DEAD GONE

by Luca Veste

  Rob was dead. She finally accepted all she had heard down there.

  She could hear gasping from below. She turned away from it.

  It was too late. She had to leave.

  Then she saw the cane leaning against the doorway. Heavy.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  He was going. Fading.

  He never got the chance. To fix things. To make up for what he did to Sarah.

  Murphy’s foot moved. Reflex.

  Jemma Barnes really had been down there, a whole year. He couldn’t imagine it. He was almost thankful for the fact the professor was ending it this quickly for him.

  Then, he heard a loud crash and both hands, the one over his mouth, the other over his nose, went slack.

  He sucked in air, as the professor slumped over him.

  Murphy looked up, someone standing, holding the professor’s cane to her side, panting heavily.

  Jemma looked down at him, kicked the professor’s limp body away from Murphy.

  Then, the cane came down again, Murphy flinching as he heard skull crunching, something wet sprayed across his face.

  Blood.

  He became aware of screams, Jemma, taking out one year of frustration on what Murphy hoped was a now-lifeless body.

  Let her have it. Let her have her justice.

  He welcomed the darkness as its waves crashed over him.

  She breathed heavily, throwing the cane to one side as she’d finished. It was done. She could leave, escape. In the dim light she could make out the two bodies at her feet. One old man, no longer breathing.

  The other man, lying there, shallow breaths. Eyes closed.

  She didn’t know if he was one of them; she didn’t even know how many were involved. There could be more waiting up the stairs.

  She wrung her hands, pulling on the ends of her short hair, throwing the strands which came away to the floor.

  No more. No more. No more.

  She was talking out loud, without realising.

  Looked at the cane where she’d thrown it to the floor. Back towards the other, still breathing, man.

  Cocked her head to one side. Thinking, thinking, thinking.

  Turned and ran.

  Epilogue

  The rain stopped falling as the clouds parted, allowing a dull sun to shine down. She stepped out of the car, her mum rushing around to the side of the car to lend her a hand. She brushed her off, wanting to do it alone.

  ‘Stay here.’

  She had to do it alone.

  She walked slowly up the path towards the building at the centre. She paused every few steps, pretending to read gravestones as she went, in order to not worry her mum.

  She reached the centre display. The dim sunlight glinting off the gold plaques for those cremated instead of buried.

  She walked slowly, looking at each one in turn.

  She knelt down when she found the one she was looking for.

  ‘Hi, Rob, it’s me. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to visit. I’ve been asking to leave for so long, but they wouldn’t let me go until they were happy with my progress. I’m doing better now, I’m eating properly, I can be out in the daylight again.’ She smiled, it not reaching her eyes.

  ‘I miss you so much, Rob. Towards the end, I started to forget your face. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Rob.’

  She wiped the tears from her eyes.

  ‘I brought you something. I was going to keep it, but this way, I’ll always have a reason to come here.’

  She dug into the earth behind the stone, making a small hole. She put her hand in her coat pocket, removing the bracelet. She traced a finger round the dolphin charm. She took out a small plastic pouch and placed the bracelet inside, sealing it closed.

  ‘I can’t wear this without you around. So I’m leaving it here for you to look after for me, okay?’

  She dropped the bracelet into the small hole, moving the soil back over the top of it.

  ‘He took you away from me, Rob, but there’s something he can’t take.’

  She traced a finger around his name on the plaque, the letters raised in black. Rob had been cremated, she’d been told. A plaque on a stone structure filled with grass and flowers in the warmer months, rather than a grave to visit.

  ‘You taught me not to run. You showed me there was a place for me here. I’ll never forget that.’ She touched her fingers to her lips and then to the plaque.

  ‘I love you.’

  She stood up, dull pain in her legs, less sharp than it once was, getting better every day.

  She walked back to the waiting car, the smell of damp, recently cut grass heavy around her.

  Jemma reached the car, noting the concern on her mum’s face. She pulled her into an embrace, tucking her head into her mum’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m okay, Mum, really.’

  Jemma broke the clinch, wiping her eyes again. She saw him, standing with folded arms about a hundred yards away. His size gave him away.

  She walked towards him, meeting him halfway as he did the same.

  Uncomfortable silence. She broke it.

  ‘You don’t have to say it.’

  ‘I think I do.’

  She smiled softly. ‘If you hadn’t turned up, I wouldn’t have been able to get out.’

  ‘And if you hadn’t come back, I’d be dead.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good thanks. Broken arm and a couple of broken ribs. Don’t think my back will be right for a while. Good job I had all this weight to cushion the fall. You?’

  ‘Can’t complain. It’ll be a while before I’m back out in town, but little steps and that.’

  ‘You need anything, you contact me. Any time.’

  He handed her a card. She pocketed it without a word.

  They looked at each other. Something passed between them. He withdrew a hand from his pocket, placed it on her shoulder. Gave a soft squeeze.

  She smiled more strongly at him. Then turned back towards her mum.

  She reached the car. Her mum raised her eyebrows. Jemma responded by pulling her into an embrace, hugging her tightly.

  She broke it off, wiping her face. ‘Okay. I’m ready.’

  Murphy leaned forward, shifting the phone to his other ear as he grabbed his coffee from the centre console. Only one a day now, otherwise he’d be up late. He was sleeping better, and didn’t want to disturb that.

  ‘Sad. At least they’ll get closure now. The families I mean.’

  ‘True. We’re still checking on his movements though, see if there are any more possible victims. I think he’s been doing this for a long time.’

  ‘How is she doing?’

  ‘About as well as can be expected. It’s going to take a long time for her to be normal again, if ever. A year, Jess. Can you imagine it?’

  ‘I’d rather not, Bear.’ Jess paused. ‘How are things going?’

  ‘Can’t complain. Start back soon. Once I’m out of this sling. Looking forward to it.’

  Jess laughed. ‘It won’t last. Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes. Bring it on. Like the kids would say.’

  Jess snorted. ‘No kids say that. Not for years.’

  Murphy rolled his eyes. ‘I was being sarcastic.’

  ‘Course you were.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  Jess sighed. ‘I’m already being shunted out of the way for her again. I knew this would happen.’

  Murphy laughed. ‘Of course not. Just, I wouldn’t make the trip over any time soon. And maybe ring ahead from now on?’

  Murphy sat on Rossi’s car bonnet, placing his phone back in his pocket. The rain began to fall gently, as they watched Jemma leave.

  Rossi stood off to his side, her face creased into a frown.

  Murphy looked up at Laura. ‘How has she been … really?’

  Rossi sighed. ‘Malnourished, light sensitive, confused, disorientated. As well as can be expected. It’s going to take a lot longer than a week or so before she’s bac
k to normal. She’ll be going through counselling for years probably.’

  Murphy looked away towards the cemetery, pleased to feel its hold over him not as strong as before. ‘How much do you reckon he was worth?’

  ‘As in money?’

  Murphy nodded.

  ‘Good few million I reckon. Lot of it will be tied up in property. Why?’

  Murphy turned back to Rossi, ‘just makes you think doesn’t it? You can be screwed up, no matter what your background.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get there in time. She shouldn’t have had to do that.’

  ‘I think she’ll be all right.’ No charges were going to be filed against her. Murphy had put in a word. Embellished the life or death situation in her favour a little.

  ‘Hmm. I keep thinking, why?’ Rossi continued.

  ‘Who knows,’ Murphy replied. ‘Maybe he’s a tortured genius. Wanting to use humans for experimentation. Wasn’t that long ago people accepted it. Or maybe he was just a nutcase. Not our job to analyse. We solved it all, end of story for us.’

  Rossi came around and sat next to Murphy. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m good. Much better now. This is a new beginning, Laura. Me and you, we’re going to do some good work together.’

  He looked towards her, smiling as he saw her expression relax. ‘Did you ring that bloke from the university?’

  Rossi turned away from him. ‘Early days. Think he might be a bit too posh for me.’

  ‘Give it a chance, Laura. He seemed alright to me.’

  She nodded, standing up off the bonnet. ‘Want me to drive you over the water? I don’t mind. Even if it is technically woollyback country,’ she said, smiling.

  Murphy scratched at his beard. Looked to the sky, letting the rain hit his face a little more.

  ‘No. It’s okay. I’m not going there,’ Murphy replied. ‘I’m going home.’

  Luca Veste talks serial killers

  There’s something about the serial killer – that rare breed in reality which nevertheless has filled the pages of many crime novels in the past thirty years – which has captivated crime fiction readers. Even going back as far as Agatha Christie, the serial killer has stalked the pages of many a thriller or police procedural, utilising numerous methods and reasons for their murderous intentions. However, how do our favourite fictional serial killers measure up to the reality? And what’s really under the surface of the modern serial killer?

  The popularisation of serial killers within modern crime fiction can be traced back to the creation of Hannibal Lecter by Thomas Harris in 1981. Even though serial killers had been utilised in crime fiction previous to this, it was Lecter and his effervescent allure and charisma, combined with his capacity for extreme violence, which captivated so many readers and has led to a plethora of serial killer novels. Much like the case of the real-life serial murderer ‘Jack the Ripper’, and the attempts to unmask his identity, the serial killer has become the story, rather than the victims, with his (or her – however this is much less the case in reality than in fiction) crimes, emotions, reasons, being of more interest than the victims. There’s design, formula, with (invariably) someone in authority pitting their wits against the killer.

  The growing attention given to the murder of multiple victims by a single person, gave rise to the term ‘Serial Killer’, during the late 1960s. The term which is usually attributed as being coined by FBI Agent Robert Ressler, was in fact first used by John Brophy in his 1966 book ‘The Meaning of Murder’. Robert Ressler is however widely credited as being at the forefront of the explosion of concern for the seemingly growing trend of mass murders. It was at that point, profiling of serial killers began to gain some traction; predominately through the work of Ressler and John Douglas and the interviews they carried out with thirty-six mass murderers in various prisons. This in turn led to Holmes and De Burger in 1988, and then further in 1996, classifying serial killers into four different types; namely ‘Visionary’, ‘Mission-Oriented’, ‘Hedonistic’, and ‘Power/Control Oriented’. Each type has certain characteristics which mark them out as different to each other. The Visionary type, is one who commits their crimes whilst being told or commanded to do so by voices or visions. The Mission-Oriented type believe they have a certain goal which they must reach, or problem to solve. This could take the form of eliminating a certain group from their surroundings, such as prostitutes or children. Victims are often unknown to the killer in this category. The Hedonistic type, which contains many strands, uses the umbrella term to describe a killer who commits their crimes for pleasure. Lastly, the power/control oriented killer type shares many aspects of the hedonistic killer. However the difference is at the epicentre of their motives, which is to exert complete control or power over another human being. The act of murder provides the finality of a series of acts all providing pleasure to this type of killer.

  Back to the release of Thomas Harris’s ‘Red Dragon’, this epitomised the growing public interest/concern into serial murderers. The novel was released at just the right time, capturing the imagination of the public in a much similar way as Jack the Ripper had done over ninety years previous. Of course the difference here is one is fictional and one is not. Does the mythologising of the Jack the Ripper case say something about how a public interest in murder, and in particular the randomness of some serial murders, manifests itself in the fiction they read? In British crime fiction, from the excellent creation of ‘Stuart Nicklin’ in Mark Billingham’s ‘Scaredy Cat’ and ‘Death Message’ to Val McDermid’s ‘Jacko Vance’ the most popular serial killer creations have their basis on the 1980s classification. However, over time more strands have been explored within the serial killer novel. When done well, this can work, with the likes of Dexter Morgan from the Jeff Lindsay novels and his ‘code’ – only killing those who have done wrong – and also, with writers such as Lauren Beukes, Steve Mosby, and John Connolly utilising other genres in their work. There’s also characters such as Lee Child’s ‘Reacher’, who is for all intents and purposes a serial killer, but is never treated as such by readers in the main.

  The appetite for serial killer novels is arguably rooted in a deeper sense of security in the fictional. It’s long been suggested that readers use fiction to live out their own fears vicariously, knowing in the vast majority of cases the ‘hero’ will prosper. The motivating factors of fictional serial killers are laid bare, in a final act of good vs evil, before all is made right in the world. Most are often resolved to a satisfactory conclusion, providing a sense of balance to what is often not the case in reality, with serial killers often not providing explanations for their actions leaving psychologists and criminologists to provide answers based on the best evidence available. For example, the most prolific serial murderer in the UK is Harold Shipman, with over two hundred victims linked to him. However, was Shipman a power/control orientated type, or did he murder for financial gain (which would place him in the hedonistic type), or did he hear voices, such as a visionary type would? It’s impossible to know. Do our fictional serial killers ever match up to the nightmare of the very real serial killers of Henry Lee Lucas, John Wayne Gacy, or Dennis Nilsen? Or is there protection found between the pages of a novel – the reader safe in the knowledge that it will probably never happen to them …?

  Acknowledgements

  Without the support of so many, this book would not have been possible. I owe my eternal gratitude and thanks to the following people.

  To Eva, Nick, and Helen, who were always just an email or phone call away, and consistently provided excellent advice and guidance. Similarly, Steve, Stav, and Neil, who inspired much of what appears between these pages. Charlie Williams, who dared me to write a story and then told me to keep going. To early readers Vicky Newham and Linda Moore, who afforded their time to me and were a great help.

  Thank you to my agent Philip Patterson, who changed my life (and this book) with one conversation, and has continued to give unwavering support since then.
Also to Isabella and Luke at Marjacq for all their hard work. My incredible editor at Avon, Sammia Rafique, who has gone above and beyond my wildest expectations with her drive and tenacity for the book. Thanks also to Keshini Naidoo, and everyone at Avon and HarperCollins.

  To SallyAnn and John and Gina Kirkham, for all the policing advice. All mistakes are my own, and probably intentional. To all the writers who contributed to the various charity anthologies I’ve been involved with, and also all those who have given their support via Facebook and Twitter. Col Bury who published my very first short story – who says scousers and mancs can’t get along?

  My family, who have constantly been a source of both support and inspiration. My parents Alan and Tracy Veste, Sue Kirkham and John Brisk, and Carole and Alan Woodland (it was a group effort). My grandparents, and all eight of my brothers and sisters (I’ll name you all in the next book!). Perry and Cath Hale, Mike and Jemma, Peter and Izzybella Veste.

  Finally to my wife Emma, who has been ridiculously supportive of me, ti amo bella, and to Abigail and Megan, who put up with daddy’s grumpy moods in the morning, following late night writing.

  About the Author

  Luca Veste is a writer of Italian and Scouse heritage, currently living on the wrong side of the River Mersey. He is married with two young daughters, and is himself one of nine children.

  He is currently a mature student, studying Psychology and Criminology in Liverpool.

  He is the editor of the Spinetingler Award nominated charity anthology series Off The Record, which raises money for children’s literacy charities. He also has short stories in numerous publications.

  A former civil servant, actor, and musician, he now divides his time between home life, University work and writing.

  To find out more about Luca visit his website www.lucaveste.com or find him on both Facebook and Twitter @lucaveste.

  Copyright

  Published by Avon, an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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