Then She Was Gone (19 page)

‘Won’t hold my breath,’ Rossi said, stretching her arms above her head. ‘Something tells me this case isn’t going to be a cut-and-dried one.’

‘Optimism, that’s why I love working with you,’ Murphy replied, giving Rossi a smirk. He pulled out his phone, swiped to the right and typed out a message.

You still up and about?

‘At least I’ll get some time to myself when I get in,’ Rossi said, shutting down her computer and putting the laptop into a bag. ‘He’s on earlies the next few days,
so goes to bed at ridiculous o’clock.’

‘Well, don’t be up too late on that thing,’ Murphy replied, pointing towards the laptop bag she was holding. ‘Need you bright and alert first thing.’

‘Yes, Dad,’ Rossi replied, driving the knife right into the gut of Murphy’s self-esteem. ‘More likely I’ll fall asleep on the couch watching something I’ve
Sky-plussed from a decade ago.’

‘That reminds me,’ Murphy said, grabbing his coat and pushing his chair in. ‘I keep hearing this phrase “Netflix and chill”, what does it mean?’

Rossi stared at him for a few seconds, then shook her head. ‘There’s no way I’m discussing that kind of thing with you. Especially after just calling you Dad.’

Rossi left Murphy standing by his desk. She shouted a goodbye over her shoulder as she headed for the door. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he took it out with a smile.

‘She always falls for it . . .’ Murphy said to himself, opening his phone.

Always fuckin’ up. Coming round?

Murphy typed a reply and shouted a farewell to the officers working the nightshift in the incident room. He left the station and entered the car park, pulling his coat tighter to him as the
unseasonably wintery air hit him. September may have only just begun, but summer was forgotten. He keyed the fob in his hand and heard the familiar sound of the car unlocking only a few feet
away.

In a few minutes, he was on the road, turning up the volume on the music in the car. The Scottish band, Deacon Blue, blared from the speakers, talking about a Real Gone Kid. He had added it to
his playlist recently, after seeing a local boxer use it for their ring entrance, the song transporting him back to the eighties in an instant.

Scousers always have the best taste in music, he thought. Even the boxers know good music and they get punched in the head for a living.

It was a fifteen-minute trip from the station to Jess’s house, which took Murphy less than ten now the traffic had dwindled. The once busy roads had quietened and, late at night, it became
clear what Liverpool was – a group of towns bordering a city centre which didn’t sleep all that much.

Deacon Blue gave way to another eighties staple in The Waterboys, Murphy’s playlist sounding like it hadn’t been updated in thirty years. He was still trying to work out how many
contemporary songs were actually on it, when he pulled up outside Jess’s house and turned off the engine.

He made his way up the short path, trying to forget a time when he would visit for another reason. A time when a blond, tousled-haired kid would try to barrel him over with glee. Before he could
stop himself, Murphy remembered the last time he’d seen the boy. Seventeen years old, a shotgun being held against his head by a man Murphy was supposed to have stopped. He shook the memory
away and knocked on the door, then rang the doorbell when there was no answer.

‘It’s usually the other way round,’ Jess said, opening the door and letting Murphy pass by her. ‘Not used to getting you here.’

‘Yeah, well, I thought it was my turn to clutter up your living room.’

‘I never clutter up your house,’ Jess replied, closing the door behind them and following Murphy into the living room. ‘I give it character.’

‘Are you calling me and Sarah boring?’

‘Of course not,’ Jess said, crossing over to her spot on the couch and dropping into it. She closed the lid on the laptop next to her and turned a little to face him.
‘I’m just saying I make it more interesting.’

‘And we thank you for it,’ Murphy replied, sitting down on the opposite couch. He ignored the picture on the wall above him, the kid he’d remembered outside now forever a
teenager. ‘Still not sleeping much?’

‘The house is too quiet. I should move really. Maybe get a nice apartment somewhere nearer town.’

‘You’d only be awake worrying about the mortgage on one of those places. Remember that celeb couple from last year, ChloJoe? Quarter of a million pound apartment, that
was.’

‘Bet it was nice,’ Jess said, moving across the couch and finding the television remote under a cushion. ‘Wouldn’t mind having a doorman and all that. With what I’d
make on selling this place, I’d clear most of that.’

‘You’ve been here for years,’ Murphy replied, looking at the TV as it came to life. ‘Can’t just up and leave.’

‘Why not? What’s keeping me here?’

Murphy felt the ground beneath him get a little shaky. Whilst they didn’t talk about Jess’s son and what had happened to him all that much, it was always the giant elephant in the
room. Sometimes it was wearing a tuxedo, dancing the ‘Macarena’, and singing the national anthem out of tune. ‘It’s your home, Jess. Lot of memories here.’

‘Maybe that’s the problem, Bear.’

The old nickname she’d had for him had returned to use recently. After her son, Peter, had died, she had blamed Murphy for his death. Punishing him for not doing more to save the boy.
Years had passed before their more than twenty-year friendship had slowly been repaired to the point where she felt comfortable enough to use that damn nickname he wished had stayed lost.

‘What do you think?’ Murphy said, pointing towards the television.
Sky News
was showing a report about Sam Byrne’s demise along with shots of
Liverpool and interviews with locals. ‘We’re not exactly making much headway.’

‘Maybe someone finally realised we were about to elect a Tory in Liverpool and decided to sort it out?’

‘I’m starting to think politics has very little to do with any of it.’

‘Never discount it,’ Jess said, flicking around the channels before landing on a live poker show. Cards flashed up on screen as various men and a sole woman stared at each other.
‘Politics makes people do really stupid things.’

‘I’d say more, but you know how it is.’

‘You’re worried I’d be defending whoever gets charged? You know that could never happen. We’re too close. I’d drop that case faster than you can say
antidisestablishmentarianism. Or however you say that word.’

‘You’re asking the wrong person there,’ Murphy said with a chuckle. ‘I failed English. Could barely string a sentence together at school.’

‘You got better at it,’ Jess said, laughing. ‘Had to in your line of work. I’ve read some of the reports you’ve put together. They’re not bad. Some are even
readable.’

‘I was so nervous during that first entrance exam. You were with me, remember?’

‘Of course,’ Jess said, leaning forwards on the couch. ‘You wanted a shot of brandy and I only had Hooch in that poxy little student flat I was in.’

‘Hooch,’ Murphy said, his voice echoing off the walls, joined by a clap as he slammed his hands together at the memory. ‘God, that stuff tasted like boiled shite.’

‘You got through the exam.’

‘I know, I know . . . it just always feels like there’s something closing in on me when we get cases like this. That they move too quick to catch mistakes or clues or
whatever.’

‘You’ll get there, you always do. No matter what, you’re there at the end.’

Murphy nodded, relaxing a little as Jess spoke. There had been a growing uneasiness within him all day, which he couldn’t put his finger on. Speaking to Jess had eased that somewhat.

Made him feel almost normal.

*    *    *

Rossi waited for Murphy to leave, then made her way back up to the incident room and back over to her desk. She switched on her computer, hoping she had the same access as
Murphy. She waited patiently for it to boot up, then sat down sharply in her chair as it came to life. She let the laptop bag drop to the floor with a soft thunk, then her other bag went on the
desk, clattering against pens. She ignored the looks from the few detectives still left in the incident room and concentrated.

She pulled up the CCTV footage Murphy had been going through, hands shaking a little as she watched the images appear and speed past. She cued up the time she wanted and watched. She rewound and
watched again.

There was a moment when she thought she’d been mistaken. That it was someone else. On the fifth watch, she accepted the truth.

A man appeared on the edge of the frame, looking around as if he was waiting for someone. He walked a little further, then checked his watch. He came into full view as people passed him by on
either side. He looked up towards the camera and Rossi paused the image.

She knew the man.

It was her brother.

Anxiety and tension. Those were the two features of the incident room that morning. Murphy could feel them, both battling for superiority over each other. He tried to ignore it
and read the forensics report from Sam Byrne’s apartment with a detached view. But he could sense it still, the drawn faces of the various detectives in the area surrounding him beginning to
grate.

Rossi was late, which didn’t help. He was too used to having her around now. Years earlier, he had worked more or less alone. A variety of ever-changing sergeants working alongside him,
there for the shared glory rather than an actual partnership. He’d forgotten for the most part what that was like. He’d grown accustomed to having her by his side.

‘Graham,’ Murphy shouted over to DC Harris, waiting for him to turn his wheelchair round to face him. ‘Is this the full report?’

‘As much as we got,’ DC Harris replied, wheeling himself over to Murphy’s desk. ‘Nothing good on there?’

‘Just confusing, that’s all.’

Murphy turned as the main door into the incident room banged open and Rossi rushed in. She had a glow of sweat across her brow, her hair cascading over her face, thick and dark. She had only one
arm in her jacket, half of it swinging by her side, her laptop bag banging against her other side. She was holding a bottle of Lucozade in her mouth.

‘Sorry . . . excuse me . . . sorry,’ she mumbled.

Murphy waited for her to make it over to her own desk, he raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Rossi placed the bag down on her desk, then removed the bottle from her mouth. ‘I know, I know. Just had a bad night, that’s all. Had to go and see someone before work.’

‘Not Darren trouble again, I hope,’ Murphy said, letting his eyebrows drop and turning back to the forensics report. ‘I like this one.’

‘Haven’t seen him to have any trouble. This was something else. Personal.’

‘Really? I’ve never known you to have anything secret around here.’

‘Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?’ Rossi said, snatching her jacket off and throwing it underneath her desk. ‘What have I missed?’

Murphy waited a second or two, then thought better of pushing it. ‘Forensics report is back. On the apartment.’

‘Right, so is it the kill site?’

‘I’d say no,’ Murphy said, throwing Rossi over a copy. ‘Five different blood donors from the bedroom, none match Sam Byrne. We have other . . . fluids,
from him, but no blood. Three blood donors have all come back as DNA matches to people in the system.’

‘
Cazzo, bastardo,
’ Rossi said under her breath. ‘Serial?’

Murphy hesitated for a second, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Better question is why they’re in the system already.’

‘Why is that then?’

‘All three are women. All three on prostitution charges. Haven’t got the other two donors, obviously, but I’m pretty sure the three we do have are alive. One of them was last
picked up on Saturday night. After Sam went missing. We’re going to see another one now.’

‘OK, take me back a step, because I think I’ve missed something.’

Murphy leafed through the report again. ‘I’m saying the blood found in Sam’s bedroom is from a variety of sex workers. And now I have to find out why it’s there and what
the hell was going on in that apartment.’

‘What else is in there?’

‘Lot of matches to Sam, but no blood. Semen and other bodily fluids, but the blood is all other people.’

‘You know where the sex worker is then?’

‘Yeah, flat in Anfield. Works a patch regularly down that way. She’s well known to local uniform.’

‘Give me a second,’ Rossi said, bending down to find her coat. ‘Who is it that we’re going to see?’

‘
We’re
not going anywhere. I’m taking Hashem with me. Be good to get her out in the field for a change.’

‘Are you going to do this to me every time I’m late,’ Rossi replied, sitting up and leaning forwards on her desk. ‘Leave me out of things, punish me?’

Murphy gave her a smirk, then stopped when he saw Rossi’s nostrils flare. ‘No, that’s not why. I need you to go and see Simon Jackson. You and Kirkham. We got in touch with him
this morning. He’s willing to speak to us. Although, we haven’t told him what it’s regarding. So you’ll have to tell him that we believe it is Sam who we found.’

Rossi’s shoulders relaxed a little, nostrils going back to normal. Murphy gave a sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted to do was annoy Rossi any more than she already was that
morning.

‘OK, cool,’ Rossi said, looking away towards the ceiling for a brief moment. ‘I agree, Abs should be going out there more. About time.’

‘Glad you back my judgement,’ Murphy replied, trying the smirk again and waiting for a nod from Rossi. ‘We’ll talk later, yeah?’

Rossi grunted a response at him.

Murphy made a
let’s go
motion towards DC Hashem and waited for her to spring up out of her chair. She bounded across the room towards him, her headscarf bobbing
up and down with her. She slowed down and readjusted it as she reached Murphy. He looked down at her, wondering if the constables were getting smaller each year, or if he was getting taller.