Bloodstream

by Luca Veste

  Hannah was different. He’d been different. Too often he’d been told he’d come on too strong and scared women with his attentiveness and dedication at the beginning of a relationship – as if that were really a bad thing. He’d decided with Hannah to dial that part of himself back a little. An experiment of sorts.

  Try being Normal Greg. Never revealing his true feelings. Bottling everything up.

  It had worked.

  He wasn’t aloof, or disinterested. He just hadn’t turned up to her house at three in the morning with flowers and a shit-eating grin. He hadn’t talked of joint bank accounts after a couple of dates. Named their future children. Greg fell in love with Hannah naturally, over a proper time period, and only when he felt sure she returned his feelings.

  Four years together. That’s what they had managed. Keeping down the old feelings of wanting to control everything was a constant battle. When Hannah wanted to go out with friends, or didn’t respond to texts or emails instantly, he wouldn’t snap or sulk. Instead, he’d breathe in and out, close his eyes, and calm himself.

  If she talked about going out clubbing, he’d actively encourage it. He would spend all night wondering what she was getting up to, but would welcome her home with a ‘How was your night?’ and a smile. Two hen weekends abroad and he’d pretended to be excited for her. Asked if she needed any spending money and helped her pack.

  Then he’d spent the three days she was away drinking and staring at his phone. Pacing the small flat they then shared, throwing accusations about her infidelity at the wall. Never receiving an answer. When she’d arrived back, he’d smiled and asked if she’d had a good time.

  Now, it didn’t matter. A man in dark clothing had taken over the show. Normal Greg was a memory. Now he was shit-scared Greg.

  Greg wondered if there was anything that could have made him fight back. At least try to save himself, save her.

  ‘We’re surrounded by lies. We live with them every day, don’t we?’

  The hairs on Greg’s arms stood on end as the cool air within the room settled on his skin. What was once so familiar – his own bloody dining room – now so alien. He shivered, once, remembering his mother saying Someone’s just walked over my grave.

  The man talked in a flat monotone, ignoring Hannah’s cries behind the duct tape covering her mouth. Directing his words towards Greg, facing him as he stood between them. The man shifted to his right, a step aside, leaving Greg with a clear view.

  Greg dropped his head and thought of Millie.

  She had turned two years old already. A walking, somewhat talking, little person that Greg was supposed to be the protector of. To always be there for her, that was his job as her father. He pictured her, the blonde curls, the round cheeks which always had a rose of red in them. The absolute spit of Hannah. The smile that came naturally and easily. The personality which was developing, the way she would talk to her toys, bringing them to life.

  They were parents. A family. Greg Bowlby and Hannah Flynn. An engagement ring lay in a box at the back of Greg’s wardrobe, waiting for the right time.

  Now, he didn’t know if there was ever going to be a time.

  ‘You don’t know me, Hannah. Not really. But I know you. I know your kind. I’ve seen your type everywhere I’ve been. Always looking down your nose at others, as if your life, your decisions, are better. As if you have never done anything to regret.’

  The man slithered round in front of Greg, moving through the darkness and almost sitting on his lap. He spoke into Greg’s ear, the whisper invading him. ‘She has a problem with living honestly, Greg. Hannah can’t keep her stories straight. There are things she hasn’t told you, things that need to be said.’

  The man moved behind Greg, resting a hand on his shoulder and tapping his fingers. ‘He deserves to know what he’s doing, doesn’t he Hannah? What he has been responsible for? We all need to know the truth. We all just need a little more honesty.’

  Greg lifted his head, the face of his daughter fading as the man’s words played with him. Honesty. That was all he wanted. Now, this man was bringing the doubt to the surface.

  Hannah was no longer looking at Greg. Wouldn’t look at him, he decided. As if she was ignoring him, had forgotten he was there. There was something in her eyes as she looked at the man standing to the side of them.

  She was pleading with him.

  ‘Wh . . . what are you talking about?’ Greg said, his voice catching at the back of his throat as he fought the urge to vomit. ‘If you want money, we’ve got some, haven’t we, Hannah?’

  The man laughed softly, mocking him, Greg thought. His presence still hanging behind him, the tap of his fingers on Greg’s shoulder incessant. ‘Hannah is going to tell you her secrets, Greg. Or you’re both going to die. She has a choice now. I hope she chooses the right one.’

  The man came round and crossed the room towards Hannah. He tore off the duct tape that covered her mouth, a short scream escaping her as he did so. He placed a gloved hand across her face and shushed her, pushing her head back.

  ‘Scream again and I’ll cut your daughter’s throat, you understand?’

  Hannah didn’t move. Greg watched as the man gripped her face tighter.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  Hannah nodded slowly, pushing against the man’s hand to do so. ‘Good,’ he said. He dropped the tape to the floor and turned away from them both.

  ‘Let us go,’ Hannah said through gritted teeth. Spittle flew from her mouth and almost reached Greg. ‘Now, you fucking bastard. We haven’t done anything wrong.’

  The man didn’t reply, simply walked away and out of Greg’s line of sight. A door closed behind him, leaving Hannah to curse in a low voice at no one.

  ‘Greg,’ Hannah said once she’d stopped. ‘What’s going on? Is Millie okay? Is she still at my mum’s house? Are you okay? I don’t know what’s happening.’

  Greg tried looking at Hannah, but couldn’t. He had to look away, towards the shadows.

  ‘Greg . . . talk to me. We need to get out of here.’

  The breathing wasn’t helping. She had ignored the man’s words, so maybe they didn’t mean anything. Maybe he was just a madman, someone who didn’t know what he was talking about. But Greg didn’t know. Not for sure. And he couldn’t have that.

  He blocked out Hannah’s voice as it started up again. The whispers and low shouts for attention fading into the background as he breathed in and out.

  The duct tape holding his right hand to the back of the chair was looser than the left. With a little effort, he could probably get it all the way out. That wasn’t what he was thinking about though.

  His voice started as a whisper, but became louder as he repeated himself.

  ‘Tell me what you’re hiding, Hannah. Tell me. Tell me now. Tell me, now.’

  Chapter Ten

  The apartment was quieter than the previous day. Fewer people milling about now forensics had finished their work. Items had been removed, sent away to be examined further. Every computing device – of which there had been a fair few – and mobile phone would be scrutinised for more evidence.

  Policing had changed greatly since Murphy had started back in the late nineties. Now, it seemed as if everyone kept their entire lives on a tablet, phone or laptop.

  ‘So, we think he was playing away from home?’ Rossi said, snapping on gloves and picking through the mail which had arrived that morning.

  ‘Looks that way,’ Murphy replied, trying to stretch out his gloves a little more to make them fit. ‘Kirkham here spoke to one of Joe’s friends. Plays on the same team as him.’

  ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘No, not that. Football team.’

  Murphy motioned to Kirkham for him to carry on with what he had been telling him on the way over. The eagerness had dissipated, replaced with an almost too-professional air.

  He would get there, Murphy thought. He was already making a better impression on him than most of the new batch of detect
ive constables they had been lumbered with.

  ‘His name is Charlie Smith,’ Kirkham said with no preamble. ‘Hasn’t played for a while due to a knee ligament issue. Had surgery a few months back. He has known Joe for a number of years. Before the TV show. He told me he was surprised Joe had agreed to the wedding, given the way he had been recently.’

  ‘And how’s that?’ Rossi said, setting aside a couple of letters and dumping the obvious bills on the coffee table.

  ‘He’s been out with him a few times. Said he was with a different girl every night. Charlie enjoyed going out with him, said they would get into all the VIP parts of the clubs in town. Girls throwing themselves at them and Joe Hooper never turned that down. He would talk about Chloe, but it was always in a really nasty way. He called her the “Trophy Slut”. ‘

  ‘Bastardo . . .’

  ‘Quite. Anyway, he asked Joe about it all one night – why he was getting married to her when it was obvious he didn’t want to be with her – and didn’t really get a good response. Joe told him that he was making more from the wedding to Chloe than he would make in three years playing for whatever lower league club would take him on.’

  ‘Looks like it was about the money for him then,’ Rossi said, turning towards Murphy who had been half listening in.

  ‘Joe had offers to go to a bigger club – Reading, or some championship club – but had to turn them down to keep the relationship going. It was made clear to them that they had to stay up here. So, Charlie reckons that’s what sparked him going to clubs and meeting girls. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Money and not wanting to be in a relationship,’ Rossi said, narrowing her eyes at Murphy. ‘Seems like there was trouble in paradise for certain then.’

  ‘Looks that way,’ Murphy replied. ‘Not sure how that fits into this whole thing though. Unless we’re going with the angle that it’s someone Joe has hurt with his actions. Of course, if Chloe was more into this relationship than he was and she found out about it, there’s no telling how bad she took it.’

  ‘Strapped herself to a chair before killing herself? Not buying it.’

  ‘Exactly. This could all be just more celeb gossip and have nothing to do with their murders at all. Could be something else entirely.’

  Rossi turned to Kirkham. ‘What about drugs? Did you ask about them?’

  Kirkham nodded. ‘Told me they were totally clean. Joe and him just liked a drink. The FA have really clamped down on drugs testing and positive results. Neither of them wanted to get caught with anything in their system and get banned for life. Playing at that level of football, they don’t really have anything else.’

  Murphy turned over an ornament, tested the base and found no give. Went to the next one. ‘Money then? Ransom gone wrong, possibly.’

  ‘Well, they were killed hours after being taken on the Friday,’ Rossi said, perching on the edge of the white sofa. ‘Possible something went wrong and they never got round to the ransom part. Still doesn’t explain the scene, or the collage of pictures on the wall.’

  Murphy replaced the final ornament on the sideboard. ‘We need to find something, anything, here. I’m in front of the press in two hours and so far I’ve got nothing. We need to find something fast.’

  They didn’t.

  * * *

  Murphy tried to rub some life into his eyes, failed, and settled for splashing his face with water instead. He dried off with paper towels, bringing roughness to his features anew, checked himself in the mirror a final time and left the toilets.

  He hated this part.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t know the media had a role to play – he knew that only too well – it was just something he’d never prepared for. When he’d imagined life in the police force – or service, as it now was – it hadn’t involved sitting in front of a load of journalists, who were all just waiting for you to say the wrong thing.

  In and out. That’s what he wanted.

  ‘Ready?’ the press liaison officer asked as he met him at the doors leading into the press room. Murphy could remember his first name – Adrian – and that he was a scrawny git, as DCI Stephens had put it earlier. Another anonymous thirty-year-old man in an expensive suit, a hair full of products and a clean-shaven, unmarked face. They were becoming more prevalent within the station, each as interchangeable as the last.

  DCI Stephens was a little behind them, talking to another anonymous guy in a suit.

  ‘Yeah,’ Murphy replied, giving his suit jacket one last swipe with the back of his hand. ‘Let’s get this done.’

  They entered the room, DCI Stephens hurrying to catch up as Murphy held the door open for her. As Murphy walked to the front the room broke out into a cacophony of camera clicks, a few brave journos shouting out questions before being told to quiet down by their colleagues.

  Keen.

  Murphy had a statement prepared, a litany of bullshit words which said nothing when carefully examined. Words he’d used repeatedly, in a variety of different cases, but all of which amounted to the same thing.

  We don’t know what the hell is going on.

  ‘Thank you,’ Adrian said, silencing the voices in the room. He gave a brief introduction explaining why they were there, but glossed over any details. Murphy waited, drumming his fingers on one knee underneath the desk. ‘I’m going to hand you over to Detective Inspector David Murphy now.’

  Murphy cleared his throat, pulled the microphone a little closer and started his speech. ‘Thank you. And thank you all for attending.’ Murphy looked up, hoping he sounded genuine. ‘Yesterday morning the bodies of two people were found at an address in Anfield. They were subsequently identified as being Chloe Morrison and Joe Hooper. Both deaths are being treated as suspicious. Enquiries are ongoing and are robust and intensive at this early stage.’

  Murphy gave some further platitudes, feeling the life pour out of him as he sat there, speaking whilst his mind wandered.

  ‘If anyone was in the area of Anfield, and noticed a vehicle parked up by abandoned houses, or anything of that sort, in the past week, please get in touch. If anyone has any information, please call either Crimestoppers or Liverpool North CID . . .’

  Murphy reeled off phone numbers and websites he had given far too many times before. It was difficult not to see the pointless nature of the whole game, but he knew he was being broadcast into living rooms around the country at that point. Chloe and Joe murders were big news in a slow news week.

  ‘We have time for some very brief questions . . .’ Adrian had no sooner got the words out of his mouth before there was a clamour of voices wanting to be heard. Murphy gave him a glance, waiting to see if he was going to quieten them down and make them take turns. Happy to stay patient and waste a little more time doing nothing so he could get out of there.

  Instead it was a voice from the other side of him which broke through. ‘Enough,’ DCI Stephens said, rising from her seat and holding her hands up for quiet. ‘One at a time. You, there.’ She pointed to someone on the front row.

  ‘Damien Lomax, Sky News. Can you tell us how they died?’

  Murphy waited a second or two to see if DCI Stephens had taken over completely, before deciding it was still on him. ‘Details related to cause of death are not being released at this time.’

  ‘Is it true that only one of them was strangled?’

  Murphy nodded his head slightly, before catching himself. ‘I cannot give you that information at this time.’

  A hand shot up behind the Sky News guy. Murphy pointed to them and leaned forward to take a drink of water. ‘Alice from the Liverpool Echo. Are the public being warned to be on the lookout for anything suspicious? Can you give more details about what they should be looking for?’

  ‘I’d ask the public to always be willing to report anything suspicious, Alice.’ That earned a titter amongst some of the journalists in the room. Murphy remained stony-faced. ‘At this time, there is nothing in particular I want to convey to the public to be on t
he lookout for, but this may change in the future. However, I do want to make sure that the people of Liverpool go about their daily lives as normal. We believe there is no direct threat to anyone else at this time.’

  A couple more questions were batted away with non-answers as easily as those which preceded them, earning a pat on the back from DCI Stephens once they had left the room minutes later.

  ‘You’re becoming a pro at this, David,’ she said, checking her phone. ‘You’ve come a long way.’

  Murphy remembered the incident which had made him infamous a few years previously – a screaming match in a press conference with a particularly annoying local journalist. He hid a smile as he thought of that man’s now-dead career and even deader newspaper. ‘Easy when you know how.’

  ‘Good. I have to go meet the superintendent now. Everything as it was earlier?’

  Murphy nodded. He had appraised her of the current situation once they had returned from Chloe and Joe’s apartment. ‘Nothing more until forensics get back to me. We had that info from Joe’s friend, which we’ll confirm. Not sure it’ll be of any use though.’

  Murphy watched DCI Stephens walk away, wondering if it was ever better to be away from the front line of policing. You had the responsibility for the cases which passed through the station, but were not directly involved with them.

  He wasn’t sure he could ever give up that attachment.

  There had been a shift in mood whilst he was away from the office. He could sense it. Nothing tangible, just the feeling something had changed since he’d left.

  Murphy made his way towards Rossi. She was sitting with her back to him, the desk phone cradled between her ear and shoulder as she wrote in her notepad.

  ‘Great . . . No, really, that’s a big help . . . We’ll see you soon . . . okay, bye.’

  DC Harris and DC Hale were sitting and standing respectively opposite Rossi, their attention on her rather than Murphy as he waited for them to acknowledge his presence.