One Left Alive: A heart-stopping and gripping crime thriller (Detective Morgan Brookes Book 1)

by Helen Phifer

  The next photograph was of a bedroom. It was painted a pale yellow and on first glance it looked as if the walls had been speckled with a dark red paint. She held the picture closer; it wasn’t paint. It was blood. The next one showed the bodies of two children on the floor, their heads caved in. The same cloths covered their faces. Morgan let out a small gasp. They looked so small and helpless; what an awful way to die. She stared in horror at the images that were forever burned into her mind. How did you get used to this? she wondered, and if you did, what kind of a person did that make you? Forcing herself to put the picture down, she put that one to the side, just out of view.

  The rest of the upstairs was normal or as normal as it could be considering an entire family had been murdered in cold blood. Had Jason O’Brien died trying to defend his daughters, she wondered or did the killer let him see them lying there smashed to pieces before killing him? She shuddered; it was too horrid to contemplate. More photos of the downstairs: the lounge, dining room, an office were all intact, until it got to the kitchen which was another total bloodbath. This must be Jennifer, wife and mother. Again her head was severely beaten and there was a large pool of blood on the white, tiled floor.

  She glanced at the other two photos of the bodies. They were lying on thick carpet so the blood didn’t look as horrific on those. It would have soaked into the pile. The tiled floors made it look as if a small lake of blood had flowed from Jennifer’s head. Her face was covered like the rest of her family. Morgan found her fingers reaching up for her beloved necklace, which was her source of comfort whenever things got too much for her and realised it was gone. Fuck you, Stan, I hope to God you choke to death on the vomit from the alcohol you bought with my necklace.

  She did the next best thing and downed the rest of the wine. She put the picture with the ones of her children and husband. Picked up her notebook and wrote WHY? in capital letters. Why had someone killed this family? Why had another family been killed in the same manner, and in the same house, forty-five years later? Could it be the same killer? She began scribbling furiously.

  Are the families connected?

  What did Jason and Saul do for a living?

  Murder weapons?

  Meaning of cloths on face, same material in both sets of murders?

  What is the significance of the house?

  Motive?

  Both families had two daughters, any significance?

  Picking up the photos of the house that weren’t actually gory, she studied them carefully, looking for something. On the one of the landing there was a large, built-in cupboard, and the door was slightly ajar as if it hadn’t been closed properly. She scanned the other photos to see if any other doors weren’t shut properly. Every single one was closed; even the kitchen cupboards and drawers were shut tight. She stared at that cupboard. It was large enough for a person to hide in. The perfect place for a killer to lie in wait for their victims to come home and catch them unaware. She double-checked: all of the victims were in their nightwear, ready for bed. At their most vulnerable and unprepared for an attack.

  Was that cupboard still there? She couldn’t remember, and if it was, maybe they could still get evidence from it. She needed to speak to Ben. She had no doubt he would want to know about the similarities. If she was in charge she would. Grabbing her phone, she rang him, but it went straight to voicemail; instead she rang the station. No one answered in the office either, which left her with one option.

  She phoned the control room at headquarters and asked for Ben’s address, telling them she had an urgent file to deliver to him. They looked it up and in minutes she pulled a hoody over the top of her pyjamas, slipped on a pair of battered Nike trainers and was in the car typing his postcode into the sat nav. She was glad she’d only had the one glass of wine and not finished the bottle before she had this brainwave. It did cross her mind that it was the wine making her act so impulsively, but she dismissed it. She was on a mission to find a killer and this was important.

  Thirty-One

  She parked outside the large Victorian detached house her sat nav had directed her to and nodded in admiration. It was a bit unloved for all its promise, though; the garden was overgrown and the gate looked as if it would fall to bits if you pushed it too hard. It was wedged open. She made her way up the tiled path to the front door and rang the bell. It echoed around the inside but she didn’t hear footsteps. Ben’s car was parked on the drive so he was home. Maybe he’d gone to bed, but it wasn’t that late.

  She peered through the bay window into an empty room. The only thing inside was a Chesterfield sofa. She knocked on the door, there was still no answer. Opening the letterbox, she saw a light on at the far end of the hall. He must be at the back of the house. She slipped through the side gate and walked around to the rear. This garden was huge and even more overgrown than the front. It was the perfect family home; she’d love a house like this. Renovating it would be a dream.

  As she looked through the large window, she could see Ben sitting at the kitchen table., she stepped back. He had an almost empty bottle of whisky in front of him and a row of white tablets. Her heart began to race and she felt bad for intruding. No idea what was wrong with him or why he’d be looking at the pills, she hammered on the back door, he didn’t answer so she knocked on the window.

  His face appeared at the glass, looking out into the darkness and she realised he might not be able to see her. He must have seen something, though, because she heard his muffled voice through the glass as he shouted: ‘Piss off.’ Then pulled the blind down.

  Morgan felt the fear inside her turn to a fiery ball of anger. How dare he? She only wanted to speak to him. She pushed the kitchen door handle; it didn’t move. She had a deep-seated fear that he was going to do something stupid, so she ran around the front and tried that handle too. It didn’t budge.

  Unsure what to do, but knowing she’d better do something, she looked for something to throw at the window and spied a crumbling house brick. Picking it up, she raced around the back again.

  ‘It’s Morgan, open the door.’

  No answer. She didn’t want to ring for backup to come and help her. Ben would kill her and wouldn’t thank her for the intrusion. Taking a step back, she pulled her arm back and launched it at the smallest pane of glass in the kitchen window. The sound of cracking filled the air followed by the Ben’s voice.

  ‘Are you fucking nuts?’

  His face appeared at the window and she bent down to pick up a loose rock. She clutched it in her hand.

  ‘I might well be. Let me in or I’ll smash another window.’

  ‘Go away, Morgan, before I call the police.’

  ‘I am the police, you idiot, let me in.’

  He stared at her and his face broke into a smile as he began to laugh. He moved away and she heard the back door being unlocked. He threw open the door.

  ‘Drop the rock or you’re not coming in.’

  She dropped it and pushed her way inside.

  ‘Sorry about the window, but I looked in and saw you sitting there. I got scared.’

  He was bending down, trying to pick up the pieces of broken glass.

  ‘Yeah, thanks for your concern. Who bloody tutored you by the way?’

  ‘Dan, why?’

  ‘He taught you to do this?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not really, well maybe a little. I didn’t need a tutor to show me how to be a decent human being.’

  ‘What do you want anyway? What’s so important you had to break my window to get into my house? You’re not some crazy stalker, are you?’

  ‘You should be so lucky. I needed to talk to you about the case.’

  ‘Morgan, take a look around you. Where are we?’

  ‘At your house.’

  ‘Correct. Therefore, that means on the rare occasion that I’m not in the station or at a crime scene then I’m off duty. Although technically my kitchen now resembles a crime scene. I need you to convince me why I shouldn’t arrest you
for criminal damage.’

  ‘It was a concern for welfare, under section seventeen of PACE to save life and limb.’

  He grinned at her. ‘You know you’re pretty good, crazy but good. I like you.’

  He flopped down onto the chair, using his arm to swipe the tablets to one side. Morgan spied a dustpan and brush next to the overflowing bin and grabbed it. She began to sweep up the broken glass.

  ‘Want a whisky? I haven’t got anything to go with it, though, I drink it neat.’

  She shook her head, emptied the pan full of glass shards into the bin and turned around, taking the bottle from him.

  ‘No, thanks and you don’t need any more. I’ll make you a coffee.’

  ‘What? Are you my mother?’

  She ignored him, filled the kettle and began searching the cupboards for coffee and mugs. When she had two steaming mugs of strong coffee, she sat opposite him, sliding one across the table.

  ‘No, I’m your colleague. I’d like to think we could be friends. I have no idea what’s going on in your life, but I care about you so maybe you could tell me.’

  They sat in silence, sipping their drinks, looking at each other. Eventually he reached across the table and patted her hand.

  ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time. Thank you, I am still pissed at you for breaking my window though.’

  She laughed. ‘Sorry, I’ll pay for the damage.’

  ‘No, you won’t. I’m having a bad day. Cindy died three years ago tonight and I’d forgotten because I was busy and because I’m a shit husband. I wasn’t going to kill myself; I haven’t got the guts. I’m supposed to be on tablets for diabetes and I forget to take them.’

  She felt her face begin to burn. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re forgiven. I should have opened the door, but too much alcohol on an empty stomach and feeling sorry for myself. Well, you know how it is. Anyway, what was so important you needed to speak to me about?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, it can wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m—’ He pointed to the stairs. ‘Toilet, be back in a min.’

  He pushed himself up and stumbled out into the hallway. She heard his heavy footsteps and began picking up discarded tablets. She looked at them and saw ‘paracetamol’ stamped on each one. Blimey, he’d tried to make light of it. Who was she to embarrass him further? She put them in the bin and dragged the bag out. Knotting it, she carried it outside to the wheelie bin and dropped it inside. Then she went back in and began to tidy around. Washing the mountain of pots and stacking them on the draining board, she realised he hadn’t come back down and a prickle of fear ran down her spine. Ever since her mum had overdosed, she had this fear of people doing the same. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, she listened and heard a loud snore. She looked around; it wouldn’t hurt her to check on him. Make sure he was okay, then she could let herself out.

  She ran upstairs, following the snoring to a small bedroom at the bottom of the hall. The door was ajar and Ben lay across the top of the single bed in his shirt and boxers; the duvet was scrunched up on the floor. Picking it up, she threw it over him and left. After locking the front door and pushing the key through the letterbox, she then drove home.

  He was right, everything could wait a few more hours. Before she knew it she’d be awake and back in work.

  Exhausted, she opened the communal front door and slipped inside. She spun around as a loud crack echoed around the gardens. It sounded like a branch snapping. She couldn’t see anyone it was so dark . Her heart racing, she slammed the front door shut and let herself into her flat, locking the door behind her. If Stan was hanging around she wasn’t letting him in tonight; she was exhausted, even though she knew she was going to have to confront him with a whole host of questions that had been forming inside her mind since she’d spoken to Helen Taylor. Tomorrow she would find him and have the most adult conversation of their lives, but until then she was going to sleep.

  Thirty-Two

  She arrived at work a little later than the last two days, despite waking up at the same time. She had showered and then read through all the crime scene notes for the O’Briens. As Morgan passed the CID office, Amy shouted: ‘Morgan, the boss wants to see you.’

  Stepping inside, she looked towards his office, surprised to see him sitting in there so early; she thought he’d be a hungover mess. ‘Why?’

  ‘No idea, but he’s in a bad mood and has been stomping around since he got in. What did you do?’

  Amy had her chin resting in her hands and a big smile across her face.

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Well, if it wasn’t much, you’ll be okay.’

  She thought about sneaking back out, but it was too late. He’d already spied her and banged on the glass, beckoning her towards him.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Good luck; at least he’s eaten most of his sausage and egg muffin. Ten minutes earlier and he’d have eaten you.’

  Amy burst out laughing at her own joke, which Morgan didn’t find the least bit funny. She trudged towards the closed door, and he knocked it open as she walked inside.

  ‘I wouldn’t dare not open a door to you again. These floor-to-ceiling windows are very expensive. My budget can’t afford to replace them.’

  He began to close his blinds so the rest of the team, who were all staring and whispering, couldn’t see inside. ‘Now, what was all that about last night?’

  He sat down and pointed to the chair. She followed suit, clasping her hands in her lap.

  ‘I spoke to Olivia Potter’s mum yesterday, and she told me some things about Olivia which kind of threw me. Did Amy tell you?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, seems like Olivia was quite the woman. I’ve asked Amy to concentrate on her for now. Was that what was so important? I mean yes, it’s very important but not window-smashing urgent.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, when I went home I was looking at the cold case photos and the victims all had similar white cloths covering their faces. Also, the pictures taken inside of the house show there was a built-in wardrobe on the landing. I wondered if it was still there, I can’t remember. I think the killer could have hidden inside it and waited for them to come home.’

  Ben logged onto his laptop and brought up the recent photographs. As he turned it around to face her, she could see the hall cupboard.

  ‘Did CSI check inside it?’

  ‘I would assume so.’

  ‘I need to go back to the house. I want to take a look inside it. The first set of crime scene photos are far worse than these ones. I want to see if there’s a possibility of any evidence inside that cupboard that we could have missed. Maybe even something from the first murders.’

  ‘Like what? It’s been, what? Forty-five years.’

  ‘I don’t know; a loft hatch to hide a weapon in. Carpet fibres, bloodstains, fingerprints.’

  He picked up the phone. ‘Wendy, when you did a sweep of the house did you check inside the upstairs landing cupboard? Some new information has come to light.’

  He listened to what she told him then put the phone down.

  ‘Photos were taken of the inside, nothing looked disturbed, so it was left.’ He shoved the remaining piece of his muffin into his mouth. ‘Come on then, let’s go. If we find anything I’ll get CSI to come back.’

  He had his jacket on and opened the door for her. She followed him, glancing across at Amy, who made a swiping motion across her throat with her finger. Morgan shook her head, then chased after Ben, who was already on his way down the stairs.

  The drive to Easdale Road was breathtaking. Morgan enjoyed looking out at the fells and lakes. A gentle breeze blew in through the open windows; neither of them spoke, but it wasn’t awkward. Morgan felt as if their relationship had moved more towards friends than colleagues and she was happy with that. It seemed like the pair of them were loners with a small social circle; maybe their working together was meant to be.

  The hou
se no longer had a PCSO guarding the scene, though the blue and white crime scene tape was still fastened across the drive.

  ‘Well if that isn’t a signal for every burglar in the area to come in and ransack the place while it’s empty, I don’t know what is.’

  He stopped the car, got out, ripped it down and screwed it up, throwing it into the back seat.

  Morgan spoke. ‘I thought it would still be under guard.’

  ‘So did I, but we’re short-staffed and it’s secluded so the DCI decided to take the scene guard away. Big mistake if you ask me, but what would I know?’

  He parked outside the front and they got out. Morgan turned to take a look at the backdrop of the fells. The lush green hills and trees that covered them soothed her nerves. Helvellyn, the third highest mountain in England, stood majestically in the background. A river ran along the end of the garden and there was a densely wooded area on the opposite bank; it was beautiful.

  She let out a screech and Ben turned to see what she was screaming at. Her heart racing almost as fast as she was running, she pelted towards the tree, horror etched across her face; this couldn’t be happening again. It was like she was stuck in some bad movie and she had no control over it whatsoever. Lying at the base of the same oak tree where she’d found Olivia Potter was the lifeless body of Harrison Wright.

  She reached him in seconds, pressing two fingers to his neck and relief flooded over her: she could feel a pulse. There was a noose around his neck, but luckily for him the rope had snapped. She heard Ben’s breathless voice as he jogged towards her; he was on the radio calling for urgent assistance. He requested an ambulance and a patrol.