DEAD GONE

by Luca Veste

  ‘One of those hoarders I think. We should call environmental health. Can’t be safe living like that.’

  Murphy murmured an agreement. ‘Nearest CCTV to here?’

  ‘At the top junction which leads onto Ullet Road. Almost a mile up the road. Will get onto that.’

  ‘What about from the other end?’

  Rossi clicked her tongue. ‘A lot of roads up that way. If our guy came from there, it could be any number of places. All CCTV in the area then?’

  Murphy nodded. ‘Best to check everything.’

  ‘What now?’

  They’d reached the entrance to the park again. The early morning mist had cleared, winter sun threatening to break through the remaining clouds. Murphy could still see faint traces of breath as he exhaled. ‘We need to find out who she is. Back to the station, check the system for any missing persons who match the description.’

  ‘Okay, will meet you there.’

  Murphy reversed around a corner of a small cul de sac, and pointed the car back towards the station. Once Murphy had turned into Ullet Road and then further onto the A roads which led towards the station, the contrast was complete. Half completed buildings appeared in the distance, scaffolding and cranes became the landscape. The River Mersey was off to his left, but was masked by warehouses and housing estates. Toxteth on the opposite side, still struggling to recover from the events of thirty years earlier.

  A city of contrast. Light and dark. Rich footballers and child poverty. Derelict housing and glass-fronted office buildings.

  Murphy lived it all. Took it home with him, and attempted to make sense of it. How one city could have so many nuances to the lives of its inhabitants. Then he’d realise that every major city has the same issues. It wasn’t just Liverpool, they weren’t a special case.

  Then he’d wake up and begin a murder investigation of a young woman, and the old feelings of resignation returned. A thread in the tapestry of his life coming loose. Frayed and torn. Threatening to be destroyed completely. A feeling in the pit of his stomach. Not a nervous feeling, something a little different. Something harder to ignore.

  Fear.

  3

  Saturday 18th February 2012

  Eleven Months Earlier

  Rob

  Rob Barker was nothing if not average. Average height, average build, average wage earner, average Sunday League player.

  No one called him special. He didn’t win trophies or certificates.

  He lived in an average-sized house, with an average-sized garden. His car was an average-priced model.

  When magazines or newspapers talk about the ‘average twenty-five to forty-year-old male’, that was him. He ticked all those boxes.

  It wasn’t accidental. He desperately strived to go unnoticed, not to do anything special as he’d grown older and reached that pivotal moment of his early thirties. Bad things don’t happen to normal, average people. That fact had been drummed into his head from an early age.

  Don’t get cocky. Don’t strive for more than you can handle.

  Bad things happen to those who put themselves out there, raise their head above the parapet and ask life to take pot shots at them. Much better to fly under the radar, coast through life, happy and content.

  Yet there was one area of his life he couldn’t control.

  Who he would fall in love with.

  Intelligent, witty, beautiful. Jemma was all that and more. So much more. She was bright, quick witted, and the worst cook Rob had ever known. She put a whole packet of noodles in a microwave once. Might have been okay if she’d taken them out of the packet and added water first.

  She was gone.

  And it was his fault.

  Rob woke that morning to the sound of a Scottish ex-footballer complaining about a red card in a football match he hadn’t seen. The joys of talkSPORT. He steadily came around, listening to the radio as he began to wake. A split second when he wondered where he was before normality came in. It always took him some time to wake up – he was a deep sleeper, as Jemma would constantly remind him. With a radio show on, especially one discussing football, he was more likely to be up and ready for work a lot quicker.

  She’d texted him before midnight to say she was having a late one. Rob had pretended it was fine, no big deal. Inside, he was shaking. How would she get home? Anything could happen to her at that time of night. Did she care?

  He didn’t trust her. He couldn’t remember a time when he had. Everything was too good. Too nice. They barely argued. It didn’t feel real. Relationships weren’t perfect.

  She wasn’t in the bed next to him. He wasn’t surprised. He’d been prepared for that.

  ‘Downstairs. She’ll be downstairs.’ His voice sounded alien, scared. He knew that she wouldn’t be, but he wanted to kid himself everything was still normal. An alarm bell at the back of his mind clanged against his skull with every thought of her being home and safe. That wasn’t the case, and he wouldn’t let himself believe it.

  He sat up in bed, swung his legs to the side and slipped on the clothes he’d discarded the night before. Blue tracksuit bottoms and a footy shirt. Red.

  The house was too settled, no sounds of light snoring coming from downstairs. When Jemma had been drinking she had a tendency to snore a bit. He’d hoped to turn into the living room and find Jemma lying there, sleeping off a heavy night.

  He wasn’t surprised to hear silence.

  Panic started to permeate inside him, a churning feeling. He began rubbing at his stomach, wondered if they had any Rennies left.

  How does Mr Average react to his girlfriend not coming home from a night out? Does he ring the police straight away? Her friends … her mum? He was sweating, nervous energy running through him. He needed to think.

  What had he done?

  ‘Relax,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Calm down.’

  Rob boiled the kettle and had a cup of coffee. Two and a half sugars. A dash of milk. The early morning sunlight came through the window in the empty kitchen, reflecting off the microwave he barely used. The kitchen was exactly as he’d left it the night before. Nothing disturbed. Everything in its place.

  She’d barely been on a night out since they’d moved in the house. Rob had never stopped her, she just preferred staying at home, watching a film or some crap on TV whilst he messed around on the laptop next to her. She never seemed unhappy.

  He believed she was. Why else would she stay out late?

  It was true that he’d pushed her to go out with her friends. Told her she needed to have a night out, let her hair down, dance to shit music and have a few drinks. He wouldn’t stop her enjoying herself. She just needed to stay safe. That’s all. Not put herself in danger.

  She hadn’t listened to him. Obviously. She never fucking did. That was the problem. If she’d just listened, they’d be sharing breakfast now.

  They never listened to him.

  Four years they’d been together. She’d even started dropping hints about marriage, kids. They weren’t getting any younger.

  He couldn’t see it. One day, she would have realised she was wasting her life with him. Left, and found someone as special as her.

  He should ring around. Check her mates out. Do something.

  ‘Phone.’

  He checked his pockets, coming up empty. Took the stairs two at a time as he remembered where he’d left it. Entering the bedroom he was struck by her absence again, the unslept-upon side of her bed. Always the left side, even though that had been his side of the bed when he was single. She got her way about that, as she’d continued to do throughout their relationship, Rob happy to give way on just about everything.

  He reached over the bed to find his phone, having left it on the bedside table the previous night. He looked at the screen to check there were no missed calls, or texts waiting for him; a blank screen flickered back at him. He clicked on the phone button, Jemma’s number the first one on the list of recent calls.

  ‘Hi, this is Jemma. C
an’t get to the phone right now …’

  It was right that he tried her first. He had to think things through properly. He ended the call without leaving a message. Started flicking through the contacts on the phone to find her best friend’s number. Pressed the green call button and waited.

  ‘Hello.’ Carla’s husband. The woollyback with the fake Scouse accent. Rob bit his lip.

  ‘Andy? It’s Rob. Is Carla home?’

  ‘Yeah, mate. She’s in bed. Left her phone down here. What’s going on – it’s a bit early isn’t it?’

  ‘Is Jemma there?’

  ‘Erm, no. Should she be?’

  ‘She hasn’t come home. Can you see if Carla knows anything? Starting to panic a bit here.’

  ‘Course, Rob.’

  Rob heard him walking, a muffled conversation, before he came back on the phone. ‘Carla said she got off early. Said she was getting a taxi home,’ Andy said.

  Rob swore under his breath. ‘Didn’t anyone go with her, make sure she got off okay?’ Rob said, his voice rising. He needed to know whether anyone left with her; to know that she left the club alone, as anything could have happened in that time.

  ‘I’ve no idea, mate.’ Andy replied. ‘Jemma’s a big girl though, she can look after herself. I wouldn’t worry about it yet. She could have gone on to somewhere else or something.’

  ‘Who with, Andy? She said she was going home. Get Carla up for me. I need to speak to her.’

  ‘Come on, Rob, she didn’t get in ’til late. She deserves a lie-in, she hasn’t been out since the baby was born.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Andy, Jemma hasn’t come home. Tell Carla to get on the fucking phone. I want to speak to her.’ His own anger didn’t surprise him. People not listening to him. Always a trigger. He needed to calm down. If he carried on, alarm bells would start ringing with the stupid dickhead on the end of the phone. Rob softened his voice. ‘She could be anywhere.’

  ‘I understand, mate, but it’s only early, you need to calm down a bit. Don’t start worrying just yet. Give it a couple of hours and see if she turns up. Have you tried ringing her mum yet? She might have gone there for all you know.’

  Rob sighed. Strike two. ‘No. I’ll try now.’

  ‘Cool. Look, I’ve got to get on with giving Leah her feed. Let me know when she turns up, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ He ended the call and tried ringing Jemma again. He had to leave a voicemail this time. Could be important.

  ‘Jemma, it’s Rob. Ring me.’

  He sent a text message.

  Babe, I’m worried. Where are you? x

  He rang the number for Jemma’s mum from memory. When they’d first started seeing each other they spoke on the phone a lot. Her mum used to go mad at her for tying up the line.

  Jemma’s mum answered on the third ring. ‘2461.’

  ‘Hi, Helen, it’s Rob. Is Jemma at your house?’

  ‘No. Should she be?’ Rob heard her stifle a yawn.

  ‘I don’t know. She went out with Carla and the others last night. I’ve woke up this morning and she’s not here. Just thought I’d check to see if she’d ended up at yours instead.’

  ‘I haven’t heard from her for a while. Are you saying she’s missing?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just not like her to not get in touch.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her friends? Maybe they know something.’

  ‘Yeah, spoke to Carla, well, Carla’s husband Andy anyway. She left earlier than the others and went for a taxi.’

  ‘This doesn’t sound good, Rob. Should I come over?’

  ‘No, you don’t have to. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I best stay here just in case she comes here. Ring me the second she turns up.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Rob pressed the red end call button and stared at his phone. He stood next to the bed, and dropped down when he’d ended the call. He tried to think of where else she might have been. Who else he should call before the police.

  What was he supposed to do? What was the right course of action?

  Carla and her mum, they were the only people he knew Jemma spoke to regularly. He glanced at the alarm clock.

  ‘Shit.’ He should have been leaving the house now, going in to work at the university for overtime. He wasn’t going anywhere though. He walked back downstairs, going through to the living room and looking outside, hoping to see Jemma passed out on the doorstep. Nothing again. Outside, only socks on his feet, looking around the front of his house, the pavement, the side alley near the bins. Still the expected nothingness. Rob shivered, looking around the quiet street, looking for any curtains twitching. Anyone walking past or peeking out of their windows from the houses surrounding him would have seen a confused looking, average bloke, searching for someone. That was right.

  He went back into the living room, ran a hand through his hair, still messed up from sleeping. Dropped his hand across his face and the intentional three-day stubble. Stood near the window, opening the blinds and began drumming his fingers on the windowsill.

  It had finally happened.

  She was gone, and now he had to deal with the consequences.

  4

  Sunday 27th January 2013 – Day One

  There are two tunnels running underneath the River Mersey and into the Wirral Peninsula. Only separated by a mile and a half of water, the tunnels provide the only way into Liverpool which doesn’t involve a ninety mile round trip down the motorway and through Runcorn. Murphy could see a connection becoming closer each day, the sheer amount of traffic coming from the tunnels telling their own story. If you filled in the Mersey with concrete, most would barely recognise the difference. Coming from the city centre, the first tunnel you hit is Birkenhead tunnel. Carry on further, down a wide A road, Byrom Street, which runs directly from the city centre, pull into the left hand side, and a curved road takes you around to Wallasey tunnel. Stay on the right hand side and within minutes you’re on Scotland Road. Turn off onto Hunter Street and behind one of the four universities in the city is St Anne Street running parallel to the tunnel approach. Halfway down, over a dip in the road, amidst abandoned warehouses, converted offices and a small housing estate, was the police station which served Liverpool North division.

  Murphy pulled up in the car park behind the station, and sat for a moment amongst the police vans, unmarked cars, and personal vehicles. The dirty red brick building, which loomed over the street five floors high, looked as ominous as ever. An old-style office building, repatriated as the hub of a policing section which served seven areas of Liverpool.

  Scratch that, Murphy thought, it was eight now. Cuts meant they’d inherited part of Liverpool South. He sighed to himself. If that hadn’t been the case, the dead girl in Sefton Park would be someone else’s problem.

  He ran through the last couple of hours in his head. He still hadn’t eaten. Probably a blessing in disguise. Even after almost twenty years he still felt a jolt at seeing someone with the life sucked out of them. He’d run on adrenaline until then, but he needed to eat. Plus, of course, if you let adrenaline take over this early, it could lead to mistakes.

  He could do without any of them.

  Murphy pushed his way into the major incident room, people bustling back and forth as the events of the morning took precedence over other cases. He spotted DCI Stephens barking orders at a number of DCs.

  Rossi had beaten him back there. Hunched over the computer screen, A4 sheets of paper strewn about the desk, one pen in her hand, another behind her ear.

  ‘Anything?’

  Rossi turned in her chair to face him. ‘Nothing yet. There’s been a number of missing women reported in the last month. Trying to narrow it down now.’

  ‘Good. I’m going to run Reeves through the system. Make sure he’s not a murderer and we’ve already screwed up.’

  He moved over to his desk, noticed a post-it note stuck to his computer monitor.

  CALL HOUGHTON


  He picked up the phone on his desk and called the pathologist. He’d be at the hospital morgue, tucking the body away for the post-mortem later in the day.

  ‘We found something on the body when we removed her clothing. A letter. I think you’ll want to come see it.’

  ‘Right,’ Murphy replied, pleased the pathologist was getting straight to the point. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘I think it’s best you see it for yourself.’

  EXPERIMENT THREE

  To Whom It May Concern,

  I don’t know you yet, but I will. The same applies both ways I suppose. You’ll be trying to find out my name. My reasons. Everything will become clearer over time. Just know, I do it all for a good cause. We need to be clear about that.

  The young girl you have found isn’t the first experiment I’ve carried out.

  She won’t be the last.

  When the American government was experimenting on an unsuspecting public, we didn’t accuse them in the same manner you will be accusing me. They were the beginning of the end I feel. The last of my kind, willing to go to any lengths in order to study mankind.

  What you have with this girl is a modern interpretation of one such experiment.

  Part of the MK Ultra programme, Operation Midnight Climax was the first scientific exploration into the effects of LSD on unwitting humans. For example, men, on the pretext they were enjoying a private visit with a prostitute, were given LSD without their knowledge and studied. They experimented on their own men, federal marshals, employees within the CIA …

  It went much further than that.

  The results are astounding. What this girl was willing to do when dosed with the drug was way beyond my expectations. She became a different person.

  Giving her more and more of the drug compounded her state of mind. An endless trip.

  She wanted to die. She begged for an end. Not because she was in pain, or through fear. She believed she could see the afterlife.

  I’m not one for silly fairytales, so it was probably the drugs talking. Possibly. That’s part of the experimentation. To find answers to these questions.