by Luca Veste
Rossi finished talking to a uniformed constable and walked back towards Murphy. ‘Well?’ he said as she reached him.
‘Two twelve-year-old lads found him. They were walking through the park to school and spotted him. Thought it was a tramp at first, but looking closer they saw his face and realised he wasn’t breathing. They pegged it, right into the vicar, or whatever they call them, who was arriving for the day. He was the one who called it in.’
‘They notice anything?’
‘They’re a bit shaken up, but adamant they didn’t see anything else. They walk past here every day apparently.’
Murphy finished snapping on a pair of latex gloves, his faded black shoes similarly covered, and bent down to look at the body closer up, wincing as he looked at the victim’s face.
‘How old do you reckon?’ Rossi said from above him.
‘Not sure. Can’t really tell with these kinds of injuries to his face. All these kids look much older than we ever did at that age.’
‘That’s probably just us getting old.’
Murphy grunted in reply and went back to studying the face of the male lying prostrate on the ground. A thick band of purplish red around his neck drew his attention.
‘Fiver says it’s strangulation.’
‘I’m not betting on cause of death, sir.’
Shuffling shoes and shouted orders interrupted Murphy before he could respond. He looked up, trying to effect a look of innocence as Dr Stuart Houghton, the lead pathologist in the city of Liverpool, bounded over. The doctor had grown even larger in the past year, meaning he moved slowly enough for Murphy to pull away from the body before Houghton arrived on the scene.
‘You touched anything?’
‘Morning to you an’ all, Doctor,’ Murphy said, avoiding meeting the doctor’s eyes.
‘Yeah, yeah. What have we got here?’
‘I thought you could tell me that.’
A large intake of breath as Houghton got to his haunches. ‘We’ll see.’ He snapped his own pair of gloves on and began examining the body.
‘How long?’ Murphy said after watching Houghton work for a minute or three.
‘Rigour is only just beginning to fade. At least twelve hours, I’d say. Body has been moved here.’ Houghton lifted the man-boy’s eyelids, revealing milky coffee eyes staring past him, the whites surrounding them speckled with burst blood vessels. A thin, cloudy film pasted across them.
Murphy stepped to the side as Houghton’s assistant finished erecting the white tent around him. ‘Anything on him?’
Houghton finished fishing around the pockets of the black joggers which the victim was wearing. ‘Nothing at all. Was expecting a psalm or bible quote or something, given where we are.’
Murphy shrugged. ‘Could be nothing religious about it. Something we’ll be looking into, obviously.’ A religious nut or someone with a grudge to bear against the church. Murphy didn’t like the thought of either.
‘He’s been laid here on purpose, in this manner. Almost looks peaceful, just curled up. Like he just came here, lay down and went peacefully. As always, first glance is deceiving. Looks like he was strangled with some kind of ligature. Not before he was quite severely beaten.’ Houghton paused, rolling the torn T-shirt up over the victim’s flat teenaged stomach. Wisps of fine hair tracing a line towards a recessed belly button, barely visible behind angry red markings turning purple and black. ‘Bruises to his abdomen. Some old, some new. This boy was beaten severely before death. I’m guessing four … no, five broken ribs. Pretty sure there’ll be more broken bones to find as well. Also, there’s his face of course.’
‘This has been going on a while then. The older bruises, I mean.’
‘Could be. I’ll have more answers after the PM of course.’
Murphy nodded before beckoning over a forensics tech from the Evidence Recovery Unit – ERU – towards him. ‘Prioritise this one, Doc. The media will be all over us before we know it. Dead teen in suspicious circumstances and outside a church, with these injuries? Easy headlines.’
Houghton sighed at him in response, but before he could give a fuller answer Murphy moved away to meet the ERU tech – a white-suited woman with only her deep green eyes on display before she removed the mask covering the bottom half of her face.
‘Yes?’
‘I want a fingertip search of the whole area of the church. Inside and out. Pathways which run alongside it as well. I’ll see how far we can cordon the place off.’
‘We know the drill. Just make sure none of your uniforms get in the way.’
Murphy attempted a smile, which obviously looked more sardonic than he’d meant, judging by her reaction – a roll of the eyes and a turn away. He was always making friends.
‘Laura?’ Murphy called, Rossi lifting a finger which told him he was to wait whilst she finished talking to Houghton. She’d always got on well with the doctor, annoying Murphy no end. He still wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done in the past to piss off the old bastard, but was now so used to it he wasn’t sure he was all that arsed.
Rossi eventually finished her conversation a few seconds later, straightening up and strolling over to him.
‘What do you want to do first?’
Murphy finished removing the latex gloves, walking away as he did so. Rossi followed him. ‘Interview the priest, vicar, whatever he’s called, first. Then the kids who found the victim. Tell the uniforms to take them back to the station. Inform the parents, get social services to meet us. They might need counselling or whatever.’
‘Okay. Anything else?’
‘Door to doors,’ Murphy replied, looking up towards the main road at the bottom of the gravel drive which led to the church. ‘Although there aren’t that many in the immediate vicinity.’
‘There’s more houses on the other side of the church; Meadow Lane leading into Castlesite Road. Close enough. There’s some flats above the shops on the main road as well.’
‘Okay, good. Make sure the uniforms know this is a murder investigation. I don’t want them thinking it’s just some scally who got in a fight.’
‘Sir?’
‘Call it a gut reaction, Laura. Some of those bruises are old, fading. Signs of abuse. Something’s not right.’
Rossi nodded slowly, writing down the last bit of info in her notebook before looking back at him. ‘That it?’
‘Yeah. I’ll see if the vicar can accommodate us.’
The Farm
Six Months Ago
Goldie was alive, there was that at least. When he’d first been grabbed off the street, beaten until he could barely breathe without feeling the pain all over his body, he’d felt for sure that was it. That he’d pissed off the wrong person once too often and was now going to pay the price. He’d heard stories about the gangsters out there in the city and what they could do to you if they wanted.
He was expecting the end. Tried to work out which dealer he hadn’t paid properly or what he’d promised that he hadn’t delivered, but couldn’t think of a thing.
When he was dragged along the muddy track outside, a sawn-off shotgun pointed at his chest the whole way, Goldie was thinking about all the things he was about to lose.
It amounted to very little.
There was his family, he guessed. What was left of it, anyway. One brother locked up, doing at least fifteen years for manslaughter. Hadn’t seen his dad in years – didn’t much care.
Now there was just him and his mum. And whoever she was seeing at the time, of course.
That was all gone. All he had now was the large room they’d shoved him in, the darkness within masking its real form. He ached from the ride in the back of the van and the beating inside. His breathing was shallow, as the adrenaline he’d been feeling earlier began to wane and he became used to sucking in full lungfuls of oxygen again.
That’s the thing they never showed you on TV. When your mouth is gagged, you have to breathe through your nose. Goldie’s had been broken a few years
before that night, which had left it resembling one of those shit paintings he’d seen in art, by the bloke with one ear or something. Or that other one. Art wasn’t exactly his strongest subject. That earlier injury had left his nose skew-whiff, at an angle. Bone blocking one nostril, so breathing with his mouth closed became difficult after a while.
He waited a few minutes, just kneeling down in the dark, breathing in and out. Wondering why they’d left him there.
‘Hello?’
The voice came from across the room as a whisper, shitting Goldie up big time. He scrabbled back, only being stopped by the solid wall behind him and the pain that resulted from hitting it.
‘Who’s there?’
The voice was a little louder now, more hiss than whisper. Goldie sensed something behind it.
Fear.
He felt the same way.
Goldie stood up, his eyes still adjusting to the pitch black, and began slowly feeling his way forwards. Arms out in front of him, sweeping his legs back and forth.
‘I’m Goldie, mate. Where are you?’
‘Over by my bed.’
Goldie stopped as he heard the reply come from a couple of feet away from him to his left. His eyes were adjusting now, the shape and form of things becoming clearer. He could make out a bed, two in fact, on his left. Mirrored to his right. That was it though. No other furniture.
He could smell piss coming from further away.
‘What’s your name?’ Goldie said, coming to a stop at the bed opposite.
‘Dean. Just got here?’
Goldie nodded, before thinking better of it. ‘Yeah. What’s going on? Why do you keep fuckin’ whispering?’
There was a creak from the bed as Dean moved, Goldie imagined rather than saw.
‘Because they’re out there, listening all the time. You don’t want them to get mad. Believe me.’
Goldie barked a laugh. ‘You’re paranoid, lad.’
He wouldn’t find it funny after a while.
Things were calm for the first few days. They’d drop meals off for the two of them. Dean told him he’d been there for a few weeks at least. Two men had taken him, he thought. He wasn’t sure, as it’d happened fast and he’d been a bit stoned.
Goldie didn’t believe the things he said had been done to him since then.
Light got into the room during the day. Not enough to be comfortable, but at least they could move about without worrying they’d bang into something in the darkness.
Boredom was the problem in the beginning. Goldie decided to fill his time trying to find a way out of there, examining every part of the room.
By the third day he’d given up. There was nothing to find. Every inch was solid, reinforced.
The only way out was through the door which he’d come in.
He began watching them as they dropped off meals. Food in sealed packaging. None of the stuff he was used to eating, proper horrible stuff like tasteless rice and salad. He would have thrown it back, but he was starving after the first day.
Every time they came inside was the same. The door would be unlocked, more than one lock on the outside, Goldie noted, the door swinging open, light rushing in. The eight times it had happened, there’d never been less than three of them. Two of them had either a sawn-off or a bigger gun, like you’d use on Call of Duty. Assault rifle, Goldie reckoned. He’d told Dean that, but not really got anything in response.
‘Dean,’ Goldie had said on day four, whilst they were eating a meal of some kind of mashed potato and meat, ‘we should rush them when they drop the food off.’
‘No …’
‘Hear me out, lad. We could get either side of the door and surprise them. Have them over and then get the fuck out of here.’
‘It won’t work. And then you’d have to go on the rack. Trust me, you don’t want to go on that.’
‘What’s the rack?’ Goldie said, his brow furrowing.
‘You don’t wanna know …’
‘Pretend I do,’ Goldie replied, an edge to his voice. The look on Dean’s face made him pause though. The lad had started sweating, his hands shaking a little … then more.
‘I … I … No. They told me not to say anything.’
‘Like I give a shi—’
‘No,’ Dean’s voice echoed around the room. ‘I’m not saying nothing.’
Goldie considered pushing harder, but Dean was now sitting on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them, silently rocking. Whispering to himself words which Goldie couldn’t hear.
Goldie recognised what just thinking about the rack had caused in Dean.
Terror.
Day five was when it started. Three of them arrived, with Goldie expecting the same process as before. Food dropped off, no questions answered. Any movement met with a point of a weapon.
It was different this time though. No food. Two of them came towards him as the other aimed a rifle at his chest. Strong hands gripped each of his arms and pulled him along.
Helplessness. That’s the effect a bullet can have on you. It wasn’t the gun so much. Not after he’d got used to it being pointed at him. All he could think about was what it contained. Tiny little things that would rip him apart. Kill him in a second.
They led him out of the building he’d begun to get used to, out into the cold winter air of December. He could see his breath as he exhaled, hoping that would continue as the memory of his mouth being gagged came back to him.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, chancing it. Not wanting to talk too much.
There was no response. Goldie measured himself up against the two people in balaclavas holding onto his arms, deciding he could probably take them if needs be.
If he could work out a way of doing it before being hit by a bullet, he’d do it. He didn’t want to turn into Dean back in the room. Scared for his life. Not yet.
He was led back inside another building, a large desk in a room, someone in a black balaclava and a suit sitting behind one side. It wasn’t so much a desk, Goldie thought as he was dumped onto the chair opposite the man, as a long table. A red cloth covered the surface, barely hanging over the edges.
Goldie stared across at the balaclava-suit man, not willing to break eye contact. Two of those who had brought him here left the room, leaving only rifle man and the weird get-up sitting across from him. There was something so odd about the combination of a bally and a pristine suit, which Goldie could tell was no Burton’s Menswear special. Nah, this was money. Made to measure, he thought.
‘Nice suit. Wanna tell me what the fuck you think you’re doing?’
His voice sounded exactly as he wanted it to. Hard as fuck. Don’t-fuck-me-about hard.
‘Be quiet. Learn to speak when spoken to, understand?’
Goldie forgot about the gun being pointed at him for a second. ‘Fuck off. Don’t talk at me like that.’
He heard, rather than saw, the whipcrack as Bally-Suit man raised and struck his face with something. A few seconds of nothing, before the pain cut in.
Stinging, burning. His face on fire, from ear to nose in an almost straight line. Goldie pulled his hand away from his cheek where it’d flown in reaction, looking at it as if it wasn’t his. Blood, thin lines of red. Broken skin, broken face.
Burning.
‘This is something my dad gave me. He no longer had any need to use it, so passed it down. I only ever got it once, that was enough. I deserved it then as well.’ Bally-Suit man was standing now, his accent softening as he spoke. ‘It’s like a riding whip, what you’d see a jockey using. Only this is worse. Thinner, more pliable.’
Bally-Suit man moved around the table-desk and came close to Goldie as he held his face with one hand, trying to decide if punching this dick now or later would be preferable.
‘You’re going to learn some manners, young man. And learn them quick.’
Goldie took his hand away from where he’d been stroking the burning, turning to face Bally-Suit man. ‘Fuck y
ou,’ he spat.
Bally-Suit man sighed through the covering and shook his head at him.
The crack came again, quicker than Goldie could react. Across the other side of his face. As he went backwards, away from the pain, Bally-Suit man kicked at his chair, sending him flying. Goldie’s head cracked against the floor, making him dizzy for a second or three before his senses returned, his fists balling and swinging.
Laughter rang back at him as he punched thin air, then pain flared across his thighs as the crack hit there. Then all the wind rushed out of him as a boot flew into his stomach. He tried to get up, one arm across his middle, but a boot on his neck stopped him.
‘Stay down. I don’t want to have to put you on the rack first day.’
Goldie glanced towards the table-desk as the cloth fell from it, revealing something he couldn’t work out. Restraints and wood. In any other setting it would have barely caused a second glance. Seeing it there, Goldie began to breathe quicker, trying to swallow.
Goldie shook his head clear, tried moving again. ‘Am I fuck lying down for you,’ he said, pushing away the boot from his neck.
His voice wasn’t as good as before. The hardness was already going, leaving him, getting the fuck out of there while it still could. If he wasn’t alone, maybe it would have been different; with his boys backing him up, things wouldn’t be the same at all. As it was, Goldie was on his own, and the prick in the bally-suit was standing over him with some whip type of thing that was causing him a lot of pain and he couldn’t even see it coming.
‘You don’t understand, do you?’
‘Understand what?’ Goldie said, pulling himself onto all fours as the man backed away from him.
‘You’re under our control now. You’ll do as we say, or there will be consequences.’