The Dying Place

by Luca Veste

  He took the last thing he needed. The gold chain, draped over a carriage clock on the mantelpiece. The cross on the end of it, glistening in the low sun.

  It was time to clean up the streets.

  22

  They were in the supposedly nice part of the city. To look at, anyway. The police thought very differently.

  The area of Netherley used to be predominantly farmland, green belt, countryside. Then they started building in the sixties; homes, flats, maisonettes … all for people to move there from other run-down parts of the city. The green faded and became grey and brown. Vermin-infested and crime-ridden. The flats were the worst. Built and pulled down in fifteen or twenty years.

  They looked like a prison. Felt like one, Murphy guessed.

  The eighties came and the flats were demolished, but the people were left behind.

  Murphy stared out the window as they passed a group of young lads, openly drinking from cans of lager as the procession of police cars and vans lit them up with their headlights as they passed them by.

  Both crime and youth unemployment were high in the area.

  Things were better, Murphy had been told. Like everywhere in the city, crime rates had fallen. Meant very little for those who were still there, still stuck in the same position.

  Out of the estates, it was different. When you hit the outskirts, the views changed, became beautiful. Murphy had driven around there often. Pulled up at the side of roads to look at horses in the open fields. The farms which survived pulling in a few passing motorists on their way out of the city, in the direction of Widnes.

  The atmosphere in the car was thick with tension. They had only one man’s word to go on, but everyone was expecting the worst. The firearms officers would be going in first, but that didn’t stop the three DCs in the back considering the different possible scenarios which could occur. Murphy was having no trouble in tuning them out, but he could tell Rossi was struggling.

  The amount of quiet swearing in Italian under her breath told him that.

  ‘They’re slowing up ahead.’

  Murphy sat up straighter in the passenger seat, peering into the dull light to see if the lead van had turned off yet. They were going on sketchy instructions from the hospitalised George Stanley, but a few of the officers seemed to know where he meant. There were a few farms around the area, but the directions given seemed to pinpoint the place as what one uniform had termed ‘The Old Manor’. Which didn’t strike Murphy as a normal farm name.

  ‘They’re turning off,’ Murphy said. The three blokes in the back of the car had gone quiet now.

  ‘Almost there.’

  Streetlights disappeared, bringing the lateness of the evening into starker relief.

  They were going in blind.

  Five minutes of winding around old, bumpy farm roads, travelling at no more than twenty mph, and the red brake lights signalled them to stop.

  ‘We’re here,’ Murphy’s radio crackled into life. ‘Stay put until further notice.’

  Murphy listened in as the firearms officers approached an unseen building, clearing the outside, then gaining entry. He thought he could see torchlight bouncing around up ahead as he peered through the windscreen. The car had become deathly quiet as everyone held their breath collectively, waiting. Waiting for it all to go wrong.

  Murphy knew they’d be too late.

  If George Stanley was right, if what he was saying was true, the man would be gone by now.

  ‘All clear in main house. Three bodies, deceased on arrival.’

  A quiet profanity came from the back of the car.

  ‘Now moving onto outbuildings.’

  Murphy waited, Rossi tapping out a beat on the steering wheel. He had the urge to tell her to stop, but controlled himself.

  ‘Three buildings. One empty.’

  Murphy had done firearms training. Many years previously. Hadn’t enjoyed it at all. Didn’t like the power of the weapons.

  ‘Second building, one body. Deceased on arrival.’

  Four. This would keep them occupied.

  A few minutes later the final message came over the radio.

  ‘Third building clear. Three bodies. Deceased on arrival.’

  Seven bodies.

  Murphy could hear them outside, the other uniforms, officers, detectives. Talking amongst themselves, some quietly, some louder than that. The level of swearing and taking of the Lord’s name in vain would have made Frankie Boyle blush. Murphy stood with Rossi, surveying the scene in the kitchen of what they’d found to be the main farmhouse. They looked at it from a distance, suited-up in white forensic boilersuits in order to preserve any evidence.

  He wasn’t sure it was entirely needed.

  ‘According to our Mr Stanley, one man is responsible for all this,’ Rossi said, speaking for the first time without being prompted since they’d arrived there.

  ‘Hard to imagine …’

  ‘Not really,’ a voice said, from behind a mask. Murphy turned to see the portly frame of a packaged-up Dr Houghton. ‘You just have to see it.’

  ‘What’s your verdict?’ Murphy said, moving back as a forensic officer bustled past him.

  ‘These weren’t the first to go,’ Houghton replied, waving a hand across the three bodies who had fallen to the ground near each other.

  Murphy gazed at each in turn, kneeling to get a closer look. The first, a white male who looked to be at least mid-forties from the greying hair, which was now matted with dark blood. His black T-shirt was torn almost in half, a dark hole in the middle of his chest, peppered by pellet marks. Flesh ripped apart. The second was a woman, the shirt she’d been wearing almost completely shredded. Her stomach was one open wound, a mass of red and pink as her insides tried to escape. Murphy swallowed back some bile before forcing himself to look at the third body.

  ‘Looks like they were trying to leave when your man opened fire,’ Houghton said from behind Murphy. ‘Close-range gunshot wounds in a variety of places in their upper bodies and heads. Easy cause of death.’

  ‘Except for him,’ Murphy said, pointing to the third body of a man near the back door.

  Houghton raised his eyebrows at the body. ‘A shotgun or assault rifle can do a lot of damage.’

  Murphy nodded, forcing himself to look at the body again. The face was empty of features, just a hole where they should be. Brain matter was strewn out behind his head, blood and gore filling out the rest of it.

  ‘Have you been out to the other building yet?’ Rossi said, her voice quiet in the small kitchen.

  Houghton sighed, lifting his mask off his face. ‘Yes. Three bodies, all died in the same manner. Gunshot wounds to the temple. Clean through.’ They followed him outside, where he pointed a finger towards neat piles of brain matter which nestled on the floor near each body. Blood trails stretched across the concrete path which led towards the outbuilding. ‘They’d been kept inside, by the looks of things. Locks on the outside. They were shot just outside the building and then dragged back in. It was a massacre.’

  Murphy had seen it already. Three young boys. Teenagers. None older than seventeen or eighteen. Their bodies a mess, the pain they’d experienced in death etched across their faces.

  ‘It’s small fry compared to what we found in the last building,’ Houghton continued. ‘One body. Tortured, by the looks of it. Won’t know cause of death yet.’

  Murphy rubbed a gloved hand over his face. Tiredness was battling against everyone there as the lateness of the night struck. They’d been at the farm for hours now, a quick glance at his watch telling Murphy it was closer to dawn than it was midnight.

  ‘Any identifications?’

  Houghton stifled a laugh. ‘Nothing at all, David. Forensics will be able to tell you more on that. They’re going through the rest of the house.’

  ‘Okay, thanks Doctor.’

  ‘This guy,’ Houghton said, coming closer to Murphy and Rossi, ‘this guy is manic, frenzied. I’ve not seen anything like this
before. Seven dead, and six of them within a short space of time. He just took them out, one by one. Grouped together. It’s … startling.’

  ‘One got away. So we know he makes mistakes,’ Rossi said, pulling herself up to full height, her soft accent becoming hardened.

  ‘I hope you’re right. Before we see any more of this,’ Houghton replied, moving away as he spoke.

  ‘Alan Bimpson,’ Murphy said, turning to Rossi. ‘We need to know everything we can on him now. He’s our main suspect.’

  Rossi nodded. ‘I’ve got a bit, but not much. Possible addresses …’

  ‘Let’s get a team together. Put the doors through in the next hour.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Murphy rubbed his eyes, a stinging sensation hitting them. They say adrenaline gets you through the late nights as a copper, but they were human like everyone else. He needed sleep. Couldn’t see it happening any time soon.

  ‘Let’s have a look at the third scene,’ Murphy said finally.

  Prepared himself.

  The third building was no bigger than a large shed really. A single high-beam light had been set up outside, illuminating the thick wooden door which was being held open by a brick, placed there by a forensic officer, Murphy assumed. Inside, strip lighting lit up the small space, running down the middle of the room. Metal shelving ran down one side, empty crates scattered down the opposite side. The room was sparsely furnished, apart from the one object which took up most of the space.

  ‘It’s a rack,’ Rossi’s voice said from behind him.

  Murphy nodded. He’d seen one before, but never in the flesh. True-crime books of serial killers had glorified the item for him. Various contraptions, built usually by hand, to inflict twisted desires.

  Murphy exchanged a greeting with the last remaining forensic tech officer who was left with the body inside the room, clicking off the last few pictures. Then the body would lie there until another van arrived to take him to the mortuary.

  To take his place alongside the seven other victims.

  ‘I don’t think it’s too difficult to see what’s happened to him,’ Murphy said, walking around the body. The air grew thicker inside, as the smell hit, the body decomposing in the warmth of the small building. Rotting, biting at the back of his throat. Murphy tried not to swallow.

  ‘He looks older than the other three.’

  ‘Maybe. Perhaps he’s just big for his age. No real stubble on his face.’

  Murphy cast his eyes down the bare chest. Welts the size of fifty-pence pieces scattered across his chest like fallen leaves. Burns.

  A soldering iron was lying on the floor near the rack.

  Angry red marks fading to brown wrapped around his neck. Wounds which had bled but stopped short of gushing blood, no pooling around the body. Slash marks rather than punctures.

  ‘This is wet …’ Murphy said, touching the surface of the rack.

  ‘That’ll be down to this,’ Rossi replied, pointing towards a half-empty bowl. ‘He drowned him.’

  Murphy shook his head. ‘I think they call it water-boarding.’

  ‘Jesus …’

  His trousers, blue jeans with no belt, had been left untouched. Dirty brown stains on the knees.

  He had been left in the restraints.

  ‘He shoots everyone else … why the difference here?’ Rossi said, lifting various items off the metal shelves and placing them back down soundlessly.

  ‘Personal grudge? Fun? I don’t know.’

  The forensic officer began packing away his camera, left the room without a further word. Murphy moved to the top of the body, leaning over the head to stare at the scarred shaved dome.

  ‘Some of these aren’t even fully healed. He’s been here a while, I’d guess,’ Murphy said, fighting against the urge to move the head to a straight position.

  ‘Well, Dean Hughes was here almost seven months.’

  ‘Right.’

  Outside there was a burst of laughter, quickly muted by low words.

  ‘This won’t be the last,’ Murphy said, standing up straight and hearing a crack in his back as he did so. ‘Whoever did this has unravelled.’

  ‘Or this was always his plan …’

  Rossi hummed under her breath.

  A shadow fell across the body lying prone on the rack. Murphy turned to see DS Brannon standing in the doorway.

  ‘Jesus …’

  Murphy looked back at the victim once more before walking towards DS Brannon. ‘Warrant in yet?’

  DS Brannon continued to look past Murphy towards the rack. Wide-eyed, turning pale in the dim light. Then the smell hit him, making him shoot his hand to his mouth. Retching sounds followed, before Brannon started to shake and pull himself together.

  ‘Brannon? You with me?’

  ‘Yeah,’ DS Brannon said, switching his gaze towards Murphy, shaking his head. ‘Sorry … erm, it should be here soon.’

  ‘Good. The boss here yet?’

  DS Brannon nodded, struggling to keep from looking over Murphy’s shoulder again.

  Murphy shoved his way past him, walking back towards the main house. He didn’t stop to see if Rossi was following him. He wanted to speak to DCI Stephens alone. Murphy knew what was going to happen next and didn’t want to lose time.

  He found her in what they’d decided was a living room, but was so sparsely decorated it could barely be described as such. A few wooden chairs and an open fireplace, unstocked with wood or any other kind of fuel. A few newspapers on the floor underneath the boarded-up window which faced out onto the driveway. Old and already yellowing. DCI Stephens was listening to a breathless DC Harris as he spoke ten to the dozen, bringing her up to date with what they’d discovered so far.

  Murphy cleared his throat, causing DC Harris to excuse himself. Murphy and DCI Stephens stood opposite each other for a few seconds, just sharing a look between themselves. The quietness blanketed over them.

  ‘What the hell …’

  ‘I know,’ Murphy said, lifting a hand. ‘It’s not what we were expecting.’

  ‘You can say that again …’

  ‘We think we have a name for the guy who did it. Alan Bimpson.’

  ‘So your DC Harris says. Warrant is in. You can put his door through as soon as possible.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the Super. I think you know this calls for a major op. We’ll be getting all the resources we need. A statement will be made to the press shortly, not that many of them will be awake for it.’

  ‘Twenty-four-hour news these days …’

  DCI Stephens waved a hand at him before sliding it through her shoulder-length hair. Tension was battling with tiredness in her face. Murphy expected the same look was being mirrored back at her.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had one with this many before.’

  ‘Closest I’ve come is a house fire. That was four … but it wasn’t like this. This is something else. I’ve got officers out there who are not handling it.’

  DCI Stephens nodded. ‘Then you need to get a handle on them, David. I won’t have anyone going off with depression or anything like that. I’ll be heading the operation but you’re still the one in charge. I’ll just be liaising with you a lot more. Any media goes through me. I want you to make sure that lot out there don’t leak a thing to the press.’

  ‘I can try …’

  ‘You’ll do more than try. I want this locked tight. Nothing gets out until we have Bimpson locked up. I don’t want panic spreading. Organise a team. Whoever and however many you need, you’ve got it.’

  Murphy blew out a breath. ‘No problem.’

  DCI Stephens started to leave, before Columbo-ing back. ‘One more thing. Not everyone can function without sleep. Make sure you put them in shifts. Same goes for you.’

  Murphy kept his mouth tightly sealed, breathing deeply through his nostrils.

  Whatever his boss said, he wasn’t going home.

  23

  People wer
e already getting snappy with each other. Most of those who had been at the farm the previous night were still working away in the incident room. The sun was beaming through the windows; it was the warmest day of the year so far, bringing with it complaints about heat and comfort.

  Murphy and Rossi were taking turns to get cold drinks from the vending machine. Too busy for arguments.

  The operation had now taken over the main space, leaving Murphy without the comparative silence of his own small, shared office space as he and Rossi were forced to join the team out on the main floor. The dawn raids on the two properties in the name of Alan Bimpson had come to nothing. Items taken away to be processed, dozens of witness statements taken from neighbours and a lot of crime scene tape strung around the homes.

  Excitement had quickly turned to worry as the first word had leaked out in the press. Every major media outlet was descending on Liverpool like locusts. A big story was brewing. Had already occurred. Seven bodies in one place.

  It would be rolling news for a few hours at least.

  ‘Maybe we’ll get that stupid bint from Sky News doing those interviews on the street.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Murphy said, turning to Rossi.

  ‘You know the one. Dark-haired, tight-faced. Always asking ridiculous questions and being dead insensitive.’

  ‘I don’t watch it,’ Murphy said, turning back to the murder board.

  ‘Mannaggia … Why did you ask who I meant then? It wouldn’t matter if I gave you her name, you wouldn’t know her anyway.’

  Murphy rubbed a hand over his face, scratching at a stray hair in his beard. Probably a grey one, he thought. He’d seen them creeping in more often. ‘I don’t know. Just leave it.’

  ‘Fine. What’s next then?’

  Murphy sighed, thinking of his side of the bed at home. It hadn’t been slept on much the previous few nights.

  ‘We’ve got two cars registered to him from the DVLA. We’ll have a picture of him soon, hopefully, from what we’ve got from the house. We need to speak to George Stanley again.’

  ‘At least we know where he is …’