by Luca Veste
There had to be a better way than this, he thought.
A way out.
Twenty-seven
The scene was almost exactly as it had been two days earlier – an open car boot revealing the bloody contents within. Any other time, it was possible that it would have ruined Murphy’s day, but it was almost as if he’d been expecting it.
Now, there was another dead body to deal with. It was becoming sickeningly normal. The sight of the blood, gore and guts; he felt like he could become immune to it all. The horrors of the wider world had already been on his doorstep for the previous few years. Each time, it was supposed to horrify and disgust, but it was now becoming . . . expected.
Secretly, wanted. Needed. The easiest way to stop a killer was for them to make a mistake. Another corpse increased the possibility they may have made one.
‘At least he’s had the decency to leave us something this time.’
He didn’t respond to Rossi, instead reading the note which had been passed to him. It was in a plastic see-through sealed bag. Block capitals, neat and precise.
I AM A DIRTY RAPIST KILLER
Then, in smaller script underneath.
FIVE DOWN – THREE TO GO
‘Who’s the other one?’
‘Other one what?’ Rossi said, looking back at him. ‘Going to have give me more than that.’
‘It says five. If we count the guy in prison, Sam, this guy and the one who committed suicide, that’s four. Total. This says five.’
‘Got me. One of the ones we haven’t tracked down yet, I suppose. We hadn’t tracked down James Morley, Paul Wright or Matthew Williams when we left last night, from memory.’
‘I wonder if this is one of them,’ Murphy said, walking away from the boot to the front of the car. ‘Another nice car. Fifteen plate, so can’t have been cheap given the make.’
‘They all seem to have been doing well for themselves.’
‘Until recently.’
‘The body hasn’t been cut up this time.’
‘You’re right,’ Murphy replied, moving backwards slowly and taking in the entire scene. ‘Easier to move.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The car is closer to where the murder took place. Didn’t have to move the body very far at all. Sam Byrne was dismembered for ease of transport.’
Rossi was pulled aside by a uniform. The scene around them was becoming more crowded. Tape had been strung up around the area, but it did little to stop people coming up to look, including the local media.
A throwback to its era as one of the main shipping docks in the country, there were warehouses lined up further out of the city centre, often disused and abandoned. Some attempts had been made to make use of some of them, but there were many which were left to ruin. Large, red brick buildings which loomed over the Mersey, dotted along Regent Road. A throwback to another era. Whereas some, like the Stanley Dock tobacco warehouse, had been earmarked for regeneration projects. Destined to become home to yet another apartment block, unaffordable to most in the region probably. Others weren’t so lucky.
Murphy stood with his hand against his forehead, shading his eyes from the sun which had decided to make an appearance that morning. He glanced across at the car outside the warehouse again and shook his head. The boot was horrific, but the bloodier scene inside the building said much more.
‘We’ve got an owner for the car.’
Murphy turned to find DC Kirkham standing behind him, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging limply by his side.
‘It’s Matthew Williams. I’m guessing it’s probably not a coincidence.’
‘I wouldn’t imagine so, no. So that’s the connection. We were right to have the suspicion.’
‘I guess so. I’m not sure what we do with it, though. It doesn’t seem like it’s much to go on.’
Murphy sighed, wondering if there was ever going to be a time when people around him would be more imaginative.
‘Think about it,’ he said, taking DC Kirkham to one side, away from the uniforms milling about. ‘We’ve got a list of eight men, all part of the same group at university. They’ve been involved in things we’re not yet aware of, but we know at least one woman who showed up at Sam Byrne’s parents’ house saying she had been raped. We already know what this sort of university club can be capable of, don’t we?’
‘Well, if that pig story was even half correct, with the prime minister–’
‘Yeah, exactly,’ Murphy said, cutting in before DC Kirkham got any more graphic. ‘So, let’s say these men have done something which leads to someone wanting revenge. Is it not possible that’s what we’re seeing here?’
Murphy showed Kirkham the note he was still holding, the words sketched on the paper. ‘We need to find the girl who went to Sam Byrne’s parents. I can’t see any other reason for that message to be here, can you?’
DC Kirkham opened and closed his mouth.
‘Good, glad you agree,’ Murphy said. ‘Take Hale and put everything you can into finding the girl. Go back and check reports, which I guarantee won’t mention any of their names. Just look for reports of sexual assault and rape involving university students around that time. Hopefully that information will still be on file. Laura and I will go for a little visit.’
‘Who to?’
‘Our man in prison. I think it’s time we heard what he has to say.’
* * *
Whilst Matthew Williams’s broken body was being removed from the scene of his discovery, Murphy and Rossi were on yet another motorway, on the way to meet Tim Johnson.
‘Surprised he wasn’t in Walton.’
‘They seem to ship our murderers out to Manchester these days,’ Murphy replied, shifting in the passenger seat as Rossi drove. ‘And we get their ones, of course. It’s like a shit exchange programme.’
‘Didn’t have a problem with getting in there. Tim was eager to speak to us, apparently.’
‘Good, let’s hope that bodes well for what we’re going to be asking him.’
Rossi shaped as if to speak, then stopped herself. She paused a few seconds, Murphy waiting for the words to come out.
‘What is it we’re going to be asking him, exactly? Only, I can’t imagine a convicted murderer will cooperate with people like us.’
‘Depends if he still wants to say he’s innocent,’ Murphy replied, trying to read the file containing information on Tim Johnson and his conviction as Rossi speeded up and passed another car on the motorway. ‘He might want to be seen as helping us out, to make himself look better or whatever.’
‘I don’t know. Seems like a long way to go for probably not very much. Feel like we should be back at the scene. The body probably hasn’t even got to the morgue yet and we’re not even in the same bloody city as it.’
Murphy had stopped listening, reading the notes on Tim Johnson’s case instead. ‘Convicted without a body, which isn’t very usual. Especially as it was apparently only a year ago that the victim went missing . . .’
‘Missing kid or something, wasn’t there?’
Murphy hummed in response. He was trying to remember the case himself, but it had been dealt with by another division in Liverpool. ‘I remember bits of this, but it’s not very clear. Guy reports a baby being kidnapped in Sefton Park, claimed it had been snatched with the pram he was pushing. It was big news for about two days, then it just disappeared. Next thing you know, the guy – who I’m presuming is Tim Johnson – was arrested and charged with murder. He had moved over to Liverpool in the week prior, from over the water. Some woman over there was killed or something.’
‘So, the murder takes place over on the Wirral?’
‘Apparently so.’ Murphy continued to read, shaking his head more vigorously with each turn of the page. ‘This is crazy, even for here.’
‘What’s that?’ Rossi replied, glancing across at him.
‘It’s a bizarre story,’ Murphy said, trying to work out where to start. ‘It gets really weird
from the time he was charged with the murder. Turns out the baby didn’t exist. He’d made the whole thing up: the kidnap, the fact he had to escape the mother . . . everything. They were working on the theory that guilt over him killing this woman had sent him over the edge.’
‘Mannagia . . . that is bizarre. I remember him being up in court, but missed that. Surprised it wasn’t bigger news.’
‘I imagine his family managed to keep most of it out of the papers. According to this, his father worked on Fleet Street for a long time. Some favours being called in there maybe.’
‘Still, it’s a juicy story. So, no body?’
‘No, just a lot of blood, which indicated that there was a catastrophic event, in which survival would be almost impossible. They could pinpoint movements, place Tim at the scene with DNA, all kinds of stuff. Looks like they’re not expecting a body to turn up, though. They reckon it was ditched into the sea.’
‘Top end then, rather than the Mersey?’
‘Exactly,’ Murphy replied, turning over another page of photographs. ‘They said he had access to a boat of some sort. Took it out from Moreton shore a couple of miles, weighed down her body and dumped it over the side into the Irish Sea. Unlikely they’ll ever find it.’
‘These things don’t usually stay hidden forever,’ Rossi said, her knuckles on the steering wheel turning white. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t end up in Ashworth, with all that talk about making up a baby.’
‘Huh, yeah, you’re right. How did he think he was going to get away with that kind of lie?’
‘Does it say anything in there? What’s in his statement?’
Murphy leafed through the pages, finding the initial statements and reading through them. He opened the window a little as the motion of the car and reading at the same time kicked off his motion sickness. Fresh air blasted into the car, as Rossi speeded up in the fast lane.
‘First interviews he spent most of the time asking about “Molly”,’ Murphy said, swallowing back saliva. ‘Then he went to no comment as soon as his solicitor arrived . . . Christ . . .’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Just read who represented him at trial. It was Jess.’
‘Small world,’ Rossi said, shaking her head. ‘Not a conflict, is it?’
‘Probably not. Will mention it just to make sure.’
Rossi nodded, going silent as Murphy continued to read. He looked away from the pages every few seconds, wishing he’d read it all before getting in the car. ‘Surprised she lost this one, actually. With no body, it’s usually a very difficult prosecution. Bet it pissed her off royally.’
‘It sounds like it would have been dealt with properly for CPS to get that far. Must have been a load of evidence against him.’
‘Does look that way. Thing is, if he hadn’t made up the kidnapping thing, it’s unlikely he would have been caught for it. He called attention to himself by doing that. Although, I suppose guilt can make you do some crazy things.’
‘Who was the victim?’
Murphy went back a few pages and found the page he wanted. ‘Irenka Dubicki. A Polish-born woman, came over to the UK about a decade ago. Lived alone, had no family over here. It seems there might have been a relationship with Johnson, but the police were never sure.’
‘So, we have one guy dead, who liked to hire prostitutes and abuse them. We have another who killed a woman he may or may not have been in relationship with. It’s not exactly a great advert for that club they were all in.’
‘What’s the chance all of the eight men on that original list have had similar issues in their past?’
‘I’d say quite high,’ Rossi said, slowing down as a lorry crossed into the middle lane and tried to overtake another lorry going three miles an hour slower in the inside lane.
Murphy sat back in the passenger seat, closing the file on his lap and staring at the back of the lorry in front. He began to feel normal again as they approached Manchester and the prison that held Tim Johnson.
It also contained the man who had killed Murphy’s parents, but he tried to put that fact to the back of his mind.
Twenty-eight
There was something broken about the man in front of them. It wasn’t apparent if that was because he’d spent a year in jail or if the weight of his guilt had suddenly crashed down upon him. The grey flecks in his stubble and dark rings under his eyes spoke of more going on under the surface. He had gained weight since he had been photographed on his first arrest, his face rounder and his stomach extending over the jogging bottoms he was wearing.
Murphy studied Tim Johnson without speaking, half-listening as Rossi explained why they were there. There was something familiar about the man – not him exactly, but his demeanour. He had seen it before, but couldn’t place it. Johnson’s eyes flitted between the pair of them, his breaths coming hard and fast.
‘Do you understand that, Tim?’ Rossi said as Murphy tuned back in. ‘We just want your help with an ongoing investigation.’
‘Have you found Molly?’
The eagerness with which it was asked unsettled Murphy. The lie was still there, slipping easily out of Johnson’s mouth. It didn’t bode well.
‘We’re not here to discuss that,’ Rossi said, Murphy watching as Johnson’s shoulders dropped. ‘We want to know about the club you were a part of at university.’
Johnson began to shift in his chair. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Of course you do. It was a group you founded, along with seven other students, back in 2007 when you started university in Liverpool.’
‘It was nothing . . .’
‘Of course it was,’ Murphy said, leaning forwards on his elbows, the metal table hard and cold. ‘It took up a lot of your time, I imagine. Creating something like that often does.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Come on, Tim, let’s be honest here. We’re not here because we don’t know anything. We just want your help. Do you want to do that or not?’
‘I . . . I don’t know how I can help.’
Johnson had a soft accent, Murphy thought. Southern, but not west counties. Closer to the London boroughs and surrounding areas. Posh, clipped tones, which jarred in the place they were sitting. He glanced at Rossi, giving her the nod.
‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ Rossi said, sliding her file in front of her and opening it. ‘You start the club along with seven other young men. Why? What was its purpose?’
‘I don’t know really,’ Johnson replied, his voice quiet in the small room. He had pulled up the sleeve on the grey sweater he was wearing so that it covered his right hand. He leaned on his balled-up fist, occasionally stroking his stubble with the corner of the sleeve. ‘The Abercromby Boys Club. The name doesn’t really do it justice. It was supposed to help us all out. It wasn’t my idea.’
‘Whose idea was it?’
‘Sam Byrne’s. He seemed to know what he was talking about. He made it sound like we have whatever we wanted by being a part of it. We had to wear certain things, work in certain circles. We’d all be compensated well once we left university and began our careers. Great jobs, making a lot of money. That sort of thing. We could achieve whatever we desired, he reckoned.’
‘What was the reality?’
Johnson stared at the metal table, tracing a pattern on the surface with his left hand. ‘Pretty much what I’d expected. We were young, didn’t really want to do much else other than drink, meet girls, that sort of thing. I wasn’t sure what the point of it was.’
‘You went along with it, though.’
‘Yeah, it was fun. After the first year, we started recruiting more members. It was getting bigger every semester and it was all the right people joining. Those with money and power. Well-known families, that sort of thing. I wasn’t expecting anything like it at a university in Liverpool. It felt like we were building something better for the place. Somewhere that was inviting for young people all around the country, those who didn’t get
into the better universities . . . that they could still be someone.’
‘Right, and how did you achieve that?’
Johnson hesitated; unsure of himself, Murphy thought.
‘We would just . . . help each other. We were all well connected. We all came from good backgrounds, which meant that we knew many people in business and politics.’
‘You’ve heard the news about Sam,’ Murphy said, using the mention of politics to shift the conversation.
‘Yes,’ Johnson replied, looking at Rossi before shifting quickly away. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘Partly. We just want to know more about the background of the man.’
‘Do you think him ending up murdered is because of something we did back then?’
Murphy didn’t say anything, wondering how much to give away. ‘That’s a possibility,’ he said, deciding it was probably the best answer in the circumstances. ‘We’re looking into everything.’
He watched as Johnson’s breathing became a little harder, then glanced down at the man’s sleeve-covered hand as it began to shake.
‘I don’t know what could have happened that would have anything to do with this. It was just a silly club. We didn’t do anything that deserved this.’
‘Tell me about the parties,’ Rossi said, looking down at the file in front of her. ‘What went on at those?’
Johnson swallowed and didn’t respond straight away. ‘They were just parties. You know, drinking, men, girls, that sort of thing. By the last year, they had become the place to be.’
‘And you all took advantage of that,’ Rossi said, looking up at Johnson and waiting for him to look at her. ‘It must have been something else for you boys. All of a sudden getting all this attention. Tell me, was this the sort of thing that went on at your various private and boarding schools?’
‘Not really.’
‘So, it must have been a nice situation to be in. You’re all used to spending your time with other boys. Now, suddenly, you’re surrounded by young girls. And they all want to be with you, don’t they?’
