Bloodstream

by Luca Veste

  He never once blamed Murphy. Wouldn’t even allow him to apologise.

  Just doing my job. Our job. Could have been either one of us.

  ‘Where are we then at’ – Murphy checked his watch – ‘six hours in?’

  Rossi crossed the floor to the murder boards at the rear of the office. Soon, Murphy knew, they would be full of information, but at that moment it was sparse. His own handwriting staring back at him, a few details added near the bottom of the board by Harris.

  ‘Chloe Morrison and Joe Hooper,’ Rossi said, notebook in one hand, marker pen in the other as she wrote on the board. ‘Two victims found in an abandoned house in Anfield, cause of death unknown. Possible asphyxiation on male. Bodies found by agent who had received a phone call this morning at around six a.m., to go to the house. Local uniforms were called once he couldn’t gain access to the property. They broke in, finding the victims.’

  ‘That phone call,’ Murphy said, turning towards Harris and allowing Rossi to write more details on the board. ‘Any way of tracing it or something? Seeing where it was made from? Not sure if they’ve found Chloe’s phone yet.’

  ‘We’re on that,’ Harris said, shuffling loose papers across his desk. ‘Should have some info soon. We’ll also be able to find out if it’s still turned on if we haven’t got it.’

  Murphy nodded. ‘Good. Shouldn’t take them too long.’

  Rossi continued talking as she wrote. ‘Interview with mother of female victim. She’ll be doing formal ID, with informal provided by Thomas Parker. Mother didn’t know of anything that could help, but told us of issues within the relationship . . .’

  ‘Another domestic,’ Harris said under his breath.

  ‘Which may prove significant.’ Rossi carried on, ignoring Harris’s interruption. ‘Mother – Karen Morrison – provided a list of Chloe’s friends.’

  ‘We’ll start getting people on the phones then, organising interviews and so on. We’ve got another set of parents to visit.’

  Rossi’s shoulders slumped. ‘Damn. Forgot about the other one.’

  ‘Come on,’ Murphy said, checking his email and shutting down his computer once he’d decided there wasn’t anything he deemed to be urgent. ‘Shouldn’t take us long. At least it’s this side of the water this time.’

  Murphy grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and nodded towards DCI Stephens’s private office and held up a finger to Rossi. ‘Just give me a minute.’

  Murphy walked off towards his boss’s office, smirking as he heard Rossi start complaining to Harris.

  Murphy gave a short rap on the door, waited a few moments for a reply and then entered the office.

  ‘David,’ DCI Stephens said, picking up the telephone on her desk, staring at it for a second before replacing it. ‘Sorry, my head’s up my arse this morning. Glad you’ve dropped in. Want to tell me what’s going on?’

  Murphy drew a chair towards him and sat down. ‘Looks like we’ve got a tricky one,’ he began.

  Chapter Six

  There are parts of Liverpool that look entirely different from what some people might expect. Leafy suburbs, newly built detached houses, mansions even. Streets kept clean, well looked after. You could drop some parts of Liverpool into more affluent areas of the country and no one would think they looked out of place.

  And other parts of the city looked much as an outsider might expect.

  ‘Well . . . this is different from Chloe’s parents’ house.’

  Murphy turned towards Rossi, raised his eyebrows then opened the car door. Passenger side this time. Rossi had made it clear it was her turn to drive, so he’d had to squeeze himself into her car. She was still refusing to drive one provided from the pool at the station, even though Murphy had relented and begun picking one up for most journeys.

  Rossi was right though. It was different. The terrace house in front of them had seen better days and was a direct contrast to the well-kept, large, semi-detached house owned by Chloe’s parents. Even for Walton the street wasn’t in the best condition – the main attraction being a tired string of England flags blowing in the breeze high above them, tied from lamp posts and strung across the road. Wheelie bins were dotted about the place, house numbers daubed across them in magnolia paint.

  ‘It’s got character,’ Rossi said, joining Murphy outside Joe Hooper’s father’s house. ‘I’ll give it that. Bet they’ll even say they have a sense of community.’

  Murphy ignored the comment and instead basked in nostalgia. He felt more comfortable on streets like these than the one they had spent time in that morning.

  ‘This is where proper people live, Laura.’

  ‘Oh, I know that. Six kids in a three-bedroom house, remember?’

  Murphy smirked, recalling the time he had tried to work out the logistics of Rossi’s upbringing.

  ‘Come on,’ he said after a few more seconds. ‘Let’s get this done.’

  Murphy began to walk towards the metal gate which was hanging on only one hinge, and sidestepped a smear of what he hoped was only dog shit on the pavement. He managed to place one hand on the gate before the voices rang out. Not from inside the house, but from behind him.

  ‘Are you from the police?’

  ‘What’s happened to Joe Hooper, Detective?’

  ‘Is it true he was found in a drugs den with Chloe?’

  Two journalists crossed the road with purpose, both had obviously been camped in separate cars waiting for them to arrive. Murphy turned and shook his head, allowing Rossi to step in between them as he reached through the gate and pulled up the handle, scraping the metal against the doorstep.

  ‘We’ll be making a full statement later. For now, we’ll neither confirm nor deny anything. Thank you.’ Rossi turned away.

  The journalists followed Rossi, still shouting questions as if they were part of a media scrum, rather than two middle-aged blokes in clothes that would have looked fresh on three days earlier.

  ‘Keep your voices down,’ Murphy said, unable to keep his mouth shut as the noise level went up another notch. ‘Have a bit of decency. We’ll speak to you later. Down the station, not here.’

  Murphy wasn’t sure if it was because a six foot four bloke had said it, or whether they had actually dredged up a sense of decorum, but the journalists stopped talking. He assumed the reason for their sudden silence was the third option – they had simply run out of questions to ask. The voices of the two men died down as they moved back towards their cars.

  ‘You’re always more polite than I am with them.’

  ‘Well, you have to remember the camera thing,’ Rossi said. ‘Could be one filming at any point. Last thing we need right now is one of us giving hell to a journo.’

  ‘Still, it’s always nice to give them a bit of agro back. Bane of our bloody lives most of the time.’

  Murphy stepped forward and knocked on the door. It was opened a few seconds later by the family liaison officer, sent to the house ahead of them. Murphy went first, ushered into the living room. The walls felt like they were closing in on him as he stepped inside; the smell of damp and nicotine mixing together, creating something he struggled to imagine living in. Yellowing paper on the walls, peeling in places. Black mould in the corners of the room. A rhythmic cough coming from the only occupant. A man in his forties, who could have passed for late fifties if Murphy hadn’t already known the guy. The coughs coming each side of drags on a rolled cigarette, the can of lager not doing anything to stop them.

  ‘The cavalry’s arrived then,’ the man said, purposefully not making eye contact with Murphy or Rossi. ‘What kept youse?’

  ‘Hello, Chris,’ Murphy said, waving away the family liaison officer who, judging by the speed of his departure, was relieved to escape the confines of the room. ‘Long time no see.’

  Chris Hooper looked up, appraised him with a weaving head and sniffed. ‘I remember you,’ he said, placing his can of lager on the threadbare carpet at his feet and replacing it with a light
er. ‘How the fuck could I forget a big fucking lummox like you though, eh?’

  Murphy looked at the stained couch behind him and decided against sitting down. Mainly for his own health. Rossi had likely made the same decision, leaning against the now closed wood-panelled door.

  ‘Keeping yourself out of trouble?’

  ‘Better than my boy by the sounds of things.’

  Murphy didn’t remember many faces from his uniform days, but Chris Hooper’s was one of them. Not the name, not at first. And definitely not the familial connection to that morning’s victim. He didn’t keep tabs on the family members of men he’d arrested countless times back in those days. He remembered Chris Hooper though. The amount of times he’d had to battle with him, drunk and endlessly violent.

  A regular.

  Murphy nodded towards Chris. ‘Nothing confirmed as yet, of course, until you ID him. But we think it’s him, Chris.’

  Chris’s head dropped to his chest, the rolled cigarette between his fingers burning out, waiting to be relit. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Joe?’

  ‘Years ago,’ came the slurred reply. ‘Not interested in his auld fella once he’d become famous. Embarrassed about me probably. Can’t believe he went over and played for those fucking wools anyway. Tranmere bloody Rovers? Hardly Anfield or Wembley, is it? Still looked down his nose at us, though, didn’t he?’

  ‘Spoke to him recently?’

  ‘Tried to. Wondered if he’d see his way to giving us some money to get out of here and that. Brought him up, didn’t we? Deserved a bit of payback. Never got back to us though. Now . . . now he’ll never get the chance. And we’re stuck here forever. Poor kid.’

  Murphy waited for Chris to light his cigarette, and for another coughing fit to finish, before speaking again. ‘You never met Chloe then, I gather?’

  ‘That bint he was in the papers with all the time? Nah. He wouldn’t bring her here, would he? Ashamed of us. Didn’t even see his brothers and sisters either. Cut himself off. What good’s that done him? Christ.’

  ‘So, when did you actually speak to him last?’

  ‘Years ago,’ Chris said, sniffing and choking on whatever came up. He swallowed and then took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Don’t know anything about his life now. Never sold our story though. Tried to tell him that, but he didn’t care. Not even now, to those two dickheads out there. I’m better than that.’

  Murphy looked towards Rossi, raising an eyebrow which indicated a dead end.

  ‘We’re going to be speaking again, okay, Chris? But for now, the family liaison officer will be here to answer any questions and to take you down the Royal to ID the body.’

  A slow nod was the only response.

  ‘Chris, look at me,’ Murphy said, his voice a little louder in the small room. Chris lifted his head slowly, looked at Murphy with bloodshot eyes.

  Murphy bent down a little. ‘I’m going to find out what happened to your son. Understand?’

  Chris stared at Murphy for a few seconds before taking a drag on his cigarette. ‘You were always one of the good ones,’ he replied.

  * * *

  ‘We were never going to get anything from him anyway,’ Murphy said, sitting back in the passenger seat and forgoing the opportunity to stick a middle finger up at the two journos who were now sitting on a car bonnet on the opposite side of the road. ‘He hasn’t seen any of his kids for years.’

  Rossi started the car and fiddled with the satnav on the dashboard before giving up on it. ‘Guess not. Had to be done though.’

  ‘One of the perks we have on this job.’

  ‘Vaffanculo’

  Murphy let out a short laugh at Rossi’s response and took out his phone as the police radio crackled into life, looking up to make sure Rossi turned it down. He scrolled down his mobile phone screen looking for Sarah’s name in his contacts list, before giving up and going back to recent messages instead. He sent her a short text to tell her he’d be late home and not to fall asleep on the sofa. She replied instantly.

  Had a feeling you would be late. Heard the news. Don’t worry, I’ve got plans. Hope you don’t come home too tired ;-) xx

  Murphy smirked and put his phone back in his pocket.

  ‘Ring the office while you’ve got that out,’ Rossi said, indicating to turn right, onto Rice Lane. ‘Find out when the PM is scheduled for.’

  ‘PMs, Laura,’ Murphy replied, trying to find DC Harris’s number on his phone. ‘Plural.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Murphy called Harris as Rossi made the trip back to the station, the drab houses of Walton becoming the drab houses of Kirkdale and Everton, as County Road became Walton Road.

  ‘Not until tomorrow morning,’ Murphy said, ending the call. ‘Chloe’s mum has come over to ID her, though, so I imagine Chris Hooper won’t be far behind.’

  ‘Why the wait?’ Rossi replied.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe Houghton is getting too old? Probably has a few in the queue ahead of them or something. Nothing can be rushed with him.’

  ‘Suppose. Would have thought with the shit storm that’s about to rain down on us he would have got the word to sort it sooner.’

  ‘I’m sure that’ll come in time.’

  They fell into an easy silence as the five mile trip back to St Anne Street passed quickly. Murphy rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and allowed his eyes to close briefly. He opened them as he felt the car slow down and turn off, seeing the station loom into blurred view.

  ‘More of them now,’ Rossi said, waiting for the barrier to lift before driving on. ‘Parassiti.’

  ‘Can’t argue with that,’ Murphy replied.

  The office was even busier now, a few detective constables had returned from the crime scene and were back at commandeered desks. Murphy started considering the future of the case. Although they all answered to people of higher ranks, essentially the team of detectives and officers was under his command; it would be him they would come to. To be told what to do, how to proceed.

  If he had an ego, he would be dangerous. As it was, he was barely interested in telling himself what to do, never mind a whole load of other people.

  ‘Quiet down,’ Murphy shouted over the din of raised voices. ‘Meeting room, five minutes. I want to know everything we have so far and update you on what’s been going on here.’

  A few ‘Yes, boss’ and ‘yes, Sir’s could be heard before the conversations started up again. Murphy checked the murder board for any updates, saw only Rossi’s sloped handwriting and carried on to DCI Stephens’s office.

  ‘Back so soon, David?’ Stephens said once he was sitting down opposite her.

  ‘Yeah,’ Murphy replied, stretching his already tired legs out in front of him. ‘Father hadn’t seen the victim in a while. Wasn’t a good relationship, but we knew that anyway. I know the guy from old—’

  ‘Your days in uniform?’

  ‘Of course,’ Murphy said, accepting the interruption. ‘Low-level stuff. Alcoholic, so always fuelled by drink. Violence mostly. Pub fights and so on.’

  ‘The mother?’

  ‘Dead a couple of years. Alcohol got to her a lot sooner than it’ll get to him. Joe – the victim – moved on pretty quick by the looks of things. Still a lot to work out on that side.’

  DCI Stephens pushed a few grey strands of hair behind her ear where they had come loose from her tight bun of a hairdo. ‘Possible suspect?’

  Murphy shook his head. ‘I’m not ruling it out, but I think we need to look at their personal lives outside of family at the moment. That room in the house, all the magazine cuttings and that? That’s saying something to me.’

  DCI Stephens raised an eyebrow. ‘Enlighten me, Poirot. What’s it saying?’

  Murphy took a second, tried to work out what he wanted to say but failed. ‘Honestly, I’m not sure yet. There’s just something about it that isn’t right. It was like a shrine to them,
but . . .’ Murphy struggled to find the words to describe what it was that was niggling at him.

  ‘It’s a bad one, that’s what you’re saying?’

  ‘Not just bad,’ Murphy replied. ‘Something we’ve come across before.’

  DCI Stephens waited for him to continue, but Murphy didn’t have any more. Except one thing.

  ‘Obsession,’ he said after a few seconds. ‘This is someone who was obsessed with them or what they represent. That’s my feeling. Not some domestic murder–suicide ridiculous situation. This is something worse.’

  Fate

  There was a question he thought of often, never receiving an answer that placated him. It niggled at him late at night, when he slept fitfully in the adjacent room to the one he stood in now. He asked Number Four, not waiting for an answer.

  ‘Do you believe in fate? Some guiding force which brings us all together? Loads of people do. I’ve noticed that over the years, talking to people in work and other places. In pubs, betting shops, supermarkets. You hear them all the time, talking about karma and saying things like It was written in the stars. Millions of people read horoscopes in newspapers, believing the things they say, as if they could apply to hundreds of millions of people simultaneously.’

  Did he believe in fate?

  ‘It’s what people say in new relationships all the time, you know. Circumstance had driven them together, but they believed they were always meant to be together.’

  His voice went up an octave, a mocking tone to it. ‘It was fate that he missed his bus. That she decided not to eat her lunch in the same place she always did that day.’ He ignored the fact Number Four shrank back from him as he laid the palm of his hand on the top of her head. He stroked her hair, and she whimpered from behind the duct tape across her mouth.

  His voice went back to normal. ‘Fate supposedly made sure they were pushed together, so they would meet and get married and have kids and grow old and have grandchildren and then die a few months apart. Blah, blah, blah, life, blah.’