The Dying Place by Luca Veste Page A

but who still wanted the security of the nicer areas. They didn’t like to be reminded that they were living on what was essentially a tarted-up housing estate, but the money wasn’t coming in from their wages to cover the cost of living in the more upmarket areas of the city. Hence the petitions, the pressure, the community spirit directed at those in power to do something – not to help those that they deemed to be a ‘problem’, but directed at getting rid of them. Those ‘others’. So the new-fangled position of crime commissioner came into its own, announcing more patrols, more bobbies on the street. Never mind that the role of crime commissioner was never seen as anything more than a political appointment by the uniforms on the ground, as well as CID bods like Murphy and Rossi.
    ‘You want to see him in his cell or in an interview room?’ the desk sergeant said, addressing Murphy but not tearing his gaze away from Rossi. Murphy read his name badge but then instantly forgot it as soon as he looked away.
    ‘Room please. More dignified.’
    ‘Yeah, course.’
    There was still no actual CID working out of Walton Lane, but more uniforms since they’d gone back to twenty-four-hour opening, locking up people in the old cells down below. Mostly for public order offences away from the city centre, where the vast majority of those crimes occurred. Mostly young people as well.
    ‘He’s in for assault, but he’s due at magistrates in an hour.’
    ‘On a Saturday morning. Poor lad,’ Murphy replied. The new trials of flexible opening hours for certain courts around the country had of course included Liverpool.
    ‘He was here last week as well,’ the sergeant said, leading them towards the interview rooms. ‘That was for threatening behaviour.’
    ‘Sounds lovely,’ Rossi said, keeping in step with Murphy, in order to keep away from the sergeant, rather than dropping behind.
    ‘Should see the state of his head.’
    ‘Think we’re about to.’
    Paul Cooper entered the room ten minutes after they’d sat down and accepted the offer of coffee, Murphy already regretting his decision. As soon as it was in front of him he knew he’d drink it, lamenting the fact he also knew it was going to taste awful.
    Cooper sat down opposite them, eyes bleary from lack of sleep. His head was shaved to a close zero, the stubble short enough to almost be classed as bald. All the better to show off his battle scars, Murphy thought. A mass of intertwining white spidery lines across all parts of his head, no doubt from numerous fights which would invariably have seen a bottle or six flying across the place. Or the result of too many headers into walls or onto pavements when too drunk to care about walking upright like a normal person.
    No handcuffs, not like on TV.
    ‘We’ll be outside,’ one of the constables said, leaving the room.
    Murphy waited until the door was closed before eyeing up Cooper. ‘Paul, is it?’
    Cooper didn’t meet his gaze. ‘Only me ma calls me that.’
    ‘What would you rather we call you then?’
    ‘Whatever. Not bothered.’
    ‘Okay then, Paul,’ Murphy said, noticing the beginning of a smile appear on Cooper’s face before it swiftly disappeared. ‘Just want to ask a few questions, nothing major.’
    ‘Haven’t done nothing.’
    ‘I haven’t said you have yet. Can you at least wait until I do before you start denying everything?’
    Cooper leant back in the chair, arms folded and expression vacant. ‘What do youse want then?’
    ‘Dean Hughes.’
    The reply was instant. ‘Don’t know him.’
    Murphy held back a chuckle, nudged Rossi with his elbow. ‘You owe me a fiver.’
    Cooper raised his eyebrows, but caught himself and went back to studying the ceiling tiles. ‘Prove it.’
    ‘You know how the Internet works, Paul?’ Rossi said, Murphy leaning on an elbow and watching. ‘It leaves a trace. Everything you do on there is recorded. It’s not even that hard to do, you know. Find