Bloodstream

by Luca Veste

  ‘You come on, Laura. Who knows what’ll happen if you sack him off now. Someone else comes along and you’ll be left on your own with a Pot Noodle and a box set on a Friday night. Just go with it, girl. Embrace the falling head over heels for each other part, before it turns into putting up with each other.’

  Rossi placed her forehead on the steering wheel and closed her eyes. ‘Okay, okay, I will. But I really don’t think it’s going to work out.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, girl. I’ve got to go. I’ll speak to you later, yeah?’

  Rossi murmured her agreement and ended the call. She wondered how she’d been talked into the whole thing in the first place. She was a walking contradiction. Arguing against something she was quite happy with, for no reason other than timing.

  She checked the clock on her phone and swore loudly at the windscreen.

  A few minutes later she was taking the stairs two at a time and bursting into the office. ‘Where is everyone?’ Rossi said, looking around and seeing only a smattering of people. She shook her jacket off and placed it on the back of her chair. ‘Usually bustling in here by now.’

  ‘No idea.’ DC Harris shrugged. ‘And as I keep saying, you shouldn’t put your coat on the back of the chair, remember? Health and safety regs and that.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll move it. Murphy called in?’

  ‘Half an hour ago. He, erm . . . has some meeting or something arranged first thing. Will be in soon.’

  ‘Amy Maguire?’

  DC Harris wheeled his chair back and away from his desk and Rossi. ‘Amy . . .?’

  ‘The missing girl from Speke.’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Course you don’t,’ Rossi replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Never mind. Have we got anything from the CCTV at Chloe and Joe’s apartment yet?’

  DC Harris wheeled back to the desk, a couple of pieces of paper fresh from the printer under one arm. ‘Nothing that jumps out for the Friday afternoon they went missing, but I’ve got the final sweep of the house contents and forensics report here.’

  ‘Throw it over.’

  Rossi reached for where the papers fell, a few feet from their intended target. She sat back in her chair and read through. ‘This is shite. Loads of partials, nothing that matches on system . . .’

  ‘Good for ruling out though . . .’

  ‘Grazie, Harris. I know the score. Just would have been easier to rule people in at this point. Anyone would have done.’

  ‘We’re only on day three. Forty-eight hours. Could be a long wait yet.’

  Rossi ignored DC Harris and continued to read. ‘Pritt Stick used to attach the magazine covers to the walls. What adult uses that?’

  ‘One who knows about DNA and fingerprints?’

  ‘Suppose so,’ Rossi said, not looking up. ‘There’s bugger all else on here though. Nothing we can use at all. What about over the water? Have we got their reports handy?’

  ‘More of the same, I think,’ DC Harris replied, rooting through paperwork on his desk. ‘They have the same drug type as was found in Chloe’s system, but . . .’

  ‘It’s been flushed from her system too quick to find an exact drug. Yeah, we know that score as well.’

  ‘We’re still waiting on a few hospitals to let us know about missing drugs.’ Rossi tapped the Biro she’d picked up against her teeth. ‘You know what these people are like. It’ll probably take a couple of days to get all that info. Can you hurry them up?’

  DC Harris nodded and returned to his desk.

  Rossi continued to think, clicking on a few pages on the internet before closing the browser.

  ‘Thank God you’re here!’

  Rossi spun in her chair as the voice landed on her back. ‘Bastardo! You scared the shit out of me . . .’

  ‘Really sorry,’ a red-faced DC Hale said, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. ‘But something’s going on. I think we’ve found another couple.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Murphy checked his phone again and, deciding three missed calls during a murder case constituted urgent, thumbed the call button to ring Rossi.

  ‘We think we’ve got another couple,’ Rossi said, without saying hello. ‘If reports we’re getting are right, it’s pretty much the exact same scene. Two people, found dead in their own home . . .’

  ‘Where?’ Murphy replied, fiddling with his car keys, cradling the phone on his shoulder and attempting to put on his seat belt at the same time.

  ‘Osborne Road in Tuebrook.’

  ‘Whereabouts is that?’

  ‘Off the West Derby Road. Just before St John’s if you’re coming from town.’

  ‘Got it,’ Murphy said, giving up on the seat belt and settling for starting the car. ‘I’ll meet you there. What number is it?’

  Rossi gave him the house number then ended the call.

  Murphy cursed the fact he wasn’t in a pool car, but he picked up speed anyway. He made it through a pedestrian crossing only a second or two late.

  ‘Probably not the best time to be meeting someone about a completely different case, dickhead,’ Murphy murmured to himself, as he beat another set of lights.

  It didn’t take him long to reach the new murder scene. The amount of traffic on nearby streets was building up as gawkers slowed down to look at the closed-off road, their attention caught by the blue flashing lights of marked cars entering and exiting the cordoned-off area. Murphy was surprised to see the crowd of onlookers was currently limited to the usual concerned neighbours and a few other waifs and strays. It wouldn’t be long before some loudmouth let it slip to the press that there was a possible link to their favourite story of the week, and a thousand and one journalists and TV personalities descended on the quiet street.

  Small mercies and all that.

  He parked his car and walked up the street, taking in the number of uniforms and tech officers already in the area.

  Murphy stopped outside the house, watching as forensic teams walked in and out, passing each other without much greeting or camaraderie. He looked towards the roof covered in old slate and at the dark-brown brick facade then noted the modern double-glazed windows – an old house, being forced into a new century. It was in a block of four detached houses, but the gaps between them were barely worth it.

  Rossi spotted him. She raised a hand and, breaking off from the conversation she was having, walked over. Murphy looked across the road to the surrounding houses and back to the scene once more.

  ‘It’s a mess in there,’ Rossi said as she reached him. ‘Looks like he cut the throat this time, rather than strangulation. Pretty bloody scene.’

  ‘Female victim untouched again, except for a needle mark?’

  Rossi smirked and slowly shook her head. ‘Not this time. The other way round.’

  Murphy frowned, scratched at his beard and began to walk towards the forensic tent which had been erected around the entrance to the house. ‘Interesting. You have names and that?’

  ‘Greg Bowlby and Hannah Flynn. They lived here together. Bought the property a year or so ago. They have a daughter, almost two years old . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell me . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ Rossi said, her voice rising up a pitch. ‘She was with a grandparent at the time.’

  ‘Who found them?’ Murphy said, breathing a sigh of relief that there wasn’t an even worse scene than the one he was already imagining.

  ‘The same grandparent. Hannah’s mother, Emily Flynn. Hannah was supposed to pick up her daughter early this morning, but didn’t show up. Emily was having her overnight as she does every week, but the kid is usually picked up around half seven in the morning by either parent. She left it quarter of an hour before trying to ring. Thought maybe they’d overslept so decided to drop the child off herself around nine a.m. Both of the victims’ cars were parked outside but she got no answer when she knocked on the door. Let herself in with a key she had. Only took one step into the room before bolti
ng back out.’

  ‘Before the kid saw anything?’

  ‘That’s what she’s saying. Not that we can get much sense out of her at the moment. Poor woman has gone almost catatonic with shock.’

  Murphy grabbed a forensic suit and began putting it on. ‘You been inside yet?’

  ‘No,’ Rossi said, pulling on her own suit. ‘But someone took a picture and showed me, just to make sure we’re dealing with a similar set-up. It’s not good.’

  Murphy nodded. He cleared their entrance to the scene with the head of the forensics team before stepping inside. The smell of blood assailed him as he walked through the hallway – old coins and bitterness – the odour becoming more apparent as they approached the living room.

  The doorway opened into the middle of a through lounge. One side looked like a normal living room – two sofas, a large TV, a small, pine-coloured coffee table and some pictures adorning the walls.

  The other side was very different.

  What little furniture existed, in what Murphy assumed was normally a dining area, was pushed back against one wall. In the centre of the room, two chairs sat facing each other, but they weren’t what his attention was drawn to.

  It was the two people strapped to them.

  ‘Christ . . .’ Murphy said, the words escaping on a breath, barely audible.

  ‘Looks worse in reality.’

  Various techs and SOCOs faded into the background, giving them a proper look at what had been left behind. The male victim had his back to them. His head had slumped forward onto his chest, so the nape of his neck was on show.

  ‘Must have happened pretty much when he got back from work,’ Rossi said, taking a couple of steps forward. ‘Still got a shirt and tie on.’

  Murphy murmured an agreement, taking a closer look at the victim’s now crumpled shirt and loosened tie. ‘Stained as well,’ he said as he moved closer.

  ‘Sweat or something? Can’t smell petrol or anything like that.’

  ‘God forbid.’

  ‘She came off much worse,’ Rossi said, turning her back on the male and looking at Hannah Flynn.

  Murphy took a breath and turned with her, the bloodstained tableau of the woman’s death almost too much to take in with one look.

  ‘Lot of blood here.’

  Murphy didn’t respond, just stared at the jagged pattern of flesh and blood on the right side of the female victim’s bare neck. The injuries continued underneath her chin, but were masked from view by the position of her head. Blood had dripped down her shirt, pooling around the bottom of the chair.

  ‘This isn’t good.’ Dr Houghton’s voice broke the silence from behind them. ‘Although, if it’s the same guy, he’s made my job a bit easier.’

  ‘I’m sure that was his intention,’ Murphy said, unable to take his eyes off Hannah Flynn’s broken body, strapped to the chair.

  ‘A minor convenience, I’m sure,’ Houghton replied, moving towards Murphy and Rossi. He looked over the bodies, humming and whistling as he did so. ‘Won’t be able to tell you much here. We’ll know more when we get them back to the hospital. They haven’t been moved from this place, that much is sure. Not been here longer than twelve hours, I would guess.’

  ‘That would fit with what we know so far.’

  ‘Not sure you’re going to get much more from these two at the moment. Think they’re telling you everything they have for now.’

  Murphy stood a little longer before turning away and walking towards the kitchen which ran off the back of the dining room. More SOCOs worked away, but nothing of interest leaped out at him. He headed back past a waiting Rossi and stepped into the hallway.

  ‘People upstairs?’ Murphy said, pulling his mask down.

  ‘Yeah,’ Rossi said, making an attempt to write in her notebook whilst wearing oversized gloves. ‘Think they’ve found something similar to the other two scenes in one of the rooms up there.’

  ‘Let’s go look.’

  Murphy took the stairs two at a time, looking in two bedrooms and a bathroom before finding two officers in the smallest room, taking pictures of the wall.

  ‘Another collage,’ Murphy said, shifting his bulk round the working officers and taking in what was on the wall.

  ‘What’s it say?’ Rossi replied from outside the room.

  Murphy stepped aside so Rossi could look past him.

  NEVER HIS – NEVER HERS TO KEEP SECRET

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  Murphy looked at the array of photographs on the wall. ‘What’s the Italian for I have no bloody idea?’

  ‘Tricky one. We usually just say boh. Covers you for the most part.’

  ‘Well this is all very boh. There are the words and then pictures of just the two of them together and then pictures of them with the daughter. Not sure what it means.’

  ‘Got me,’ Rossi said, bouncing from one foot to the other in the doorway. ‘Why is it always the smallest room?’

  ‘I’m going with our new Italian word for the day. I think these pictures have just been collected from round the house.’ Murphy searched the room, spotting what he thought he would find in a corner of the box room. ‘Picture frames in here on the floor.’

  ‘He’s removed the pictures, stuck them to the wall, and left his message. Why?’

  Murphy slipped past the SOCO lifting fingerprints off the wall and walked back out onto the landing, Rossi stepping backwards to allow him past. ‘He wants to explain what he’s doing? Usually the case, isn’t it?’

  ‘For some, yes. I’ve read a bit more about serial killers in the last few years. You know, since they started turning up more often in our fair city.’

  ‘A little light reading before bedtime, Laura? I bet that was fun.’

  Rossi headed into the main bedroom, standing at the foot of the bed as Murphy followed her in. ‘It was, actually. The American ones are really interesting, as it happens. The various methods, motives, psychopathology– ’

  ‘I believe you,’ Murphy said, interrupting her. ‘I think I’ll stick to just catching them for now.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be anything in here,’ Rossi said, opening the bedside drawers. ‘Not even a sex toy to make us giggle.’

  Murphy looked around the room. ‘A couple of photographs will have come from here. I’ll get them to sweep the whole place. He must have left something behind this time, surely?’

  ‘Beginning to think that’s what we’re going to need.’

  ‘A mistake?’

  Rossi stood up and faced Murphy. ‘Isn’t that usually the way we catch these people?’

  Murphy hesitated, then closed his mouth.

  He didn’t want anyone to hear him agreeing with her.

  Violence

  He tried to be as still as he possibly could. Standing on the stripped floorboards, flakes of wood poking into the soles of his bare feet. When he stood like that, breathing slow and steady, he could almost be somewhere else.

  When he spoke, he did so in almost a whisper. Loud enough for Number Four to hear, giving himself the comfort of knowing there was someone to listen to him speak.

  ‘Some people think there’s no reason for anger to play any role in a loving relationship. Those people have never been part of something real. I know different. I’ve seen it. You only have to walk the streets on a Friday or Saturday night in town to see that. The anger caused by love. Spilled tears, spilled blood. The guy who becomes so incensed by another bloke daring to look at his missus for longer than a split second that he decides to do something about it – the endless tales of deaths occurring from a single punch not acting as a deterrent. The alpha male showing his dominance. The women fighting each other over perceived slights, over men who will forget their names by the next morning. The couples who scream and shout at each other in the middle of town, walking past Primark and Burton, where they’d shopped with smiles on their faces only hours earlier. Wearing the outfits they’d bought as they tear into each other. Saying words th
ey can never take back. Insults and viciousness spewing forth with every syllable.’

  His breathing rate increased. He tried to slow it before he spoke again.

  ‘And no one cares about the people who see them do this. About the strangers silently judging them as they pass them by at three in the morning. Couples who are on their way for the night bus, both wordlessly thanking their lucky stars that it isn’t their turn to be the ones stared at.’

  He crouched down, his weight shifting to the balls of his feet. He rubbed his hands together, generating some warmth in them. Number Four was already shivering in the coolness of the room, as spring refused to bring with it any warm weather.

  He could see her, reflected in the remnants of a broken mirror propped against the wall. The ghost of wallpaper surrounding it. Peeling and coming away.

  There was a story he told when he was in ‘normal’ mode. When discussions at work or somewhere else became political or such like. It was well rehearsed, one he felt comfortable telling.

  He had been driving down Scottie Road, just as it turned off and became Stanley Road and faded off into the distance towards Everton. Keeping to the speed limit, watching for police with nothing better to do on a Thursday night at one a.m. than pull him over for doing a few miles an hour over thirty. The roads were almost dead – a couple of other cars dotted around here and there as town was left behind him, but the streets otherwise quiet. It had been a warm summer evening, and he’d had the windows down in his car, rather than wasting petrol on air conditioning. A warm breeze entered the car, cooling him as he drove.

  Over the low voice of Pete Price’s radio show, he’d heard the shouting before he saw the people doing it. He had begun to search out where the noise was coming from as the lights ahead turned to amber too soon for him to speed up and through them.

  The couple were young. That had been his first thought. The girl possibly not even eighteen – her shaven-headed companion had the look of someone who had left school early and recently.

  He’d watched with bemusement for a few seconds, not really paying them much attention as their words drifted around him. Mostly coarse and uneducated. Both of them unable to profess their anger in any other way than to scream and swear. He had been unable to work out what they had been arguing about, but the lad had been the angrier of the pair, so he’d begun to concoct a story in his head: infidelity or a slight on his character.