by Luca Veste
‘Sounds spot on,’ Rossi said once she’d dropped the phone back into its cradle. ‘Over the water, but close enough.’
‘Shit,’ Hale replied. ‘Not a one-off then?’
Murphy leaned against Rossi’s desk making her jump slightly. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Did it go okay?’ Rossi said, flipping pages back on her notebook.
‘Yeah, yeah. Come on, what’s happened?’
‘We got a call from Wirral CID . . .’
‘Not bloody him . . .’
Rossi sat back in her chair, rocking it a little. ‘Unfortunately, yes. DS Brannon. And it wasn’t for a friendly chat.’
Murphy swore under his breath. DS Tony Brannon. The last name he wanted to hear. ‘Not angling to come back, I hope.’
‘No, nothing like that. We could be seeing more of him, though.’
‘Why?’ Murphy said, already feeling his stomach sink.
‘Because I don’t think Chloe and Joe are our first victims.’
Chapter Eleven
There’s always one person you can never stand working with. Having to walk the same bit of carpet as each other every day, thrown together by coincidence or a practical joke planned by a vengeful God. Someone who – either by design or accident – is the antithesis of everything you hold dear.
For Murphy, that man was DS Tony Brannon.
He had worked with Brannon in Liverpool North division for almost four years, before Brannon was quietly shifted to the other side of the River Mersey, to Wirral CID. Murphy had been asked outright near the end of Brannon’s tenure at his station whether he could work side by side with him any longer.
He’d said no.
Murphy wasn’t sure if Brannon knew of his role in his relocation. Didn’t much care, if he was honest.
‘Not much changed around here.’
Now Brannon was back.
‘It’s not been that long, Tony,’ Murphy replied, closing the door of the meeting room. ‘Only a year or so. Let’s go through this from the beginning.’
‘Happy to,’ Brannon replied, producing a bag of cheese and onion crisps. Not much had changed at all. ‘So, we found out about your case like everyone else. On TV. Spoke to some people over here I’m still in contact with and got the juicy bits.’
‘When did you put things together,’ Rossi said, her nose wrinkling as the smell of Brannon’s snack began to assail her nostrils.
‘Overnight. This case we had was a tough one, but not out of the ordinary, sadly. Some right little scrotes over on the Wirral.’
‘What is the case, Tony?’
Brannon stopped eating for a few seconds, sucking remnants of crisps off his fingers before wiping them on his trousers and picking up his bag. He took out a folder and began emptying it on the desk between them.
‘Jane Piper and Stuart Carter. Found dead just over three weeks ago now. They were discovered in their home, near Moreton. Not far from where you lived, Murphy, when you . . . went off your head for that year.’
Murphy bristled, then let it go. ‘How were they found?’
‘Jane’s mother. She had a key, hadn’t heard from her daughter for a few days and was worried. Out of character apparently. Went round to the house, let herself in, and found them in the living room.’
Brannon produced a photograph from the folder and slid it over to Murphy and Rossi. ‘This is what she walked into.’
The similarities struck Murphy instantly. Two victims facing each other, hands and legs bound to the chairs. The male victim’s face puffed up and marked. The female victim seemingly untouched.
‘This is almost exactly like our crime scene.’
Brannon grinned and crunched through another few crisps from the packet. ‘Almost. I asked, but this one with the reality show idiots you’ve got now wasn’t in their home. Plus, the rest of the house was a wreck at our scene. Everything turned over, proper thorough job done on the place.’
Rossi flicked through the other photographs from the folder. ‘You were thinking robbery or something?’
Brannon tilted the packet and emptied the crumbs down his throat. Murphy averted his eyes at the sight.
‘Something like that, yeah. It looked like a burglary gone really, really wrong. We thought there may have been, or had been, a large quantity of cash in the house as none of the electrical items had been taken. Not that they would have got much for them anyway. Just some old cheap shit from Tesco or whatever. That was until we started looking into the male victim a little more.’
Murphy looked up, the sight of Brannon’s joker-like grin reminding him why he was so pleased not to have to work with him on a daily basis. ‘Go on,’ he said once it became clear Brannon was waiting. ‘What about the male victim?’
‘Well,’ Brannon said, leaning back in his chair, his growing paunch protruding over his trousers as he widened his legs a little more. ‘Turns out he was hiding something. A big something. His name wasn’t Stuart. It was James. James Lynch.’
Murphy looked towards Rossi, the name ringing a bell for him somewhere.
‘Paedo,’ Rossi said without pause.
‘One and the same. Got done for statutory rape years ago. Two thirteen-year-old girls. He was twenty-one and they were coming on to him—’
‘Don’t,’ Murphy said, laying a hand on the table between Rossi and Brannon as he saw Rossi begin to rise out of her chair. ‘He’s a tool. Not worth it.’
Brannon seemed to enjoy the reaction, shooting Murphy a rolled-eyes look. ‘As I was saying, he got two years in prison, suspended, and was on the sex offenders register. Lucky bastard didn’t get his face plastered everywhere because it was the same week as Liverpool fluking that Champions League when he got sentenced. Anyway, he somehow got a job that didn’t need background checks, changed his name, and was going by Stuart Carter.’
‘So,’ Murphy said, seeing where this was going, ‘you think someone found out about him, his history, and got some revenge?’
‘Something like that. We’ve had both of those girls in and their families, but no evidence yet. Been nearly a month and we’ve not got much further than that. Looks like it could be something else entirely now.’
‘Maybe.’ Murphy was thinking, turning things over in his mind. Two couples killed in a similar manner, one in their own home, one in an abandoned house. They were missing something.
‘Leave the file,’ Rossi said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘We’ll let you know if we’re going to link them.’
‘Course,’ Brannon said, making no move. ‘I’ll stick around a while if you like.’
‘Like we would . . .’ Rossi said, a little too loudly under her breath.
‘Got nothing much else going on,’ Brannon continued as if he hadn’t heard Rossi speak. ‘Would be good to catch up with the boys out there.’
‘Do what you want,’ Murphy said, grabbing the folder, checking the front to make sure the case number was attached. ‘Just don’t get in our way, if you can help it.’
‘It’ll be like I’m not even here.’
Murphy waited for Brannon to leave before speaking to Rossi. ‘I feel like I need a shower after that.’
‘You forget how much of a prick he is,’ Rossi said as they began gathering their files together. ‘Then he reminds you within seconds.’
‘It’s been nice around here without him. Won’t argue with that. But, for now, he could be useful.’
‘You think it’s the same case then?’ Rossi said as they left the meeting room. Murphy spied Brannon on the other side of the room and dropped the folder onto his desk, opening it up and going through its contents. ‘I’d say it’d be a massive coincidence if not. But there’s also a lot that’s different about the two scenes.’
‘Dio . . . I hope they’re not connected. I wouldn’t even know where we’d start on that if they were.’
Murphy smiled thinly, before returning to the contents of the folder. He tutted and shook his head as he attempted to make sense of Brannon�
��s handwriting. He fired up his computer and waited to log into HOLMES, hoping that would be easier to navigate.
He was reading through the case notes on his computer screen when DC Harris wheeled himself round the desk, DC Kirkham behind him, looking down in order not to inadvertently kick or trip over the back of Harris’s wheelchair. Murphy recognised the stance from his own fears.
‘Your man is here,’ Harris said. ‘The one Kirkham here spoke to.’
‘Great,’ Murphy said, minimising the HOLMES programme on his computer and switching off the monitor. ‘Be there in a sec. Laura? You coming?’
Rossi tore her attention away from what Murphy guessed was the same reading he himself had been doing. ‘Yeah, coming now.’ Murphy waited as she made a few more notes on her notepad.
‘Kirkham, you stick with Harris. Laura and I will speak to him this time. See if they’ve pulled anything from the laptops or phones of the two victims yet. They’ve been taking their time over it.’
‘Got it, sir.’
Murphy followed Rossi out of the office, walking beside her as they headed down the corridor leading to the interview rooms.
‘Media went well then?’ Rossi said, giving him a quick glance.
‘Yeah, usual stuff. Doubt it’ll be the last one. If every case had the same spotlight on them . . .’
‘I know, I know,’ Rossi replied, holding the door open for Murphy as they reached the end of the corridor. ‘Just doesn’t happen like that though. I was thinking about that girl who’s gone missing . . .’
‘Amy Maguire,’ Murphy said, wondering if Rossi had forgotten her name already.
‘Yeah. I mean, it’s not even about being famous like Chloe Morrison, or anything like that. Sometimes, it’s just about what you look like, or where you’re from. Amy is from a small area of south Liverpool, from a deprived background. Didn’t do well in school, worked in a shop. She was good-looking, but no different to a thousand other girls out there. So, she gets left behind. No one is going to run appeals for just another lost adult.’
Murphy listened, taking it all in and becoming more incensed by the second. ‘It shouldn’t matter. They should care about every single person who goes missing.’
‘Quarter of a million a year? There’s not enough time in the day to cover them all.’
Murphy grunted in response. He knew all this, but it still rankled. Amy’s disappearance had barely made a dent when it had first occurred. A few paragraphs in the Liverpool Echo and some social media interest, but that would all be forgotten now.
‘It’s a shame,’ Rossi continued, unaware of Murphy’s internal monologue. ‘But we have bigger priorities right now. I’m sure they can deal with it in Liverpool South.’
Murphy agreed, still thinking about Amy, a young woman who might share his DNA. Who could be his daughter. Who was currently lost, out there waiting to be found.
Thinking about all the things he wasn’t doing to help find her.
Hannah
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Not forced upon her, without a chance to prepare.
In fact, it wasn’t supposed to happen at all.
Everyone who had known the truth was sworn to secrecy. Only a few people knew her secret – and she didn’t think any of them would reveal it – so how the hell had this crazy prick found out?
There would be a way out of it. She knew that. It was just a case of sitting there and thinking things through logically. Working out the best course of action, cool and calm. Everything she was struggling to be at that moment.
She had thought better of Greg. He could have at least put up a fight. She bloody had, so why couldn’t he? He was quick enough to be angry with her if she was a minute late somewhere, or said the wrong thing. He made a good show of pretending that everything was fine as he sulked on the sofa or in the restaurant, but she knew it. Enjoyed winding him up sometimes, just to get back at him for something wrong he’d done to her. Watching him squirm as he held back the things he wanted to shout and scream at her.
He was angry in that room. Finally, after years together, she was seeing the real him.
She’d thought things were different at the beginning. The way he’d treated her had been better than any guy she’d been with before. Attentive and caring. Listening to every bullshit thing she’d had to say, as if it was of high interest to him. It grew tiring after a while though. She knew there was something else there, something suppressed, which she hadn’t witnessed before.
It was as if he kept a lid over everything within himself so she never saw what was lurking there. Frightened to show the good in case the bad revealed itself.
She was happy, that was for certain. He was a convenience for a long time, but she really did fall in love with him after a while. Couldn’t imagine her life without him. He was part of it now. There would be a missing piece if he wasn’t around.
That’s why she couldn’t believe what had happened. Had refused to for so long. Didn’t want to think of one stupid decision affecting her for not just one night, but for an entire life.
When it had happened, she had barely felt any guilt. They hadn’t been together properly for that long and it wasn’t as if Greg’s demeanour suggested he was committed to her either. It was just a stupid decision on the wrong night. Something which had lasted no time at all. A throwback to her younger years, when she would go out and not care what she did, or what people thought of her. She could do what she liked, screw what others would say. If she wanted to do something, she would just do it.
Alcohol lowers the inhibitions and brings more of yourself to the fore; the things you bury to seem normal and good in sober reality.
She’d lied to herself for so long it almost became truth. Deep down, she knew the facts though.
Hannah had sat down at seven months gone and worked out dates, times, acts, contraception used. It was clear to her then.
She hadn’t panicked. Instead she’d weighed up possibilities and made a decision as to what she would do. Then she’d talked things over with the few people she trusted, checked her judgement and got universal agreement.
Never tell him.
Hannah couldn’t really remember what the bloke in that alleyway had looked like, but from a blurred memory she’d thought there was enough similarity for things never to be certain from sight alone. Thankfully, when her daughter had been born, she looked like any other newborn. As she’d grown older, she’d taken more of her physical attributes from her mother than from whoever her father was.
From time to time, she felt guilty for what she’d done. The lie she was living. It didn’t seem to matter all that much though. Greg had bonded with Millie, never questioning things, never treating his supposed daughter with anything other than paternal worship.
They were almost normal.
Now, the seeds of doubt had been placed in his head. If she could just get out of there, escape into a more relaxed situation where she could answer his questions patiently and with a hint of sadness that he was even worried about things, it would all be okay. She didn’t have that luxury.
What she did have was an increasingly agitated Greg, sitting no more than six feet away, straining to get closer so he could lay his hands on her and shake the truth out of her.
She waited for him to stop, not lowering her eyes from his, willing her stare to portray what she wanted so much to be the truth.
They could have been happy. He would have eventually relaxed and revealed more of himself over the years. It wasn’t like she couldn’t take any character flaws he had and mould them into something she could live with. She’d done it before. Every man had some kind of issue to deal with.
‘Tell me the truth, Hannah.’
Over and over. Waiting for something she could never say. Would never say. Hoped never to say.
The man who had strapped them to the chairs – dangerously close to toppling over in Greg’s case – had been gone for at least half an hour by that point, Hannah guessed.
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Hannah said, the same answer she had given more than twice already. ‘Seriously, this guy is just trying to mess with you. Mess with us. Don’t let him.’
It was almost as if Greg had been waiting for someone to say something. That’s what she was beginning to suspect. He’d had his own doubts but had never voiced them. Now someone had said something, Greg was going to get to the truth and wouldn’t stop until he got it.
She wouldn’t say. Not for anything. No one could prove it without some kind of test. Hannah felt a prick of nervousness as she imagined the man outside the room running a DNA test in her kitchen, or something equally ridiculous. She quietened down that side of her with logic.
He was just crazy, wanted to rob the house, or do something else. He didn’t know. Couldn’t tell.
‘He knows you’ve done something. This is to punish us. Maybe he’ll let us go if you just tell me the truth. Tell me the truth, Hannah.’
The last sentence hadn’t matched the almost calm volume of those preceding it. Instead it was spat with venom and loud enough that she hoped her neighbours heard it.
The door opened softly, Greg ignoring it and continuing to fire questions at her. Hannah finally tore her gaze away from Greg and waited for the man to appear behind him, hoping this was going to be the end of it.
Knowing somehow it wouldn’t be.
When she’d walked into her home, closing the door behind her, he’d been standing in the hallway waiting. Dressed all in black, a ski mask covering almost his entire face. Her first instinct had been to fight, but he’d overpowered her easily. Not that she let that be the end of it. She’d used everything in her arsenal to attempt to escape from his heavy grip. Her scream had been cut off quickly and with a practised ease, she’d thought. Gagged with duct tape across her mouth, she’d fallen to the floor when he’d tackled her. He had ignored her scratches, attempted headbutts and kicks, and had dragged her into the living room. Getting her into the chair had proved difficult for him, giving her a chance to escape. He had stopped, releasing her for a second, giving her no time to run before delivering a short, sharp blow to the side of her head, knocking her to the floor again.
