the road and headed back towards the Wallasey tunnel.
‘Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’
‘Not the last either,’ Rossi answered with a sigh, her face turned towards the window. ‘I don’t think this is murder-suicide.’
‘It definitely doesn’t look like that. Could be something related to him, though. The “bunny boiler” angle?’ Murphy slowed down for traffic lights as they turned from amber to red.
‘Just . . . that scene doesn’t fit. Domestics are almost always in the home. Away from public view. This, in some derelict house, miles from where they live, I can’t see it. If Joe did it, why is he the one injured? If someone else did it, why do it in that house, rather than in their one?’
‘Stranger things have happened. I once worked a case where the guy did it in a hotel. Called his wife, told her to meet him there, then did it in plain view of everyone at reception. Didn’t give a shit. She died, he survived the carving knife he took to his own wrists.’
‘He pleaded not guilty, right?’
‘You know the case?’ Murphy said, realising the lights had changed to green a second too late, earning him a beep from the car behind him.
‘No. I just know the way these things go.’
They fell into silence as they made the five-minute trip back towards the tunnel entrance, down the slip road off Gorsey Lane and back towards the city. Traffic was lighter than Murphy was familiar with; his trips when he had lived across the water had always taken place early morning, when it seemed the whole of the Wirral escaped like rats from a sinking ship into the proper city. Only a smattering of cars were taking the trip now.
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Rossi said as they entered the tunnel. ‘Do you think it’s him?’
Murphy took one hand off the steering wheel to scratch at his beard. ‘No, I didn’t answer that question.’
‘Well, do you think it’s him? You got angry enough back at the house about him and now you’re going all “introspective” on me.’
‘I don’t know. I’m just bloody tired of hearing the same story, that’s all. We’ve had too many domestics lately.’
‘Can’t disagree with you there.’
‘It would probably be easier in a way if it was something like that. I’d be just making stuff up and guessing at the moment though.’
‘Doesn’t usually stop you.’
He couldn’t argue with that. ‘I suppose not. Gut feeling?’
‘Always.’
‘I think there’s something more to this one. Something I really don’t want to consider.’
‘That there’s more?’
‘Maybe. In the past and to come.’
Silence grew in the car once more. Murphy turned on the stereo, the sound of Pink Floyd filling the car a few seconds later.
‘Do we have to listen to this?’ Rossi said, reaching over and turning the volume down.
‘What, you want to listen to the shite that’s around these days?’
‘This is old music. Older than you, I would bet.’
‘That’s beside the point. This is classic stuff.’
Rossi sighed, then reached over and turned the volume down even further. ‘Can you still hear it?’
Murphy couldn’t really, not over the noise of the traffic as they travelled through the tunnel, but decided against any further argument.
‘I don’t know how to best broach this . . .’ Rossi said, the change in subject abrupt enough for Murphy to notice. ‘Only, I know it’s coming up to two years since Peter died.’
Murphy didn’t respond at first. He thought back to that night, his godson tied up and helpless. A man with a gun to the eighteen-year-old’s head, ranting at Murphy as he stood there watching.
The smell of gunpowder and blood.
‘What about it?’
‘We haven’t spoken about it in a while, that’s all. I was just wondering if there’s anything I should be wary of saying.’
‘I’m doing all right. Better than I thought I would be. The counselling helped a bit. Things with Sarah are sorted. I wish I could speak to
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