by Luca Veste
Murphy drove through the lights and turned left onto Melville Street, pulling into Peel Street a couple of minutes later. A sea of purple bins lined the street, waiting to be either picked up or moved from the roadside by the residents.
‘Not bad houses, these,’ Rossi said, waiting for Murphy to turn off the engine as he parked up. ‘Wish they’d do something about the whole area.’
‘Don’t hold your breath on that one,’ Murphy replied, straightening the car and parking up. ‘It’s a flat anyway. All of these houses are probably the same now. Divided up and let out. It’s the new retirement plan. Wish I’d bought a load myself a few years back.’
‘Do they still sing that Robbie Fowler song on the kop?’
Murphy remembered the old song which he’d sung himself at Anfield – the home of Liverpool Football Club – to the tune of ‘Yellow Submarine’.
We all live in a Robbie Fowler house, a Robbie Fowler house, a Robbie Fowler house.
‘Not that I’ve heard in the past few years. And his name is God, thank you very much.’
There were a few new-build houses on the street, but for the most part, it was a glorious mix of pre- and postwar architecture, revealing the dichotomy of a city still clinging on to the past whilst trying to move forward into the future.
Murphy waited for a group of three women to pass him, all of them giving him the eye as they walked by. Not the nice kind either. It was the we-know-what-you-are-type stare, which spoke of the area’s long-held grievance against the police.
‘This one?’ Rossi said, joining Murphy and looking briefly towards the women, who had begun to speak in low voices now they were further away. ‘Looks a bit nice for her.’
‘Have you not been here before?’ Murphy replied.
‘No, I only dealt with her at the station.’
‘Well, then, yeah, this one.’
They climbed the steps and looked for Tania Waites’s name by the entrance buzzer. Murphy pressed the button for flat C, waiting for an answer before pressing it again.
Above them, a sash window opened up and a face appeared and disappeared in short measure. ‘Yeah?’ A tinny voice crackled through the speaker.
‘It’s DI Murphy . . . David, we spoke on the phone.’
There was a long pause, which went on for so long, Murphy almost pressed the buzzer again.
‘Come up,’ the voice crackled again.
A buzzing sound came from the door and Rossi pushed it open ahead of Murphy. There was a small hallway in front of them with a staircase directly ahead of them. They made their way upstairs, the creak of every step screeching through Murphy like nails on a chalkboard.
‘Might come back here with some nails for those floorboards,’ Murphy said, joining Rossi on the second landing. ‘Can’t stand that noise.’
‘Tania?’ Rossi said. The front door leading into the flat had been left open, but no one was there to greet them. ‘You in here?’
‘Come through,’ a voice said from within. Murphy followed Rossi inside, closing the door behind him. There wasn’t a hallway as such, just a door leading into the living room.
Rossi pushed that door open as well, making her way inside, Murphy close behind her. The living area was bright, a couple of large sash windows taking up almost the entire length of one wall. Wooden laminate covered all the floors, and a nice modern kitchen adjoined the living room. When it was empty, Murphy imagined it would look fantastic in photographs on Rightmove or the like.
It wasn’t empty.
The furniture was sparse, but what there was of it looked like it had been modern back in the seventies. There was a small flat-screen TV perched on a bedside cabinet in the corner of the room. The walls were bare, save for a clock on one wall, which would have showed the correct time around four hours earlier.
Tania was standing by the window with her back to them. Smoke drifted from the cigarette in her hand and out through the open window. The smell of tobacco hit them as they moved further into the room.
‘Did you close the door after you?’ Tania said, her back still to them. Her accent wasn’t Scouse, but there were some traces of Liverpudlian in her pronunciation. ‘I don’t want anyone else thinking they can just waltz in.’
‘You remember me, Tan?’ Rossi said, moving across the room to stand near her. ‘We met a few months ago.’
Tania lifted her head slowly and glanced at Rossi and nodded. ‘Back for another crack?’
‘Nothing like that,’ Rossi said, staring at the cigarette in Tania’s hand. Murphy had given her props for keeping off the habit, but it was difficult when it was in your face. ‘I think you know why we’re here.’
‘Your man back there knows as much,’ Tania replied, taking another drag from the cigarette, then letting it fall out of the window to the ground below. Murphy took a step forwards and saw the marks on the back of her neck for the first time. Yellowed bruising, darkened circles around them. Tania covered them with her hand as if she knew he was looking at them.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ Murphy said. ‘We just want to talk to you for a bit.’
‘Why not?’ Tania said, giving Rossi a tight smile and moving over to the rickety cane sofa. It was the only place to sit in the small space which left Murphy hovering opposite her. As much as a six foot four inch lump could hover, anyway.
‘I’m guessing you know why we’re here,’ Rossi said, perching on the windowsill, which Murphy had decided wouldn’t support his weight. She had no such issues, though. ‘It’s about last Thursday night . . .’
‘Of course it is,’ Tania said, leaning back in the sofa and crossing one leg over the other. She was wearing tight jeans, but her feet were bare. A low-cut top was covered by a black cardigan, but it slipped to reveal more marks around her throat. ‘I was thinking of coming in, but you know how it is.’
‘What happened?’ Murphy said, thinking getting to the point was probably right for the situation.
‘I think you can guess,’ Tania replied, removing the cardigan and revealing more skin. Her arms seemed untouched, apart from a few slight marks, but the chest area was worse than Murphy had guessed. ‘A punter got too much. Will pay the next two months’ rent, though, so there’s that.’
‘Can you take us through what happened.’
‘Got picked up – or should I say, I was taken on a “date”, just to cover myself – and he seemed nice at first. Then it went wrong very fucking quickly. What do you want me to say?’
Murphy could see the veneer of guardedness was close to cracking.
‘Let’s go a little slower,’ Rossi said, removing her notebook from her pocket. ‘You were picked up from where?’
‘Not telling you that. I’m not stupid.’
‘Fine, we’ll come back to that. Who picked you up?’
‘Well, it’s good you asked me now, as his face has been everywhere since yesterday, otherwise I wouldn’t know. It was that guy that got killed. The MP guy.’
‘Right, so he picked you up and took you where?’
‘An apartment on Mount Pleasant in town. I thought I was made, you know, because it was a nice bit of cash like. Seemed all cool and that, but I should have been on my game. It was a bit too good to be true, but I just got blinded by the fucking Audi and nice suit. I should know better.’
‘You went back to the apartment. What changed?’
Tania was silent for a few seconds, her voice a little quieter when she spoke again. ‘He did. He was so nice in the car, when he picked me up and that. Then, as soon as we got in that apartment, he totally changed. He was just barely speaking, you know. He asked me to wear something, then took me into this bedroom at the back.’
Murphy knew the story that was coming next and he really didn’t want to stand there and listen to it again. It would be the same as the one Vicky had told him that morning. Another tale of sickening violence.
Not for the first time that day, he questioned whether he really wanted justice for Sam Byrne, or if he
was just going through the motions.
Twenty-four
Murphy waited for Rossi to finish up at the counter, tutting quietly to himself as she unfurled the plastic covering of the cigarettes and removed one. He took the rubbish from her and placed it in the bin outside as she fiddled with the brand-new lighter.
‘You’ve been doing so well,’ Murphy said, walking back to the car as Rossi tried to get the cigarette lit. ‘Seems a shame to start back up now.’
‘You think I can listen to merda like that and not smoke? You must be out of your mind.’
Rossi inhaled another long drag and blew smoke towards the clouds above them. ‘What a bastard.’
‘Seems to be the prevailing opinion of the guy.’
‘I just want to say screw it, let him rot. Whoever snuffed him, good luck to them, all the best. Did us all a bloody favour.’
‘We can’t do that . . .’
‘Would be damn nice to, though,’ Rossi said, interrupting between drags of her cigarette. ‘He was going to be an MP. Dio Mio. Doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘I think he would have fitted in quite nicely with that crowd. They’re hardly running a monastery down there in that London.’
That earned a grin from Rossi, but it wasn’t enough. He could see she was steaming, and he was working out how he could calm her down before returning to the station. Wondered if it was pointless or even needed. ‘We can’t have people killing someone in our city and then cutting up their body. Doesn’t seem the best way of dealing with these issues.’
‘No, you’re right,’ Rossi replied, rubbing her eyes with her free hand and steadying herself against the car. ‘Castration would have been enough.’
Murphy winced at the mere mention of it, but didn’t argue with her. It wasn’t as if he was about to disagree with the idea. It would save a lot of time.
‘What now then?’ Rossi said, stubbing out the cigarette and immediately removing another one from the pack. ‘She doesn’t know anything about what happened after she left the apartment and I believed her when she said she hadn’t told anyone about what went on. All we have to do is check with the hospital anyway. She said she was there all night. I think this might be a dead end.’
Murphy thought for a second, sticking his hands in the pockets of his long coat. ‘It goes on the list of things we need to keep in mind. She didn’t really seem the type to just let something like that go, but I don’t think she had anything to do with what happened to Sam Byrne.’
Yet another thing.
‘It’s a pattern, isn’t it?’ Rossi said, rubbing her eyes again. ‘Maybe someone did something about it. A nice vigilante for a change. Would make our job easier.’
‘I can’t see our big boss being too happy about that story, somehow.’
‘Butler can do one if he thinks we’re going to sugar coat this for anyone. People need to know what he was like. Might stop those bastards ever trying to get elected in this city again.’
‘Not sure that has anything to do with what’s going on here . . .’
‘No, you’re right,’ Rossi said, bending down to stub out her cigarette on the ground and then tossing it towards the bin. ‘They’re all the bloody same. Doesn’t matter what colour they’re representing.’
Murphy waited to see if she was going to light another one, then unlocked the car door when she stood silently by the passenger-side door.
It was only a short drive back to the station, but it felt much longer in the oncoming rush-hour traffic. The radio was playing quietly in the car. Murphy and Rossi listened as the chirpy radio presenter introduced the evening news bulletin. The main story was of no surprise to them.
‘Police are still investigating the death of prospective Conservative MP Sam Byrne who was found on Tuesday afternoon. His parents have described Mr Byrne as being someone who was always looking after other people’s interest . . .’
‘That’s why he wanted to work for the community, to give something back. He was always thinking of others. The city of Liverpool has lost something with his passing. We have lost our son, but the city has lost someone who would have fought for every hard-working man and woman out there.’
Murphy listened in silence as Arthur Byrne’s voice filled the car. Gone was the faltering tone of the previous day, in its place, the Arthur of old. The ex-MP, always ready with a quip or slick sound bite, had returned. Murphy wondered if he was enjoying the spotlight again, or if he would rather be back at home, sitting in his chair and sliding into comfortable retirement.
‘Cazzo,’ Rossi murmured under her breath as Arthur Byrne’s voice gave way to DSI Butler’s.
‘Anyone with any information, please do not hesitate to get in touch with my officers. This is a sickening and despicable crime and an innocent man has been brutally murdered. We won’t stop until we have the perpetrator off the streets of this great city of ours.’
‘Have you heard anything from his campaign people?’ Rossi asked, turning off the radio.
Murphy had a sudden jolt, as if something was revealed to him then snatched away. It was the mention of Sam Byrne’s office, but something else was nagging at him, a thought he couldn’t quite catch. It was beginning to annoy him. ‘No, which is very strange. What’s the likelihood they’re still there now?’
Rossi checked the time on the car dashboard, then pulled out her phone. ‘It only just turned five . . .’
‘Not sure that matters,’ Murphy said, interrupting Rossi as she scrolled through her contacts list. ‘It’s not like they’ve got any work on at the moment.’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ Rossi replied, lifting the phone to her ear. ‘They’ll already be working on the next guy they’re going to put forward.’
Murphy grunted in response, hoping people would allow bodies to cool at some point before moving on. He remembered whose body it was and decided to get over it.
‘Hello, it’s DS Rossi here, is that Charlotte? . . . Good, you’re still in the office? . . . No, we’re just going to pop in, if that’s OK? . . . Now . . . OK, great, see you soon.’
Murphy waited for her to end the call. ‘Still there then?’
‘Yeah, which sounds about right. She’s staying there until we arrive.’
It was another half an hour before they arrived back in Waterloo, the day dimming around them. The street outside the shop-cum-office was still packed with traffic. Rush hour was in full swing, but there were still cars jammed bumper to bumper in the parking areas outside the shops on either side of the road.
Murphy managed to squeeze the pool car into a space a little way down from the office, meaning they only had to walk a hundred yards or so back up the road. It was enough time for him to do a little window shopping in the various places still open.
‘Has this road ever been that great?’
‘Probably at some point,’ Rossi replied, moving between two parked cars and waiting to see if the traffic was stationary before stepping out into the road. ‘It’s hardly like it’s going to be anything other than this these days.’
‘This’ was a collection of charity shops, bookies, convenience stores and a single bookshop – which Murphy actually quite liked the look of, despite not being an avid reader. He was still only halfway through Steven Gerrard’s autobiography, with no end in sight.
‘It must be popular with some people,’ Murphy said, joining Rossi on the other side of the road. ‘It’s mad busy down here with cars.’
‘There must be quite a few commuters. Train station is close by.’
Murphy looked back towards Waterloo train station entrance and shrugged. He let Rossi lead the way towards Sam Byrne’s campaign office and stood behind her as she knocked.
They were let in by Charlotte, the young woman still as fresh-faced as ever, her youthfulness making them both feel tired and jaded in comparison.
‘I can’t stay long,’ Charlotte said, closing the door behind them. ‘We’ve got yet another meeting on this evening.’
‘Trying to pick up the campaign again?’
‘Something like that,’ Charlotte replied, looking at Rossi for a moment before turning away. They followed the young woman into the main office, Murphy looking for and finding Emma at her desk. ‘Anyway, what can we help you with? We’ve said as much as we can already. Didn’t think we’d be needed again so quickly.’
‘Just a follow up, really,’ Rossi said, removing her notebook from inside her jacket. ‘We’ll talk to you separately to save you some time.’
They had worked that out in the car, the two detectives pairing with the women they had spoken to a couple of days previously. Murphy nodded and waited for Charlotte and Rossi to leave, then walked over to where Emma was sitting.
‘How are you getting on?’
Emma eyed Murphy, then turned her chair to the side and picked up a bundle of paperwork. ‘Well, it’s not been a great week, if you must ask. You know, given my boss has been murdered and cut up. HQ aren’t helping much either. They’re just worried about losing momentum.’
The woman’s bluntness didn’t shock him. Everyone experienced grief differently. ‘Still think you can win the by-election without Sam?’
‘You must be joking,’ Emma replied with a tinny laugh. ‘He was the only reason we got this far. We’re done now. Too much bad press over this whole thing. Whoever comes in won’t have the rapport with the locals that Sam had. We may as well pack up now.’
‘You won’t, will you?’ Murphy said, leaning against a filing cabinet near Emma’s desk. It shifted slightly as he put his weight on it, making a scraping sound against the floor. He straightened up a little, just in case it was about to collapse. ‘They’re not going to give up just like that.’
