Bloodstream

by Luca Veste

  Murphy blinked and the message was different. A different house, a different time. He blinked again and was back in the box room.

  He was aware of Rossi on the edge of his vision. He looked at the words again, realising they weren’t red, but black.

  It wasn’t that place. Not the same. Different house, different time.

  ‘Christ, thought I was somewhere else then for a second,’ Murphy said, turning away from the wall.

  ‘Merda, your mum and dad’s house after . . . after they were, you know.’

  Murphy didn’t answer. He looked out towards the hall and shrugged off the memory. ‘Let’s get back downstairs.’

  Murphy passed by her as she let him go. Rossi took in the wall once more before following. At the bottom of the stairs, he took a proffered mask from a tech and kept walking.

  That’s just what you do.

  ‘In the back of the room, not the front. That’s interesting,’ Murphy said, standing in the doorway as Rossi joined him. A through lounge and dining room, the entrance in the middle. The bodies were to Murphy’s right. ‘Hidden away from the street just in case, I suppose. Not that it matters with those covers over the windows. Weird.’

  ‘The whole thing is a bit weird,’ Rossi said, looking towards the front of the house as she went past Murphy and into the room. ‘You all right, Mike?’

  DC Hale held up a hand towards them, standing near the front window. As far away as he could possibly get without drawing attention to himself, Murphy thought.

  ‘How long do you reckon?’

  Rossi shook her head. ‘Smelled worse. Can’t be that long. Couple of days maybe?’

  The smell of ammonia and decomposition was overpowering, sticking in the air so it felt thick and tangible, but Rossi was right. They had experienced much worse.

  Two bodies sitting upright on the chairs. Bound and gagged, their faces dropped into their chests. What was once life, now something indefinable, imperceptible. Empty. Murphy could just about make out the duct tape which had been used to keep them fastened to the chairs, frayed in places, pulled tight in others.

  ‘How long have they been missing now?’

  Murphy turned towards the voice of Dr Stuart Houghton, the pathologist who delighted Murphy ever so much.

  ‘Two, three days?’ Murphy replied, moving towards where Houghton was crouched. ‘I forget which. How can you tell it’s them?’

  ‘If it’s not, someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make us believe it is. Wallet found next to him with his ID in. The tattoos covering him are pretty much exactly what I’ve seen every time I visit a newsagent and peruse the magazine shelf. He’s wearing ripped jeans and I believe that’s a black T-shirt on the floor next to him. That’ll match what he was last seen in. She’s wearing black joggers and a red vest-top, which is yet another thing I’ve read in the paper the last couple of days more than once.’

  ‘Still . . . could be anyone.’

  Houghton sighed and raised himself from his haunches. ‘Yes, of course. I know that, you know that, even those idiots outside know that. But, I’m just trying to save you a bit of time. Look at his body. Look at the things he’s etched across himself. Do you think anyone else would be stupid enough to do that to themselves, David?’

  Murphy shuddered at the use of his first name. Very few people used it outside of his own home and it still rattled.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Murphy said, raising his hands in defeat. ‘I understand. Hard to look past . . . well, this scene, to start recognising faces.’

  Houghton shrugged and went back to whatever he was doing, leaving Murphy to move closer to the chairs.

  ‘At least a couple of days . . .’ Murphy said, under his breath.

  The bodies had taken on the pale pallor of death, the victims showing signs of discolouring as the process of breaking down began. The male victim was more marked than the female, but there was no doubt that both were decaying into obscurity.

  Murphy couldn’t see any obvious signs of violence on the female, but imagined it lurking beneath the surface of decomposition. The male was different. Bloodspots, illuminated by the beams of lights set up in the corners of the room, had dried dark brown in places.

  ‘Who called it in?’ Murphy asked, not turning round to face anyone in particular.

  ‘Their agent,’ came the response from DC Hale who had come closer to the edge of the back room.

  ‘Agent?’ Murphy replied.

  ‘Yeah,’ Hale said, hovering in the space where living room became dining room once upon a long time ago. ‘Looks after these celebrities and that. He got an anonymous phone call earlier this morning with this address. He came down but when he couldn’t get in, he rang the local station. They gained access through the back.’

  ‘They broke in?’ Murphy said, raising himself up now and backing away towards the doorway.

  ‘No, the panel on this window was only hanging by a thread. They saw the bodies through the window.’

  Murphy looked towards the window at the back of the room. Easy enough to see directly into the room and see what was inside once the steel covering was removed. ‘Uniforms must have shit themselves. Where’s the agent now?’

  Hale shouted over towards the front entrance to the constable in uniform still standing guard there. ‘Where’s our man?’

  Murphy didn’t hear the response, but followed as Hale left the open doorway. Rossi lingered a moment longer before following.

  ‘You ever get the feeling this sort of thing follows you round, Murphy?’ Rossi said as she caught up with him in the hallway.

  Murphy suppressed a laugh and smiled thinly down at her.

  ‘All the time,’ he replied looking towards where DC Hale was heading. ‘But then . . . I chose this bloody job, didn’t I? Let’s see what Mr Agent has to say and go from there. For all we know we’ll be done by the end of the day.’

  ‘Murder and then suicide?’

  Murphy shook off his coveralls as they left the house and didn’t reply at first. ‘They were both bound to those chairs, Laura.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve seen that kind of thing before. Guy doesn’t want to be known as a murderer – even after he’s gone – so he makes it look like someone else was there. It’s definitely happened in the past.’

  Murphy stared down at her, giving her the look he had to every now and again.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Rossi said, holding her palms up. ‘I’m just saying we shouldn’t rule anything out, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘We won’t,’ Murphy said, making his way to the end of the path which led onto the street. ‘Let’s cross our fingers and hope that’s the case, shall we?’

  Chapter Three

  DC Hale was leaning on the side of the van, one dark shoe raised against it. Marked and unmarked cars were scattered across the road, some still blinking blue lights across the street. It was becoming busier. Hastily strung-up crime-scene tape was marshalled by constables in heavy uniform, their only job to keep a growing number of onlookers away from the scene as they held on to smartphones, updating Facebook and Twitter. Embellishing the nothingness of what they could actually see into something more tangible and interesting.

  Murphy was becoming used to the latest way news spread. Didn’t like it, but he assumed not many on his side of the tape did. He looked both ways as he crossed the road, before realising such an action was redundant.

  ‘How is he?’ Murphy said as he reached Hale. ‘Sounds quiet.’

  ‘Not sure,’ Hale replied, looking past Murphy towards the house. ‘I haven’t spoken to him.’

  Rossi shaped as if to say something, then stopped as Murphy gave her a look.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ Murphy said, drawing himself into Hale’s line of vision. ‘Find out what you can. See if anything else has been found out. If anyone saw anything. That kind of thing, yeah?’

  Hale stood up to his full height but failed to reach Murphy’s towering figure by a good few inches. ‘Yes, boss
.’

  Murphy allowed Rossi to enter the van first, then let the uniform who had been sitting inside slip past him and leave. He stepped up into the van and sat next to the man.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector David Murphy, this is Detective Sergeant Laura Rossi . . .’ Murphy realised he hadn’t even asked the man’s name. ‘And you are . . .?’

  ‘Thomas Parker,’ came the muted response. Parker’s head hung low, almost touching his knees in the cramped seats of the van. An almost perfectly round bald patch winked back at them as Parker slightly turned his back to the window. His shoulders looked bulky on his slight frame, solid as if he worked out, Murphy thought.

  ‘Is it them?’

  Murphy cleared his throat and let the pause grow a little longer. ‘We’re not sure yet,’ he said after a few moments more. ‘We’re still making enquiries . . .’

  ‘I think it is. I don’t want it to be but Joe’s tattoos . . .’ Parker raised a hand to caress his own upper body, before letting it drop down to be clasped by the other.

  ‘We’ll know for certain soon enough, Mr Parker,’ Rossi said, leaning forward towards him from across the small aisle which separated them. ‘For now, we’re just going to ask you some questions, okay?’

  A slight nod but still no raised head.

  ‘Can you tell us what happened this morning?’

  ‘I got a phone call around six, maybe just after.’ Parker’s voice was monotone, no life to it. ‘It was from Chloe’s phone, so I answered. A man on the other end said I could find Chloe and Joe at this house, that they were waiting for me. I thought it was a wind-up at first, but he was . . . he wouldn’t let me talk.’

  ‘What else was he saying?’ Murphy cut in.

  ‘I don’t know really, it was all a bit strange. He said I had to go and see what their love had created, what lies had been told, that they needed me to be there. Just a stream of stuff that I didn’t really understand. He was insistent that it was no joke, that I had no time to mess about.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I didn’t go straight away. Took me about five or ten minutes of lying there deciding what to do before I moved. I was waiting for Chloe to ring me back and say it was all a joke. When she didn’t, I came straight down. I got here around seven and tried knocking on the front door.’ Parker paused, lifted his head for a second before letting it drop to his chest again. ‘I got a feeling something was bad, you know. Nothing looked right, not in the whole street. I was worried . . .’

  Murphy glanced out of the window of the van, wondering how quiet it would have been there at that time of morning. ‘You were alone at this point?’

  Parker nodded slowly. ‘I walked round to the back of the house, to see if I could look through a window or something. I realised the houses were all empty here, so I wasn’t expecting there to be any problems. The back gate looked locked, so I just rang you lot . . . the police.’

  ‘And they just came down? Like, straight away?’ Rossi asked, a hint of incredulity in her tone, causing Murphy to give her a glance before looking back at the top of Parker’s head.

  ‘Well . . . I know a few people, if you know what I mean. Only had to mention a couple of names and I didn’t have to wait long.’

  Murphy shook his head slightly. The wonders of knowing the right people, moving in the right circles. ‘So, you waited until uniformed officers arrived. Did you see anything out of the ordinary at that point?’

  Parker shook his head. ‘I felt something though. Like . . . I was being watched or whatever. Couldn’t see anyone and there were only the empty houses around anyway.’

  Murphy looked towards Rossi who gave a nod in return, which he hoped meant that the other houses in the street were being searched.

  ‘They turned up and took over really. I hung back a little, but my curiosity got the better of me. When they got into the back garden, I followed them and saw what they . . . found.’

  Murphy looked for tissues as Parker finally dissolved into the sobs that had been threatening to appear since they had entered the van. He found nothing.

  ‘Take your time,’ Rossi said, shrugging her shoulders at Murphy as he came up empty-handed.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry. She was just such a sweet girl. She didn’t deserve this.’

  ‘Of course she didn’t,’ Murphy said, thankful the crying had subsided a little. ‘That’s why we need to know as much as possible at this point, so we can find out who did this.’

  ‘Yeah . . . yes,’ Parker replied, wiping a sleeve across his eyes, drying them for a split second before they became wet again. ‘I’ll do anything.’

  Rossi cut in, changing tack. ‘When did you know they had gone missing?’

  ‘Two . . . well, three days ago now. They were supposed to be at an event for the opening of some local film on Friday. They didn’t show up and the PR in charge of the event called me. I tried getting in touch with Chloe, but didn’t get an answer. I gave her a few hours, but started to get a little worried.’

  ‘So you called us?’

  ‘Well . . . not you specifically, but yes, the police. Not straight away, though. I called the cleaning firm who looks after the apartment.’

  Murphy asked for the name of the firm and wrote down the answer before allowing Parker to continue.

  ‘They went over there and found an empty apartment. The doorman there hadn’t seen them since Friday morning . . . I’m sure you already know all this.’

  Rossi held up a hand before realising the futility of the motion as Parker still sat with his head bowed. ‘For now we just want to hear what happened before this morning. Gives us more of a complete picture from your side of it.’

  ‘Fine . . . fine. That’s it though. Police came over, found nothing to suggest anything untoward had happened and left. Said they’d probably gone away for a holiday or something without telling anyone.’

  ‘You didn’t think that was possible?’ Murphy said, wondering exactly how close this agent was to his client.

  ‘Not at all. Chloe knew not to do anything like that. She had to be ready at a moment’s notice to attend events, openings, things like that. She has . . . had . . . to be on call at all times. If Michelle Keegan, or Charlotte Crosby, or any of those reality TV celeb types backs out of some PR, Chloe has to be straight in there to get her face seen. If she wanted to go on holiday, she knew to tell me. She trusted me.’

  ‘So,’ Murphy said, attempting to bring a close to the conversation. ‘Chloe and Joe go missing at some point on Friday. No signs of a struggle at their home, then a phone call this morning, telling you to come to this house where they’re . . . found.’

  Parker’s voice grew almost inaudible. ‘Yes . . . that’s about it.’

  ‘What did the voice on the phone sound like? Familiar, someone you recognised maybe?’

  ‘I’ve never heard that voice in my life. It was gruff, like someone was trying to sound older than they were. A weird, put-on accent as well. A Welshman trying to do a Geordie kind of thing.’

  Murphy sat back a little, crossing his arms. ‘Tell us more about them. They had been together for almost two years? Since that TV show?’

  Murphy watched Parker shift in his seat. The first time he had noticed a distinct change in his demeanour. ‘It would have been two years this coming July. All starting with that show. Didn’t think it would last this long, but it seems they knew what was best.’

  ‘You didn’t like him, did you?’ Murphy said, happy to finally be able to make eye contact with Parker as he fixed them with a watery gaze.

  ‘Not really, no. He wasn’t right for Chloe. I didn’t like the way he was with her.’

  ‘What way?’

  Parker exhaled, his breath a long, drawn-out sigh. ‘I think she was more invested in that relationship than he ever was. He . . . There were rumours. That’s all.’

  ‘What kind of rumours?’ Rossi said, her pen flying across her notebook as she made the notes Murphy never did.

  ‘T
hat he enjoyed himself a little too much when she wasn’t around. In my line of work, that’s usual though. No one seems to have any kind of loyalty in this game.’

  Murphy listened as Parker went into a little more detail, thinking about the reasons murder usually occurred. Domestic issues was still number one. Although the last couple of years had shown him that there were always more reasons to kill.

  ‘Did they have any enemies?’ Murphy heard Rossi ask as he paid more attention to what was being said.

  A short laugh from Parker. ‘Tons of them. There are thousands . . . maybe millions of people who hate reality stars. Just go on the internet and search for their names . . . Hell, just read any newspaper. There’s always someone saying nasty things about them. Social media is the worst, of course. Some of the tweets Chloe used to receive . . . Christ.’

  ‘Anyone specific,’ Murphy said, mentally crossing his fingers for an easy ride.

  ‘Not that I can think of. I will of course pass on the hate mail.’

  ‘Hate mail?’ Murphy replied, surprised that sort of thing still happened. ‘Didn’t think anyone sent letters these days . . .’

  ‘Oh, it’s all emails. We’ve really moved on as a society.’ Parker shook his head and looked on the verge of tears again. ‘Is that it for now? Only I’m going to be quite busy today. There’ll be a lot of interest in this.’

  Murphy looked at Rossi who narrowed her eyes at him.

  Always suspicious.

  * * *

  ‘There wasn’t anything we could keep him on for now, you know that.’

  Murphy and Rossi were standing in the cordoned-off street, keeping their voices low as more onlookers crowded round the crime-scene tape a hundred yards or so further up the road.

  ‘Yeah . . . just seemed shifty to me. All that crying . . .’

  ‘He was upset.’

  ‘Okay, maybe I wasn’t expecting that. I thought he’d be more of a loudmouth. Like those ones you see on telly. What was that bloke called?’

  ‘Which one?’ Murphy said, staring across towards the crowd of faces, all trying to get a better look at what was going on.