by Luca Veste
It took the constables an hour or two to identify the most prominent posters and bring them in. Interviewing had been split up. All of them were told they didn’t have to be there and they weren’t in trouble for now. Not that it made any difference to most of their attitudes. All teenagers, therefore sullenness was an Olympic event for them. The spark in their eyes already dulled. The cliché of the slighted teenager, being forced to do something they didn’t really want to, being broadcast in each interview room.
Murphy guessed from the looks on the faces of those doing the interviewing, as they made their way out of each room, they weren’t making much breakthrough.
‘Still nothing?’
Murphy turned towards Rossi and shook his head. ‘Even if anyone knows something, chances are they won’t tell us. We’ve got no … what’s the word?’
‘Leverage.’
‘That’s the one. They know they’re not in any danger of being charged with something, so they’re not going to tell us sod all.’
Rossi smirked. ‘Keeping the spirits high. I like it.’
Murphy was interrupted from responding by a wave from DC Harris who had poked his head out of Interview Room Three. Murphy winked at Rossi and walked over towards him, stepping back as the DC closed the door behind him.
‘What have we got?’
‘Lucy Yates. Sixteen years old. Reckons she knows something about the youth club the victim was attending.’
Murphy frowned. ‘We’ve already been down there. What’s she saying?’
‘Nothing yet. Just … intimating. I think she knows more than she’s letting on. Thought you might want a crack at her?’
Murphy sighed, looked towards Rossi who just raised her eyebrows in response. ‘Nothing I like more than talking to non-responsive teenage girls.’
Lucy Yates was almost an exact copy of Amanda Williams, the girl Dean Hughes had last been seen with. Long, platinum-blonde dyed hair, drawn-on eyebrows and immaculately painted fingernails. The pinched look on her face as she fiddled with a pen was more pronounced on Lucy, however. The pen banged against the table as she began to drum out a tune.
‘Hello Lucy, I’m Detective Inspector David Murphy, this is Detective Sergeant Laura Rossi.’
Lucy’s eyes flitted across at Rossi, instantly sizing her up, lingering on her for a second before dismissing her. She rested her gaze on Murphy. ‘I told the other bloke everything.’
‘Good. That’s helpful. We just have a few more questions, that’s all. You don’t mind, do you? You haven’t got anywhere to be or anything?’
Lucy made a show of checking her mobile phone, before shrugging her shoulders and dropping the pen. ‘Suppose I’ve got a bit more time.’
‘Good,’ Murphy replied. ‘DC Harris was telling me you knew Dean from the youth club.’
‘Only a bit. I don’t go there any more.’
‘But you did?’
‘Yeah, but not much. It was boring.’
‘Right.’ Murphy shifted in his chair. ‘Is that the only place you saw him?’
Lucy flicked her hair forward over her shoulder and began playing with a few strands. ‘Saw him around and that, but didn’t really know him.’
Rossi leant forward. ‘Why did you stop going to the youth club, Lucy?’
Lucy shrugged in response. Her voice lowered. ‘Just said.’
‘It was boring?’
Lucy nodded.
Murphy looked towards Rossi, before turning back. ‘What are the people who run it like?’
‘All right, I suppose.’
Murphy felt something then. A weight in the room. ‘Just all right?’
‘All those types are a bit weird, aren’t they?’
‘What types?’ Murphy replied.
‘Wanting to help people for no reason. Has to be something in it for them.’
Murphy waited a second or two to reply. ‘Lucy. It’s really important that if you think something was going on there, something which you maybe think is related to Dean, that you tell us. Okay?’
Silence filled the room for a few seconds. ‘Nothing dodgy,’ Lucy replied, just as Murphy was about to say something more. ‘It was just a weird feeling you’d get sometimes.’
‘A weird feeling?’ Rossi said, writing in her notebook.
‘Yeah,’ Lucy said, the sarcasm returning. ‘I can’t really describe it. That’s why I didn’t say anything before. It’s just in some of the things that were said and that. Like, about us.’
‘Us?’
‘Yeah, by the people there, like. They’d do like … what are them things called they do in big halls and that, when they talk at you for ages?’
Murphy pursed his lips. ‘A lecture, you mean?’
Lucy bobbed her head up and down, leaning forward now. ‘Yeah, yeah. One of them. They’d get everyone together and start, like, doing religious stuff, but without the god and that.’
‘A sermon …’ Rossi murmured.
‘And they’d just go on and on about kids today and how they’ve never had it that good, and all that kind of thing. It was just weird, because it would come out of nowhere. Some bloke would just show up and start going on and on.’
Murphy’s ears pricked up. ‘Some bloke?’
‘Yeah, he wasn’t there all the time. He’d turn up and just go off on one. We had to sit there and listen to it all.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Dunno.’
‘He never introduced himself?’ Murphy asked.
‘Probably, I just wasn’t listening. I’d switch off as soon as he’d start. It was just weird.’
‘Was he on his own?’
‘He knew the guy in charge, but other than that, he was on his own.’
‘It wasn’t much, but it’s something at least. A guy walks into a youth club and gives a lecture about how kids are today and all that rubbish … wasn’t all that much on its own. Couple it with the fact one of those involved in the youth club is murdered, and it deserves a bit of looking into.’
‘The word is tenuous, David.’
Murphy rubbed a hand across his beard, choosing not to look at DCI Stephens directly. The day was drawing to a close and the only thing they’d got from interviewing a whole bunch of teenagers from across the city was one girl’s weird feelings about a bloke giving a talk in a youth club.
Not exactly the most productive of days.
‘It’s about all we’ve got, other than the possible debt angle – and that’s even more tenuous. We’ll have another word with the bloke who runs the place, see if he’s a bit more forthcoming about this new information.’
DCI Stephens shook her head at him. ‘Fine. But this investigation isn’t exactly proving very fruitful at the moment. We’ve had half the school leavers in Liverpool down here and not exactly pulled up any trees. I need something concrete, or we’re going to have to start answering some very difficult questions. Understood?’
Murphy nodded, already rising from his chair. He turned and left the room without another word, not wanting to give DCI Stephens a chance to admonish him further. He left the main office at a pace, wanting to get back to his own office and the silence which would welcome him.
Opening the door to his office, he was greeted by the sight of DS Brannon sitting at his desk.
‘No such luck …’ Murphy said under his breath.
‘Sorry,’ Brannon said, standing up quickly, ‘nowhere else to sit in here.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Murphy replied, swiping a hand over his seat, scattering crumbs to the floor. ‘Have you been eating in here?’
‘Erm …’
Murphy sighed. ‘Forget it. Need you in here anyway. I’m guessing Laura caught you up on the interview earlier?’
‘Yeah. Gotta say though, don’t think Kevin is the type to hold anything important back from us. It’ll be something or nothing most probably.’
‘Well, still needs looking into,’ Murphy said, fiddling with his chair to get it back to the right p
osition. ‘Get on the phone to Kevin …’
‘Thornhill,’ Rossi said, without looking up from the paperwork she was filling out.
‘Right. Thornhill. Get on the phone to him and find out this guy’s name. I want to know more about what he’s saying to these kids.’
‘Sir,’ Brannon replied, snapping his shoes together and mock-saluting, leaving the office before Murphy had the chance to launch something weighty at his head.
‘Press in half an hour,’ Rossi said, as the door closed behind Brannon.
‘I know,’ Murphy said, loosening his tie.
‘You going to be all right with it?’
It was the elephant in the room for Murphy. After the case the previous year – The Uni Ripper, as the press had so delightfully monikered it – there had been several meetings and courses on press relations. People on the team still hadn’t forgiven him for the monumental waste of time it had proven to be. They all knew the score, nothing had changed. Just some depressed DI taking issue with one of the hacks. Losing his temper during a press conference hadn’t been the best of decisions, but he never thought it would result in them all being made to take part in shitty courses. Something as high profile as the case had turned out to be meant lessons had to be learnt though. So they’d all had to shuffle into the stuffy rooms and be lectured at about the current climate, the twenty-four-hour news agendas, the struggle of the print media to find stories to run.
It wasn’t even Murphy’s fault, really, he thought. One particular little shit on a dying local paper who seemed to have it in for him. That was all.
‘I’ll be fine. Dean’s mum is doing it separately anyway. Heard she’s doing an exclusive with the North West Tonight lot. I’m just doing the statement.’
‘Written it?’
‘I’ll just do the usual.’
The usual was so old hat now, Murphy wondered if anyone really listened to it these days. The platitudes of enquiries continue into the matter and detectives would urge anyone who witnessed this incident or who has any information about it to contact us on … never really giving anyone listening the opportunity to form a salacious story from the limited information.
Not that that would stop anyone.
Murphy stood and left the office, entering the toilets down the corridor. He stopped in front of the mirror, fixing his tie and checking the rest of his appearance. Didn’t want to give off any kind of impression other than smart and in control.
Twenty minutes later, he was outside the entrance to the police station and in front of a few microphones with five or six journalists. He didn’t pause to count, wanting to get it over and done with. Only local by the looks of things, and no sign of the rotund dickhead who Murphy had fallen out with the previous year.
Silver linings and all that.
‘On Friday morning, police were called to a church in West Derby …’ He could only provide information they already had, but repeating it gave the impression the briefing was giving more than it actually was. Something which Murphy had been told actually made a difference.
‘… Enquiries led us to the identity of the victim,’ Murphy continued. ‘Dean Hughes was an eighteen-year-old teenager, much loved and missed by his family.’ He had no idea if that love went further than his mother, but it didn’t hurt to throw something like that in. Pull on the heartstrings a little.
Murphy finished with the usual spiel and took a couple of questions. The bored looks on the faces of those dispatched to cover the briefing told Murphy everything. They’d be lucky to finish out the week anywhere near the front page of the local news, never mind the radio stations. A young lad, from a working-class background … not exactly good copy. Give them a fresh-faced young girl with a good middle-class family behind her and it would have been all over the place. Harsh, but that’s the rub.
‘Can you say if drugs may have played a part in Dean’s death, Inspector?’
‘We’re looking into every possibility at the moment, Alice,’ Murphy replied to the young Liverpool Echo reporter. Murphy had dealt with her a couple of times. Impossibly young but fair was his opinion. That would soon be driven out of her, he imagined.
‘Should the public be worried?’
Murphy kept his face straight. ‘We’d like everyone to remain vigilant, but we don’t think the wider public is in danger, no.’
A voice near the back muttered almost inaudibly but couldn’t help itself from speaking up. ‘I’m sure you said that last year …’
‘That was last year,’ Murphy snapped back. ‘This is different.’ His hands clenched into fists, searching for the face of the man who had spoken.
‘That’s all for now,’ the press officer said, interrupting before Murphy had chance to say anything further. ‘We’d like to reiterate the importance of any information that anyone may have …’
Murphy tuned out as the press liaison officer wrapped things up. The sun was still up, but the sounds of the traffic behind him heading out of the city centre told him the day was drawing to a close. Cars heading towards the Mersey tunnels, over to the Wirral, away from the non-stop nature of town.
Once back inside, the press officer giving him a reassuring nod as if to say well done, no screw-up this time, Murphy loosened his tie once more, riding up the lift alone, trying to work out what the next moves should be.
The lift doors opened and the short trip down the corridor towards the incident room was uninterrupted and quiet.
Too quiet.
Murphy pushed his way through the double doors, expecting to be hit by a cacophony of noise, frowning when stillness greeted him.
Everyone was looking towards someone at the end of the room. He peered over a few heads which were in the way and saw her sitting at a desk that wasn’t her own, holding the phone to her ear. Rossi turned, catching his eye as he looked over, the hand she was holding up for quiet becoming a gesture for him to come towards her.
‘Okay … No, that’s fine … We can send a car for you if that’s better …? It’s important that you do come in though Ian, you understand …? Okay, good …’
Murphy whispered into Brannon’s ear, who was leaning on the desk behind the one Rossi was sitting at. ‘What’s going on?’
‘One of our guys is on the phone. Rossi is talking him through handing himself in.’
Murphy sighed. A breakthrough. Then something jarred at him.
‘One of them? How many are there?’
Rossi turned to him then, first placing a finger to her lips to shush him, then turning it to an open palm.
It took Murphy a few seconds – then he realised.
Five of them. Five.
The Farm
Three Days Ago
Goldie had noticed Dean had started going south after Bootle had been let go a few weeks earlier. Goldie thought it was because Dean assumed that as he was the first one to have arrived in there, he’d be the first one out; Dean had started changing from that moment.
Not that Goldie hadn’t been pissed off himself that they’d let Bootle go. Shocked at first, then just angry. There was also the two new lads to work out at the same time. Mikey, a younger lad from Garston who hadn’t said much. Tyler, another loudmouth Goldie imagined would have to be put in his place before too long.
Dean paced up and down the Dorm more often. Sometimes talking to himself under his breath. Goldie could never work out what he was saying, but none of it sounded good.
That morning, Goldie had tried talking to him for the last time. ‘I’m sure you’ll be out soon, mate. They’re just trying to mess with us a bit. You really think Bootle was being the best out of all of us?’
Dean had stopped at the end of Goldie’s bed where he was sitting up in the middle, legs crossed. ‘It doesn’t matter what we do,’ Dean had replied. ‘They’re going to keep us here forever. I bet he wasn’t even let go, like. We’re just animals to them. I can’t take it any more.’
‘Don’t talk like that. We’re gettin’ out of here, we’ve j
ust gotta be patient.’
Dean had turned away and carried on pacing. Goldie tried speaking to him again, but it was no use. There was no getting through to him after that. All day he was just winding himself up. Goldie was worried. And not just about Dean. When they’d finally taken the bandage off his hand, the skin where his little finger had been was now turning an odd colour. Not healing properly.
The pain had gone now. Just a weird sense of loss every time he used his left hand. Nothing felt the same any more.
That evening was when it happened.
Goldie was being led back to the Dorm, after going first, as usual, that evening. His muscles in agony after the exercises and then the beating, his mind turning over the possibilities of what might happen soon.
Bootle had been let go. Was getting on well, according to Alpha. They had people keeping an eye on him apparently. It was the first time Goldie had heard any of them mention people on the outside who might be involved, and at first hearing, he’d instantly been sceptical. Then he thought about what he’d gone through in the months he’d been there. There was no way they could set something up like this and keep it sustained without outside help, surely? It wouldn’t have shocked him if this was some sort of official programme from the government or something.
He smiled to himself as Omega coughed behind him. Remembered how in his first few days Craig had thought it was some kind of reality show, like on BBC Three or ITV2 or something. Bad Lads’ Bootcamp, he’d called it. Maybe even some kind of Ross Kemp programme for Sky. Bootle reckoned one of his mates was on the gangs show he did, but Goldie had laughed at him, saying the show was full of dickheads who wouldn’t know a proper gang if it came up and bottled them on the street.
It didn’t matter that they’d had guns trained on them from the beginning. Craig thought they were fake. The whole thing was a set-up, he said. To make good telly; to make them out to be worse than they were and fix them.