The Dying Place

‘I count sixty-three different contusions and marks. Some inflicted close to death, some occurring days or weeks before. The worst of those are concentrated on the torso and arms,’ Dr Houghton said, speaking into a digital recorder as well as for the benefit of Murphy and Rossi. ‘Healing contusion to the eye area, around a week old, I’d suggest. Bruising to the neck area, asphyxiation a possible cause of death.’ He pressed the stop button on his recorder before turning towards Murphy. ‘He was beaten severely and then strangled by a thin ligature. It’s pretty obvious.’

‘Rule out suicide then?’ Rossi said.

‘Unless he’s worked out a way of hanging himself whilst lying down, then yes. He was on the ground when he died.’

‘What was used to beat him?’ Murphy asked, before Rossi had a chance to swear at the doctor in her mother tongue.

‘There are three different distinctive markings,’ Dr Houghton said, turning the body over with a sigh, before his assistant moved quickly to lend a hand. ‘On the back here is a marking from some kind of heavy object, a bat or plank of wood maybe. On the front, something thin like a whip or something similar. And then here,’ Dr Houghton pointed to the left-hand-side rib area, ‘half a boot print. He was stamped on so hard I’d guess there are a few broken ribs in that area.’

Murphy tried and failed to keep the grimace off his face. The memory of the injuries he’d sustained a year earlier – broken arm and ribs after being pushed down concrete steps which led into the darkness of a basement – was still fresh. The breathlessness of having your ribs broken in more than one place. The look on the doctor’s face in the Royal Hospital – only a few floors above from where he was standing now – as he’d explained to Murphy that they had to heal on their own. It was a couple of weeks before he could even stand walking any kind of distance.

Still, the sick pay was nice. Plus, he’d suddenly became more accepted around the station again, which made things much easier than they’d been previously. The snide remarks and sideways glances, just waiting for him to screw up, had pretty much ended that day. Injured in the line of duty had that kind of effect on petty differences.

Murphy absent-mindedly rubbed at his right-hand side as he replied, ‘Think you can get a print off that?’

‘I imagine so,’ Dr Houghton replied, sounding amused by the question. Hiding a grin behind his mask, Murphy assumed. ‘Wonders of modern science. We have scrapings underneath the fingernails as well, which I imagine are from the back of the hands of the person who was strangling him to death.’

‘Good. Full report?’

Dr Houghton sighed. ‘In the morning at the latest.’

Murphy kicked at a stone in the hospital car park, watching as it jumped up and hit the side of someone’s Ford Focus. He didn’t move slowly enough to check if he’d chipped the paintwork as he continued to trot towards his car.

‘Who interviewed the kids who found him?’ Murphy said, turning to Rossi who was, as ever, struggling to keep up.

‘Harris and some other DC I can’t remember the name of. They’re basically interchangeable at this point.’

Murphy smirked, knowing exactly what she meant. Local cuts to the police service meant that constables in CID were being sent all over Liverpool to fill in where and when needed. It meant there was no kind of consistency on who was working at St Anne Street from one week to the next. Once you got used to one face, they were sent over to the other side of the city to fill in on some other case. Murphy didn’t even want to consider the mind who had thought up this gloriously stupid way of working.

‘I’m guessing nothing came of it, otherwise you would have told me?’

Rossi shook her head. ‘Just found him and ran. Didn’t see anyone at all. Nothing from door to doors either really. Other than a neighbour who thought she heard an argument near Castlesite Road. Wasn’t sure of the time because she was half asleep. Could have been dreaming, for all we know.’

‘CCTV any good?’ Murphy said, pressing the button on his keys to activate the central locking.

‘Not sure yet,’ Rossi replied, opening the passenger door and getting into the car. ‘I know there’s a few cameras around the cross near the Sefton Arms pub, but not the other side. Depends which way they came in. It’s not like we could tell if he was killed anywhere else in the area, unless there’s blood.’

‘Doesn’t mean we don’t look,’ Murphy said, turning the ignition. ‘We need to organise a bit of a search, I think.’

‘Seems like a lot of effort. Probably going to turn out to be an argument got out of hand.’

Murphy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for traffic to pass so he could pull out onto the main road. ‘I’d usually agree, Laura, but there’s a few things wrong here. The fact he’s been missing over six months. The placing of the body at the church …’

‘Like an unwanted baby,’ Rossi murmured.

‘Sorry?’

‘When you hear about these abandoned babies, you know, where the mother is too young or whatever, they leave them outside churches, don’t they?’

‘I’m not seeing your point.’

Rossi sighed, pressing the button to half open her window. ‘It could be that Dean Hughes was left at the church because they thought he’d be looked after there.’

‘Possibly. I think the damage was already done though, don’t you?’

Rossi shrugged and turned to look out the window. Murphy stared ahead, trying to get the cogs within turning.

Concentrating hard to stop the demons coming back in.

The Farm

Five Months Ago

Goldie had become used to life there pretty quick. It was the same all the time, really. Days spent in the quiet, waiting for the evening, when the ‘fun’ would begin. Three meals a day. Anything they wanted to read.

Okay, there was no TV, PlayStation, or even Xbox. No iPhone, Samsung … fuck, he’d take a Nokia at some points, just to be able to speak to his mum or something. He reckoned he’d even phone her first, rather than check Facebook or Twitter.

His muscles ached in so many places, he’d given up trying to work out where it hurt most. He’d caught sight of his face on one trip into the farmhouse. It was becoming harder, older.

Scarred.

Goldie was inspecting a fresh mark on his right thigh when they brought in the Bootle lad. Just dumped him in there, without a word.

They’d been getting a bit more light in the Dorm than in the first couple of weeks, so Goldie could see him fine. Dean, the other lad, wouldn’t have seen shit. He was in his usual position – lying down on his bed, facing the wall, pretending to be asleep. He’d barely spoken two words to Goldie in the month he’d been in there with him.

Just shut down.

‘All right lad?’ Goldie said, standing up slowly, his thighs burning from overuse, his calves numb. It seemed too little a thing to say, but what the fuck else could he say? The lad had no idea what he was in for.

‘Who the fuck are you? What’s going on?’

Goldie held his hands out in front of him. ‘Calm down mate. It’s them out there you want to be pissed off with, not us.’

‘Us? Who else is here?’ the lad replied, standing up fully now. ‘Youse best tell me what’s fuckin’ goin’ on, or there’ll be fuckin’ murder, you get me?’

Goldie put his hands down. Curled them into fists instead. ‘Look,’ he tried a softer voice, but it didn’t really work. ‘Look, we’re in the same boat. I’m Goldie, the lad over here is Dean. We’ve been taken by a bunch of nutters who want to give us some kind of army training or some shite …’

‘Well, I’m MC Cray-Z. And MC Cray-Z doesn’t take any shit, you get me?’

‘You’re called what? Where you from?’

‘Bootle. What’s it to you?’

Goldie shook his head. ‘I’m not calling you MC Fucking Shit. I’m just gonna call you Bootle for now. That all right?’

‘This is bollocks …’

‘No,’ Goldie replied, taking a few steps towards him. ‘It’s not. It’s as fucking real as it can get. But you need to calm down, otherwise …’

‘Or what? What’re you gonna do about it?’

Goldie almost smiled. It had been a long time since someone had spoken to him like that when a gun wasn’t being trained on him.

‘Listen. I’ll give you one warning,’ Goldie said, stepping closer, five yards away from Bootle now, taking in his full five foot five figure. Small man syndrome exuding from every pore. ‘One warning, given what you’ve been through. But I won’t give you another.’

Bootle took a step forward, hands shaking, sweat on his forehead.

‘Do something,’ Bootle said as he stopped in front of him.

Goldie smiled then.

Gamma spoke first as they watched the camera feed from inside the Dorm. ‘We might have a problem here …’ she said, nudging Delta.

‘What do we do?’ Delta replied.

Gamma looked around at the only other person in the small monitoring room. Tango chewed on his bottom lip for a second or two, then spoke.

‘Get Alpha.’

A minute or so later, Alpha bounded in, forcing his way in front of Gamma and staring into the screen.

Gamma cleared her throat. ‘Should we go and stop it?’

Alpha stepped back, rubbing at his face before folding his arms.

‘No. Let’s see what happens.’

Goldie didn’t know where the lad had got the strength from, but he was starting to tire already. It was probably down to the endless drills he’d been forced to do in the previous weeks. Muscles not having been given a chance to heal properly, now screaming for him to stop. Lie down and don’t move.

Bootle had his small hands wrapped around his throat, trying to choke him but not succeeding. Goldie had his chin ducked down low, meaning he could suck in air. All the time, he was concentrating on trying to prise away the grip.

It had started as it normally did for Goldie whenever he was in a fight. Quick movements forward and a closed fist punch to the side of the other lad’s head. That usually put them down, then he could jump them. Put the boot in and end it.

But this time he’d miscalculated, and only skimmed the top of Bootle’s head. Then he’d been surprised by the force of the little bastard’s rugby tackle as he was forced backwards onto the floor.

Goldie stopped trying to prise the hands away. Drew back his fist as far as he could, and drove it into the side of Bootle. Kidneys. Instant pain. Bootle’s hands loosened and Goldie took his chance. He pushed him away, letting him fall to the side, before punching him in the jaw, hearing a click or snap – he couldn’t tell which one – in his right hand. He ignored it, punching again, hearing the satisfying thump of flesh on flesh as he carried on. Bootle’s face started turning red as knuckles met skin, cuts forming around his eyes and cheekbones. Blood mixing with sweat and tears.

Goldie left him coughing and retching on the floor, stood up, and began stamping on the cunt.

He was in his socks, so he wasn’t doing as much damage as he’d have liked, but it didn’t lessen the pain he knew he was inflicting. Drawing his leg up, smashing his heel right into Bootle’s stomach. Then a volley into his bollocks, to really take his breath away. Then he moved up. He had a wicked right foot on him, when he’d played footy instead of getting pissed or stoned with his mates, and he lined up Bootle’s face as if he was about to fire in a free kick in front of the Kop.

Bang.

The sound was deafening in the small space, making Goldie jump and lose his footing.

A soft voice from the corner, that’s all he could hear after the ringing had stopped.

‘No … no … no …’

Goldie looked over the broken body of Bootle towards the door. The main guy – Bally-Suit – stood there, backed up with two others. Holding the rifle level with him. The bang had come from one of the other two rather than him, Goldie guessed. Bally-Suit wouldn’t have fired a gun without it being pointed at someone, Goldie reckoned.

Goldie realised he was shaking his head, moving backwards all the time. The fight disappearing from him.

He was in the shit.

Bally-Suit man had offered up the name Alpha as he’d tied him to the rack. It suited him. Better than what Goldie had come up with.

Alpha. He was the one in charge.

Goldie tried not to pay much attention to what was happening. Thought he could zone out of whatever they did to him, think above the pain.

It didn’t – couldn’t – work like that. He was restrained so he couldn’t make any movement at all. Every possible part of him was strapped down, tied together, and immovable. Lying spreadeagled in just the black boxer shorts he’d been given a pile of at some point – fucking Asda brand; he couldn’t believe he was putting his junk into something so shite – exposed and useless.

‘It’s a shame it’s come to this,’ Alpha said from somewhere to his left. Goldie couldn’t move his head to check for certain. ‘I knew you’d end up here at some point, but it is really a damn shame it was due to this. We simply cannot tolerate you lads fighting each other. It will not happen again. I hope the next couple of hours convince you of this.’

Goldie shivered as a cold breeze snuck under the wooden door that he could just about make out. Just the ridge at the top, if he really tried looking down. Otherwise it was just strip light, which burned into his eyes if he looked at it too long. Lighting up his face even when his eyes were closed.

‘We call this a rack, but it’s not like the old racks they had hundreds of years ago. Those ones … Jesus. You wouldn’t believe the pain they could inflict. They’d tie you down and stretch you out, tightening the ropes and making your bones dislocate and break. Destroying your limbs. Tearing them right out.’

Goldie started shaking … as much as he could, anyway. He tried again to move, but it didn’t matter. He could move a finger – maybe two – but not much more than that.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to stretch you out or anything like that. No. This is purely about instant pain and punishment. But also … hopefully … redemption. I don’t want to destroy you. I want you to get better, understand?’

Goldie opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by the gag which was shoved in his mouth as he opened it. His vision was obscured by a thick piece of sock-like material being placed around his eyes.

‘Good. Then we’ll begin.’

Goldie tensed as he heard the flick of a lighter. Clenched his eyes tight and tried to block out the pain.

Burning on his chest. Fuck, his chest was on fire. He tried to see, but the harsh light overhead stopped him. Screwing his eyes shut, he thought of home, of his streets, of anywhere but there.

He tried screaming, but the gag inside his mouth turned it into a mumble in the darkness.

Some sort of vice was attached to his head. Goldie felt it tightening, the bones of his skull being forced together, screaming in agony as he thought of his head exploding. Alpha seemed to know the limits though.

It wasn’t his first time, Goldie thought at one point. Oh fucking shit – it wasn’t his first time.

The needles were the worst. That’s what he guessed they were. Sharp, piercing pain in the skin between his fingers and toes. A bang as he imagined the thin pieces of metal being hammered through, then more agony as they were removed and covered.

He cried behind the covering over his eyes. Goldie hadn’t shed tears in as long as he could remember, always believing nothing could break him.

He was wrong.

After a while, the torture stopped and the numbness which had crept over him disappeared, bringing fresh waves of nausea as the pain kicked in once more.

‘That’s probably enough, Alpha … don’t you think?’

The voice came from further away, but even in the agony-induced state Goldie was in, he could hear the fear behind it.

‘Not nearly enough for this piece of shit.’

‘Okay … it’s just, well … we’re not really equipped for putting him right if you go too far.’

Goldie listened, barely able to match the words being spoken to a real conversation.

‘Would that be so bad?’

‘Of course it would. We’re not here for … for that. Are we?’

Goldie heard a sigh.

‘It’ll do for now, I guess. What do you think, Mr Gold?’

Goldie tried to nod his head, but it screamed in response as he tried to move it. Alpha tutted and removed the blindfold from his eyes.

‘Good. Well, Omega here will clean you up and have you back in the Dorm in no time at all. I hope we won’t have to do this again anytime soon. I trust you’ll behave yourself from now on?’

Goldie tried blinking, but the strip light above him refused to allow him respite from the pain as it burned into his eyes. He kept his eyes partially closed as he squinted above him, Alpha’s covered face looming into view.

‘I think we have an understanding now, don’t we? We’re not messing around here. You will be taught how to behave. It’s a shame your parents have failed so badly in this area and that we have to resort to such extreme measures, but it takes time and punishment, you see? Probably not now, no, but soon. Soon you’ll all see.’

The dark face moved away then returned, closer this time. Whispering into his ear.

‘The next time, I take a finger. Then we can really start to see what you’re made of.’

He moved away again and a few seconds passed before another masked face replaced him. Goldie wanted to believe he saw pity in the eyes of this one, but he didn’t know the difference any more.

He didn’t know anything.

7

The first day was winding down, the light fading outside in the early May evening. Murphy and Rossi crossed the incident room, heading back towards their office. There’d be a short meeting before they left for the day, but other than the list of names they’d accrued, there wasn’t much else they could do. Overtime was currently a dirty word in the station, and unless the DCI suddenly got pressure from above, Murphy couldn’t imagine they’d change that for a single victim. Especially when he knew what most minds in the hive would be thinking.

Some scally kid had got what was coming to him.

It still troubled Murphy. Any death still had that effect on him. Sometimes he wondered if he had been born in the wrong era. It seemed to Murphy that there were more victims than ever that supposedly deserved their fates, in a growing number of people’s opinions. Even if they were only a few years on from being nothing but kids. Not having a clue what the reality of their actions could eventually lead to.

Murphy had been there. Growing up on a council estate in South Liverpool, the line between making something of your life and screwing it up was thin. Sometimes even blurred.

Murphy took out his phone as they reached their office, the silence he’d been hoping for denied due to DC Harris sitting behind the desk speaking into his mobile, his back to them. He turned as they entered, redness creeping up his neck. Private call then, Murphy thought.

‘I’ll call you back,’ Harris whispered into the phone, which made little difference considering the size of the office. ‘I don’t know when, I’ll just ring in a bit, okay?’ He stabbed at the phone, slamming it down on the desk with more force than Murphy thought he’d intended.

‘You all right?’ Rossi said, taking her jacket off and placing it over her chair. Murphy was already taking his phone out of his pocket.

‘Yeah, just … doesn’t matter. Boring shite.’

Rossi went to reply but stopped herself as Murphy shot her a look. Domestics. Best not to get involved. Murphy went back to texting.

Body this morning. Won’t be late though. Bit knackered, so can I just pick up an Indian?

Murphy hesitated before pressing send. He hoped Sarah would understand that he wasn’t taking her out, but he could never tell how she’d respond. In many ways they were still treading on eggshells with each other. Learning how to be with one another after they’d spent the best part of a year apart, following the death of his parents and all that had brought with it.

‘Just send it,’ Rossi said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘She’ll understand.’

Murphy smirked. And they say women’s intuition doesn’t exist. ‘Supposed to be taking her out,’ Murphy said, phone still in hand, the screen darkening. ‘Forgot to book a table though, so now I’ve got a perfect excuse.’

‘She’ll be fine. Take her tomorrow or next week. All the time in the world,’ Rossi replied.

Muttering came from Harris’s direction, accompanied by a loud sigh.

‘What’s up with you?’ Murphy said, sending the text as he spoke.

‘Nothing,’ Harris replied. ‘Just, you know, they’re not always as understanding as that.’

Murphy shared a smile with Rossi. ‘I’m sure it’ll work itself out. Don’t let it get to you.’

Harris shrugged in response. Three of them in the office and Murphy realised his relationship was probably the most secure. A strange feeling, given what had happened the previous couple of years.

He was mentally admonishing himself for allowing a crack to appear in the veneer of stability. Allowing work to affect things. He couldn’t let that happen again.

His phone buzzed on the desk in front of him.

Glad you said that. I’m knackered. Get home in time for 8 out of 10 Cats.

Murphy allowed himself a small smile before checking the time. Almost six p.m. Just enough time for a conversation he was dreading.

‘Where’s he been? That’s what I want to know. Where’s he fucking been for over six months, while you all sat on your arses doing nothing?’

Sally Hughes spat the last question out directly at Murphy, as if he’d been involved in the whole thing. He remained stoic, eager to allow Sally to get her initial anger out so they could move forward. ‘That’s what we’re going to find out, Sally. It’ll help us if you could tell us a few things though, okay?’

‘Oh, you want to hear all about it now, don’t you? When it doesn’t matter any more. Fucking useless, the lot of you.’

Murphy moved the box of tissues she’d been using to dab her tears away, just in case she decided to chuck that at him, which, going by the whitening of her knuckles on the table between them, could occur at any second. ‘Give us a chance to prove we’re not useless, okay, Sally?’

She sat back in the chair, finally breaking eye contact with him to bury her head in her hands, tears springing forth once more. ‘God, what happened? Are you going to find out what happened to him?’ Sally said, raising her head and facing Rossi this time.

‘That’s what we want to do, Sally,’ Rossi replied. ‘That’s why we need your help.’

‘Okay. Ask me anything. I’m not gonna lie to you.’

Unlike usually, Murphy thought, before giving himself an internal slap.

‘Right,’ Rossi said, reading the first question off the list they’d prepared before going into the room. ‘Dean went missing in the early hours of 6 October. When was the last time you saw him?’

‘The evening before. He was going out with mates and he came in to say bye. About half six, I think, because Hollyoaks was about to start.’

‘And did he seem okay … anything different about him?’

Murphy watched her as she thought back. Memory is a stranger; it plays tricks on you. He knew they might learn more from the original report, but having scan-read it earlier, he wasn’t holding out much hope. Some uniform had taken it without going into much detail. Even the follow-ups from higher-ups had been perfunctory at best.

‘Maybe a bit quieter, but nothing really. It was a Friday, so I knew he’d be in late, if at all. He was nearly eighteen, so I couldn’t really say anything. Not that he cared at sixteen or fifteen, for that matter. Always had his own mind, Dean. He’s … what’s the word … stubborn. That’s it. Always was. Does things his own way and woe betide anyone who tries to stop him.’