Bloodstream by Luca Veste Page B

Jess, but she still won’t speak to me.’
    Jess – Peter’s mother, and Murphy’s friend of twenty years. Still blaming Murphy for not doing enough to save his life.
    ‘Good. I’m glad you’re doing okay.’
    ‘I have to. He wouldn’t want me to wallow in self-pity. He looked up to me. I’ve got to keep going, otherwise I sully that.’
    ‘Sully?’
    ‘Word-of-the-day calendar at home. You missed the day I used “discombobulate”.’
    Rossi laughed, then turned back to her phone. Ten minutes later they were pulling into the car park behind the station. There was already a significant media presence gathered, waiting to hear more news. Murphy knew – had too much experience to not know – that there would be more TV crews up at the crime scene itself. Battling against each other to report the same news. Repeating similar information on an hourly basis, desperately waiting for something more.
    Murphy had a feeling it would be him giving it to them before too long.
    He parked up and the pair entered the drab building, nodding to the harassed-looking receptionist and passing their ID cards over the security scanner. Murphy gave a longing look towards the lifts before ascending the stairs behind Rossi, taking two at a time to catch up with her.
    As Murphy and Rossi walked past the normally quiet offices they could hear conversations between small groups as they discussed the morning’s events. Continuing down the corridor, Murphy ignored the surreptitious looks he and Rossi received. He held up a hand to someone he knew in the drugs squad when they called out his name, but carried on walking.
    Eventually they made it to the sanctuary of their own corner of St Anne Street.
    ‘Wondered when you were getting back,’ a voice said from behind one of the computers. ‘Interview with the mother go okay?’
    ‘As well as they always do,’ Murphy replied, taking off his suit jacket and loosening his tie a little. ‘I trust you’re doing the necessary.’
    DC Graham Harris manoeuvred himself round and stopped his wheelchair at the end of Murphy’s desk. ‘CCTV, witness statements, home owners contacted, brief press release signed off saying the usual. All in hand.’
    Murphy gave Harris a nod and switched his computer on. He glanced towards Harris as he turned to speak to Rossi. Felt that familiar twinge of guilt as he allowed his eyes to settle on his chair before turning away.
    Harris had been injured on the night of Peter’s death. Murphy had taken Harris with him to chase up a loose end, which had ended for Harris with the blast of a shotgun. A knock at an uninspiring door and the world turns, spewing out a random series of events which can change lives in an instant. Murphy had survived without a scratch, but Harris couldn’t say the same. He had been peppered with shotgun pellets, which had resulted in a severed spinal cord, making his legs as useless as Murphy in the moments following the shooting. Doctors had saved Harris’s life, but not his full mobility.
    Harris had returned to the job as soon as he’d been able to, determination overruling any word from a girlfriend who hadn’t lasted much longer. Murphy had asked for him to be on the team before anyone else . . . even Rossi, though he would never tell her that. He wanted that reminder of what his poor planning had cost, sitting there day after day, to drive the point home into his thick skull. Harris had turned out to be a great desk jockey as things had turned out, relishing the minute details better than Murphy or Rossi could arguably have done.
    He never once blamed Murphy. Wouldn’t even allow him to apologise.
    Just doing my job. Our job. Could have been either one of us.
    ‘Where are we then at’ – Murphy checked his watch – ‘six hours in?’
    Rossi crossed the floor to the murder boards at the rear of the office. Soon, Murphy knew, they would be full of information, but at that moment it was sparse. His own handwriting staring back