getting better at it, sir.’
‘Good. And how many times do I have to tell you? Stop calling me sir. There’s barely five or six years between us.’
‘Sorry. Habit.’
Murphy sighed, rising up from his chair. ‘We’ve got nothing from canvassing the surrounding area. CCTV will be here soon. Brannon is chasing it up.’
Murphy smiled as Rossi snorted at the mention of Brannon’s name. ‘He causing you problems?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle. To be honest, nothing a five year old couldn’t handle. He’s not exactly quick with the insults.’
‘Yeah, well. If he crosses a line let me know. I’d love an excuse to tear him a new one.’
They walked side by side towards the lift. Rossi’s shorter legs moving quicker as she tried to keep pace with Murphy. He allowed her to move ahead of them as the lift doors opened, pressed the button on the lift as they both entered.
‘It’s been a while since we’ve dealt with a suspicious. Even then it’s usually the husband or wife,’ Rossi said as the lift doors closed.
‘True. What was that one last year we worked together? Wife did her husband in with the spud peeler he’d bought her for her birthday?’
Rossi laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls of the small lift. ‘That’s right. That was a good one. Stuck him right in the neck with it. Blood everywhere. Do you remember what she said in the interview?’
Murphy smiled remembering. ‘He got my birthday wrong. It’s not for another three months.’
Rossi tried to stifle her laughter. Failed.
Murphy sniggered quietly along with her, remembering the DCI’s face when they’d gone into her office after the interview.
Murphy snorted. ‘We’ve got a proper case here, and you’re with me all the way. Hopefully it’s open and shut, and we have a closed one for your record. We just have to make sure there’s no cock-ups, and we catch the bastard.’
‘We will. He’s given us a lot to go on.’
Murphy sighed, leaning against the back of the lift compartment. ‘Yeah. You’re probably right. It was the mole you know, that got us the name. All these advances in technology and it’s a bloody birthmark that gives us the lead.’
‘The mole eh? Always good to have a distinguishing feature. It’s why I’ve got the tattoo.’
‘Of course that’s why. Nothing to do with being young and foolish I’m sure.’
Rossi turned away, suddenly finding the lift display interesting.
Murphy smiled to himself. The smile disappearing as the images of that morning entered his mind again.
Not as easy. Not as easy as it used to be.
Cold. It was always cold down there. No matter how many times he was told it was normal room temperature in the corridors away from the rooms where post-mortems were held, Murphy had to stop himself from shivering when he was there.
It had been a while.
Heels smacking against hard floors, echoing around a colourless corridor. Houghton’s assistant came to a stop near their group of four. Two detectives, two parents. One of them silent as the other rambled on.
‘I apologise. We’ve never had any dealings with the police before. Hoped we never would, to be quite frank.’
The assistant pathologist entered behind them. Murphy was distracted by the sight of her wheeling a bed up to the window, waiting for the cue to pull back the sheet.
‘We’re really sorry, but we need you to confirm this is your daughter,’ Rossi said, directing Donna McMahon’s parents closer to the glass separating them from their daughter.
They’d introduced themselves in plummy voices, a world away from the accents you would hear on most Liverpool streets. John McMahon looked half broken. Tall, lean, with a shock of grey hair which was slicked back, wearing a suit that looked like it had been tailor made for him. Professional. Moneyed. Donna was obviously a daddy’s girl. Carole was holding back tears, trying to keep a stiff upper lip. She was shorter than her husband but not by much. Her skin was tanned and leathery looking. She fiddled with a large beaded necklace which was worn with a smart trouser suit.
Murphy noticed John’s hands were shaking as he turned to face him. Murphy cued the assistant through the window to pull back the cover and Carole turned away, burying her face in her husband’s shoulder. Murphy watched as the realisation hit Carole as she moved her face away from John’s shoulder.
John could see what she was doing and pulled her back. ‘Don’t Carole, it’s … it’s her,’ he said.
‘No. No, it can’t be. John, don’t say that. She’s halfway through her degree, she can’t be … be gone.’ Huge, racking sobs suddenly filled the corridor.
John put his arms around her, clutching her in a desperate embrace.
The temperature increased. Gone was the chill he always felt. Murphy could feel the heat in the place, seeping out of the drab, beige walls. Memories flooded in, crowding his mind. One minute the girl’s parents stood there, the next, him.
Her.
Murphy looked down at his hands, wringing themselves together. Began shifting on his feet, wanting to be anywhere else. Wanting the cold to come back.
Rossi glanced his way and frowned at him. Turning back to the McMahons, she remained stoic. ‘Mr and Mrs McMahon, I know this is difficult. Are you sure that’s Donna?’ she said.
‘I know my daughter, officer.’ John said.
Murphy had an overwhelming temptation to correct his terming of Rossi’s rank, but bit back on it. He wasn’t thinking straight. Why were they still crying? It was too hot to cry. He needed to get out of there. He was burning up, his chest tightening.
This was the moment it changed for him. When it became real.
Murphy felt eyes on him, realised the father was looking at him. He averted his eyes, not wanting to speak. He was still crying and Murphy couldn’t look at him like that. He needed to leave. ‘You got this, Laura? I’ll erm … I’ll go update the team,’ he said.
‘Er … yeah, okay,’ Rossi replied.
Turning towards the parents, Murphy muttered, ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ and left, eyes to the floor, watching as his trousers bounced carefree up and down against his polished black shoes.
He walked briskly towards the toilets. Once inside he went straight for the sinks, and began to run the tap. Murphy splashed his face a few times, trying to cool down. He caught his reflection in the mirror, noting the roughness of his face. He looked pale, tired. Breathed in and out slowly. The tightness in his chest began to subside.
What was wrong with him, was it the grief? It must be. He couldn’t handle those parents crying about their loss. That was
