Free DEAD GONE by Luca Veste

to the station.
    Time enough for a quick wake-up call.
    ‘Bear, it’s too fucking early. What have I told you? Don’t bother me before at least lunchtime.’
    ‘Morning, Jess. Did I wake you?’
    ‘No, I’m up. Peter is at his dad’s and I had to make sure the little bastard is up for school. Can’t rely on that lazy twat he calls a father, and he’d bunk off given half the chance. Fucking teenagers. What do you want?’
    Murphy took a bite of his toast. ‘Got a murder yesterday.’
    ‘Shit. The girl in Sefton Park. Seriously? They gave it to you?’
    ‘Yeah. First one in months.’
    ‘How is it?’
    ‘Interesting.’ Murphy put the half-eaten toast back on the sideboard and opened the fridge with his free hand, taking out a bottle of water. ‘Killer left a letter. Victim is a student. Usual nutcase stuff. You’ll probably end up defending him in court.’
    He heard a snort on the other end of the line. ‘Well … congrats I suppose. I know you wanted to get back into it quicker than this.’
    ‘But …’
    A large sigh. ‘Just … well … don’t let it get to you. I worry, you know.’
    ‘I’m fine,’ Murphy replied, his attention more on trying to unscrew the top off the water bottle with one hand. ‘You gracing me with your presence soon?’
    ‘We’ll see. I’m going back to sleep.’
    The line went dead, and Murphy smiled as he put the phone away.
    Until the previous day, it had been a quiet couple of months for the team he worked on – E Division, headed by DCI Stephens. Lately they’d been tasked with investigating the increase in gang activity around the city centre, but that was proving to be long, difficult work. No one wanted to talk, there were no high-profile murders of youngsters to shake up the city. Just a lot of illegal activity that everyone would rather turn a blind eye to.
    It beat murder though. He took another bite out of the slice of his toast. Nice balanced breakfast. Always important.
    Murphy had been a DI for over five years, so he’d seen more than his fair share of murders and manslaughter charges. Most of the time, solving a case came down to one thing.
    Luck.
    The psychology of it wasn’t something which interested him really. He’d seen the newcomers come into the force, mostly university graduates thinking they could apply some of their attained knowledge to police work. Sure, sometimes they could come up with a fresh angle on some things. But mostly, Murphy stuck to what he knew. Investigate everything, and if nothing turned up, hope to get lucky.
    Murphy finished eating and switched off the radio, the Chi-Lites snapping into silence mid-song. Good old-fashioned songs, from the sixties, like his mum used to play. There was even a radio station dedicated to playing that era of music now. Jess had bought him a digital radio at Christmas, and he’d not switched off the station since.
    Bear. Jess still refusing to let that nickname die a death. His groomed beard was beginning to show some grey, and his short hair, that matched his beard length, receding backwards. He was washing more and more of his face every day. He wore his nickname well, his size being the main reason for it. It fit. Never caught on at work though.
    He locked the house up and got into his three-year-old Citroën C5. Red. Extravagant really for what he actually needed. He’d grown up on a council estate in south Liverpool, but got out as soon as he could. Working and living over there as a PC, in Speke where he’d lived most of his life, had caused a few problems. So he’d lived out in Dingle, until recently. His parents hadn’t moved though. Worked all their lives, been together since school. Thatcher had enabled them to buy their council house in the eighties, although their opinion on her didn’t change because of that, saved for a long happy retirement together, with no money worries and plenty of day trips on coaches.
    And they were both dead at fifty-eight years old.
    Murphy was an