by Luca Veste
Goldie spat out a long drool of saliva onto the floor, eyes widening as he saw the redness of fresh blood mixed in with it. ‘You going to kill me, is that it? What for? I ain’t done nothing to you.’
Bally-Suit man laughed at him. ‘Course you have. You and all your mates. Everyone like you. Young boys with big mouths.’
A boot flew into Goldie’s stomach, flipping him over onto his back and making him cry out in pain before his breath caught.
‘You’re disrespectful, arrogant and nothing but a stain on this city,’ Bally-Suit man said, standing over him. ‘Well, that’s going to start changing. You’re going to start changing. Starting now.’
Goldie closed his eyes to the pain which was beginning to kick in from the beating, as Bally-Suit man crouched down and leant closer.
‘And if we’re not happy with your progress, well … let’s just say you’ll be begging for a little roughing-up like I’ve just given you. I have many ways of making you accept change.’
Goldie opened his eyes, but the man was no longer there. Just the two in balaclavas holding guns as before.
He got up with some help, and allowed himself to be led back to what he would soon call the Dorm.
And hoped it wouldn’t be the last place he could call home.
3
Reverend. Not vicar or priest. The Church of England always confused Murphy. Catholic guilt was much more his forte, forever cursed to carry that around with him. Sister Margaret Mary rapping your knuckles for getting a line wrong in the Stations of the Cross, or a proper beating for anything closely resembling impure thoughts. Every bloke Murphy’s age who had grown up Catholic had the same stories. Thankfully, his parents had grown out of religion before too long. C of E always struck Murphy as more tea and biscuits than the hell and eternal damnation his own church had taught him.
Reverend Andrew Pearson. Wild haired, with a grey, bushy beard and bright blue eyes which seemed to dart in every direction at once. Murphy imagined he was usually much more expressive, but today he was sombre, one hand clasped over the other in his lap as if to restrain himself from making any sudden gestures. With the interior of the church currently out of bounds whilst it was searched for evidence, they had convened in one of the marked police vans which were now at the scene – Murphy and Rossi sitting on one side, facing the reverend.
‘Sorry about the less-than-comfortable surroundings, Reverend,’ Murphy said, already feeling the strain of sitting in a confined space. Being six foot four had its drawbacks. ‘Hopefully this won’t take too long.’
‘Not a problem,’ the reverend replied. Murphy noticed the accent wasn’t local. From outside the city, he guessed.
‘I’m Detective Inspector David Murphy and this is Detective Sergeant Laura Rossi. We just want to ask a few questions about what happened this morning. Okay?’
‘Of course. But I did tell the other officers I don’t know all that much. Just the boys running towards me, looking like they’d had the shock of their young lives. I guess they probably had.’
‘I see. What time was this?’
‘Around half eight. Bit later than I usually arrive to the church, but I was delayed this morning. A few phone calls I had to make regarding an upcoming event. If I’d been on time, those poor boys wouldn’t have had to go through the shock.’
Murphy stretched his legs out slowly. ‘Do you live close by?’
‘Yes, the vicarage is only around the corner.’
‘And you weren’t disturbed overnight? Anything you can remember at all?’
The reverend shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. I went to bed around eleven and slept through until seven. Didn’t hear a sound.’
‘Did you recognise the victim?’ Rossi said after a few seconds of silence.
‘No. We don’t see many teenagers in the congregation, I’m afraid. Especially males. We have a choir, with a healthy number of boys, but once they reach eleven, twelve, thirteen, they seem to find much more interesting things to be doing. We try our best of course, but there’s too much pressure from outside.’
‘I guess,’ Rossi replied, writing in her notebook. ‘Did you enter the church after finding the victim?’
‘Only to use the phone in the office.’
‘Anything out of place?’
The reverend made a show of thinking for a few seconds before answering. ‘Nothing I can think of. It was still locked up and there wasn’t anything obvious to indicate anyone had been in there. I imagine your people will be able to tell if that’s the case or not.’
Murphy nodded, thinking the fingertip search he’d ordered of inside the church might prove to be a waste of time. ‘Better to be safe than sorry.’
‘How long do you think this will take, Inspector? Only we’re supposed to have midweek services this evening.’
Murphy raised an eyebrow at Rossi before turning back to the reverend. ‘Forgive the bluntness, Reverend, but as long as it takes. At the moment, the church is a crime scene, and the most important thing is ensuring that we gather all the evidence we need.’
Reverend Pearson brought his index fingers together and bounced them off his chin, nodding slightly at the answer. ‘Of course. I’m sure the congregation will understand.’
‘Thank you. We’ll keep you up to date with what is happening.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Reverend Pearson replied, bringing his palms down and smacking them onto his knees. ‘I will be praying for the young man and your investigation.’
Murphy shot Rossi a look as she choked back what he hoped sounded like a cough to the reverend, rather than the laugh he knew it was. ‘Yeah, thanks for that. We appreciate any help we receive.’ He took a card from his wallet and handed it over. ‘Just in case you have any further questions.’
‘Not religious then, Laura?’
Murphy was leading them back to where the victim’s body was in the process of being bagged up to be taken to the morgue for the post-mortem. The mood amongst the various technical officers and uniforms was more solemn than usual. Murphy guessed it was the setting, rather than the dead body.
‘Not in the slightest. All a load of rubbish, isn’t it? Cazzata,’ Rossi replied, tying her hair back as she spoke.
‘Thought all Italians were religious?’
‘Probably more so back in the old country, but once they were outside – over here – my parents never bothered. Much to my nonna’s delight of course.’
Murphy snorted. ‘Well, let’s hope this isn’t a religious thing then. Can’t imagine you’d be much use.’
Rossi stopped, placing a hand on Murphy’s arm. The height difference meant she was almost at his wrist, when she was probably aiming for a bicep. ‘No, don’t get me wrong. I might not be religious, but I know my stuff. Religion is fascinating. Especially sociologically speaking. I just don’t believe in the magic man in the sky bit.’
Murphy looked down at her and smiled thinly at the echo of his own thoughts. ‘Probably best to keep your voice down a bit. You’re standing on hallowed ground here,’ he said, motioning towards the church before walking on.
‘Yeah … I’m about to get struck down by God’s wrath any second now,’ Rossi muttered under her breath, just about loud enough for him to hear. He bit on his lip in order to stifle the laughter.
‘You’re not, are you?’ Rossi said, as she caught up with him. ‘Don’t mean to offend, if you are …’
Murphy shook his head. ‘No. Not really. It’d be nice, I suppose, but I think I’ve been doing this too long to believe.’
Rossi looked away, nodding. ‘Anyway,’ she said finally, ‘what next … the kids?’
‘Yes. Have they been taken to the station?’
Rossi looked around and beckoned someone in uniform over. ‘I’ll just check.’
Murphy left her to it, turning to watch as the tent cover surrounding the body was pulled back and the trolley which would transport it to either a van or ambulance was taken closer to the scene. The victim was no
w completely covered in black for its first step in the journey of a murder investigation.
Well, almost its first step. What happened to the boy before it had arrived here was the beginning, really.
‘The lads are at the station. Parents are meeting us there,’ Rossi said, appearing at his side. ‘But, more importantly, we’ve got a name for the victim.’
‘That was quick,’ Murphy replied. ‘Thought they didn’t find anything on the body?’
Rossi shook her head, grinning slightly. ‘Didn’t need to. A uniform recognised him. Reckons he’s had a few dealings with him in the past.’ She pointed to an officer who was sitting on the small outer wall on the perimeter of the church. ‘PC Michael Hale.’
‘I’ve seen him before somewhere,’ Murphy said, walking towards PC Hale, Rossi in step next to him.
‘Same here. Can’t place him though. Probably some other scene.’
‘Hmmm. Possibly.’
They reached the PC, who broke off from speaking to another officer to greet them
‘Sorry about that,’ PC Hale said, once the officer had left.
‘It’s no problem,’ Murphy said, looking Hale up and down. ‘I’ve been told you know the victim?’
‘Yeah,’ PC Hale said, stroking a leather-gloved hand over his face. Three-day stubble, intentionally shaped and clipped. ‘Had the pleasure of his company over the years. If you know what I mean …’
Murphy waited, the silence growing between the three of them until Rossi filled it.
‘Well? What are you waiting for?’
‘Oh, sorry. His name is Dean Hughes. Lives over in Norris Green. Part of the crew there. Always in trouble for something or other. Those gangs are the bane of our lives – in uniform, you know. One of the reasons I’m trying to move over to work with you guys.’
‘Right,’ Murphy said, trying to decide on his first impression and finding it wasn’t good. ‘And you can tell, even with what’s happened to his face?’
PC Hale nodded. ‘I’ve seen him at his worst, after fights and that. It’s definitely him.’
‘So, how old is he?’
‘Think he’s eighteen now. Not sure. Haven’t seen him around for a while, so thought he’d either been banged up without me knowing, or got some girl pregnant and was trying to go straight. Never happens though.’
‘What doesn’t?’
‘Going straight. Those types … they’re always up to something. Can’t help themselves. Doing normal stuff just doesn’t come natural. Waking up early, going to work, doing an honest job … they can’t handle it. Rather sit at home on their arses and go on the rob at night. Looks like someone might have done us a favour here, if you ask me.’
Murphy knew the sort PC Hale was referring to – even had some sympathy for the bitterness which had crept into Hale from years of dealing with this type – but he still decided his first impression was right. Hale was a prick. ‘Is that what your dealings with Dean were mainly about … robbing, that sort of thing?’ Murphy said, aware of Rossi bridling beside him.
‘All sorts, really. Street robbery, violence, drink, drugs …’
‘Drugs?’ Rossi interjected, just as Murphy was taking a breath.
‘Yeah, only a bit of weed and that. Nothing major. I’m sure you’ll see his record soon enough, but I imagine it wasn’t just me who was picking him up most weekends. Proper little scrote. Used to take him home to his mum and she’d be just as bad. More pissed off with us than the little shit we’d took home for her. The state of that house as well … Jesus. Five kids, probably five different dads, I reckon. None sticking around for more than the two minutes it took to get her up the duff. You know the type. What do these people expect if that’s how they’re brought up?’
Murphy couldn’t help but glower at Hale a little. ‘Well thanks for the speech, PC Hale. Good to know a bit of background about the victim … you know, the dead teenager?’
Hale focussed past Murphy and Rossi at the church behind them. Murphy followed his gaze. ‘Yeah,’ Hale said eventually, ‘no problem.’
‘Let’s go,’ Rossi said, pulling once on Murphy’s arm before walking away. ‘I can’t hear any more merda right now.’
Murphy said goodbye for both of them and turned towards the church entrance where they’d parked up earlier, and walked quickly to catch up to Rossi. Heard PC Hale ask a fellow uniformed officer what merda might mean, and smiled in spite of himself.
‘You sorted here?’ Murphy said, as he reached his car – Rossi leaning against the passenger door, waiting.
‘Of course.’
‘Let’s get back then. See what these kids have to say and then make plans.’
4
The car journey back to the station was silent, broken only with long sighs from Rossi who sat beside Murphy. The four miles back to the city centre should have taken fifteen minutes but was taking much longer due to traffic going back into town.
‘Okay. I give in,’ Murphy said, as they stopped at yet another set of traffic lights. ‘What’s up with you today?’
Another sigh. ‘Nothing.’
‘I know that means something. Come on, open up. You’ve been in a frigging foul mood all morning. I haven’t heard this much swearing in a foreign language since I last went to an away match in Europe.’
‘Just family stuff.’
Ah, Murphy thought, should have guessed. ‘Which is it this time … job, love life?’
‘The second one, nicely tied with the first this time around. Wanting to know why I haven’t settled down yet. They’ve started blaming the job.’
‘Surely you’re used to it by now?’
Rossi examined a nail and started biting it. ‘You’d think, but no. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’
Murphy sneaked a glance, seeing Rossi with another finger in her mouth. ‘I’m sure they’ll ease off a bit eventually. But I bet it doesn’t help that all your brothers are settling down now.’
‘Not all of them. Vincenzo still refuses to move in with that girl he got pregnant. And I’m pretty certain Sonny is seeing someone behind his wife’s back. Apart from that though, they’re all diamonds in my ma’s eyes. Just me who’s the disappointment.’
Murphy opened his mouth to answer, but Rossi cut him off.
‘Never mind. I can’t be arsed talking about it. Let’s forget it. I’ll try and be a bit nicer.’
A car beeped behind them as the traffic picked up pace ahead. Murphy released the handbrake again, beating the traffic lights this time and finally picking up some speed down the West Derby Road. Housing estates on one side of the A road, an endless array of shops on the opposite. Betting shops, Greggs, takeaways and those new clothes places he’d suddenly seen popping up everywhere a couple of years back. Sell your old clothes for sixty pence a kilo. Minutes up the road from the middle-class suburbs in the outskirts of the city and the differences could be seen everywhere.
Murphy didn’t like to ponder too much on the endless paradoxes of his home city. Enough to send anyone mad. How could the well-off and the poor be so close together? It didn’t make any kind of sense to him. He just assumed it was the same all over the country – probably more so in these post-recession times – and tried to get on with his life.
‘What’s the plan then?’ Rossi said, interrupting his thoughts.
‘Confirm the ID of the victim, interview the kids who found him, then go from there,’ Murphy replied, spying the Radio City tower in the distance – the signal that he was almost in town and would be at the station before long. ‘You know, the usual.’
‘I almost hope we’re done by the end of the day. I know we’ve not been busy, but I could do without a murder investigation.’
‘Couldn’t we all,’ Murphy replied.
‘Just let me know if it starts getting to you. We haven’t had one since … well, you know.’
Murphy didn’t answer straight away, but his thoughts instantly went back to the scene at his parents’ house two years ago. The violen
ce inflicted on them, the death. It was always there, just on the surface of his memory, the slightest trigger bringing it forth again. Breath going shallow as he fought to keep the emotions down, determined not to slip into the same situation he had found himself in the year before. Lead detective on the biggest murder case his division had seen in years – a serial killer at that – but he’d been toyed with and manipulated. Mentally and physically.
‘Sir … you still with me?’
Murphy blinked back the images and looked out the windscreen towards the slowing traffic in front of him.
‘Yeah … I’m fine. Just … doesn’t take much, Laura.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’m sound. This is nothing like the last one.’
And it wasn’t. Not yet.
Murphy held his phone in one hand, comparing it to the photo which was staring back at him from the computer screen. ‘I can’t really tell,’ he said, squinting and moving the phone around to try and see better, ‘this phone keeps going dark.’
Rossi leant across the desk. ‘Give it here, will you.’
Murphy allowed her to snatch the phone out of his hands. One day he’d learn how these things worked, but for now he was happy to let others do it for him. ‘All right, you do it then.’
‘See,’ Rossi said, flashing the phone in his face before going back to studying it again, ‘here’s your problem. You’ve turned off autorotate. And you have to keep your finger on the screen to keep it backlit.’
A lot of words which meant pretty much fuck all to Murphy. ‘Of course,’ he replied.
‘What do you reckon?’
Murphy nodded. Rossi had managed to enlarge the photo of the victim, which had been sent to his mobile a few minutes earlier, so that it fit the screen. ‘Obviously can’t be sure, but certainly looks like him.’
A photo of Dean Hughes filled his computer monitor. A mugshot taken during his last arrest. ‘This is eight months old, but I’m almost sure it’s him. Look at the scar above the eyebrow.’