‘Clanfield Road,’ Murphy replied, checking the notes on the top of the file. ‘Head for Dwerryhouse Lane and I’ll direct you from there.’
‘Good, ’cause I get lost in all the back roads around there.’
Murphy sniggered, knowing what she meant. Norris Green was a larger place than most people expected. A council estate with one of the worst reputations in Liverpool at that moment – mainly for gang violence. Since the murder of a young boy outside a pub in nearby Croxteth, the result of a longstanding feud between rival gangs in Croxteth and Norris Green, with the eleven-year-old boy, an innocent bystander, shot in the back, the area had begun to change. Gangs had been shown on TV in exploitative documentaries – and subsequently shunned for revealing supposed secrets of ‘street-life’ – and the DIY show from the BBC had made over the local youth club, giving some kids a place to go which wasn’t in danger of falling down around them.
It was still a tough place to grow up though. Not much upward mobility in those kind of estates. And not many people trying to change that.
‘Take the next left,’ Murphy said, as they approached the end of Muirhead Avenue – Croxteth Park off to their right, still hidden by houses – the church where Dean Hughes’s body had been found that morning close by, only a few minutes further away.
‘Right here,’ Murphy said, looking at the derelict patch of field which lay to their left. An upturned Iceland shopping trolley was the main attraction, along with empty carrier bags, various bottles and rubbish. ‘You’d think they’d do something with that.’
‘With what?’ Rossi replied, indicating to turn.
‘That big patch of green. Just going to waste. It just looks like an eyesore, ’cause no one’s looking after it.’
‘You know why. They’re not willing to spend money around here. Reckon it’d just get wrecked, so they won’t bother.’
‘I suppose.’
Rossi slowed the car, looking for the right house number. ‘It’s bollocks though. That argument, I mean.’
‘You think?’
‘Course I do. If you put people in places like this, where everything is left to go to shit, what do you expect them to do? Everything’s grey, dark. That’s how your life is going to feel like. It’s the Broken Windows theory.’
‘The what?’
‘The theory that if the area you live in looks like shite, then the people who live there will act like shite as well.’
Murphy smirked. ‘And that’s how it’s put in the books, I imagine.’
Rossi snorted. ‘More or less.’
Murphy thought she had a point, but didn’t have chance to say so as she slowed the car and parked up.
‘I really wish we could have phoned ahead,’ Rossi said, unbuckling her seatbelt. ‘I hate just turning up with no warning. Makes it worse.’
‘Home number we had for them was out of use. Everyone has mobiles these days.’
The house they’d stopped outside of didn’t scream ‘house of a tearaway’. A sort of mid-terrace, with light brown stone brickwork. An archway separated the house from next door, but it was still connected on the top level. There were three wheelie bins on the small driveway, a few crisp packets lifting slightly in the breeze before settling back down against the fence. It was May, but Murphy shook his head as he noticed the house next door still had Christmas decorations hanging from the guttering – the clear icicles he’d noticed on market stalls in town, the previous December.
‘You ready?’ Murphy said as he pushed open the metal gate, the screeching sound as it slid across the ground making his hairs stand on end. It needed lifting, fixing or replacing.
‘Are you?’ Rossi replied, walking ahead of him and knocking on the door. Four short raps – the rent man’s knock, as his mum used to say.
They stood waiting for a few seconds before Rossi knocked again, pulling back as they heard the barking.
‘Porca vacca,’ Rossi said under her breath.
‘You don’t like dogs, Laura?’ Murphy said from behind a smile.
‘Not ones that bark.’
A few more seconds passed before they heard shuffling from behind the door. A mortice lock turning on the old-style door, the house not being adorned with one of the newer double-glazed models. It opened inwards a few inches, a face appearing in the gap.
‘Yeah?’
‘Sally Hughes?’ Murphy said, bending over so he wasn’t towering over the small-statured mother of Dean Hughes.
‘What’s he done now?’
Murphy raised his eyebrows at the instant recognition of them as police, even though they were in plain clothes. ‘Who?’
‘Our Jack. What’s he done? You’re either police or bailiffs. So he either owes someone or you’re trying to pin something on him.’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Laura Rossi, this is DI David Murphy …’
‘Jack was here last night …’
Rossi held her hands out. ‘It’s not about Jack, Mrs Hughes. It’s about Dean.’
Sally opened the door wider, a look of resignation flashing across her face before she swiped her hand across her forehead, moving damp, lifeless hair away from her face. ‘Right. Well you better come in then.’
Sally walked away from them, locking the still-barking dog in another room before going through to what Murphy guessed was the living room on the left. He went in first, wiping his feet on a non-existent doormat without thinking and following her inside. He took the few steps into the living room, some American talk show snapping into silence as he walked into the room, the clattering of the remote control on a wooden coffee table.
‘Scuse the mess. Haven’t had chance to tidy up yet.’ Sally lifted a cigarette box and in a couple of smooth movements lit a Silk Cut and took a drag.
Murphy savoured the smell of smoke which drifted his way, before perching on the couch which was to the side of the armchair where Sally was sitting, legs tucked underneath herself.
‘What’s he done then? Haven’t seen him in months, so fucked if I know anything about it.’
Murphy glanced at Rossi, suddenly unsure how to proceed. If they opened with the fact Dean was dead, any information that may have been gleaned from a less stark opening might be lost. On the other hand, Murphy decided if his kid was dead, he’d want to know straight away.
‘We found a body in West Derby this morning, Sally. We think it’s Dean.’
The reactions are never the same each time. Every time a quiet difference. During his career, Murphy had experienced the whole gamut of emotions being projected in his presence; from howling tears of grief to quiet
