to be honest.’
Murphy drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking back to the image of the victim he’d taken in his mind earlier that morning. A snapshot, something to keep in his head whilst he was working. ‘Clean fingernails,’ he said, after a few moments of silence.
‘What?’ Rossi replied, holding her hand out in front of her and studying it.
‘He had clean fingernails. I’m sure of it.’
‘Okay …’
‘We’ll have to check at the PM of course, but I’m pretty positive they were clean. If he was living rough, or in some dosshouse somewhere, they wouldn’t be, would they?’
Rossi looked at him with a blank face, which set Murphy on edge. He didn’t like being thought of as spouting rubbish. He’d seen that look reflected at him too often in the past, and he thought he was finally getting away from it.
‘I’m serious, Laura,’ he went on, after waiting a few seconds for her to respond and not getting anything. ‘This could be important. If he’s been missing seven months, we’ll need to know where he was. We can narrow the search straight off if he’s been somewhere where he’d have been able to keep clean.’
Rossi finally nodded, sparks hitting her eyes as she realised what he’d been implying. ‘I get you now. Good thinking, sir.’
‘It’s what I’m paid to do. Now, let’s get a picture of him from Doctor Houghton – get it over to the family. I want an ID sorted quickly.’ Murphy stood, leaving the smaller office and crossing into the wider office which housed the rest of the CID team. He strode over to the whiteboards which detailed the ongoing cases and began making a few notes underneath where someone had added that morning’s new victim.
‘Right,’ Murphy said, turning to face the few DCs who had been watching him. ‘Who’s going through initial neighbour reports?’
DC Sagan raised her hand. ‘Me, but there’s nothing there at the moment. No one heard anything in the adjoining street to the church. Only four houses were occupied when uniforms knocked though, so there’ll be more later when they’re back from work or whatever.’
‘Okay,’ Murphy replied, eyeing a particularly unpleasant sight trundling over towards the group. DS Tony Brannon, polluting the air as he walked, eating a packet of crisps, spilling crumbs across the carpet. A pain in the arse, but one Murphy had in check, he hoped. ‘Keep collecting reports,’ Murphy continued. ‘I want you in constant contact with the uniforms at the scene. Plus, DC Harris and DS Brannon, I want you to go down to the scene and help with enquiries.’
DS Brannon managed to pause in between mouthfuls to blurt out, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake …’
‘Don’t want to hear it, Tony. Just get your arse down there. I want something before the media start getting involved.’
‘Fine,’ Brannon replied. ‘Come on, Harris.’
Murphy spied Rossi coming out of their office, beckoning him over. He turned back to the group of five DCs still looking at him. ‘The rest of you go back to what cases you were doing before this morning. See if you can get anything sorted before being dragged into this one.’
‘Death notice?’ Rossi said, as Murphy reached the office door.
‘We don’t know yet, do we?’ Murphy replied, moving past her and grabbing his suit jacket from the back of his chair. ‘Let’s get there and find out. You got the address?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay then. Give me a minute. Want to make sure the DCI knows what’s going on.’
DCI Stephens was already standing in the doorway as he reached her office, down the corridor from his own. Her office was around the same size of his, but with the benefit of being for her alone.
‘Was just coming to let you know the latest,’ Murphy said, realising he was still holding his jacket. He began putting it on.
‘I know, I heard. Didn’t want to interrupt. Looks like you’ve got the basics covered. ID yet?’
‘Almost sure of it. Some teenager from Norris Green …’
‘Not a frigging gang thing, is it?’ DCI Stephens said, running a perfectly manicured hand through her loose hair. ‘That’s the last thing we want.’
‘Not sure yet. There’s a few things not adding up at the moment. I’d stay open-minded for the time being.’
‘Okay. Well, the Chief Super has taken an interest already.’
‘Really?’ Murphy replied, surprised to hear notice had been taken.
‘Body found in church grounds? He’s already imagining all kinds. Don’t worry about him, I’ll keep him quiet for now. You concentrate on finding out who the vic is, and how he ended up dead outside a church.’
Murphy mocked a salute. ‘Got it, boss.’ Received a roll of DCI Stephens’s eyes in response. He walked away before she could say anything more, finding Rossi in exactly the same position as he’d left her. ‘Ready?’
‘Of course.’
Murphy fiddled with the lever underneath the passenger seat, attempting to find the right motion which would move the seat backwards, removing his knees from underneath his chin. Sliding the chair back with a sudden bang, he ignored the stare from Rossi and went back to reading the criminal record of Dean Hughes.
It could have been his own from that age, had he not been much savvier. Every time Murphy had been in trouble as a teenager, he’d managed to get away with a warning here, a run away there. Not so much as an official caution, which was handy, given that he ended up joining the dark side himself.
Not that he saw it that way. The police service had given him purpose, a grounding. He could have been another lost statistic from the Speke estate. No drive to do anything other than get pissed with his mates and cause a bit of trouble. Boxing had helped, given him a sense of discipline, but when it became clear that he wasn’t going to make it above domestic level, he jacked it in. Waste of time.
Murphy remembered his dad talking to him once, dragging him out of bed at around ten in the morning, which had annoyed Murphy no end, given he hadn’t got home until four. His dad then had one of those conversations with him where he asked the questions Murphy had no answer for. What was he doing with his life … was this all he wanted … and where’s your keep, you little shit?
Just about to turn nineteen and he had no clue. Working every few days or so, cash in hand, and then blowing it on cider.
He couldn’t remember who’d suggested joining the police. It had just happened one day. He wandered into Canning Place near Albert Dock, having passed the initial application, and sat down to do a Maths and English test. Then it was the physical, which he’d passed with ease, still retaining the fitness from the boxing. Then two years on probation.
Fifteen years later and here he
