DEAD GONE. Luca Veste

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      5

       Sunday 27th January 2013 – Day One

      Another dead end.

      Not literally, which was a good thing she supposed, but she wished it was easier to identify someone when you had next to nothing to go on.

      Everyone should be tagged. Like a pet. No … that was too weird. Too Orwellian.

      ‘Mannagia alla miseria.’

      Rossi’s voice was quiet amongst the racket of the room as she expressed her frustration in Italian at the lack of answers from the computer. Her mind kept flashing back to the lifeless face of the young woman they’d found that morning.

      It wasn’t her first murder case. In the two years she’d been a detective sergeant, she’d been part of four murder investigations. Three of them were domestic cases. Two women in their forties and fifties. A sixty-three-year-old man. The other, a stabbing outside a nightclub in Concert Square; a fight over someone’s girlfriend going too far. The lad with the knife had been sentenced a few weeks earlier. Twelve years. He’d be out before he was thirty. She shook her head … worthless.

      She loved the job. That was the main thing. Growing up, she hadn’t been one of those kids who reeled off a list of things they wanted to be when they were older. She’d shrug her shoulders when asked. Went to uni, studied Sociology, and when she left and realised jobs with that degree were pretty limited, fell into policing.

      She’d grown up pretty quick after that. Twenty-three years old and splitting up fights between blokes twice her size in town. She’d got her head down and worked through it, before she was fast-tracked into CID. It was then she realised this was what she was born to do, even if her parents didn’t agree. To them she was still the baby of the family.

      But this was the first time she’d seen herself in the victim. She was a few years older than the dead girl, but close enough in age that she could remember being her not too long ago. She wasn’t supposed to feel that way, to put herself in the victim’s position. Distance was supposedly key. That’s what they’d drummed into her in training.

      She pushed her hair behind her ear, away from her face, and knocked the pen that had been balancing there onto the floor. She bent down to pick it up.

      ‘While you’re down there.’

      Rossi sat up quickly as she saw Brannon standing next to her desk, wearing one of those ridiculous false grins he always seemed to wear. She rolled her eyes. ‘What do you want?’

      ‘Just seeing how you are getting on. Could be a big case, this. Just want to make sure you know my expertise is available if you run into any trouble.’

      She could almost taste the morning sweat emanating from him, mixing with the cheap bodyspray he wore to try to hide it.

      ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘Well,’ Brannon replied, shifting some of the paper on her desk so he could sink his large arse onto the edge, ‘I just want you to know I’m here.’ He leaned over her, one hand on the desk, the other hanging loosely near her right shoulder. ‘And I’ll be waiting for you to fuck up. I’ll be right in there. Got it?’

      ‘Vaffanculo, Brannon.’

      He sat back, a question mark on his moisture-ridden face. ‘What’s that mean?’

      Rossi smiled, ‘An old Italian phrase. Now get off my desk before I let the boss know you’re the one who used her cup last week.’

      Rossi flinched in spite of herself as Brannon leaned forward, his hand on the arm of her chair. His face was only a few inches away from hers as he smiled. ‘Listen. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. Flashing a bit of leg, smiling at the right people. Well, it’s not going to work. Just because our famous nutty DI wants you to partner him on what’ll be his latest, and hopefully last, fuck-up, don’t think it makes you better than me. You’ll be sussed out soon enough and then we can ship you out to where you belong.’

      Rossi met his gaze. ‘You finished, or do I have to get my magnifying glass out, find your dick, and rip the fucking thing off you Pezzo di merda?’

      Brannon shaped as if to say something, then plastered the grin back on. ‘Yeah, well. We speak English here. You just remember what I said.’

      ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Rossi replied, waving him away with the back of her hand. She picked up one of the print-outs of a missing person and pretended to read it, waiting for him to leave.

      Bastard. She should introduce him to her mum. Mamma Rossi would have him begging for forgiveness within three seconds.

      Her dad would just kill him. Probably.

      Not important. She had work to do. She wanted to find a name before Murphy returned. Prove herself. Make their partnership more permanent.

      Most importantly … not make any mistakes.

      Murphy wiped his mouth free of crumbs from the sandwich he’d picked up on the way back from the hospital, shoved the napkin in his pocket as he stepped out of the lift and walked down the short corridor towards the incident room. He steeled himself, and pushed open the doors.

      The noise from earlier on had died down to an acceptable level. Murphy headed straight to his desk, not for the first time wishing he wasn’t six foot four and instantly filling a room. He wanted to lie low for a while; at least until they had a name. Maybe check on some CCTV if any had been delivered. Basically keep his head down and hope no one noticed his need to be anywhere else but there right then. He knew all eyes would be on him, remembering the last time he’d been in charge of a murder investigation. Sure, it wasn’t completely his fault how screwed up that had gone, but mud sticks. He couldn’t mess this one up.

      ‘Sir.’

      Rossi had snuck up on him whilst he was keeping his head down over his desk. Typical. ‘Got a name?’ he asked her.

      ‘Not yet. Just checking on whether anyone on the missing list had a tattoo or something. What did Houghton have to say?’

      Murphy filled her in on what had been discovered on the victim. He tried to play it off as being a red herring, but he saw her eyes light up as he explained the content, giving her a copy of the letter, which she quickly began scanning.

      ‘MK Ultra. What’s that?’ Rossi said, as Murphy leaned back in his chair. ‘Sounds familiar.’

      ‘Some weird psychology thing according to Houghton,’ Murphy replied. ‘The CIA were involved … I don’t know, it’s all very confusing. You went to university, you should know about СКАЧАТЬ