DEAD GONE. Luca Veste

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      1

       Sunday 27th January 2013 – Day One

      Frosty, brisk air swirled around Sefton Park and its surrounding area, the early morning mist only just beginning to lift above the tree line. Detached houses, set back from the main road, lined the street on one side, where flashing lights from multiple vehicles had drawn out bleary eyed gawkers. They stood on the pavements shifting on cold feet in the early morning light. Mostly, they wouldn’t say two words to each other, but the early morning excitement had driven them out, even caused conversation to break out. At one time the houses had contained whole families, now most were converted apartments, selling for six-figure sums.

      Detective Inspector David Murphy turned his attention back to the park over the road; not your small, family friendly, swings and slide type of park. Instead, acres of greenery, beautiful old trees, and enough space to see something new each time you walked through there.

      And the odd dead body turning up unannounced.

      It was usually suicides. Hanging from a tree, or a bunch of pills in the middle of a field. Hoping no one finds them before they go.

      But at times it was something else.

      He saw the lights in the distance. Blue, red, shifting from left to right. The constant pattern having a seemingly hypnotic effect on those straining to see further into the park beyond. Murphy was sitting in his car, the engine settling as he summoned up the energy to get out and make his way over. The lights of the marked cars parked in front of his Citroën reflected off the dark interior inside, a strobe effect bouncing off the dashboard.

      Murphy shook his seatbelt off and leaned forward, attempting to see past the lights and people milling around the park. He slumped back in the seat when it became clear he wouldn’t see anything.

      He scratched his beard, the trim he’d performed the previous night giving it a coiffed edge, which he decided said ‘distinguished’ rather than ‘hiding a double chin’. He stifled a yawn and opened the car door, stretching his long legs out, the tight feeling in his calves telling him he’d maybe overdone it on the cross trainer the previous evening, trying to shift those last few pounds of weight.

      He’d been awake no more than fifteen minutes when his DCI had called. That made it less than an hour into the day for him, and he was walking towards the body of a dead girl.

      Not how Murphy usually liked to start off a day, especially a Sunday. A phone call from work before he’d even had chance to drink his coffee. Have a slice of toast. Put a fresh suit on.

      Death could be incredibly selfish.

      ‘Murphy,’ he’d answered once he’d finally located the phone hiding in his jeans pocket on the bedroom floor. Stabbed at the screen, trying to answer the stupid thing.

      ‘David?’

      Murphy’s shoulders slumped. DCI Stephens. Which, outside of normal hours, usually signified nothing good. ‘What’s happened?’

      ‘A body. Suspicious circumstances. Found in Sefton Park.’

      ‘Shit. Bad?’

      ‘Not sure of all the details at the moment.’

      ‘I’m wanted?’

      ‘Why else would I be calling you, David? I’m not your bloody alarm clock.’

      ‘It’s been a while, that’s all. Was starting to wonder if I’d be stuck on break-ins for another six months.’

      ‘Well you’ve got something else now.’

      ‘Who’s with me?’

      ‘Rossi or Tony Brannon. Your decision.’

      ‘Great. Not exactly Sophie’s fucking Choice.’

      ‘Language. Weren’t you taught never to swear in front of a lady? And anyway, beggars can’t be choosers. How long until you can get down there?’

      Murphy crooked his phone between his shoulder and ear. Grabbed his trousers from where they had been lying next to his jeans. ‘Which end?’

      ‘Which end of what?’

      ‘The park.’ Jesus wept.

      ‘Oh, Aigburth Drive. Just look for the lights. Sounds like half the bloody force is there.’

      Murphy zipped up his trousers and gave the previous day’s shirt a sniff. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

      He left the house five minutes later reversing out the driveway, and onto the road. Decided twenty minutes was probably a little optimistic. It’d probably be double that this time of the morning, even without the usual weekday traffic through the tunnel. He shook his head, tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth, and turned right out of the small winding road which surrounded the small estate, lamenting the fact he was already going to be playing catch up when he got there.

      The commute may have been bad, but at least it gave him a chance to wake up. Within five minutes he was on the motorway heading for the Wallasey tunnel, which separated the Wirral and Liverpool.

      The Wirral hadn’t always been home. In fact, he’d only been able to call it that for the previous few months. The Wirral was historically known as simultaneously living in Liverpool’s shadow, whilst also enjoying much more wealth than most of Liverpool. These days, the link was closer. Whilst the wealth was still strong in the west of the Wirral, with the likes of West Kirby and Heswall, the destruction of the shipping trade at Cammell Laird’s on the east side meant that the Wirral now had its own pockets of deprivation. Even the kids spoke in a Scouse accent now, albeit a bastardised version of it. Murphy was comfortable living there, even if the subtle differences became more apparent every day, needling at him.

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