by Luca Veste
‘Do you know anything about him . . . where he lives, what he does outside work, anything?’
‘I don’t know, honestly. I just know him through work. That’s all.’
Murphy turned to the rest of the table. ‘Does anyone here know anything about Ben Flanagan at all?’
The table was silent. Shock had kicked in, and Murphy shouting at them did little to help.
‘Christ,’ DCI Stephens said, as Murphy made his way to the pub entrance. ‘What the hell went wrong?’
‘They were outside when the AFOs went in,’ Murphy said, pacing in front of DCI Stephens. ‘Did they not check that everyone was there before storming in?’
‘I don’t know, I would imagine so. Mistakes happen . . .’
‘Well, that mistake almost cost Laura her life and now Ben Flanagan has got away.’
‘Wait . . . Ben? I thought you were sure it was this Darren Logan?’
‘We got it wrong,’ Murphy said, coming to a stop by the side of DCI Stephens. ‘If we’d have checked before storming in, he’d still have been sitting at that table. He looks like a little kid, honestly. I didn’t think it would be him at all. He can’t be more than thirty . . .’
‘I don’t think that matters,’ DCI Stephens replied, placing a hand on Murphy’s elbow to stop him pacing again. ‘We’ll catch him, don’t worry. There was nothing else we could have done.’
‘There was plenty.’
‘He won’t get far,’ DCI Stephens continued, ignoring Murphy’s comment. ‘The area is going into lockdown. Did he have a car or anything here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Murphy said, spotting DC Kirkham outside the pub, pointing towards the top end of Hanover Street and Liverpool Central train station.
‘We’ll ask the people left in there.’
Murphy walked past DCI Stephens and went outside to talk to DC Kirkham. ‘You got him yet?’
‘I almost did,’ DC Kirkham replied, out of breath and red-faced. He stopped and placed his hands on his knees, gulping in air. ‘Bastard was fast. Ran down School Lane behind the shops. I lost him. There were others coming from the opposite side, so they’ll pen him in.’
Murphy turned to the uniform standing close by. ‘Get on to CCTV and track him down. The place is crawling with cameras.’
The uniform rushed off, shouting into his radio as he did so. ‘Did you get close to him at all?’
‘Not really,’ DC Kirkham replied, standing upright once more. ‘He was too quick even for me. Is that really our guy?’
‘It definitely looks that way.’
‘Shit,’ DC Kirkham said. His face then turned a darker shade of red. ‘Is Laura . . .?’
‘She’s fine,’ Murphy said, placing a hand on Kirkham’s shoulder and turning back to the pub. ‘Barely broke the skin. It was just a distraction. Worked as well.’
‘Any of us would have gone for her, rather than him.’
Murphy murmured in response and walked back into the pub. The medical workers were still sitting in chairs round the same table they’d been drinking at only minutes before. Darren Logan sat at the end of the row, ashen-faced and shaking. Murphy saw him casting glances behind him towards the terrace every few seconds.
‘His arse hasn’t even touched the seat,’ Murphy said under his breath. ‘He cares.’
There were more voices and a group of paramedics and AFOs crowded round something.
‘Just let me walk, for Christ’s sake.’
Murphy smiled and strode over. ‘All right, let her walk without you all getting in her way,’ he said, placing himself between a few of the officers there.
Rossi was moving slowly, one hand against a white bandage on her neck. ‘Didn’t even lose that much blood. Don’t know what all the fuss is about.’
‘You know how it is,’ Murphy said, brushing aside another officer who was determined to keep a steadying hand on Rossi. ‘You’re one of us.’
Rossi looked up at him, her complexion whiter than he’d ever seen it before. ‘Is Darren okay?’
Murphy hesitated as they reached the steps which led down to where the table was. ‘He’s fine, just worried about you.’
Rossi saw him before Murphy had a chance to signal to the officer standing by the table. ‘Get those bloody cuffs off him now,’ she said, one hand still up to her neck, the other pointing at the uniform’s chest. ‘He’s with me.’
‘Laura . . .’ Murphy began to say, walking across to her. ‘We can’t just . . .’
‘No, Murphy,’ Rossi said, shrugging him off. ‘He’s got nothing to do with this. Arrest her, though,’ she said, pointing towards a cowering brunette, attempting to hide behind another man. ‘She was with Ben. She’ll know something, I’ll bet.’
Murphy looked towards the uniform and gave him the nod, before leaving Rossi to it and walking back to DCI Stephens at the entrance.
‘Looks like she got away without anything major happening,’ DCI Stephens said, a smirk appearing across her harried face. ‘Good news at least.’
‘Any word?’
‘Nothing yet, but he can’t have got far. We’ve got a perimeter set up around the whole of town. He’s not getting through.’
‘He was with someone here,’ Murphy said, gesturing back towards the table. ‘Laura has pointed her out. We’ll need to question her.’
‘Good,’ DCI Stephens replied, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Hopefully she knows something.’
Murphy nodded, checking the time and rubbing a hand across his face. ‘What do we need to do?’
‘Set up a command post and monitor the situation. That’s all we can do really.’
Murphy took a look outside, past DCI Stephens, and rolled his eyes. ‘Press are here.’
‘Surprised it took this long,’ DCI Stephens said, glancing back to where Murphy was looking. ‘Hopefully we’ll have good news for them soon.’
Murphy tried to be optimistic, but failed.
* * *
It was ten p.m. by the time Murphy decided to call it a night. There was little he could do. He had traipsed the length of town, made sure that all the shops in the vicinity were closed for the evening and that the area had been evacuated. Safety had triumphed over profit.
There was a helicopter circling above and cars on the ground, all failing to report the one thing Murphy wanted to hear.
It seemed as if Ben Flanagan had disappeared.
The woman who had accompanied him to the pub was still being questioned, but Murphy doubted anything substantial was going to come from that. She’d said it was a new relationship, only a month or so old. It was clear she had fallen for him, but Murphy doubted those feelings were mutual.
The hospital had provided them with Flanagan’s address, but when they had stormed it, they’d found only an empty bedsit, save for a few bills in his name.
No clues as to where he actually lived.
Murphy wasn’t looking forward to the fallout, especially if they didn’t catch him within hours. He’d called Sarah early on, just to put her mind at ease. His phone had buzzed at nine thirty.
Are you coming home yet? Thought I’d make the effort to give you something to relax . . . ;-) xx
Murphy had smiled at that. Normality. It was exactly what he needed after the week he’d had. There wasn’t much he could do now, but still felt like he should stay.
Almost an hour later, he’d been ordered home and hadn’t put up much of a fight. He was almost dead on his feet. He’d caught a lift back to the station so he could pick up his car and then he’d driven home on automatic pilot.
Murphy parked up, leaving the radio on as he switched off the engine. It was the local call-in show, hosted by Pete Price, talking about the manhunt. Callers moaning about how their kids weren’t safe because the police weren’t doing their jobs properly.
‘Yet, the first people you’d ring in an emergency is us . . .’ Murphy muttered in his empty car.
Then a voice came over the speakers, one h
e knew.
‘You probably don’t even remember my name, Pete, never mind my daughter’s. My daughter is Amy Maguire . . .’
Murphy turned the radio up a touch, shaking his head as his heart began to hammer in his chest.
‘No one cares about her, do they? She’s been missing for weeks, and all anyone can talk about is these celebrities and stuff. Some guy giving them the run around in town now. My daughter is still out there and no one is looking for her, are they?’
‘Now come on, Stacey, there’s something more important going on at the moment . . .’
‘More important than my daughter’s safety?’
‘She’s eighteen, isn’t she? We’ve got a murderer loose in Liverpool right now – how are we supposed to be looking for an eighteen-year-old while that’s going on, love?’
‘Don’t “love” me, Pete, my daughter matters. She’s out there, God knows where, and no one cares. She didn’t get her face plastered over the Echo all week, or on Sky News twenty-four hours a day. No one cared when she went missing—’
‘Sorry, Stacey, but we’ve got lots to get through tonight . . .’
Murphy switched the radio off and rubbed a hand over the rough skin on his face. He made a promise to himself. Once this was all over, he would find Amy.
Show that someone cared.
The house looked dark from the outside, only a pale light coming through the curtains in the living room. He let himself in, closing the door behind him.
‘Hello?’
Candles where laid out in the hallway, leading into the dining room at the back, past the living room.
Murphy grinned, rubbed the tiredness out of his neck and took off his jacket. ‘Now this was a very good idea, babe. I’m sorry I’m so late in now. I’m sure you’ve seen the news and know why.’
Murphy shook his shoes off and padded through into the dining room, flickering tea lights leading the way. ‘Not much else I can do out there, so I’m not even going to feel guilty about this.’
He pushed open the dining-room door, saw more candles laid out on the floor and on every surface. He smiled, walking into the room.
Murphy froze as the familiar scene hit him.
Two chairs. Facing each other. One unoccupied. One not.
Sarah, looking at him, duct tape across her face. Bound to the chair so she couldn’t move or make a sound. Shaking her head as her eyes widened.
Seconds. Not even that. To process what was in front of him, his feet still stuck to the floor. The whole of his insides dropping a few millimetres, the breath sucked from his body.
His feet began to move finally, but didn’t get far. A noise behind him made him turn round, just as something struck him in the temple.
As Murphy fell to the floor, darkness already descending upon him, he saw his wife Sarah scream silently behind her gag.
And a man dressed in black, standing over him.
Number Four
There was somewhere he had to go, before reaching the home of the lying detective and his wife. One last place to visit.
That room and the place he could talk freely. Without judgement or interruption.
The room which contained Number Four.
‘I have to go now,’ Ben said, the smell within the room overpowering him. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be back. They’re trying to stop me, but you can tell them. You can tell them that I was right. That you love me now.’
He waited for an answer that wasn’t going to come, then carried on speaking regardless.
‘I did this for you. For us. I had to prove that there was a chance for us to love each other and do it right. All of those people – liars and enablers – they meant nothing. They’re not as strong as we’re going to be. You can tell them. If something happens to me. You can tell them that I was just proving my love, our love, was stronger. One last time. Tell them I had to bring you here, so no one could get in the way of that.’
Ben crouched down next to Number Four. ‘We’ll have new names. You won’t be a number any more. Okay? We’ll be together, just you and me. No one will get in our way. It can still happen. I just have to finish this. Stop the lies one last time. Then, it’ll just be me and you, right?’
He raised his hand to her face, stroking away tears which rolled down her cheeks. ‘You’re so like her, just like Number One. This time, everything will be the way it was supposed to be.’
* * *
The pain was unlike anything Amy had experienced before. The hunger was not the issue any longer. It was the agony of being chained to a radiator, her limbs cramping, twisted into awkward angles. The pain increasing if she tried to break free.
Her voice had gone hoarse from shouting, now barely a whimper escaped from her throat. Not that it mattered anyway, with the tape across her mouth. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had even a sip of water.
He was going to kill her. She didn’t know when, but that was what was going to happen. Everything screamed this fact at her. She had tried to escape, tried to talk her way out of the situation. It didn’t matter.
But he wasn’t going to break her. She wasn’t going to die the way he wanted her to.
The clothes she was wearing hadn’t been changed since she’d been captured. They now hung off her, her already small frame now emaciated.
He wanted love from her. That’s all he asked for. He would talk about things they could do together, places they could go.
He would talk about the things he would do for her. The things he had been doing to prove to her that love could be the way he imagined. Amy didn’t want to listen, but there was no choice. He talked about the people he had murdered. In her name.
The love they shared would be different. She was going to see that, he’d said. He was going to change it all, across the world. Everyone would soon think the way he thought, he’d explained to her. He was going to show them.
She just wanted to go home.
There was a moment, a couple of days before that night, when she’d hoped it was over. He had arrived late at night, dressed in black and still sweating. He had removed the tape covering her mouth and poured water into her. He’d even given her a few bites of a sandwich.
She’d asked to be let go, but he hadn’t listened. He’d cut off a new piece of tape, placing it over her mouth as she’d bucked and tried to move away from him.
‘It’s not working. There’s too many of them. They’re all sick. You’re the only one who can understand. This is what love can do. I have you here, with me, that means something. But them out there, they don’t care. They don’t get it. I can’t make you see, can I? I can’t do enough to show you.’
She was going to die. He was going to finally do it. As he’d paced round the room in front of her, the echo of his footsteps had made her flinch and she’d closed her eyes.
‘I’m sorry.’
He’d left her there. He hadn’t been back in the room since then, although she’d heard him in one of the other rooms in the flat. Now he’d returned. He was in the room that had become her tomb.
There was something different about the way he spoke, the way he moved. He seemed misty-eyed as he looked down at her.
When he started speaking, she wished for silence.
She hoped he would never return.
Hoped that she wasn’t going to be left there to die.
Chapter Thirty-Six
In and out of darkness, flashes of light, consciousness, confusion. His body being moved, lifted, something going around his wrists. The sound of breathing, close by, wet exhalation on his neck. The smell of sweat, musty and cloying, hitting the back of his throat.
The room spun out of control before slowly righting itself. His head felt heavy on his neck, as if it had been replaced by something too big, too cumbersome to be normal. Murphy squinted against brightness shined into his eyes, then the light was snapped off.
Candles. He remembered them dotted round the hallway. Into his dining room.
His eyes b
egan to focus, blurred visions of what was familiar. The display unit against one wall, the photographs on the wall, his wife sitting opposite him. Only an outline of her body, the features still not coming into focus.
Murphy tried to move, his hands resting against the base of his spine, bound together. He was unable to stir his feet into action, there was a restraint around them too.
He tried to speak, the sound nonsensical to his ears. He felt the tape across his mouth, stopping him from talking aloud. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. The room spun once more, the pain in his head growing each time he moved. Feelings of nausea hitting him like a wave.
‘You with us, Detective?’
A voice in the shadows. Permeating the thickness of the atmosphere surrounding him. Each second becoming more and more clear. His eyes opening and closing of their own accord.
Murphy remembered in stages. The text message from Sarah. Walking into the house, the sight of candles, the smell of wax burning. The tea lights Sarah had bought months before, laid out along the laminate flooring in the hallway. Taking off his jacket and shoes.
Walking into the dining room.
He remembered the view in front of him as he’d walked in. Sarah, bound to one of the chairs they had picked out in a furniture shop a year earlier. Duct tape across her mouth, shaking her head, trying to speak to him.
‘You’re really heavy, took all my strength to lift you onto that chair. Almost didn’t think I’d make it.’
He wanted to answer, but couldn’t. Cramp hit his legs, the pain causing him to convulse and attempt to stretch out. But there was no give in the ties binding him to the chair, only his fingers able to move.
‘I had to do this, I really did. I’m sorry it’s not my usual well-thought-out way of doing things. I don’t like to hit people in the head before we start. Everything can go wrong straight away with head injuries. I’ve seen them in my line of work. One punch can destroy a life. One unnoticed kerbstone, or missed stair, sending you over. A slip is enough.’