Luca Veste - The Dying Place

‘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.’

‘Did he say where he was going that night?’

‘Out. That’s what he always said. I knew he’d be drinking, of course. Maybe more, who knows with kids these days? But he always let me know if he was staying over at a mate’s or something. Send me a text in the early hours, just to stop me worrying. When I woke up the next morning and didn’t have anything from him, I knew something was wrong. Our Jason – that’s my youngest one, just turned seventeen a couple of weeks ago – went looking for him on the Saturday afternoon but couldn’t find him.’

‘Where did he look?’ Murphy said, easing into the conversation.

‘Couple of lads he knew that hung around with Dean,’ Sally continued, taking a lighter out of her hoodie pocket. ‘I’m guessing I can’t smoke in here?’

Murphy shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have a break soon.’

‘I rang you lot Saturday night. We found out more than youse did though.’

‘I’ve got some of it here,’ Murphy replied, flipping back a couple of sheets of the report. ‘He was last seen by a Steven Waites at around three a.m. Said he left him in West Derby Cemetery with “some bird I can’t remember the name of”.’

A whisper of a smile played on Sally’s lips before being lost with a knock of the lighter in her hand on the table. ‘We found out who that was. Some slut from up the road. Amanda Williams. Sixteen, she was. Glad I have boys, I’ll tell you that.’

‘And …’

‘She was pissed. Last thing she remembers was throwing up behind some grave and then her dad pulling her into the house. Reckons Dean must have took her home.’

Murphy found the part of the missing person’s report which referred to this.

Took girlfriend home.

Murphy shook his head at the lack of investigation. He knew it was down to time, resources and all that bullshit. The oft-quoted statistic relating to missing persons. Quarter of a million a year. Most turning back up again quickly. Still, a bit of effort might have saved at least one life.

‘And that was it,’ Sally continued. ‘No one saw him again. We tried getting in the papers and that, but they weren’t interested. Eighteen-year-old lad with his history … they couldn’t care less. Just assumed he’d done something wrong and got what was coming to him. We stuck posters up and that, but when we got the letter in January, we kind of stopped and just waited around.’

Murphy looked towards Rossi, who looked back at him, mirroring his own reaction. Flicked through the report to make sure he hadn’t missed something, came up with nothing.

‘What letter?’

Murphy wrote on the board under the details of Dean Hughes’s murder case. Adding the new information they’d gleaned that day, his last act before going home.

He was going to be late.

Someone had sent Sally Hughes a message. An envelope dropping through the letter box one January morning. No stamp or address on the front. Just one word.

Mum

Inside, a short note which explained how he was fine and was getting help with his problems. He’d be back soon, when he was better and ready to make something of his life. Not in her son’s handwriting, but typed out.

She’d assumed he was at some kind of religious thing. Actually felt okay about it. Two words in her son’s handwriting … Mum and Dean. And a few kisses, she’d said. Murphy shook his head at the naivety of it all. Someone sends you a message saying your son is somewhere you have no idea of until he’s better . It was ridiculous. And all she had to show it was actually written by her son were two words in his handwriting.

He guessed what the real reason was behind her supposed giving up. Apathy. It was a neat little explanation for everything. Meant she didn’t have to worry any more .

Murphy slammed the marker pen back in the shelf at the bottom of the board. Looked at his watch and decided to make a move.

It was becoming a ritual for Rossi to do this. Every time there was a death, suspicious circumstances or not, she went to her parents’ house. She’d thought she would have grown out of it once she’d gone through the process a few times, but the draw was still there.

Rossi’s parents lived near the scene from earlier that morning in West Derby. Only a few minutes away really. She drove past the church – saw a couple of uniforms standing outside the entrance, keeping away any ghouls who wanted to have a poke around, but other than that, things had quietened down now. Only twelve hours on, and already people’s attention was being drawn elsewhere.

She was putting off the inevitable. The questions, the judgements. Willing to go through it all, as usual. The lure of her mama’s food was a much more appetising thought, but she knew it came at a price.

She parked up her car, turned off the engine but left the radio playing some bland pop song which she couldn’t help but enjoy. Rossi switched off the radio with a turn of her key and got out the car. She’d managed to get a parking spot, which was becoming more and more difficult these days. It was a mid-terrace house in a quiet road which seemed to contain every different type of house you could find. Opposite, four detached bungalows; further down, semi-detached housing; to either side, terraced houses which seemed to run the length of the street.