Bloodstream

by Luca Veste

  ‘That’s what you think then?’ Murphy said, eyeing the coffee and, taking the chance that it had cooled a little, picking it back up. ‘Someone from Twitter or the like has had it in for them and taken it further?’

  ‘Let me read you some of things that were said to them,’ Parker said, producing the phone from his pocket and bringing it to life. ‘I have an email saved that Chloe sent me a while back with some of the worst ones.’

  Murphy waited, looking round the place once more, a new piece of grand furniture catching his attention with each passing glance. ‘The word opulent was invented to describe this kind of room.’

  ‘I’d be scared to touch anything,’ Rossi said, looking up quickly then back to her notepad. ‘I prefer to have easily replaced stuff in my house.’

  ‘Here we go,’ Parker said, breaking into Murphy’s thoughts on interior design. ‘This one is from a few months back. Chloe Morrison is a fucking whore. She needs to fuck off and die – that’s actually one of the nicer ones. Here’s one from a well-known troll. You’re a fucking slut who needs to wake up and realise we are laughing at you. Die bitch. Oh, here’s a good one – I’ll cut your cunt head off and rape your neck you fucking slag. Apologies for the language.’

  Murphy listened as Parker went on to read four or five increasingly sickening messages before holding up his hands for him to stop. ‘We get the picture,’ he said, his coffee left to go cold as his stomach churned. He turned to Rossi. ‘If I ever think about signing up for that thing, you have my permission to give me a smack.’

  ‘Noted.’

  ‘See what I mean, though?’ Parker said, placing his phone on the side table. ‘They get abuse like this all the time, celebrities. It’s constant. I get it as well, but nothing like the level they get. People just can’t help themselves.’

  ‘Jealousy, I imagine,’ Murphy said.

  ‘Partly,’ Parker replied. ‘But it’s not just that. It can’t be. This is disgusting stuff they’re saying about real people. Who knows how far a person who writes things like that could go . . .’

  * * *

  ‘It’s about wanting to have an effect,’ Rossi said, as Murphy drove the car back through the gates and into the waiting throng of people outside. ‘They want a reaction to make themselves feel better. To know that they’ve had an effect on someone they think is untouchable. A celebrity – to these types of people – is rich, successful, everyone knows who they are. They forget they’re just normal people with families and that. They just want to hurt them in any way possible, just to give themselves meaning. It’s sickening to us, as we know Chloe a little, and Joe, of course, but how many times have we sneered at someone on TV or in films? I mean, look at something like The X Factor or whatever. We like to laugh at people. We enjoy being nasty about each other. Social media is just another avenue for people to do that. Get a reaction and feel good about themselves for a few minutes. People like Katie Hopkins have built a career on it.’

  Murphy guided the car round a few straggling photographers, finally picking up some speed as they passed them and made it onto the road proper. ‘You think it could get worse than a few words on a computer screen, though? That someone out there could actually follow through with the type of things they were saying?’

  Rossi allowed a few seconds to pass before answering. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. Look at any famous assassination in history. It has its roots in the same feelings. Mark Chapman killed John Lennon because he thought he was a phony—’

  ‘He kinda was . . .’

  ‘That’s heresy in this city, Murphy. You know that. You’re just pissed off they renamed the airport.’

  ‘It’s still Speke Airport to me and loads of others.’

  ‘Anyway, that’s not my point. One of the reasons Chapman killed Lennon was because he didn’t think he was deserving of his celebrity status. Now, that’s a common thought to have. How many times do you hear people say this person or that person doesn’t deserve to be famous?’

  They reached a red light and Murphy scratched at his beard with one hand as the other rested on the steering wheel. ‘True, but I think there’s more to it than just that.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rossi replied, fiddling with the electric windows until she’d opened a gap that she was happy with. ‘But that’s all part of it now. The way society reveres its famous people and then wants to tear them down. It’s an element of a whole way of thinking, and it’s all about people who have no idea what it’s actually like to have that level of fame.’

  Murphy glanced up, realised the lights had changed and moved off before the car behind had a chance to complain. ‘I’m not sure how that helps us though. If that Wirral couple turn out to have had the same killer, then it’s probably got nothing to do with fame at all.’

  ‘I guess not,’ Rossi said, her head turned away from Murphy so he couldn’t see her face when he risked a glance towards her.

  Murphy broke the silence that followed. ‘How’s the fella?’

  Rossi turned and smiled, then squirmed a little. ‘Good. Saw him last night. He was asking about the case. Apparently I was in the background during one of the news bits at the house.’

  ‘Sarah has learned not to ask me anything specific these days.’

  ‘So will he. Especially after he didn’t get anything out of me last night. Once we’d got past that, we had a good time.’

  ‘It’s good that you’re seeing someone. Keeps your mind occupied when you’re away from the job. Just . . .’

  ‘Be careful?’

  ‘Exactly. Maybe I should meet him some time. Just to make sure he realises what would happen if he hurt you.’

  ‘I have five brothers, Murphy,’ Rossi replied with a laugh. ‘I think you’d have to join a queue.’

  Murphy returned the laugh, deciding it was probably easier if he let five Italian Scousers loose, instead of him going it alone. It took them twenty minutes to get back to the station, the radio inside the car crackling into life just as they were parking up and about to get out of the car. ‘Go ahead,’ Rossi said, lifting the handset out of its cradle.

  ‘We’ve got results on HP vics one and two,’ DC Harris’s voice came back to them. ‘And something else coming in that may be connected. How long until you can get here?’

  ‘We’re in the car park as it happens. Be there in less than five.’

  Murphy turned the engine off and grabbed his jacket from the back seat, almost headbutting Rossi as she reached to do the same for her own.

  ‘What do you think the second thing is?’ Murphy said slightly breathlessly as they walked briskly towards the station entrance.

  ‘I have my theories,’ Rossi replied, grasping the door handle and pushing forward, the door banging against the rubber stopper on the floor and almost hitting Murphy as it rebounded. ‘Not saying them out loud though.’

  Murphy let Rossi steam ahead of him, guessing that was the best course of action. Of course, she was right. The dreaded jinx of being a copper. It was always best not to say anything out loud in case the worst happened.

  Not that it mattered, most of the time.

  ‘The Wirral couple,’ DC Harris said as they entered the office, Rossi a fair few steps ahead of Murphy. ‘Looks like they’re the same guy.’

  Murphy closed his eyes for a few seconds and screamed a few obscenities in his head to a deity he didn’t believe in most of the time.

  ‘How do we know this?’ Murphy said, once he’d finished his mental admonishment.

  ‘Same type of drug killed both female victims,’ DC Harris replied. ‘An opiate-based drug of some sort apparently. Possibly one used as an anaesthetic in hospitals. They can’t say for certain what the actual drug used was, but I think it’s too much of a coincidence . . .’

  ‘Same layout of scene, same cause of death, two victims, an intimate couple . . . merda.’ Rossi looked round, Murphy took a step back, not wanting to get in the way of what he thought she was about to do. He breathed again when
she appeared to settle and sit down instead.

  ‘Why can’t we get the actual drug name?’

  ‘Apparently it doesn’t stay in the body long enough after death,’ DC Harris replied, itching at stubble which was beginning to rival Murphy’s own beard length. ‘All they can say is the drug group it came from and that’s about it.’

  ‘Well, it’s still something we need to look into. Get a list together of the types of drugs we’re talking about and where they may have come from.’

  ‘That’s not all,’ said DC Hale, appearing from the corridor behind DC Harris. ‘I went over the file that DS Brannon gave us. Turns out there was another collage left there. It was in one of the photographs near the back of the folder, a picture of the spare room. They didn’t mention it in the main report as they thought it was the victims that did it. Obviously, with what we found at the ChloJoe house, it might mean something else now.’

  Murphy wanted to close his eyes again, but shook off the feeling. ‘ChloJoe?’

  ‘Erm . . . that’s, sorry. It’s just what they call them on the news and that.’

  ‘Well, let’s try and not do that here maybe?’

  ‘Course, sir.’

  ‘Right, here’s what we do,’ Murphy said, loud enough that a few more heads looked up from various desks. ‘I can guarantee that the previous scene won’t have been gone over as carefully as ours has so, Hale and Kirkham, you go over the details as closely as possible with the idea it’s linked to ours. I don’t care how little or insignificant anything is, we need to investigate it. Rossi, you find out more about this drug that killed both victims. See if there’s something we can use there. I’ll speak to the boss.’

  Murphy waited for everyone to start moving, DC Harris returning to his own desk once people had moved out of his way. ‘Harris,’ Murphy said, moving closer and speaking low. ‘Get me the name of the detective in Liverpool South who’s looking into the confession we got yesterday.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The Amy Maguire case. Just do it. And keep it to yourself, okay?’

  Murphy waited for Harris to nod acceptance and then turned towards DCI Stephens’s office.

  He hoped that the most he was going to get was a frosty reception and no more.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The process of taking the case over from Wirral CID had run more smoothly than Murphy had thought it would. It was as if they were happy to have one less thing to do, something else not to worry about. DS Brannon left the station not long after handing over the paperwork to Murphy, the fetid air he had brought with him disappearing from the office soon after.

  ‘I hope we don’t have to see him again too soon,’ Rossi said to Murphy once he’d gone. ‘Not sure I can take even small doses of him these days.’

  ‘Forget about him,’ Murphy replied, picking up a crisp packet left on one of the desks like it contained some sort of plague. ‘Pass me the bin over.’

  Rossi duly obliged, Murphy wiping his hands on his trousers. ‘What’s your plan then?’

  ‘The drug we’re looking for belongs to a group of opiates used during surgical procedures for anaesthetics . . .’

  ‘So, we’re thinking about a doctor or something?’

  ‘Maybe, but it could be anyone working at a hospital. And then it’s working out which hospital it is. We’ve asked all the local ones to report any missing drugs, of course.’

  ‘What’s your thinking then?’

  ‘Well, we need to know more about them. If there’s a way we can narrow it down, that sort of thing. I thought we could ask Darren as obviously he’d know more. He’s working late today.’

  ‘Are you sure this isn’t just a way of nipping off during work hours, so you can go see lover boy?’

  Rossi didn’t blush, but Murphy was worried for a second that his own health was in danger. ‘No. Of course not. I just think it’s a good idea to find out as much as possible. And I’m not reading any more Wikipedia articles. They’re boring the life out of me and I’m learning nothing.’

  ‘It’s also doing wonders for your grasp of grammar. What’s he do?’

  ‘He’s an anaesthetist, working in the Royal. I didn’t really listen to the details when he was telling me. Load of boring medical stuff, I imagine.’

  ‘Sounds classy,’ Murphy said, raising his hands in mock surrender as Rossi turned on him. ‘Not that you’re not a classy bird yourself or anything.’

  ‘Bird?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Sometimes the Scouse slips out. So, he’ll help us out?’

  Rossi nodded, leaning against his desk. ‘Happy to. Texted him earlier and he’s in work at the moment. Said we could meet him there.’

  Murphy checked the time. ‘Well then. Let’s go see the man who has stolen my DS’s heart.’

  Murphy drove them to the hospital, the traffic beginning to build as rush hour took hold. Whilst the Royal was only a mile away from the station, the five-minute journey took treble that; every light was against them and cars were backed up in every direction.

  Once parked up next to the hospital, Murphy followed Rossi through the reception area. The building looked more run-down by the day, he thought. He hoped the new premises being constructed a few hundred yards away would be more impressive than the dingy-looking block that was currently being used.

  ‘Do you know which floor?’ Murphy said, looking towards the information desk situated in the middle of the vast reception area.

  ‘Second, I think he said.’

  They used the lift, eventually getting out on the eleventh floor after checking the list of departments. Drab corridors stretched ahead of them, yellow signs pointing the way to different areas of the hospital. Murphy took the lead, reaching the surgical unit within a few minutes. The double doors were locked; Rossi pushed a green call button on the wall after Murphy had given up trying to pull the doors open.

  ‘Hi, we’re here to see Darren . . . Darren Logan. It’s Lau— Detectives Rossi and Murphy.’

  They were buzzed through a few seconds later, Murphy walking after Rossi as she pushed through the doors.

  ‘Hey, come in, come in,’ a voice called from further down the corridor. ‘Great to see you.’

  There was an awkward moment, when Rossi and Darren Logan met, not knowing how to greet each other. They settled for a lingering handshake. Rossi scowled at Murphy as she turned round to see him smirking at her.

  ‘This is DI Murphy,’ Rossi said. Darren stepped forward, shaking Murphy’s proffered hand.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘I’ve got an office of sorts up here,’ Darren replied, glancing at Murphy but turning back to Rossi. ‘Have to share it with a few people, but it’s better than nothing.’

  ‘Lead the way.’

  Murphy stayed a little behind Rossi and Darren as they walked, seeing the chemistry between them even in their current environment. There was a frisson between them; the fact they weren’t able to touch each other noticeable. Murphy took in Darren’s appearance, deciding the younger man was about what he’d expected. A few inches smaller than himself, but over six foot tall. Athletic, but not overly bulked up. There was a slight wideness to his mouth, which looked a little odd on someone with such a sculptured face, but Murphy supposed it all added to the charm.

  ‘Ah, here we are,’ Darren said, a hand guiding them into a room. ‘Do you want me to get rid of these two reprobates?’

  Murphy walked inside to see two other men sitting inside. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ Rossi said, cutting off Murphy before he had a chance to finish his sentence. ‘Maybe they’ll be of use as well.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Darren said, introducing Murphy and Rossi. ‘This is Ben, he’s a fellow anaesthetist, and this is Sam, our resident nurse who is visiting us.’

  Murphy settled for raising a hand at the pair. Sam barely looked up at them before returning to whatever he was reading. He was the older of the two, and by some margin, Murphy gu
essed.

  ‘You’re wondering if I’m old enough, aren’t you?’ Ben said with a smile. ‘Honestly, I am. Got my boyish good looks from my dad.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Murphy began to protest. ‘I assumed it was me. Everyone looks a lot younger than they used to.’

  ‘What’s going on then? Not often we have the police drop in.’

  Darren stepped forward, cutting in between Ben and Rossi. ‘You said it was about anaesthetics . . .?’

  Murphy realised Darren had noticed the lingering look Ben had given Rossi when she’d walked in. Protective or jealous . . . Murphy wasn’t sure.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Rossi said, either unaware or ignoring Darren’s reaction. ‘We’re dealing with a case at the moment that is proving a little difficult with regard to which drug was present in the victim’s body. We know some sort of opiate linked to anaesthetics was used, but we can’t find out which one.’

  ‘Well, that’ll be because they don’t hang around for very long,’ Darren said, leaning against a filing cabinet and staring at Rossi. ‘They flush through the system very quickly.’

  ‘What kind of drugs are we talking about here?’ Murphy said, moving round to stand opposite the two.

  ‘Well, for general anaesthetics we use Propofol and Fentanyl, which are highly effective drugs. Keeps the patient under and maintains the sedation.’

  ‘Propofol? Isn’t that the drug that killed Michael Jackson?’ Rossi said, staring up at Darren. ‘Think I remember that was what it was called . . .’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Darren replied, flashing a wide grin at Rossi. ‘He needed it to sleep at night, according to the doctor who was “looking” after him. Apparently Night Nurse just isn’t enough for some people. Not only is it highly effective, it’s also highly volatile if used incorrectly.’

  ‘So, easy to overdose on then?’

  Darren nodded at Murphy before turning back to Rossi. ‘It wouldn’t take much at all. It’s a powerful drug, which slows down all the processes to do with respiration, things of that nature. Once you up that dosage, it would be just like going to sleep.’