by Ernesto Lee
Shaking his head again in frustration, Anderson mutters to himself, “Christ, what a bloody shit-show.”
Concerned that he may have changed his mind about Murray, Erin cautiously asks, “What now, sir? You’re still going to push the CPS for approval to charge Murray for—”
“Yes, yes,” Anderson quickly interjects. We continue as discussed. The priority until advised otherwise is charging Murray with at least one of the murders and holding him on remand pending further enquiries for all three.”
Noting Erin’s relieved expression, he then adds, “We need to keep an open mind that he could be innocent, though, Chief Inspector. Or that there could still be a second killer on the loose. I suggest keeping the main focus on Murray but assign part of your team to work on the second killer angle. Just in case things go pear-shaped with Murray.”
Glancing down at his watch, Anderson smiles and gets up from his seat. “Anyway. Thank you for the detailed update and your most enlightening assessment of our killer, Erin. Why don’t you get back to your team to see what else they’ve unearthed? I’ll call you as soon as I have any news from the CPS.”
Pushing her luck and at grave risk of overstaying her welcome, Erin remains seated. “You’re going to speak with them now, sir?”
Smirking, Anderson opens the door and gestures for Erin to leave. “Thank you, Chief Inspector. That will be all.”
His PA is already on her feet and meets Erin just outside the door.
Raising her hands in mock surrender, Erin smiles and lifts her eyebrows. “No need for the armed escort, Karen. I promise to go peacefully.”
Chapter Eleven
DI Marchetti passes Erin a steaming cup of freshly brewed coffee and asks how the meeting with the chief super went.
Grasping the cup tightly in both hands, Erin closes her eyes and takes a moment to savor its warmth and to imbibe the rich aroma of the Arabica beans before she takes a much-needed sip of the revitalizing brew.
Rejuvenated, she smiles and carefully places the cup onto her desk. “He’s not entirely convinced about Shelley Wilton, but he is fully on board to charge Murray for the Singh murder.”
“Okay… well, I suppose that’s better than nothing,” Terri says, failing miserably to suppress her obvious disappointment.
“I suppose at least we get to hold him pending further inquir—”
“But surely you told him about the acid jars under Murray’s bed?” Tony suddenly and angrily interrupts. “What more does he think the bloody CPS need?”
“Personally, I was of the same opinion as you,” Erin says calmly. “But given the fact that Murray routinely uses hydrochloric acid at his place of work, it wouldn’t be too hard for his brief to argue that he was moonlighting. And it wouldn’t exactly be difficult for them to produce a witness or two willing to say they paid Murray for a cash-in-hand etching job.
“In that scenario, the discovery of the acid jars in his apartment becomes circumstantial at best, and the boss felt we might weaken our hand with the Singh case if we push too hard with the CPS for the Wilton murder. He did, though, assure me he would be presenting the evidence for both cases.”
Frowning, Terri slowly nods. “Okay, well, that makes sense, I guess. Particularly when you consider that, as of now, his story appears to check out for the night of Wilton’s murder.”
Brushing aside Tony’s continued grumbling and petulant expression, Erin asks Terri to continue. “Okay. Well, that’s not what I wanted to hear. But go on, please. What have you found out?”
Frowning, Terri slides a thin manila folder across the desk and says, “DI Benson and his team have just finished taking the initial statements from the staff at The Twisted Friar, The Frog and Whistle, and The Bamford Arms.
“These were just faxed over to me, and, well… well, as of now, ma’am, Murray appears to have been telling the truth about his movements on the night of Wilton’s death. We still need to formally interview the witnesses ourselves, of course, but this line of inquiry does appear to be a bit of a nonstarter.”
Referring to her notes, Terri then adds, “Work is still ongoing to analyze the CCTV evidence in and around The Bamford, but the staff are convinced that Murray wasn’t in there at any time over Christmas or New Year.”
“They’re absolutely sure about that?” Erin persists. “I mean, it was nearly three months ago, after all.”
“Yes, it certainly seems that way, boss,” Terri answers with a frown. “Ironically enough, Murray is well-known as a drunkard and a loudmouth in all three of the locations in question. In the case of The Bamford, in particular, it seems he was most notable by his absence last Christmas.”
“Okay.” Erin nods, looking disappointed. “And what about the other two pubs?”
“It’s a similar story, ma’am. The staff and CCTV in both also seem to corroborate Murray’s story. He was drinking in The Twisted Friar from just after seven until when he left at 9.08 pm.
“From there, he went directly to The Frog and Whistle, where he stayed until he was asked to leave at just before 11.45 pm.”
Suddenly more alert, Erin stops writing and looks up from her notetaking. “Say that again. He was asked to leave?”
“Yes, ma’am. According to the landlord, he was making a nuisance of himself. You know, generally being obnoxious to the band and cat-calling to the female singer they had in that evening. Standard Johnny Murray,” Terri adds with a smirk before continuing. “After leaving The Frog and Whistle, we have footage of him taken from three different cameras heading in the direction of his home in Cheetham Hill.”
“Any actual footage of him getting home or going into his apartment?” Erin asks.
“No, not as yet, boss. The Manchester boys are still working on it.”
Hopeful of a breakthrough, Erin suggests, “So it’s possible he could have gone somewhere else before going home?”
“It’s a possibility,” Terri replies. “But that would have meant him walking around all night with a jar of hydrochloric acid and a claw hammer stuffed in his pockets. And why get shit-faced on the same night that you’re planning to kill someone? That’s really not very likely, even for someone as dense as Johnny Murray.”
Much as it pains Erin to admit it, Terri’s summation of the unlikely scenario makes sense.
Making the unlikely likely, however, is what good detective work is all about. Undeterred, she urges Terri to keep at it. “Make sure our friends in the GMP leave no stone unturned. I want every second of CCTV within a five-mile radius of where Wilton’s body was recovered checked and double-checked. Those acid jars were under Murray’s bed for a reason, and you can bet your life it wasn’t for bloody cash-in-hand work.
“That bastard either went out tooled up, or he went home angry, pissed off and baying for blood after being asked to leave The Frog and Whistle. And I want to know which one of those it is.”
Nodding, Terri says, “My thoughts exactly, boss. And that’s exactly what I have them doing. I’ll make sure they keep at it until we’re satisfied that nothing has been miss—”
Sitting opposite her, Tony is quite unashamedly rolling his eyes and has clearly already forgotten about his recent discussion about behavior with Erin.
“You have something to say about the way I’m handling my part of this investigation, DS Bolton?”
“No, ma’am.” Tony shrugs. “I’m just impressed at how attuned you are with the boss’s way of thinking, DI Marchetti.
It’s almost uncanny, in fact. Particularly when you consider your limited experience with murder investigation.”
Brushing aside the obvious provocation and keeping a tight lid on her emotions, Terri sarcastically smiles across the table. “Thank you, DS Bolton. If it’s okay with you, I’ll take that as a compliment. I’ll also take it as an opportunity to remind you that whilst I’m relatively new to the murder squad, I’m not new to policing.
“Suffice to say, I believe I’ve joined this squad with the level of police and in
vestigative experience commensurate to the role and requirements of a detective inspector assigned to a high-profile murder squad.”
Then in a deliberate and provocative snipe of her own, she adds, “The promotion board certainly seemed to think so anyway.”
Tony flushes with embarrassment, and his insubordination is brought to a sudden and grinding halt by the bile in Terri’s words. Pressing home her advantage and with clear intent to add insult to injury, she smirks and says, “Oh, and don’t be afraid to ask if you need me to explain to you what commensurate means.”
Knowing only too well that Tony had it coming to him, Erin struggles to stifle a snigger. For a moment, she considers allowing Terri to continue, but as much as she is enjoying watching Tony squirm, there are far more pressing matters to attend to. Before he can gather his wits, or the spat can escalate further, Erin assertively intervenes to refocus the warring parties. “Okay! That is enough from both of you, thank you. Let’s get back on track, please.”
Ignoring Tony’s muffled protests, she gestures for Terri to continue. “What about Murray’s alibi for Boxing Day? Is it legit?”
“Sorry, boss. It is. The custody sergeant at Cheetham Hill knows Murray very well.” Referring to her pocketbook, she says, “In his own words, Murray is a Cheetham Hill frequent flyer.”
Disappointed but less than surprised by the confirmation, Erin turns to Bolton. “Okay, well, that’s nothing we didn’t know already. Tony, please tell me you have some good news?”
“Um… well, yes and no, ma’am. The bus station CCTV in Bootle shows him arriving at 6.43 pm on the 17th of March and leaving at 6.21 am the following morning.”
“Which is consistent with what he told us?” Erin suggests.
Nodding, Tony slides a series of video-captures across the desk. “Yes, ma’am. This is Murray getting into Bootle and this is him leaving the next morning looking rather the worse for wear.”
Smiling, Terri points to the images. “Grey hoodie and jogging bottoms, boss.”
“Surprise, surprise.” Erin then frowns before asking, “I don’t suppose the bottoms were found during the search of his flat?”
“Unfortunately, not,” Tony replies. “And if I was a betting man, I’d say they’re probably either burnt or rotting on a refuse dump somewhere by now.”
“Which, like everything else in this case, makes absolutely zero sense,” Terri tuts to herself.
“You have a point to make, DI Marchetti?”
“Yes, ma’am. If Murray is, in fact, Shreya Singh’s killer and he was wearing the hoodie and joggers when he killed her, then why only dispose of the joggers?”
“Because he’s a dumbass!” Bolton snipes. “The guy is as thick as pig shit.”
Frowning, Erin shakes her head. “He’s put it horrifically, but Tony may have a point. If it’s true what Murray told us about tearing a hole in his joggers, it’s possible that disposing of them had nothing to do with an attempt to conceal evidence but was instead simply a lucky break for him.
“Without the joggers, we have nothing new to compare against the fiber samples recovered from Shreya’s body.”
“Okay, that’s a possibility, but why do you think the joggers would match, when Gladwell drew a complete blank with the hoodie?” Terri asks, sounding more than a little frustrated.
“Actually, I’m not particularly confident of a match,” Erin replies. “But there is always a possibility that the hoodie and joggers might not have been from the same set.”
Ignoring Tony’s smug expression at seeing her put in her place, Terri tries to speak but is quickly closed down.
“Regardless, it’s unlikely we are going to locate them now, so it’s a moot point anyway. Okay, Tony. What about Murray’s movements after getting into Bootle?”
“From the bus station, he went straight to The Ugly Duckling,” Bolton confirms. “He arrived at just after 7.30 pm and left just before a quarter to eleven.”
“You’re sure about that?” Terri asks, referring to her own notes from earlier. “During his interview, he said that he left at around 11.30 pm.”
“As sure as we can be,” Tony says. “This is him outside the pub.”
The timestamp on the image Tony is holding shows 10.43 pm. “See here. The camera doesn’t lie, ma’am.”
“No, but it does provide us with another forty-five-minute window of opportunity for Murray to get himself over to The Starry Plough,” Erin says. “That’s more than enough time.”
Waving a finger over one of the images, she then asks, “What’s he holding in this picture? Is this a bottle of spirits?”
“Yes, I think it is. It looks like it could be vodka or gin,” Terri replies, scrutinizing the image more closely. “Maybe he pilfered it from the bar before he left.”
“Possible,” Tony says. “He certainly didn’t pay for it anyway. But more likely he got it from this fella.”
Producing a new set of images, he shows what appears to be Murray engaged in conversation with someone in front of the pub at 10.41 pm. Unfortunately, this second subject has his back to the camera. Like Murray, though, he appears to be dressed in a dark-colored hoodie and jogging bottoms.
Tony also points out that in the first image there is nothing in Murray’s hands. In the second image, however, the bottle can clearly be seen in his left hand. “It looks to me like his friend might have just given him a gift, ma’am?”
“Unlikely to be a friend,” Terri sneers. “Murray hardly has any friends in Manchester, never mind having friends here in Liverpool. More likely, it was a fellow wino and he palmed him a tenner for the rest of his bottle.”
“Oh, I don’t know, ma’am,” Tony smirks. “We all know he has at least one friend living here on Merseyside, don’t we?”
Working hard to remain calm, Terri ignores Tony’s latest jibe and, instead, suggests to Erin the importance of identifying the mystery man in the pictures. “Murray may well have said something significant to him, or he may somehow be involved in our case. Either way, we need to identify and eliminate him from our inquiries.”
Nodding, Erin makes a note in her pocketbook before turning back to Tony. “Continue, please, DS Bolton. Tell us about your chat with the bar staff in The Ugly Duckling and anything you found out about this mystery voucher.”
Smiling, Tony hands Erin a transparent evidence pouch containing a badly creased gift voucher bearing the logo of The Ugly Duckling public house. “This is it, ma’am. It had sod all to do with a competition, though. According to the landlady, it was ordered over the phone and collected by a motorcycle courier on March the 5th.”
“And paid for in cash presumably?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, wow, the plot just gets thicker and thicker,” Terri grunts, now incredulous at the latest turn of events.
“So, in addition to the Bootle vodka fairy, we now have a mystery benefactor sending Murray an unsolicited gift voucher. This just doesn’t add up, boss.”
“Or Murray is smarter than we all think and was simply laying a false trail to outsmart the bloodhounds and to cast doubt over his guilt in the event of him being collared?”
Growing increasingly frustrated, Terri angrily seizes on Tony’s latest comment. “Seriously, DS Bolton! You’ve met the man. Any brain cells he may have once had have long since been drowned in a sea of strong liquor. Get a bloody grip of yourself, man.”
Coolly and deliberately maintaining his own composure, Tony calmly asks, “So, you think he’s innocent, ma’am?”
“That’s not what I’m saying!” Terri snaps. “And I’ll thank you not to put words into my mouth, DS Bolton.”
Turning towards Erin, she suggests, “Ma’am, this surely casts a new light on things and we should now consider the possibility that Murray has been set up as the fall guy for at least the murder of Shreya Singh?”
“I bloody knew you had a soft spot for him,” Tony sniggers. “You’re old mates after all, aren’t you?”
�
�Fuck you!” Terri barks. “My opinion has nothing to do with prior history and everything to do with the evidence at hand. If you took a second to pull your bloody head out of your ass, you might well—”
“Enough!” Erin exclaims. “I won’t tell you both again. For Christ’s sake, grow up, the pair of you. Your point is duly noted, DI Marchetti, and like with all evidence, we keep a completely open mind to all of the possibilities.”
She pauses a moment and then asks, “Are we good, Terri?”
Nodding but clearly still annoyed, Terri wisely chooses to remain silent. Satisfied that, for now, calm has been restored, Erin prompts Bolton to continue. “Okay, tell us about Murray’s time in the pub?”
Reaching for the evidence bag, Tony flips it over to reveal the till receipt stapled to the back of the voucher. “See for yourself, ma’am. He pretty much smashed the entire five hundred quid in just over three hours. Aside from a token portion of calamari to line his stomach, the rest of this bill is for booze.”
Looking down at the receipt, it’s hard to believe that Murray was drinking alone. The itemized bill includes six pints of Tennant’s extra-strength lager, a matching number of tequila chasers, eight double vodkas and two glasses of fifteen-year-old Glenfiddich.”
“Christ,” Erin tuts. “He was certainly out to make the most of his windfall, wasn’t he? How in God’s name was he still standing after that little lot?”
“Years of experience and a cast-iron liver,” Terri comments.
“Possibly,” Erin concedes. “Was he causing any trouble, Tony?”
“No. Not according to the bar staff, ma’am. They mainly remember him because of the high denomination of the voucher and the huge amount he managed to put away in such a short space of time without ending up flat on his back.”
“Understandable,” Erin says. “This is enough booze to sink the Titanic.” Then pointing to the earlier video-capture, she continues, “And if we’re right about this, it looks like he kept the party going afterwards. Do we know what condition he was in when he left the pub?”