by Helen Phifer
‘Why do you think that is?’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe they realised how risky they were being and got spooked.’
Shannon was looking at Morgan. ‘Or maybe they knew your phone had been cloned?’
‘How would they know that? Unless they worked in the station, and I don’t think so.’
‘No, sorry. I’m thinking out loud. That’s not very likely, is it?’
Morgan didn’t like the way Shannon was looking at her, as if she were trying to capture an expression that might betray what she was really thinking.
‘If they had even the slightest awareness of the workings of criminal investigations, they would know that the phone would be used as evidence to try and trace them. Are you going to take a statement about what happened at Stan’s flat after we got called there? Or are you here just to ask about Gabby Stevens?’
Tim smiled. ‘We have one from your supervisor, Ben, who was with you when the call came in, about what happened at the scene. Is there anything different you would have to add to it?’
‘I don’t know what he said so I couldn’t say. This is my version of events: I heard the address being passed to officers over the radio and recognised it as the flats where Stan lived. Ben drove there; we were on our way back from interviewing a prisoner in Manchester. Officers were already on scene when we arrived; I ran into the flats hoping it was one of the other occupants. I didn’t want it to be Stan, but I had this awful feeling in my stomach. As I ran upstairs, I knew it was. I squeezed through the gap in the door and saw him lying there.’ She paused, gulping the air bubble away that was caught in the back of her throat. ‘I looked at his body. I knew he was clearly dead and had been for some time. It was pretty obvious to even a non-medical person, and the paramedic at the scene had already called it anyway. Ben came in behind me and I left.
‘I didn’t touch anything, even though I wanted to cradle him in my arms. I was professional for what it’s worth. Dan Hunt, one of the first officers on the scene, drove me to Ben’s house. I stayed a couple of hours then decided to come here, and now you’re here taking my statement. That is how my day went.’
Shannon stood up. ‘Thank you, Morgan, that’s very helpful. We’ll let you get on and we’ll be in touch if we have any further questions. The DCI asked us to tell you he doesn’t expect you to come in to work. He’s arranged for you to take some dependant’s leave.’
She watched as Tim finished writing in his pocket notebook then closed it. Tucking the pen in his pocket, he stood up. ‘We’ll see ourselves out, take care. And we’re so sorry for your loss.’
And then they were gone. Morgan knew they were only doing what they had to. How many times had she sat and asked people similar questions, not realising the devastating effect they had on someone until she was the one being questioned? Her hands were shaking. She waited until she heard the car doors slam and the engine start before she got off her stool. She walked to the front door, locked it, and put the safety chain on.
Taking a mug out of the kitchen cupboard, she made herself a coffee and booted up her laptop. Waiting for it to load, she sipped the warm drink and clasped the chain around her neck in her fingers. It was the last present she’d received from her mum and her most treasured possession. Something was going on; she couldn’t decide what, but it had got Stan killed. Why had a killer chosen him? She thought about the last message she’d had from Stan. What had he been going to tell her and was it that information that got him killed?
Isaac had told her she needed answers to questions and now she had no one left to ask. The only thing which might help could be the Internet.
THIRTY-EIGHT
He couldn’t have timed it better if he’d tried. She came running out of the building, her leather satchel held above her head to protect her pretty blonde hair from the rain. Her head bent low, she wasn’t looking where she was going. He got out of his car, copying her, and put his head down then waited for her to bump straight into him. He held himself stiff, ready for the impact as she bounced off him, landing on the floor in a heap.
‘Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.’ He stooped, holding out his hand to her, which she took as he tugged her to her feet. This could either go two ways: she’d be angry with him or laugh. She shook her head; her perfect pale cheeks tinged with circles of pink and she began to laugh.
‘I’m so sorry. That was my fault. I wasn’t looking at all. I didn’t want to get my hair wet.’
He picked up her sodden satchel from the puddle it landed in, holding it out towards her. The flimsy skirt she was wearing now had a large damp patch on her bottom and he could see her pretty pink, flowery knickers.
‘I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that.’
He pointed to the back of her skirt, and she let out a squeal, her hands slapping against it to try and shield her modesty.
‘Oh lord, sorry, I have to go.’ She clicked the car key fob, and the Mini’s lights turned on as she got into the car and started the engine. He gave her a moment then knocked on the window. She looked at him quizzically, and he waved her bag at her. Putting down the window, she laughed.
‘Thank you, I’m such an airhead at times.’
He smiled. ‘Anytime.’
She drove away, but as she reached the exit, she turned for one last look at him and waved. He waved back. He was a dripping mess and his suit was soaked but that had been worth it. She knew who he was, what he looked like and he didn’t think she would forget him so soon. When it was time, she would open the door to him, a bit surprised that he was there, but without a doubt she’d open it, and he would take it from there.
He drove home happier than he’d been in a long time. He was on a roll and liked it. No one had a clue who he was or what the nature of this all was, but he did. It was as clear in his head now if not clearer than the day he’d conceived the idea. It was all coming together nicely. His father would be proud of him, of that he was one hundred per cent sure.
THIRTY-NINE
Morgan woke herself up thrashing around. Her eyes opened, and she thought she’d heard herself screaming in her dream. This time she remembered it; the woman with red hair had been covered in blood, so much blood. As she lay there shivering, she had been able to smell the acrid, earthy smell that blood carried in the air and she was terrified: it had been so real. Crawling out of bed, she’d made it to the shower, her heart racing and her body covered in a fine film of sweat. Standing under the spray, she let it wash away the bad dreams. She had fallen asleep last night before doing much research, so she went back to her computer now, wide awake and feeling as refreshed as was possible on the broken sleep she’d had.
She opened the page she was last on. The only thing about her family on the Internet were the recent articles about the Potters’ deaths and also some short pieces about her mum’s death and the inquest. More awake than last night, she took her time to read through the full articles instead of skimming through them. An article in the Cumbrian News stated that Sylvia Brookes left behind her husband and adoptive daughter. Morgan sucked in her breath. Adoptive daughter? She read the words again, even more slowly in case she’d read them wrong. But she hadn’t. What did this mean? Surely it was an error. It had been written by a reporter she’d never heard of and that paper had a reputation for getting almost every story it printed wrong. She sat back, staring at the photo of her mum, an uneasy feeling making her empty stomach churn. All this time, if it was true, surely Stan would have told her or she’d have known about it.
She made herself some toast and poured a glass of orange juice. Her stomach felt like a mass of knots but she needed to eat something. Sitting back down at the breakfast bar, she nibbled her toast, staring at the black screen which had timed out.
Yet the more she thought about it, the heavier her heart felt. If she had been adopted, it would explain a lot, like the way Stan went off the rails after her mum’s suicide. He’d admitted he never wanted her; he’d told her it was all Sylv
ia who was desperate for a baby and he’d gone along with it to make her happy. Christ, she was alone with no living family that she knew of and now she didn’t even know who the hell she was. There was only one way to find out more.
She dried her hair then piled it into a ponytail and was dressed in minutes. She looked at the clock on the bedroom wall: it wasn’t even five a.m. If she went to work now, she should be able to slip in and go upstairs to the office unnoticed. She could check the intelligence system for her family. Surely there would be something on there from her mum’s suicide. There might not be much, but there could be something in a vulnerable child or adult report that mentioned her. She knew this was an absolute no: looking into the intelligence system for personal use was against the rules and she would probably end up suspended if they found out that she had, but what option did she have? She had to know what was going on and she’d been told to take time off because of Stan. She hadn’t been ordered to leave or been suspended, at least not yet. Hopefully, the night shift wouldn’t even notice her or think anything of it, as she often went in to work really early.
Parking on the main road, she got out of her car and walked the short distance to the police station, not wanting to drive through the secure gates and be captured on camera that way. Keeping her head down, she briskly walked to the side entrance and pressed her key fob against the security system. For a fleeting moment she wondered if it had been disabled, but the red light turned green and the gate clicked. She pushed it open and scurried through it to the back door the office staff favoured. Morgan felt like an intruder, as if she was about to commit the crime of the century, which was stupid. This was her place of work; she was doing this to find out if there was a connection between Stan and Gabby Stevens. There had to be one, somehow.
She made it up the stairs and into the CID office without passing another person. The automatic lights came on in the office and she looked around at the pale grey walls. They matched her mood. Her eyes momentarily landed on the whiteboard, Stan’s dead face stared back at her and she looked away, pushing the grief that was threatening to surge out back down into the bottom of her chest. She went to her desk, sat down, and logged on to the computer. Deftly typing in her passwords, the screen she needed appeared as she accessed the intelligence system where all the records were kept. She typed ‘Sylvia Brookes’ into the search bar, her finger hovering over the enter button. Once she did this there was no going back; she could get in trouble.
You’re already in trouble, Morgan, they think you had something to do with Stan’s murder and if they connect him to Gabby, for whatever reason, they’re going to come after you for that too.
She hit the enter key. A page loaded with her mum’s name, but no photograph. There were various pieces of intelligence; police had attended a couple of arguments between her and Stan that she didn’t recall. She clicked on one of the log numbers and saw it was a non-violent domestic. She read the comments and was horrified to see that the argument had been about her. She had only recently been placed with the family and it was causing problems between Sylvia and Stan. So it was true. She was adopted.
She felt stunned; not once had it even crossed her mind when she’d been growing up. There was the name and phone number of a social worker who was the point of contact between them and social services. Dazed, she scribbled the name and number down on a yellow Post-it note and tucked it into her pocket. She clicked off the computer. She had to get out of here and she had to find that social worker. She doubted she was still working but she had a name: Angela Hardy.
Opening the desk drawer, she saw the gift bag from Dan. Picking it up, she undid the bow and removed the small white box. Taking the earrings out of the box, she put them into her ears and whispered – I need a guardian angel more than ever. Mum, what happened? Why couldn’t you tell me who I was and why my adoption was a big secret? I need to know who I am. It would never have stopped me loving you.
Dropping the bag and box into the wastepaper bin by the side of her desk, she stood up, grabbed a tissue off Amy’s desk and wiped her eyes. She had to get out of here. As soon as it was a reasonable hour, she’d try and contact the social worker.
She left the station as she found it: empty. Once she was back in her car, she drove home. There was nothing else she could do now except try and track down Angela Hardy. She prayed there would be some mention of her somewhere on Facebook. Older people enjoyed keeping up with their family and friends on there: she was bound to be retired or near retirement age. Her heart raced the entire time until she reached the gates to her apartment. She didn’t think about Ben’s face if he found out what she’d done. She didn’t want to betray him or his loyalty, but there was no way she was sitting around whilst everyone did their best to betray her. She wondered what Isaac would make of this. He’d told her to write down everything she could remember about her dreams as soon as she woke up, and today’s had been an eye opener. Snatches of the past were now coming together. She had been adopted, why? The woman with the red hair and same colour eyes as her – she was sure that was her birth mum. And the blood? She could only guess she must have died horrifically or been killed. Everything was interlinked somehow. If only she could sort it out into order.
Slamming her front door behind her, she kicked off her shoes. Thank goodness for Google. How did the police or the rest of the world get by before? It didn’t bear thinking about. Everything must have taken for ever to find out. She typed the name ‘Angela Hardy’ into Facebook and a list of them came up; she was looking for any who lived in this area. The top two were both local: Windermere and Barrow. She clicked on the Windermere one first. She imagined that’s the kind of place a retired social worker would want to live. The image of an older woman with cropped grey hair and a happy smiling face peered back at her. Her profile was private, so there was limited information she could read about her, but Morgan would have bet that it was her. It was almost nine. She already had the phone number for the social care officers in her phone so she rang it, praying someone else was an early bird like her and already at work.
‘Good morning, Child Services.’
‘Good morning, I wonder if you can help me? I’m Detective Constable Morgan Brookes and I’m trying to get in touch with an Angela Hardy. It’s possible she’s retired.’
‘She is the lucky thing, retired six months ago. Thea Dexter has taken over all of Angela’s ongoing cases. I can give you her number. I don’t think she’s in work today though, is it urgent?’
‘I’m afraid I need to speak to Angela. It’s about an old case she dealt with in 1999.’
‘Blimey, that’s old. Knowing Angela, she probably won’t remember much herself.’
‘Do you have a contact number for her? It’s really important.’
‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
Morgan bit her lip. She wanted to scream down the phone just give me the bloody number. Instead, she forced herself to smile. ‘It’s regarding a very serious incident. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say just yet or I would.’
‘Oh, yes. Sorry, I’m being nosey. I suppose I can give you her phone number.’
‘Thank you, that’s great and such a big help.’
She scribbled the mobile number down. ‘Thank you, I really appreciate this. You wouldn’t have an address for her? I need to speak to her as soon as possible and she may not answer the phone to an unknown number.’ Morgan lowered her voice as if trying to be discreet in a busy police station. She knew she had to give her something more in exchange for the information she needed. ‘I can tell you it’s to do with a murder investigation.’
She could tell by the gasp the woman was impressed. She whispered back: ‘Oh no, not that lovely girl. That’s awful. It turned my blood cold when I heard about it. I don’t know what number, but she lives in a cottage on Brantfell Road. You can tell which one it is: she’s recently had a new front door on it.’
Morgan rolled her eyes; it was better than nothing but not part
icularly helpful. How was she supposed to know which was a new front door?
The woman laughed. ‘Sorry, I meant to say it’s the only one with a pink door. It’s very quirky and very Angela.’
‘Thank you so much. You have no idea how helpful you’ve been.’
She ended the call. If she was knee-deep in trouble at work, this wasn’t going to make much difference when they hauled her in.
FORTY
Ben burnt his toast and managed to spill the mug of tea he’d made all over the kitchen worktop. He hadn’t slept properly; his reflection in the mirror this morning confirmed it. Tired didn’t cut it, neither did stressed or frustrated beyond belief. Mopping up the tea with the only clean tea towel he had, he couldn’t stop thinking about Morgan. He’d texted her late last night when he got home to see if she needed anything. She’d read his message but hadn’t replied, which had hurt more than he wanted to admit to himself. He wanted her to know he was there for her and that she didn’t have to face all of this on her own. He was worried about her; she had a reckless streak and he didn’t want her to put herself in any danger because she was too stubborn to accept his help or friendship. The two detectives sent through from Barrow had seemed efficient, if not the friendliest of people. They’d said very little to him about it though; instead, they’d reported back to Tom, which had made him angry. His phone rang and he saw Declan’s name.
‘Morning, what’s up?’
‘It’s almost eight, some of us have been up since the crack of dawn working. Are you in the station?’
‘No. I’m not at work yet. I was going to speak to Gabby Stevens’s college tutor. I’m at home making a mess of my breakfast.’
‘Good, we need to talk.’
‘We are talking.’
‘No, I need to see you in person. Can you come here? I’d come to you, but I have a post-mortem in ninety minutes.’
