by Luca Veste
He sniffed and shook his head. Lifted Number Four’s face by her chin, staring directly into her eyes. ‘I don’t think I believe in it. But I sometimes wonder if fate brought you to me. To give me purpose. To make someone see what true love is. To make you understand that what I feel is more than what you think could be possible. Without that, I wouldn’t be making them see that what they’re doing isn’t right. That their love is wrong.’
He was almost sure that fate didn’t exist. However, the way he had met Number Three was almost too coincidental. It was that meeting that had set him on the course he was on now.
‘I’d only been working there a few weeks when I met Number Three. Still learning people’s names, making sense of the layout. Just a normal evening shift. Jane. Simple name, for a simple girl. I’ve told you this before, haven’t I?’
Number Four closed her eyes as he traced a finger down her cheek. The noise of the chains against the radiator echoed in the almost empty room.
‘When I fall in love, I want to devour them, immerse myself within them and take total control. Become one and the same person. She wasn’t overly attractive. Just plain Jane. If people passed her on the street, they wouldn’t look twice. Not like you, Number Four. It was easy for me to see past the imperfections, though. I noticed other things about her. The way her mousy-brown hair flicked up slightly near the ends. The pear-shaped curves, which only accentuated her best feature. Her face in pale light, clear and line free.’
He stood above Number Four, watching her chest move up and down, then turned away and moved over to the window. He shivered against the cold coming through the single glazing. ‘I watched her during breaks in work, reading a book or eating a sandwich. Her lips parting to reveal off-white teeth, a small gap between the front two. I had to have her.’
He pursed his lips at the memory of the days it had taken to work up the courage to speak to her. The memories of too many wrong paths taken. Bad things said, which had almost stopped him.
‘She was more than willing to speak to me. I’d say she was excited. Meeting me on breaks and discussing whatever book she was reading at the time, or the state of politics in the country, the latest news in the world. She was from over the water, so we would talk about the differences between the loudmouth, Boris Johnson-wannabe Mayor of Liverpool and the invisible Wirral mayor. I pretended to listen and be the normal person. I really tried to do things the “right” way.’
He shook his head at his own stupidity. Slammed a closed fist onto the window ledge, causing flakes of paint to drift to the floor. ‘I tried being direct this time. I didn’t flirt, I was much less subtle. So stupid of me.’
He turned back to Number Four. She was still slumped against the radiator, her shoulders juddering up and down. He moved across the room to her, his bare feet feeling the cold from the floorboards.
‘She had someone. His name was Stuart. Twenty-eight years old, worked in an accountancy firm. He’d proposed a year earlier. She didn’t wear the ring to work as she was worried about losing it. Her parents loved him, thought he was a good guy.’
The pulsing in his head was growing as he spoke. His palms glistened with sweat as he imagined this Stuart and the things he and Jane had done together. He placed his hand on Number Four’s arm, squeezing it slightly, so he could remember she was still real.
‘Yet another barricade put down between me and happiness. What could he have that I didn’t? They’ll think Stuart and Jane were the first. When they start putting things together. But, we know that’s not the truth, don’t we? We know this didn’t start with them. Or those stupid celebrities.’
He breathed deeply, once, closing his eyes, and he caught her scent. It was still there, faint now, battling with the sweat and tears which emanated from her more often now. He had bought the perfume she wore, spraying her down once a day, but it was already running out.
‘I became obsessed with this Stuart’s life. I wanted to know why he had Number Three and I couldn’t. All these questions running through my mind. I wanted his life to end and become my own. You know what I learned though. Stuart wasn’t Stuart. What was known wasn’t real.’
He hesitated before speaking into the silence once more. He knew that he hadn’t told Number Four everything. He found it hard to admit to himself, but he had also wanted to destroy Number Three and her Stuart. To put them in the same situation he was in. Alone, no one to care for him.
‘You became Number Four after that. That’s when I knew I had to start from the beginning. Break you down and make you mine. To show you what real love was. I’d watched you for a long time. Your age put me off. I didn’t think you’d be interested in me. But, the heart wants what the heart wants.’ He smiled at her, as she opened her eyes and glanced at him. She averted her gaze so he took a fistful of her hair in his hand and pulled her closer to him.
‘That’s what you’ll be, isn’t it? When I’ve shown you everything I can do for you. To prove that our love is different. That it will be different. You’ll be mine, forever.’
His dad used to say they were all the same. One woman was no different to any other. Drummed into him, the same things over and over. Keeping him up late just so he had some company as he drank and shouted at mute images on the television.
He was going to prove him wrong.
He let go of Number Four, ignoring the muffled cry which came back at him as he stood. ‘My first instinct was to tell Jane, but it wouldn’t have helped. She wouldn’t run to me for care and protection. It just makes them angry and resentful towards me for opening their eyes to the truth. I become as much to blame as the bloke, as if I am somehow complicit in the betrayal.’
He blinked and looked down at Number Four, imagining a time when she wouldn’t cower from him. When she would be glad to see him. Once he had shown her everything he could do.
‘Maybe if I had never spoken to Number Three, I would have meandered throughout life with no purpose. I may never have discovered the joy, the satisfaction, the power I felt over them in that room. The moments as they finally accepted their fate, as I tightened a length of cord around the liar’s throat. Saw the hatred in their supposed loved one’s eyes as they watched them die. It’s what I was made for.’
Fate or coincidence, it didn’t really matter. It only mattered that he did things correctly. Discovered the secrets and lies and then exposed them. To make them see the light, to see what was right.
‘I’ll never be lonely again. Not now I have you. Because you’re going to be mine, no matter what anyone says. I’ll change you. You’ll be something more. Soon, you won’t be just a number. You’ll be a living, breathing epitome of everything that I know to be right and just. You will know what love really is. You’ll love me with everything you have. Your life will be mine.’
He breathed in and out and faced the window again. The street lights outside cast a long shadow across the bare floor inside the room, providing just enough illumination to keep out total darkness. He ignored the noise coming from behind him and closed his eyes.
‘Everyone is going to see what I did to them. The third couple. I know who they are and what they’ve done. Everyone will see my work and they will see what I have done is right. But that won’t matter. All that will matter is that you understand what love is really all about.’
That was the way it had to be.
‘I just need to show you again, don’t I? I need to prove myself worthy of your love.’
He ignored the shake of her head and the screams behind the gag across her mouth.
‘I’ll be back soon, my love. With more tales to tell you.’
Chapter Seven
Murphy heard the low whistle from beside him and had to stop himself from matching it. The waterfront lay behind them, Albert Dock in all its resplendent glory, the Liver Buildings just a little further up the road on the same side as the docks. The road which ran alongside them was busy with rush-hour traffic, which would begin to quieten as the evening drew on. M
urphy shielded his eyes as the evening sun slipped from behind clouds.
‘Now, this is a nice place,’ Murphy heard Rossi say beside him.
He looked up, giving a non-committal shrug. The top of the apartment building reached towards white drifting clouds, rising up in an odd shape and finishing in a sharp, wide point at its tip, dwarfing them and everything around it.
‘Did you know it was an Argentinian architect who designed this?’
‘I’m surprised you know it,’ Rossi said, smirking at Murphy. ‘Never mind me.’
‘Read about it in the Echo ages ago. Bet it doesn’t come cheap.’
DC Hale piped up behind them. ‘Amazing what getting your baps out for some lads’ mags can buy you.’
Murphy turned to watch Rossi smack DC Hale on the arm and say something in Italian to him.
‘Now, now,’ Murphy said, trying to imitate a school teacher and failing. ‘None of that here, kids.’
‘Tell him that,’ Rossi replied, walking ahead of them. ‘Are youse coming or what?’
The apartment building was one of the new glass-fronted monstrosities that had appeared near the waterfront in the past few years. Money dribbling down from the Capital of Culture days meant property developers were now getting involved, building bespoke two-bed flats for those with more money than sense.
‘Who wants a view of the Wirral anyway?’ Murphy said to no one in particular. ‘Everyone knows the best view is from the other side.’
One Park West was a fairly new residential development. A communal entrance guarded by a 24/7 security team gave its occupants a sense of safety and superiority.
‘How much is the rent for one of these places?’ Murphy said, as he, Rossi and DC Hale waited for the lift to take them to the higher levels where the apartments lay. ‘A grand?’
‘Probably more,’ Rossi said. ‘I know they’re at least a couple of hundred grand to buy.’
‘For a tiny two-bedroom flat . . . we’re becoming more and more like that London every day.’
There was a uniform outside the apartment, standing to attention and trying not to fall asleep on his feet.
‘Anyone else inside yet?’ Murphy asked him as they reached the door.
‘Few forensic guys, but that’s it.’
Murphy led the way inside. A small hall led into the open-plan living and kitchen area. He could smell the expense. A large sofa in the middle of the room was plonked in front of one of the largest flat screen televisions he’d ever seen. It wasn’t that which drew his attention, however. It was the floor-to-ceiling windows which wrapped around the room, giving a panoramic view of the Albert Dock and, in the distance, the River Mersey, the ferry almost visible on its way home.
‘Wow,’ DC Hale said from beside him. ‘How the other half live.’
‘You can say that again,’ Rossi said, standing near one of the windows and looking out. ‘Think I can see Bidston Hill from here. Bloody telly is blocking most of the view though.’
‘Michael,’ Murphy said, gaining DC Hale’s attention. He lowered his voice so the two forensic officers in the room couldn’t hear. ‘You start going through personal effects. See if they’ve found anything suspicious hidden away in the other rooms. Check everywhere, just in case they haven’t. The bedroom is a good place to start – under the mattress, the bed, back of the wardrobe, that sort of thing.’
‘Sir.’
DC Hale toddled off like a good little boy, leaving Rossi and Murphy in the living area, along with the two officers who were waiting for Murphy to speak again. ‘Don’t let us stop you,’ Murphy said. ‘We’re wearing gloves and everything.’
Murphy joined Rossi at the window, gazing out onto the waterfront. ‘I think you could get bored of this view. You know, after seeing it everyday.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Rossi replied, tearing her stare away from the window. ‘Long way from where Joe came from.’
‘Laptops and phones?’
‘On it,’ Rossi said, pacing round the room and leaving Murphy to stand at the window.
‘Nice life if you can hold on to it,’ he said quietly to himself.
* * *
The light outside had finally faded by the time they’d got back to the office, the visit to Chloe and Joe’s apartment coming to an end just as the night began to take over.
Once the positive IDs had been given for Chloe Morrison and Joe Hooper, things could really start for Murphy. As the day wound down and jobs were given out to an expanding team, Murphy began to formulate a list of everything that could have resulted in the two victims being found dead in an abandoned house.
It could have been longer.
‘Laura, get yourself off. Another long one tomorrow and there’s nothing more we can do now.’
‘Five more minutes. Just finding out one more name for interview.’
Murphy had left the task of tracking down the friends and other close family members of the victims to Rossi. DC Harris had been helping her, but had left an hour earlier, a long day having more of an effect on him than it once had.
‘Fine, but I want you fresh tomorrow.’
Murphy, receiving an Italian slur under Rossi’s breath in response, left her to it. The day had stretched out now into a slow, meandering end, as investigations tended to do.
Not that you would believe it from watching the twenty-four-hour news channels. Someone had made the decision to have the TV playing in the background; there was no volume, just many excitable faces changing every few minutes as coverage of the deaths of Chloe Morrison and Joe Hooper reached national level. A never-ending yellow ticker across the bottom of the screen announcing the news on a loop.
REALITY STARS ‘CHLOJOE’ FOUND DEAD IN LIVERPOOL
Murphy had been spared the first press conference – a professional media spokesperson taking control. It seemed as if every station had their own press and media consultant now, someone to keep the police’s profile in check.
Less crime, more news.
He knew it wouldn’t last though. At some point Murphy would be forced to sit in front of a bank of cameras and pretend the investigation was moving forward. Give platitudes and reassure the public. Feed the masses.
Murphy had been surprised at the level of interest. He’d barely heard of the pair, but it seemed as if everyone in the country was suddenly interested in Chloe and Joe’s fate.
Domestic Violence – Murder-suicide
Drugs
Sexual Motives
Revenge – Person/s known to victims
Stranger
It was the last item on his list which gave him pause. A stranger coming into the lives of Chloe and Joe, taking them to that place and killing them . . . that was the worst-case scenario. Thankfully, it was also the least likely.
Murphy would play the odds, but the pictures cut out of magazines and stuck to the wall bothered him. That would have taken time. Effort.
It would be just his bloody luck.
‘Done,’ Rossi said, closing her laptop with a bang. She passed a piece of paper to one of the night-shift DCs and shared a few words as Murphy waited. ‘Last one ticked off. Have to say, it’s a short list of people who were actually close to them.’
‘You’d think those famous types would have tons of friends,’ Murphy replied, leaning back in his chair and stretching his long legs out under his desk.
‘Turns out most are just friends in name only. I’ve spoken to the agent a few times today and it seems like he was really the only close one.’
‘Don’t ignore him either. Nothing to say he doesn’t know more at this point.’
Rossi grabbed her coat from the back of her chair and placed one arm inside. ‘Of course not. Just using what we have so far. Most of them are going to be prepared though, you know that?’
Murphy nodded. ‘Nothing we can do about that,’ he said, pointing towards the TV on the wall.
‘Suppose not. What happened with that guy from this morning? Our confessor?’
‘Whole case is going back to Liverpool South. They’re dealing with it all now. Which means . . .’
‘She’ll be listed as missing and forgotten about. She is eighteen, I suppose. Not much we can do, especially if it does turn out that our man from this morning had nothing to do with it.’
Murphy gripped the side of his chair a little harder. ‘Suppose so.’
‘Shame about the girl though. If Amy Maguire’s disappearance got half the coverage this thing has got . . .’
Murphy bit his tongue and simply nodded. He wanted to say more, but decided it wasn’t the time.
‘Right, I’m gone,’ Rossi said, when Murphy didn’t say anything more. ‘See you first thing, unless anything happens overnight.’
Murphy watched Rossi leave, working out how much longer he would have to stay to show himself willing.
Ten minutes was enough.
He made his way out of the station and was on the road leaving the city centre within minutes. Checking the clock on the dashboard of his car, he turned the volume up on the stereo. Pink Floyd had switched places with David Bowie. Murphy banged his hand on the steering wheel in time to ‘The Jean Genie’ in spite of himself.
He spared the inside of his car his tuneless voice.
It was a straight run along the waterfront and past the Festival Gardens, through Otterspool. It was probably quicker going through the city, but Murphy preferred the route he was on, taking in the sights of the River Mersey at night, as the docks were left behind and became the promenade.
Murphy was pulling off Western Avenue and onto the road he’d grown up on within half an hour. The differences from his childhood were laid bare before him. Everything changing in a blink of an eye. The pub where his dad had used to drink was now a hotel, convenient for the airport. The small row of shops – where he had been sent by his parents with a quid for a loaf of bread and a pint of milk and told to keep the change more times than he could remember – were still there. Under new ownership, of course, but still hanging on. The chippy, which did the best savouries, but the worst fish, was now neighboured by a funeral director’s. Murphy imagined they did good business in Speke, given the average life expectancy.
