by Luca Veste
‘This is meeting his friends, isn’t it? People he works with every day at least?’
‘Well, yeah.’
‘That sounds pretty important to me. You should be there. It’s not until tomorrow, so you never know. Maybe the whole case will be solved by then. Hey, it’s anaesthetic drugs being used . . . maybe it’s him and you’ll wake up on Sunday not knowing what happened.’
Rossi raised her voice. ‘Don’t even joke about that. He’s not that type of guy. He’s . . . he’s good. He’s not a killer or anything like that. Be very careful about what you say, you hear me?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Murphy said, holding his hands up in surrender as he noticed Rossi’s hands shake a little. Her jaw clenched as she waited for him to continue. ‘Just a joke, honest. He seems cool. I didn’t realise it was that serious . . .’
‘Neither did I,’ Rossi said, lowering her voice. ‘Guess I’m a bit protective. You don’t think that joke’s being made by some other people round here? They all know who he is and where he works. It’s just getting on my nerves.’
‘Look, Laura, we can’t ever let these types of things interfere with our lives. We have to keep going as if everything is normal . . .’
‘You’re one to talk.’
‘I know,’ Murphy said, holding his hands up. ‘But, I am trying to get better at that type of thing. If we let cases like this one, or the next, or the next . . . if they get to you, they win. You’ll end up resenting your job and that’ll make you a worse detective. You’re already getting better than me.’
‘Vaffanculo .’
‘Well, you’re a better swearer than any of us, at least.’
Rossi smiled at him. Murphy looked across at her, seeing the effects of the previous few years on her. When he began working with her almost three years ago, she had just turned thirty, a smooth-faced, Mediterranean-featured young woman. Now, the darkness was under her eyes, the lines creeping in. Murphy didn’t want her to end up like him. When he looked in the mirror now, he saw a reflection of all the horrors he had seen in the previous decade. The scars and lines well earned. He’d been handsome once, he thought, but it was beginning to catch up on him.
‘Go,’ Murphy said. ‘Have a good time and make me jealous. You deserve it after this week. I’ll be making sure you’re out of here tomorrow in time to meet them.’
‘Fine,’ Rossi replied, still smiling. ‘What are we going to do with our new friend in there?’
Murphy considered the broken man they had left in the interview room. ‘It’s obvious he had no idea it was Carly and Will who were killed overnight. So, unless we’re being played by the greatest actor alive, I don’t think we have our man yet.’
‘Agreed, but he deserves something.’
‘Conspiracy? I’m not sure it would stick.’
‘He can’t just get away with it, though,’ Rossi said, her smile now gone. ‘It’s because of him they’re both dead. And for what? Because she didn’t go running to him when he showed up on his horse like a good white knight? He deserves to take some responsibility here.’
Murphy suppressed a yawn, tired of standing in the hallway, a little way down the corridor from the interview room. ‘I understand, I just don’t know what CPS are going to say. If you want to try, I’m willing to back you on it.’
‘Thank you. We can’t just have men like him out there.’
‘I get it, I do,’ Murphy replied, looking at his phone and tutting under his breath when he saw the time. ‘Listen, I’ll send Kirkham down to help you sort him out. I’ve got to go and show my face at this bloody press conference now.’
‘Go, I’ll be fine. Don’t let Butler get to you if he tries anything on.’
Murphy left Rossi in the corridor, almost jogging up the flight of stairs to his office. He sent Kirkham down to meet Rossi, checked he didn’t look like a crumpled mess and made his way to the press room.
He was late. DCI Stephens shook her head at him, pointing at her bare wrist as he made his way up the corridor to meet them. DSI Butler was smoothing down his hair, the strip lighting reflecting off the flecks of grey.
‘Glad you could make it, David,’ DSI Butler said, his assistant straightening his tie for him. ‘Now, is there anything you can tell me about the man we’ve arrested today?’
‘He’s under caution, but he only sent an email,’ Murphy replied. ‘We’ve just finished interviewing him now. He emailed the Man in Black address, but it looks like whoever our guy is deleted it before we even saw. Along with God knows how many others. We have arrested him on suspicion of perverting the course of justice. We’re going to approach CPS with a possible conspiracy charge for this lad, but I’m not sure it’ll stick.’
‘He is a person of interest at the moment,’ DSI Butler said. ‘Sounds better. Helping us with our enquiries?’
‘Yes, use both,’ DCI Stephens replied. ‘It will keep them off our back a little.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ DSI Butler said, smoothing out his jacket. ‘There is significant interest in this case. The coverage is non-stop and we look like a bunch of bloody amateurs at the moment. Eight murders. Six in one week. What am I supposed to tell them, David? Please tell me we’re getting closer to an actual arrest.’
‘We’re working on it,’ Murphy said, wondering if the superintendent had any clue what was going on. ‘It’s a very complicated case, with very few leads . . .’
‘I don’t care about that. Just find the guy, before we have even more problems with this lot to deal with. Every day this goes unsolved, it’s more pressure on us all. This new unit was set up so things like this didn’t happen. Certainly not for this long. Get out there and find out who this bloody nutcase is and get him off my streets.’
The media was king, Murphy thought. He was surprised he hadn’t been thrown under the bus and made to go out and face them by himself.
They filed in and headed to the table at the front of the room. Murphy noticed the number of people in attendance was almost double the amount of the previous press conference. On the other side of the room he saw the mother of Hannah Flynn being prepped to join them and make her own statement.
‘Did you see Chloe’s stepdad blow up earlier?’ DCI Stephens said to Murphy behind a cupped hand. ‘Not sure that’s helping at all.’
‘Didn’t see it,’ Murphy replied, looking out into a mass of faces. ‘I’m surprised it hasn’t happened sooner. I’m betting the press has been camped outside their house all week.’
‘We’ve had a word and sent the family liaison officer back there.’
Murphy sat down to the left of DCI Stephens, with DSI Butler on her right.
The preamble went without a hitch. DSI Butler made an impassioned speech, which even Murphy began to believe by the end. As he spoke about the hard work and man hours being put in by his staff, Murphy began to tune out and list the things that could actually catch the ‘Man in Black’. He winced to himself when he thought of the ridiculous moniker once more.
The list was short. They were down to trawling the archives online, checking IP addresses provided by large service providers. CCTV had turned up nothing of use.
The drugs were a possibility if they ever got an actual name, but the time taken to get any answers was just an opportunity for more victims to appear. Forensics on the scene had turned up nothing. It was one dead end after another.
‘A man in his early twenties was identified as a person of interest earlier today and is helping police with their enquiries,’ DSI Butler continued in a low voice. ‘We will give you more information on this in due course.’
Murphy knew the name would be common knowledge within an hour. That’s just how these things worked. Adam’s life would be shattered, once it became known what he had done. Even if he was never charged for an offence, his life was about to change overnight.
Good, Murphy thought.
Murphy waited for Hannah’s mother to begin speaking, feeling like a spare part. Someone to make up
the numbers behind the panel of microphones.
‘Hannah was just starting her life,’ Emily Flynn said, looking very different from how Murphy had seen her a few days previously. ‘She didn’t deserve for this to happen to her.’
Someone coughed in the audience of journalists, which seemed to start a chain reaction of people clearing their throats.
‘Hannah and Greg’s daughter, Millie, is about to turn two. She doesn’t understand what has happened to her mummy and daddy . . .’
Murphy waited for any sign of emotion to appear, but Emily Flynn was in determined mode. He’d seen it with other grieving relatives when they were in front of cameras. Their nerves kept their emotions in check. He knew five minutes after the press conference had ended, she would be a wreck.
‘I’d ask anyone who has any information to please get in touch with the police. Someone, somewhere will know the person who has done this. Someone who has been acting strangely in the past few days. Please, please help my granddaughter and come forward.’
‘Any questions?’ DCI Stephens said beside him. ‘We’re able to take a few.’
Hands shot up round the room.
‘Yes,’ DCI Stephens said, pointing to someone on the front row.
‘Emily, can we ask if you’ve spoken to the parents of Chloe Morrison and whether you’re supporting each other through this.’
Emily Flynn picked up a glass of water in front of her with shaking hands. ‘No, I haven’t. We’re very different people. I don’t imagine they’re taking many calls from people right now.’
‘You’ve got that right,’ the man asking the question said under his breath. A low laugh spread through the room.
‘You think this is funny?’ Emily said, water spilling over the sides as she slammed the glass back down on the desk. ‘Is this a joke to you?’
There was silence in the room, the reporter who had made the comment now finding the floor of much interest to him.
‘This isn’t just words, or stories. This is real life. My granddaughter has lost her parents to some crazy bastard, and you lot aren’t interested in that. No one has asked me anything about my daughter. All you’re interested in is some celebrities and what happened to them. We’re a sideshow to you lot. I’ve seen what you’ve been saying about Hannah, relegating her to a non-victim, just because of one mistake . . .’
‘I think we should move . . .’
‘No,’ Emily said, holding up a hand to the press officer who had tried to intervene. ‘They need to hear this. It’s because of you lot that this sort of thing goes on. You’re getting messages and videos from the sick individual who did this and showing them on television, printing them in your newspapers. Do you not think that’s helping him, rather than helping us? Giving him a thrill. Making him do it again, and probably again soon enough . . .’
‘We’re just reporting the news,’ a voice from the back shouted. Murphy, who had been watching Emily with a growing respect, scanned the crowd for the source. He wanted to remember the face, just to make a note of it.
‘That’s enough,’ DSI Butler said, cutting in. ‘This is obviously an emotional time for Emily. Are we . . . are we going to end?’
DSI Butler looked towards the press officer for help, before a cacophony erupted as the reporters in the room began to rise to their feet and voice their dismay.
‘Hey, quieten down,’ Murphy said, standing up and shouting over them. ‘Have a bit of respect.’
DCI Stephens stood up next to him, placing a hand on his elbow. ‘Let’s just go,’ she said, trying to lead him away. ‘They’re not going to listen.’
Murphy allowed himself to be led away, looking back to make sure Emily Flynn was being cared for.
Outside the room – noise still growing inside the press room as the occupants became more indignant – Murphy stood off to the side as DCI Stephens and DSI Butler argued in what they thought were quiet voices.
Once it started going round in circles, each accusing the other of perceived transgressions, Murphy became bored.
‘That’s enough,’ Murphy said, taking a step towards them. ‘Who cares what went wrong in there? You ask me, that’s the best thing that could have happened.’
‘How is that, Detective Inspector Murphy?’ DSI Butler said, turning to him with a wearied face.
‘Well, that’ll be all over the news for hours now. And they’ll have to include what Hannah’s mother said. If someone, somewhere knows anything, they’re going to be moved by that. That was real. Everything we do in those things isn’t. It’s always the same spiel that people just tune out. Emily Flynn has just done us a favour. Now, I’m going back to work. You two can sort this out between you.’
Murphy turned and didn’t wait for a response. He walked away up the corridor, expecting to be called back, but the order didn’t arrive.
He smiled to himself as he turned the corner, pleased that Emily Flynn had been the one to argue with reporters and not him this time.
It worked so much better coming from a relative than a detective.
Truth
He was normal again, but the time between the two parts of him colliding was becoming shorter. He wanted to switch off from it all. Stay in normality for a while longer, where his thoughts didn’t overpower him.
There was a truth that he couldn’t face. That he didn’t want to voice, for fear of it taking over and consuming him. Allowing one part of himself to become dominant.
He wasn’t sorry for what he had done.
There was no conscience, no worry that he was going to hell or anything like that.
That was what bothered him. What he had become, killing not only the liars and those who held secrets, but also the innocent. After the fourth of those innocents he thought it would begin to have some effect on him, but he went to sleep not thinking of their last moments. Of their relatives left behind. He thought of nothing. Other than who would be next.
That was part of his truth and it scared him.
The celebrity couple had been a mistake. He saw that now. It had focused people’s attention away from his message and onto them. The truth was he had been given a gift and couldn’t pass it up. Inside information about someone high-profile, from a drug-induced friend of the liar. A patient, who had thought his tale could be kept secret.
There were no secrets in that hospital. He knew everything that was going on with everyone in the place. Gossip was the sole source of trade within those walls.
He was in the break room when the press conference came on the TV in the corner. The sound was turned down, so he had to wait for the subtitles to catch up with the voices on the screen. The police all serious and dressed smartly. The mother of one of his victims sitting close by, waiting for her turn to speak. He was glad to see the big detective sitting there and that he looked even more tired with each passing day.
So he should, he thought. Lies have a way of catching up with you.
It was almost interesting, watching them talk about what he had done, the panic he had created. The lives he had changed forever. There was more interest in it than anything else he could remember happening in the city. Liverpool was now a base camp for what seemed like every member of the media in the country.
He felt a sense of pride for that.
He was tired. That was also his truth. Tired of having to split his life into two compartments. Normality and the man he became when he tried to help these people. When he’d read about serial killers, they hadn’t mentioned the way it took up so much of your time.
‘You still coming tomorrow?’
There were always people wanting to speak to him, interrupting him whilst he was thinking or trying to pay attention to something. On the television screen, the mother of one of the liars was becoming more agitated as she spoke at length. He saw misspelled words appear across the screen, which seemed to be blaming the press for what had happened.
‘I wouldn’t miss it, mate. Still at five?’
‘Yeah, we’re me
eting in Flanno’s first. Are you bringing someone?’
He looked at the interrupter finally, giving them a smile he’d practised in the mirror a number of times.
‘Think so. Just waiting for her to say it’s okay.’
How could she blame them? It was he who had taken her daughter. It was he who had orphaned her granddaughter. How dare she try to take credit away from him. For all he had worked hard for, what he had created. It wasn’t the media to blame for her daughter’s lies.
She was going on his list. He’d get round to her one day.
He continued to watch the screen, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone. A familiar face. Disappointment grew by the second as the face didn’t appear.
Then, the camera panned across and the big detective filled the screen. On his feet, pointing at someone in the . . . audience? He wasn’t sure what to call them.
The press conference finished then and the programme cut back to the studio; his interest disappeared.
He was tired. There was something missing. When he had killed the first couple, there was a buzz which lasted for days. He had trashed their house when they were both dead, just to do something with all the pent-up excitement he had felt once the two people sitting in their chairs no longer drew breath.
The pair he had killed the previous night had brought no excitement. Only anger. They didn’t understand. Hadn’t wanted to be helped.
The gaping wound in the male’s neck reminded him of videos he had watched on the internet, of men in the Middle East, killing for their own reasons, just like him. The woman had died with no sounds, slumped over in seconds, just like the rest of them.
Walking round the house, seeing the happy and smiling vision of the pair beaming from every photograph . . . it sickened him. He couldn’t get out of there quickly enough after tearing the photos off the walls and creating the flawed masterpiece.
He had made a mistake. He knew it now. The truth was that he thought he’d done it on purpose. That somewhere, deep down, he wanted to be found out and stopped. He was sick, he knew that. He just couldn’t help himself.