me away from these sorts of cases. Turns out this one wasn’t as straightforward as they thought it was going to be. Not an ease your way back in kind of case.’
‘How has it been?’
‘You know. It’s difficult sometimes, but I’m getting through it.’ Murphy found the lie easy to articulate. ‘How have you been?’
Sarah’s voice dropped along with her head, her chin tucking into her chest. ‘In limbo, David. Waiting for you.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t have,’ he replied, more severely than he’d meant it to sound.
She snapped her head back up at him. ‘What was I supposed to do, move on, forget about my husband? I couldn’t just do that, David. Is that what you’ve done?’
‘Of course not,’ Murphy said, beginning to regret going there. ‘It’s just, I don’t think anything has changed.’
Sarah pulled strands of her hair forward and began sucking on them. Murphy recognised the movement, her nervous energy breaking out into familiar self-comforting measures. Murphy sat forward, wanting to be away from there. Anywhere else but sitting with someone he once felt so deeply for.
‘You still blame me,’ Sarah said, her voice barely audible.
‘It’s not that. I just can’t do this yet.’
‘It’s been almost a year. If you were going to be able to, don’t you think you’d be there by now?’
Murphy stood up, paced the floor of the living room in front of the fireplace. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say, Sarah.’
‘What about me? Have you thought about me at all? Or can you just not admit to me you think it’s over? That it’s my fault they died.’
‘I can’t do this.’
Sarah crossed the room, banging into the coffee table as she moved quickly, but not missing a step. She came up to Murphy, causing him to take a step back. ‘We’re already doing it, David. You’re here, so why not get it off your chest? It’s my fault, it was because of me, because of where I’d come from. I’m the reason they’re dead. Admit that’s what you think.’
Murphy turned away, his fists clenched, biting his lip. ‘It’s not like that.’
‘Then what is it like?’
‘If I hadn’t met you I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you and they’d still be alive. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.’ He turned back around, feeling the tears falling down his face. Sarah’s lips were trembling.
‘Get out.’
‘What?’
‘I said get out of here. I don’t want you around.’
Murphy felt a flicker of saliva hit his face, as Sarah shouted at him. ‘Wait. I want to talk to you, I need to talk to you.’
‘You wished you’d never met me?’ Murphy reached out a hand to touch her arm. ‘No … no. I don’t want to hear it.’ She shrugged off his hand, stepping back and crossing her arms. ‘That’s enough. Please, just leave.’
‘I’m sorry, Sarah. I didn’t mean it that way.’
‘Of course you did. If we hadn’t got together, your mum and dad would still be alive. It’s true. It’s my fault I was with him before us. That I didn’t see it coming.’
‘How were you supposed to know? I should have seen what he was capable of.’
‘Because he gave me a few beatings? That’s ridiculous, David. I knew what he was like. You didn’t. How could you know?’
Murphy sat down heavily on the chair. ‘That’s my job, Sarah. I’m supposed to see these things coming. I didn’t, and now they’re dead.’
‘He was still obsessed with me,’ Sarah said, kneeling down next to Murphy. ‘I thought he’d get the hint that I’d moved on. But he just kept coming around and I should have told you that.’
‘It doesn’t matter now. It’s done.’
‘It does matter. We’re never going to move on with our lives if we never talk about it.’
Murphy sighed, rubbed at his beard. ‘What is talking about it going to change?’
Sarah placed a hand on Murphy’s knee. ‘It’s a first step. Don’t you still love me?’
Murphy stared into Sarah’s eyes, feeling the same way he always had. He loved her, he just couldn’t look at her face after it had happened. See his own guilt reflecting back at him. He reached over, stroked her face. She closed her eyes, nestling into his palm. He leaned forward, his lips parted.
It was soft, at first, then it became more urgent. He needed her. He gripped her tightly, hands over her back, in her hair.
Murphy pulled away. ‘Wait. There’s something I want to say.’
She looked at him, head tilted, her upper lip and cheek already turning red from his beard rubbing against her. ‘What?’
‘It’s my problem. I’m going to talk to someone. Not the shitty counsellor they want me to see at work, someone who I think can help me.’
‘Okay. I think that’s for the best. Now, let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.’
Murphy smiled. ‘That sounds great.’
43
Friday 15th February
2013 – Day Twenty
Rossi grumbled to herself as Stephens spoke to them in her office. A sweat-stained Brannon beamed beside her.
Bet he couldn’t believe his luck.
He’d take the credit for this. She knew it. The man who finalised the interview with Tom Davies. He’d be promoted off the back of it, no doubt.
Testa Di Cazzo.
She’d been trying to call Murphy since what had happened the previous day. He hadn’t answered. Probably sulking.
She thought of the posh boy at the university. Wondered how long she should give it before ringing him. Another day maybe.
‘Now, he’s had overnight to calm down, and hopefully he’s going to keep quiet about what happened with Murphy. All I want you two to do is finish off the statement and that’s it. Okay?’
Brannon got in before her. ‘No problem. I’ll make sure it’s sorted.’
They didn’t switch on the recorder at first. They waited.
‘About yesterday Tom, you understand you goaded detective Murphy into doing what he did?’ Brannon said, leaning over the desk. His shirt tail was hanging out the back of his trousers. It was a mass of creases. Rossi shifted her gaze.
‘Oh yes. Don’t worry, it’ll be our little secret,’ Tom replied, a smile on his face that turned Rossi’s stomach.
‘We just want to get your entire statement down, okay, Tom?’
‘Certainly.’
Rossi switched on the recorder, and began writing up Tom’s statement. Listening as he talked about each murder again, in flat tones, precise. Listing everything he’d done.
She wouldn’t forget this for a long time. It was going to be a week of Mamma Rossi’s food before she even went to her own home again.
‘Well, thanks for that, Tom. The next bit is obviously a formality. It seems you’re aware
of how this goes.’ Brannon looked down at his notes and cleared his throat. Rossi rolled her eyes. ‘Thomas Davies, you are being charged with the murder of Donna McMahon, Stephanie Dunning … erm …’ he checked his notes, ‘Colin Woodland and Robert Barker. Do you understand those charges?’
‘Yes. Can I say something else?’
‘Of course, Tom.’
‘I want to tell you about Experiment Two. I think it’s only right that I do.’
Brannon sat up in his chair. ‘Yes, yes of course.’
‘There’s a house in Aintree. On Lancing Drive. It was my aunt’s house, but she moved into a nursing home a couple of years back. I’ve been renting it out. I made use of the tenant. You’ll find number two in there.’
‘Who is it Tom?’ Rossi asked.
‘You’ll see.’
Rossi had to summon all the strength she had not to take Brannon’s egg-stained tie off from his neck and shove it down his crowing mouth. He was holding court in the incident room, boasting how his softly, softly approach had meant he’d finally got some more information from Tom Davies.
‘It’s all about knowing them, how they work,’ he said, as Rossi checked the drawers of her desk for something to eat.
‘You’ve got to know what you’re dealing with. It’s all psychology, you know.’
She found half a Bounty at the back of the middle drawer and shoved it in her mouth. It was soft, the coconut tasting a bit funny, but it stopped her from shouting out.
Her phone rang on her desk.
‘Rossi.’
‘It’s me.’
She leaned forward, swallowed the chocolate down. ‘I’ve been trying to call you. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ Murphy replied. ‘Listen, I want you to get an address for me.’
‘Okay.’
‘You need to keep this quiet though.’
‘Sure, no problem.’ She listened as Murphy gave her a name and she pulled up the information on her computer. ‘Why do you need that?’
‘I think he can help me.’
‘Good thinking.’
‘I’m guessing Brannon finished off the interview with you?.’
Rossi looked up. Brannon was still holding court. ‘Yeah. Soft shite thinks he’s cracked the case. Tom told us where we could find number two.’