by Luca Veste
He settled on Radio Merseyside, where the usual football chat at teatime had been replaced with a serious-sounding bloke who was taking calls about the day’s events.
‘I just want to know what they’re doin’ to keep our kids safe, you know? If even the bizzies are gettin’ shot, what will that mean for the rest of us, like?’
‘I understand your concerns, Kim, and I share them. What are the police in Merseyside doing to keep our children safe this evening? We’ll be back with more of your calls, the real voices of Liverpool, right after Listen by Beyonce.’
Murphy turned back to talkSPORT.
The Royal Hospital was undergoing massive change, money pumped in to renovate the whole place, turning it into something a private facility would be envious of. Sarah had told Murphy it would all be private soon enough anyway, so it hardly mattered.
Rossi was waiting at the front entrance, as he’d expected. Folded arms and narrowed eyes, jacket pulled tight across herself.
To hide the bloodstains, Murphy guessed.
He pulled up, parking in the taxi point and getting out of the car, leaving it running. He trotted over to Rossi who was steaming towards him, her head down.
‘Get back in the car,’ she shouted across at him. ‘I’m not a bloody invalid.’
Murphy stopped, thought for a second, then opened the passenger side door anyway. Waited for her to give him the evil eye and then get inside, Murphy shutting the door after her.
‘How are you feeling?’ Murphy said, as he got back in the car.
‘Fine. Shouldn’t have even gone to the place. Was expecting them to at least replace some of the blood I lost. Superficial, they reckon. Looks worse than it is.’
Murphy turned to look at her before driving off. She was perhaps paler than usual, her dark Mediterranean complexion a little faded. Scrapes and cuts which had been cleaned up on her face, and a bandage across one hand. The white padding which had been used to dress the wound on her shoulder was poking out the top of her jacket.
‘Do you want to go home?’
‘No,’ Rossi said, pressing the button which let the window down, ‘back to the station. I’ve got a clean shirt there.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good …’
‘Just drive, will you,’ she replied, lighting up a cigarette and blowing smoke out the window. ‘I’m okay, honestly. I’d be the first to try and blag some sick pay. I’m sure the boss needs all the heads she can get.’
Murphy turned to the front, thinking. ‘Okay. But you’re on desk duty for now. If we get a call-out, you’re staying there.’
‘Fine. Let’s just get going. I don’t want to miss anything else. I’m sure you don’t, either.’
Murphy pulled out of the hospital car park, the traffic even busier down there near the city centre. It took a good couple of minutes, and Rossi lighting another cigarette, before he was able to pull onto the main road of Prescot Street. It was only a short drive back to St Anne Street, but the rush-hour traffic added at least fifteen minutes to the journey. The silent journey. Every time Murphy thought to say something, he tried it out in his head first, and it just didn’t sound right.
He spoke when they pulled into the car park behind the station. The number of vehicles there had tripled since he’d left that day, people coming in and out of the building. The media were probably still mostly camped outside the scene at the youth club, but that hadn’t stopped a few turning up at the CID offices, hoping to get someone willing to speak off the record, he guessed.
‘Listen, about earlier. What you told the boss …’
‘Don’t …’
‘No. I have to. You shouldn’t have done that. If something comes up because of it later on down the line, it could screw up things, case-wise. I could have defended the decision, you know that.’
‘“Case-wise”? What do you mean?’
‘If they found out you hadn’t been sent there, well … it gives cause for a defence lawyer to give another angle. Cop gone rogue kind of thing.’
‘We haven’t even caught the prick yet, David.’
Murphy turned at the sound of his name.
Rossi never used his name.
He went to speak, but Rossi cut him off.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Rossi said, flicking her cigarette out the window and winding it up. ‘Look, they’re just looking for a reason to get you, you know that. If they hear you endangered a copper’s life … you wouldn’t last long. Brannon for one would never tire of it. You owe me, that’s all.’
‘Ferrero Rocher?’ Murphy said, turning to her and smiling.
‘A big box. Now let’s get in. See what the score is.’
Toxteth
Liverpool 8
He waited around the corner in the van he’d driven down there the night before. White, nondescript. Bought for cash, weeks earlier, with bogus details. Some dodgy garage out in Bootle.
Doesn’t matter how hard they tried, you couldn’t keep the dodgy ones out of Liverpool.
He had no doubt he wouldn’t last long with this vehicle, but it would do for the rest of the day, he thought. They had his picture – the radio had told him as much. He checked the news sites online, using the phone he’d have to throw away sooner than the van. There was his face, staring back at him from a four and a half inch screen.
He wasn’t top news story on some of them. Not yet.
He would be tomorrow.
The sound of sirens kept coming and going. It was getting more difficult to see anything of interest, as more and more people turned up for a gawp. He was parked a good distance away, off the main road, facing towards the side street behind the church. There was a pub a little further behind him, rapidly filling up with punters all eager for a gossip. Probably hadn’t seen business like it in years.
He should get some credit for that.
Parasites breeding parasites. The area was full of them. Kids killing kids over supposed gangland arguments that spiralled out of control. Innocents in the crossfire, not considered until it was too late.
Kids. That’s all they were. They might be adult in age, but that was all they were. Kids. Not taught properly.
He so wanted to start here. The cesspit of Norris Green.
Probably shouldn’t have done Kevin Thornhill first. There was no way he could do anything there now. Place was crawling with coppers.
He took his notepad out. Pulled his beanie hat further down to cover his head as another police car squealed past. They’d start on the area soon enough, looking for witnesses. A bloke sat in a van a few hundred yards down the road, staring towards the scene, was likely to get someone’s attention.
He scanned the list and picked the place.
Liverpool 8.
Toxteth.
Home of the riots in ’81. The butt of many a joke in the more affluent suburbs in the city. You didn’t want to end up there – that’s where everyone was on smack or crack, or whatever was the go-to drug of choice for the disenfranchised youth of that decade. Bad life choices, bad parents. That’s where you’d end up if you screwed around as a kid, didn’t make the right decisions. Just a wealth of unemployed scum, with no future to speak of.
That’s what some liked to say.
He knew differently, of course. There were many who weren’t like that in the area. Some had a greater sense of community, rallying around to try and give the place a better rep. It half worked. Still an area of low house prices and racial tension, high unemployment and derelict streets; houses torn down to pave the way for redevelopment that took years to occur.
It’d been a long time since he’d had to drive through the streets, the years in between giving him pause.
Single-mindedness only went so far.
They talk about being on autopilot – doing things without even realising you’re out of control. They would be wrong in his case. He knew every step, every thought that turned into action.
He just didn’t want to stop.
He ditched the
van once he was away from Norris Green. Left it for someone to find and spend hours scouring. They’d find his DNA and fingerprints all over it, but he didn’t think it would matter much. Not with his face currently being circulated on every news channel going.
He was trending on Twitter. Number two and three, under some boyband he thought he may have heard of but wasn’t sure. Still, number two wasn’t bad.
#AlanBimpson
#Liverpool
#WeLoveYouHarry
He was in a silver Focus now. ’51 plate, so it had some miles on the clock, but it was doing the job. He didn’t want to stand out too much and he was already running out of vehicles not registered to him.
He thought of his ’12 plate Audi Q5 being taken away from the driveway of his house.
He liked that car.
Toxteth still bore the scars of the eighties, true, but there were many signs of change in his eyes. Newer buildings, rebuilt shops.
Window dressing.
You couldn’t hide everything. Not entirely. He’d gone online months before, checking the crime rates in different parts of the city. Toxteth wasn’t as bad as somewhere like Anfield, but it was still up there. Especially for anti-social behaviour, which was what interested him most.
He turned off Park Road, going in search of more closely knitted areas. Signs of the council estates which always drew the worst examples. Modern new-build houses competing for space amongst the older houses. Post-war, pre-war. No real signs of life.
The evening was drawing in, the sky overhead darkening as the May daylight struggled. He began to think the papers had been lying to him all this time. The streets of the poorer areas weren’t littered with the destitute, the vermin. They were dull, soulless. Or maybe he wasn’t looking properly. Every other time they’d wanted to pick up someone new for the farm they’d never had any trouble.
He carried on further, dusk turning into evening around the time he started feeling hungry again. The satiation from the drive-thru meal he’d had earlier finally wearing off.
Then he spotted them.
Two of them. Grey jogging bottoms tucked into black socks, black trainers. The North Face black jackets. The archetypal scally. Uniformed-up, one hand down the front of their kecks, as if constantly worried someone was going to come along and steal their dicks. One was wearing a woollen hat, pulled low over his head as if it would magically hide his face. The other was more brazen.
He became aware of his hands sliding down the steering wheel as the sweat began to drip from him. One minute the air inside the car had been unnoticeable, then it was stifling, making it hard for him to breathe.
He watched them as he drove well under the thirty mph limit on the deserted side roads. Peering through his windscreen as the lads strolled about, sometimes looking around them, sometimes staring lifelessly into their mobile phone screens.
They walked across the road ahead of him towards the play area, which he knew was a popular place for them to hang around in until the early hours. Bereft of young kids and harassed parents, it became their playground. They each took a swing as he pulled up near the park entrance. One took out rolling papers and a small tin, began making up what he presumed was a spliff. The light from the flame as the one in the hat sparked up illuminated his hard face for a split second before flickering out.
He shook his seatbelt off as they started passing it between them, taking long drags before exhaling slowly into the now fully darkened sky.
He wanted to knife these two. Hear their screams, their surprise. Then their death.
It was ones like these, taking over what should be good, nice places for young kids to play. Fouling these areas with their mere presence. Nothing better to do on a cool May night but sit in a kids’ playground, getting stoned or whatever. No-marks. No-lifes.
There was a skill to using a knife, a certain expertise that needed to be gained before you could use one successfully.
Or two at the same time.
He shook his head and instead removed the assault rifle from underneath the blanket where he’d hidden it from plain view on the back seat. The shotgun was to the side of him, but he left that in the car as he slipped out.
The handgun was still safely tucked into the shoulder holster, as always.
He crouched low as he approached, before realising that might bring too much attention if someone was walking past or behind him.
He would start with these scallies and then whoever came next. The ones who came to defend them. Those who complained about them endlessly but turned into bleeding hearts when someone finally did something about the problem.
They were the problem.
Alan Bimpson’s night of violence was about to begin.
The youths were oblivious to his approach, the sickly sweet aroma drifting from their direction nullifying the senses which might otherwise have saved their lives.
The one without a hat didn’t even turn around when he loaded up and charged the M16.
Single-burst rounds. Not like those video games or war films these wankers played around with. The rifle butt tucked into his shoulder with barely any recoil.
The one with the hat took a bullet to the face as he turned at the noise. From ten feet away, Alan Bimpson barely blinked as the boy’s face ripped apart under the force of a single bullet entering high up on his cheek, just underneath his eye. Flesh and bone melting from the heat, flipping him backwards before he even had a chance to breathe one last time.
The one without the hat simply stared at his friend’s body as it catapulted backwards. Watched the blood quickly run out of his destroyed face as a ruined mass stared back at him.
Alan Bimpson didn’t think he’d turn around. Walked forward a few steps and put three quick rounds into the back of his head. In a line. Top, middle and bottom. Traffic lights, blood, death.
He took out the ear buds as Mr No-Hat fell forwards, landing on his friend’s upturned, dead hand.
Alan heard voices from outside the playground. Laughter, he thought.
Thirty-round magazine. Four gone.
Still time to play.
29
As Murphy and Rossi entered the incident room, the tension dissipated for a few seconds as a half-hearted round of applause broke out. Rossi took it as Murphy expected her to.
‘Shut it, you lot. It’s not like I was actually shot properly.’
A few comedians made some jokes, others shared words of support, but within a few minutes it was as if their colleague hadn’t almost had her head blown off hours earlier, as everyone went back to concentrating on the job at hand.
Staring at screens, talking on phones, making notes, staring at screens a bit more. This was detective work in the twenty-first century. Murphy made his way towards his office, checking the murder board as he went, noticing it had been expanded by the joining of three cousins as more and more information had arrived.
He checked his messages as he reached his desk, ignoring anything that didn’t have very urgent attached to it and pulling out the preliminary reports from the scene at the farm the previous night.
One in particular stood out. Murphy picked up his phone and dialled.
‘Houghton,’ came the reply after a few rings.
‘It’s Murphy. Just got your message.’
‘Ah, didn’t think it would take this long …’
Murphy ignored the sarcastic tone. ‘Is this certain?’
‘As certain as we can be right now.’
‘Jesus …’ Murphy said, letting out a sigh.
‘That’s an operative word to use in this situation, yes. Our lovely local vicar …’
‘Reverend,’ Murphy corrected.
‘Yes, yes, of course. We found a few personal effects during the sweep of the rest of the house. Led us to a lock-up garage, just past the entrance to the farm. It looks like that’s where all the deceased kept their vehicles. An enterprising fellow down here ran a few checks and provided his name. That, and a couple of credit cards
in his name, means we’re pretty certain.’
Murphy thought back to his conversation with Reverend Andrew Pearson, looking for any memory of something being off with him. Came up with nothing.
‘He seemed … normal,’ Murphy said after a few seconds of silence.
‘I’m sure they always do,’ Houghton replied.
Murphy ended the call, leant back in his chair and swept a hand through his hair. He took the files out with him as he left the office, making his way over to the murder boards to read the latest. Rossi was still showing off her war wound to a few of the female detectives, so he left her to it, sitting at an empty desk as close to the boards as he could manage.
Eight new victims to join the one that was already placed there. Nine in total.
And whoever it was surely wasn’t done yet.
‘Laura,’ Murphy said, extricating her away from a gaggle of nosing constables. When she finally reached him, he told her about the reverend’s involvement.
‘Jesus …’ Rossi said when he finished.
‘That seems to be the popular reaction,’ Murphy replied.
‘What does it mean?’
Murphy didn’t answer straight away, trying to fit the new information in with what was already known.
‘Not sure yet. We need to find out what’s happening first.’
Rossi nodded slowly, Murphy watching her as she processed the new info before she moved across the room to an empty desk and computer. He beckoned one of the detective sergeants he knew from the drugs team over. ‘Trev, you all right mate?’
‘Not bad. Moved over to help you lot out. Seems like we’ve got quite the nutcase going here.’
Murphy grimaced. ‘You can say that again. What do you know about what’s been going on? Can’t see Stephens in here …’
DS Trevor Vaughan wheeled his chair over, looking over his shoulder as he got closer. ‘Been sent home. If you’d seen the state of her by five o’clock you wouldn’t have been surprised. Dead on her feet. Super is on his way for a tactical meeting at seven to tell us the latest. I’ve heard we’ll be turning it all over to firearms, and that we’re just here to help out with the dogsbody-shite.’