he was wrong?
6
Early evening. Late spring turning into a summer which would see more rain than sun. Night was drawing in, the fading light turning the world outside grey.
The text message that had been sent to him, drawing him here had been simple, yet effective.
WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CHECKED ON YOUR LOVED ONES DAVID?
He’d opened the door using the key usually kept under the fake rock in the front garden.
The rock had been moved. The key tossed to one side. A red smear on the fob. He’d held the key carefully, trying not to disturb the mark. Knowing what it was, refusing to believe it meant anything.
He entered the house, his movements slow and methodical, an overbearing silence greeting him. A smell in the air that was familiar, yet his conscious wouldn’t place what it was. He moved through the hallway, the living room door to his left, closed. Something drew him towards the door at the end of the hallway which led to the kitchen. He moved slowly along, his senses heightened. He could almost track the progress of every hair as it began to creep up on the back of his neck, his heart hammering against his chest.
He reached out to push the kitchen door open, noticing his hand was shaking.
It was empty. No one there. Nothing out of place. The sun, low in the sky, was shining through the window which overlooked the garden, creating an orange tinge to the light inside. He turned and left the kitchen, going back down the hallway towards the closed living room door, knowing that was where he was supposed to have gone first. Being drawn to the kitchen was his mind trying to keep him from entering, drawing him to the safe place.
He stood at the closed door, somehow knowing what lay behind it. Not wanting to see, knowing he had to. His hand moved of its own accord – in his head he was screaming at himself to stop, not to see, not to feel.
The door opened, and all was red.
7
Sunday 27th January 2013
Mid-afternoon on the first day. Rain battered the windows, as the weather turned to its usual Northern charm. Murphy sat forward in his chair, grinding the palms of his hands against his eyes.
‘It’s on Radio City and Merseyside, but that’s it. No nationals yet.’
Murphy took his hands away from his face, his eyes unfocused for a split second, turning everything into a blurred mess around him. DS Brannon stood by his desk, running a bloated tongue along his bottom lip.
‘That’s good. Anything else?’
‘Just … you know I’m here right? To pick up any slack, that sort of thing.’
‘Yeah. Course. Did you get around the houses near the scene?’
Brannon straightened up. ‘Yes. Everyone was asleep. No one saw anything. Except that nutty bloke you spoke to. I organised the uniforms into teams, got it done quicker. Time is of the essence and all that.’
Like a child with a painting of nothing more than a blob of colour, brought home from nursery, expecting a parade to be thrown in his honour. Murphy just nodded at his work. Let him squirm.
‘Right. I’ll go chase up that CCTV then?’
‘Okay.’
Brannon left Murphy. The atmosphere around his desk becoming less polluted as a result.
He checked his phone again, waiting on a response from Rossi. He’d messaged her twenty minutes previously to let her know they had a name. His phone was still blank.
Murphy had updated HOLMES himself, internally complaining about having to use the computer to do so. Every piece of information on an investigation was stored on the HOLMES system, leaving no chance for a piece of evidence to be overlooked. Just more admin for him to sort out.
The TV shows get at least one thing right. The first forty-eight hours are crucial. The longer time goes on, the less likely someone is to remember something they may have witnessed, or that an offender will still be in the area. Yet Murphy was stuck on his arse, transferring information from one place to another.
At that point he had a name, and from the look on the face of the young DS making her way to Murphy’s desk, a partner who was struggling to hold down whatever food she’d been able to grab that day.
Murphy smiled, sitting back in his chair and lacing his hands together across his stomach.
‘Fun?’ Murphy said, as Rossi stopped next to him.
‘You know. Could be worse I suppose. Death was caused by asphyxiation.’
Murphy smiled. ‘I knew the letter was bollocks. Bet it’s an ex.’
Rossi noticed something under a fingernail and used another one to scrape underneath it. ‘Not necessarily. Houghton has a theory. In the letter he doesn’t specifically state she’d actually died from the overdose, only that the last dose was fatal. Houghton said it’s unlikely any human could die from an LSD overdose. Well … he actually said near impossible at first, but changed his mind. The level needed to OD on LSD is far too large to be ingested at one time. Plus by the time they’re able to take more, the last dose is beginning to wear off. He’s sent samples off to the lab though and expects there to be a large amount in her system. But cause of death was asphyxiation, nonetheless.’
‘Interesting. I still think it’s bollocks though.’
‘How so?’ Rossi said, perching herself on the edge of Murphy’s desk.
‘The letter wants us to believe she died as the result of some weird experiment,’ Murphy said, pulling a copy of the letter out from underneath a coffee cup. ‘When really he’s just distancing himself from the fact he killed her with his own hands. He sees himself as something he’s not. Possibly thinks he’s better than any other murderer, when in fact he’s strangled some poor girl. My money is still on a boyfriend. He’s just created this thing to tone down his own guilt.’
‘What if it’s real?’
Murphy paused. Experiment Three, the letter had said. That would mean two others and a pattern. And he really didn’t want to start thinking about what that would mean.
‘We cross that bridge if we come to a river of evidence.’
Rossi nodded slowly. ‘At least we have a name now.’
‘Yeah. Harris got it. Donna McMahon. She’s a student at the university.’
‘Are the parents on the way? Houghton is waiting for them to ID her.’
‘Harris is sorting it out.’
‘Time for something to eat?’
Murphy
