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

by Helen Phifer

  Scaling the tree was more difficult than she’d anticipated, but she did manage to get up to the branch that seemed to be the strongest and from where both Olivia and Harrison had tied their nooses. She looked across the rest of the garden and saw a thin trail of black smoke rising into the air above the trees that bordered the edge of the property. Someone was out there and had lit a fire.

  Clambering back down, she headed in that direction, her interest piqued.

  Thirty-Five

  There was a dry-stone wall running alongside the grounds of the house, separating it from the woods on the other side. It was high, but Morgan knew she’d be able to clamber over. Looking back over her shoulder, she made sure Ben wasn’t watching her; it wouldn’t look very ladylike. She grabbed hold and pulled herself up then jumped down onto the other side, surprised at how big a drop there was, as the ground was much lower on this side. The scent of burning woodsmoke filled the air, mingling with the smell of damp leaves, and she walked along the tiny path through the canopy of whispering trees towards where she thought it was coming from. The woods were peaceful; the sound of the splashing water as it bubbled along the stream in the background was soothing. She hadn’t even known these woods existed. Forests, beaches and woods had been her favourite places to be when she was younger; they stirred something inside her chest that always made her feel at ease. Following the path, she turned a corner and saw a tiny stone cottage, smoke billowing from the chimney. She looked around, wondering if she was daydreaming, because it was like something out of a fairy tale.

  An older woman came out of the lilac-painted front door, her arms folded across her chest, and stared at her.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Maybe. I’m a police officer and we’re investigating a serious crime at the house which backs onto these woods. I saw the smoke and wondered if you might have seen or heard anything on Friday.’

  The woman beckoned her to come inside the house.

  Morgan looked around; she should have told Ben where she was going. No one knew where she was, and she couldn’t see the house from here. Still, she opened the gate and walked along the path, ducking under the low doorway to step inside the cottage. It was light and airy inside, not at all what she’d been expecting. It was tiny but the kitchen and living room were all one room. The walls of the kitchen were lined with jars and bottles filled with all sorts of dried herbs and liquids. She wondered if she’d just stepped inside the witch from Hansel and Gretel’s cottage.

  ‘Would you like some tea? You look as if you could do with some.’

  ‘What sort of tea?’ Morgan was half expecting her to say a special blend, freshly foraged from the forest floor.

  ‘Yorkshire. I only drink that, for my sins.’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, please, that would be nice. I’m Morgan by the way, Morgan Brookes.’

  ‘I’m Ester Jackson, but everyone calls me Ettie. Sit down, I’ll make your tea and we can discuss that terrible tragedy.’

  Morgan realised that Ester knew exactly what had happened. Why wouldn’t she, it was public knowledge. It didn’t mean the woman was involved, of course. Just because she lived in this secluded little house it didn’t mean she didn’t use a computer or smartphone.

  Ettie carried over a wooden tray with two mugs and a plate of biscuits. She set it down on a large, battered pine trunk, with an assortment of candles in the middle, that served as a coffee table. She passed a mug to Morgan.

  Morgan realised she hadn’t told her how she liked her tea, but it looked perfect.

  ‘Thank you. Can I ask, did you know the Potters very well?’

  ‘I knew Olivia, lovely woman. She introduced herself when they moved in, even brought the girls to visit a couple of times. They weren’t interested, of course, they’re teenagers; who wants to visit elderly neighbours when you can be doing far more exciting stuff? They seemed like nice girls, though, especially the younger one. Very polite; the older one had a bit of an attitude, but you get that at her age. I didn’t know her husband, saw him a couple of times. He’d wave, but never actually spoke to him.’

  ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘I heard they were murdered, and Olivia was found hanging which is ridiculous. There is no way that woman would hang herself. You need to ask yourself why whoever did this hung her that way. If you ask me, she was already dead when they did that. Awful thing to do, vile. It’s like killing her twice; once wasn’t enough so they did it all over again.’

  ‘Did you see anyone in the area the day or night of the murders?’

  She smiled. ‘Honey, look out of my windows. I can see trees and that’s it, that’s why I choose to live here. I like the peace and quiet. I couldn’t wait to move out of the village into my little cottage. I don’t hold well with the village gossips. I would never partake in their vicious rumours they so enjoy spreading. No, I did not see anyone or hear anything; if I had I’d have phoned the police.

  ‘You know it’s not the first time that house had suffered such a terrible tragedy.’

  ‘I know, the O’Brien family were murdered there in ’75. Another lovely family. I don’t know why they built that house. Some places are not meant to be lived in.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come now, you might be young but don’t tell me you haven’t watched your fair share of horror films over the years. Tainted land, curses, that kind of stuff.’

  ‘You think the land is cursed? You live on it.’

  ‘No, I don’t live on the same land. The river and woodland separate them. I don’t really know if it’s cursed, but it’s certainly bad luck. I wouldn’t live in that house if someone gave it to me and said Merry Christmas.’

  Morgan was a little taken aback by the passion in Ettie’s voice.

  ‘Did you know that Olivia was having an affair? Did you ever see her with another man?’

  ‘I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. She was, from my experience, a nice woman with a few issues. Being faithful was one, but that was none of my business. I did see her walking through the woods on several occasions with a man, but it was from a distance. It may have been her husband, it may not. I couldn’t tell you one way or the other. I’m pretty sure the village post office will have an opinion on her love life. You could ask them.’

  ‘Thanks, I will. Can I ask, what are in all those jars?’

  Ettie stared at her for a few moments and Morgan got the feeling she was deciding if she should tell her the truth or not.

  ‘Herbs, the medicinal kind. I’m a natural healer; people come to me when they’ve tried everything else and it hasn’t worked. I’ve always loved working in the garden and the kitchen. Sometimes I read their tea leaves or tarot cards.’

  ‘You remind me of my mum, she was the same.’

  ‘Was she? How lovely, I knew there was something about you I liked. I don’t usually invite strangers into my house you know, I make them wait at the garden gate. People come to see me when they’re looking for answers buried deep inside their souls. All this modern technology, yet people are lonelier than ever.’

  ‘What do you do to help them?’

  ‘Not much, give them a bottle of lavender or rosemary oil. Tell them to meditate and sprinkle a few drops over their pillows.’

  ‘Does it work?’

  ‘No idea, I bulk buy it off eBay and don’t really care too much.’ She began to laugh, startling Morgan.

  ‘Then why all this?’ She pointed at the jars.

  ‘It’s what I was brought up with. My grandmother and mother were the same, it’s the way we are. I only do it if I have to.’

  Morgan finished her tea then stood up, realising Ben would be worrying where she was. ‘Thank you, sorry to have bothered you.’

  ‘Wait.’ Ettie went to the shelves and began rooting through the jars. Pulling a small one out, she handed it to Morgan.

  ‘Here, mix a teaspoon of this in with your loose tea before bed. It won’t work with tea bags. No more, min
d you, it’s quite potent.’

  She laughed. ‘An eBay special?’

  ‘No, it’s to help you sleep and stop those bad dreams you have every night that wake you before morning. You’ve been through some hard times when you were younger and they’re haunting your unconscious memory. You need to put them behind you and focus on your future. This is a special recipe, none of that cheap, chemical crap.’

  Morgan took the jar from her, staring at it, wondering what on earth was going on and what the contents inside it were.

  ‘Oh, and you should get yourself some better crystals than the ones you have now. Amethyst, prehnite, lapis lazuli are an excellent combination. Put them under your pillow and those you can buy off eBay, just make sure they’re genuine crystals.’ She winked at Morgan, who was speechless. ‘When you find this killer, I imagine you’ll sleep better without the hocus pocus; until then, what harm can it do to give it a try?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome, you might find yourself drawn back here and that’s okay. I don’t usually like visitors, but for some reason I like you, Morgan, so you’re welcome to come back if you need to or want to.’

  Ettie held the door open for her, and Morgan smiled and left the cottage.

  Turning around, she looked at the small woman, her long, wispy grey hair piled in a bun on the top of her head. She seemed so familiar, yet she knew she had never set eyes on her before. Maybe it was the similarity to her mum’s love of all things herbal.

  Her phone began to vibrate, and she answered it.

  ‘Where the hell are you? Did you decide to walk back to the police station? Was I boring you?’

  She pushed the small jar of loose herbs into her pocket. ‘I’m coming, there’s a cottage in the woods. I went to see if they knew anything.’

  ‘Did they?’

  How could she answer that Ettie seemed to know an awful lot about her indeed?

  ‘No, not much. Knew the family, said Olivia visited. Didn’t know Saul and didn’t see anything the night of the murders.’

  ‘Worth a try, I suppose. CSI are here.’

  ‘See you in a couple of mins.’

  She walked the path back towards the house. The woods were eerily silent; the birds had stopped singing. When she reached the wall, she remembered it was much higher than she’d thought. Looking for a place where there were a couple of footholds to boost herself up, she finally found a piece with bits of missing and chipped stones. Clambering up, she was careful not to break the jar, not sure if she was brave enough to even try it. She had no idea what was in it, might be poisonous for all she knew. Landing on the other side, she peered over the wall, and she felt as if she’d stumbled into some alternative reality.

  ‘Morgan.’

  Ben’s voice bellowed at her from the front door of the house, bringing her back to earth with a jolt. She turned and waved, deciding not to share with him that Ettie had given her a jar of what could be ground-up cannabis for all she knew. That would definitely help her sleep and soothe her bad dreams. The only thing was she never remembered what she’d been dreaming about.

  She thought about what Ettie and Helen Taylor had said: maybe Olivia was the key to all of this.

  Why had someone killed her then hung her to make it look like a suicide?

  It didn’t cross her mind that this wasn’t public knowledge, or how Ettie could have known about it.

  Thirty-Six

  Jamie went into the old records room at the newspaper offices, where he wanted to see if he could find any more information pertaining to the murders in 1975. That prick Greg had connections to both families, and he wanted to know if the police had ever interviewed him or thought of him as a suspect. Just because he thought he ran the local villages it didn’t mean he was above the law. Everyone had left now and there was only him. The building was old and often when he worked late alone he heard noises. It didn’t bother him; he didn’t believe in the supernatural. Old buildings creaked and groaned. The two reporters who worked full time for the paper refused to work alone there once it grew dark, and it both amused him and made him despair at their lack of courage.

  He was elbow deep in boxes of files when he thought he heard footsteps along the wooden hallway which led to the records room. Pausing, he listened to see if they were heading in his direction, but they stopped. Someone must have come back for something. He carried on rifling through the files, distracted and also determined to find something on Greg, anything; there must be some gossip, dirt, accusations thrown in his direction over the years. There was no way he was the pillar of the community that he pretended to be. No one was that perfect, including himself. He had taken a few bribes in the past to discredit people he shouldn’t have for a few grand and upset a few of the local business owners in the process.

  He pulled out a faded green folder marked ‘O’Brien Murders’ and smiled. Opening it, he flicked through. The newspaper clippings, and original handwritten notes by whoever had been reporting the story at the time, were all there and he couldn’t wait to read them. Tucking everything back inside, he was going to take it home to read with a large glass of red wine then figure out what and how he could use it. If there was anything that genuinely hinted at the murderer, he would obviously hand it over to the police, but not before he’d had the chance to make Greg’s life a misery.

  He had almost made it to the front door of the building, he could see it only a few steps away, but he stopped. The feeling of being watched settled over him like a heavy weight, and the tiny hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. This was stupid, completely ridiculous. What was he thinking about to be scared? A voice inside his head whispered get out now. He shrugged, rolling his shoulders back, trying to make himself appear calm.

  But someone was standing behind him, he was positive.

  All he had to do was walk the six, seven steps to the front door and leave, that’s all there was to it. He didn’t need to turn around, had no reason to look behind him. Yet his shoulders began to turn, as if to prove to himself that he wasn’t a coward. His head looked behind and he let out a scream so loud it echoed around the building. There was a dark figure standing perfectly still behind him, his face covered by a rubber mask. In his hand, a huge butcher’s knife. Jamie didn’t know if this was some sick joke, but his insides turned to ice and he felt a hot stream of liquid run down his left leg as he urinated himself.

  Seven steps.

  That was all he had to take to get to freedom. He turned, forcing himself to move and ran towards the door. His hand reached the handle and he grabbed it, pressing it down so hard he felt the metal bend. A sharp, burning pain between his shoulder blades took his breath away and he opened his mouth to scream again. He felt the blade penetrate his neck, cutting off his airway mid-shout.

  Lifting his fingers to his neck, he felt the hot spray of blood as it spurted out from the pulsating wound. His knees gave way and he fell forwards, slumping against the door, a gurgling sound coming from the large, ragged wound in his neck.

  The man bent down, plucking the file from his fingers. Then stepped over him to open the door. Tugging the mask off, he pushed it into his pocket.

  Jamie blinked; he recognised the back of the head, he’d know it anywhere. He could tell the police exactly who it was.

  On that thought, he sank into unconsciousness.

  Laura Grainger was early to work the next morning. She’d much rather turn in first and get her work done. She was surprised to see Jamie’s car already parked outside; he must have been in a hurry because he had abandoned it across the double-yellow lines. That was typical of him. She’d never worked for anyone so self-absorbed. Walking up the steps, she pushed her key into the door and opened it, but the door moved an inch and no more. Frowning, she pushed it again; it still didn’t move.

  Pushing her mouth against the gap, she yelled: ‘Let me in, the door’s stuck.’

  A rich, earthy smell filled her nostrils and she let out a small grunt
of disgust. A cold chill settled over her as she shouted: ‘Jamie?’

  This time she leant forwards, put her shoulder against the door and shoved it as hard as she could. It scraped open a few more inches, enough for her to peer through the gap. That was when she saw Jamie’s crumpled body, collapsed onto the floor.

  Stepping back, she ran towards the post office next door, hammering on the door until it opened and she saw Mr Riley looking at her as if she’d gone mad.

  ‘Oh my God, I think he might be dead. I don’t want to go inside. Can you phone an ambulance?’

  ‘Who?’

  She pointed at Jamie’s car.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Inside the doorway to the office. He’s on the floor and I can’t get in.’

  ‘Susan, Susan.’ Mr Riley called to his wife. ‘Ring an ambulance now. Come on, you’d better show me.’

  Laura led the way and let Mr Riley try to get inside. He pushed the door, managing to get it open just enough to squeeze in. She didn’t follow, didn’t want to see what was waiting on the other side. Moments later he pushed his way out, his usually ruddy cheeks devoid of all colour.

  ‘He’s dead. There’s blood everywhere. Jesus, I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.’

  He landed heavily as he sat down onto the stone steps, his face between his hands. Laura didn’t know what to do, so she patted his back.

  Susan came running out of the post office, her phone pushed against her ear.

  ‘I don’t know, hang on.’

  She looked at her husband, then spoke to Laura.

  ‘Is the casualty conscious and breathing?’

  ‘We don’t think so. There’s a lot of blood.’

  ‘No, probably not, there’s blood all over. Right, well I’m not a doctor, am I? Please hurry.’