The Murder House

by Michael Wood

  Once far enough away so the trucker couldn’t find him, he hunkered down behind an abandoned garage. There was a cold wind coming from somewhere that chilled his bones. In the background, the distant hum of the motorway told him life was close. He opened the wallet. There were a few credit and debit cards he immediately dismissed. There was no way he’d be able to use them. The driving licence was in the name of Peter Denny. He was fifty-one. There was a photograph of him with a woman of a similar age who he assumed was his wife. Two young girls surrounded him. Were they his children? The dirty bastard. They probably had no idea what kind of double life their husband and father was leading while he was away from the family home. How many people had he successfully raped up and down the country on his travels?

  There was £140 in ten and twenty pound notes in the wallet. His eyes lit up. He should be able to get a room for the night in a cheap hotel and pay for a one-way ticket to London in the morning. He grabbed the notes, tossed the wallet to one side and headed for the bright lights of the motorway.

  It was another half an hour of walking before he came to a Premier Inn. He signed in under the name of Peter Denny, paid cash, and went up to his room. It was bright, airy and clean. The first thing he did was take off his clothes and have a long, hot shower. He hated the feeling of being dirty. He scrubbed at his hair and under his fingernails. He didn’t want to get out. The hot needles of water raining down on him was shear bliss.

  He looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was clean and shiny. There was nothing he could do about the beard, but he was starting to like it. It made him look older, which was no bad thing at the moment. He put on the white dressing gown and flopped down onto the big comfortable bed. Heaven. As exhaustion took over and sleep enveloped him, he crawled under the covers. His eyes were almost closed when the realization of who he really was dawned. He was a wanted man. How far would he get before all ports had his photograph and were looking out for him?

  Sally Meagan was in the office of her home, replying to the emails she had received throughout the day. Most were from women around the world who had children who were missing, offering their advice and support. A couple were replies from pleas for help she had sent out. One stood out more than the others. This email only had a few lines of text, but there was a photo attached. She opened it and was looking at a long-range shot of a group of children playing in a park. One of them was circled. Her heart sank as she looked at the smiling young boy with blond hair. She wanted it to be Carl, but she knew straight away that it wasn’t. There was something not right about his smile, and his build was all wrong. However, the email had come from someone in Sweden. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Surely. What was the link between Carl and Sweden?

  The phone rang, making Sally jump and Woody sit up, giving a whimper. She looked at the phone. Philip was at one of their restaurants. She immediately thought of those new menus she hadn’t done, but it wasn’t Philip calling. She didn’t recognize the number. Her heart rate increased. Please let it be Carl.

  ‘Hello?’ she answered. There was the sound of heavy breathing coming from the other end. ‘Hello?’ Sally asked again, pressing the phone harder against her ear to try and hear something, anything.

  ‘Mummy?’

  It was faint, but there was no denying what the caller said. Sally started crying. Her whole body was shaking.

  ‘Carl?’ she called out. Woody jumped up from the floor and sat bolt upright next to Sally, his head tilted to one side. ‘Carl? Sweetheart is that you?’

  ‘Mummy?’

  ‘I’m here, Carl. Mummy’s here for you. Tell me where you are, Carl.’

  ‘Mummy.’ It sounded like he was crying.

  Sally sniffled back her emotions. She needed to be strong for her son. ‘Carl, listen to me. I need you to tell me where you are so I can come and get you. Look around you. What do you see?’

  The call ended.

  ‘Carl? Carl?’ Sally screamed into the phone. She looked at the display, but it was blank. She threw it onto the desk and fell off the chair onto the floor. Woody, sensing her distress, sat beside her and rested his head on her lap. She held onto him. ‘Carl’s alive, Woody, I know he is. I’ll bring him home for you. I promise,’ she said through her tears.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There was a loud knock on Matilda’s front door.

  ‘Shit,’ she said under her breath.

  By the time she had arrived home, the last thing she wanted to do was entertain guests. She felt physically and mentally drained after the day she’d had. On the way home all she could think about was the brief interview with Oliver and Leah. Was Leah upset enough about the murder of her family? Why did Oliver give off such negativity? Could any of their reactions be used as an accurate description of their feelings? This was a highly unusual situation they had found themselves in. One minute they were basking in the glow of their wedding, the happiest day of their lives, the next they were plunged into a living nightmare.

  At this stage, Matilda had no idea who the killer could be. It was a cruel fact that the majority of murder victims know their killer, but would Oliver or Leah inflict such pain and torment on their family? Would they leave Rachel alive to carry the horror of what she saw around with her for the rest of her life? Whoever the murderer was, they were cold-blooded, they were pure evil, and that kind of person struck again.

  By the time Matilda had showered off the detritus of the day, she made herself cheese on toast and planned to have an early night and start the latest Elly Griffiths novel with a large bag of Maltesers. That’s when someone knocked on the door and ruined her plans. She really wanted to be on her own. She stood in the doorway to the lounge and looked at the oak front door. There was another knock and the sound of the doorbell ringing echoed through the house.

  ‘Shit,’ she said quietly again.

  It was obvious she was home as the garage needed to be made safe and secure before she could park her car in. Until then, it was parked on the drive near the front door. She hoped it wasn’t Daniel Harbison. She genuinely liked him, but she thought he wanted more out of their relationship than architect/client.

  Her mobile started to ring. She dug it out of her pocket and saw it was Pat Campbell calling her. Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned into the living room and closed the door behind her so whoever was at the door wouldn’t be able to hear her talking.

  ‘Hello,’ she answered, speaking quietly into the phone.

  ‘Are you in the shower or something?’

  ‘What? No. Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve been knocking on your door for the past hour and I’m bursting for a pee.’

  Matilda shot out of the living room, ran to the door and pulled it open. ‘Pat, I am so sorry.’

  ‘Toilet?’

  ‘Through there.’ Matilda pointed.

  Pat ran to the small bathroom at the bottom of the stairs and closed the door behind her.

  ‘Slight exaggeration, Pat. You’ve hardly been standing there for an hour,’ Matilda called out.

  ‘When you’re my age and have a full bladder, a few minutes feels like an eternity. You’re lucky I didn’t ruin your rose bed.’

  Matilda smiled to herself. ‘Would you like a tea or coffee or something?’

  ‘I’ll have a coffee and put something Irish in it as well, please. I’m chilled to the bone.’

  Matilda was in the kitchen making coffees when Pat poked her head around the doorway.

  ‘Bloody hell, Mat, you’ve got a gorgeous house here.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re all settled now then?’

  ‘More or less.’

  Pat stood in the kitchen and looked around her, mouth agape. ‘I’d kill for a kitchen like this. Last year, I mentioned to Anton about moving. I said I wanted a bigger kitchen and an en suite. He said “what’s the point in moving, we’ll just get comfy and we’ll have to move again to the cemetery”. Honestly, Mat, what did I marry? He’s just turned seven
ty and he’s already got one foot in the grave.’

  Matilda smiled as she handed Pat her drink. ‘Here we go; one Irish coffee. Shall we go through to the living room?’

  Matilda led the way and Pat headed straight for the roaring fire where she turned her back on it to warm herself up.

  ‘Another gorgeous room. Aren’t you worried it’s a bit … you know … big?’

  ‘It’s actually smaller than the last house.’

  ‘Not by much, I’m guessing. Still, you could always take in a lodger.’

  ‘You think of leaving Anton?’

  She looked up over her coffee cup and winked at Matilda. ‘You’re tucked up out of the way here, too, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s how I like it.’ Matilda smiled.

  ‘It sounds like you’re running away from someone.’

  ‘Only ghosts.’

  ‘All my ghosts live in here,’ Pat said, tapping her temple.

  ‘Do you have a lot of ghosts?’

  ‘Too many to mention.’

  ‘I know that feeling.’ Matilda looked down. An expression of sadness swept across her face.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Pat asked, sitting on the opposite sofa. ‘I heard on the radio this afternoon about the triple murder. Is it really the Mercers?’

  Matilda looked up. ‘You know them?’

  ‘I don’t. Anton does. Well, he knew Clive Mercer.’

  ‘Oh. What was he like?’ Matilda asked.

  ‘Well, you know Anton, he doesn’t like to speak ill of anyone, but he struggled to find something good to say about Clive Mercer.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He was a bit of a control freak, by all accounts. Loved himself. You know the type, swaggering about the hospital like he owned the place.’

  ‘So how did Anton know him?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think he knew him as in knew him, but knew about him, if you know what I mean.’

  Matilda looked confused. ‘I think so. Did Anton say anything else?’

  ‘I’m guessing you know about Clive facing the GMC on a couple of occasions?’

  ‘Yes. We’re looking into that.’

  ‘Well, according to Anton, they made him worse.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He didn’t like being told what to do. As far as he was concerned, he knew his job like the back of his hand, and nobody could do it better than he could.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Told you he was a control freak.’

  ‘It sounds like my list of suspects is going to get bigger the more people I talk to.’

  ‘Do you have any suspects yet?’

  Matilda immediately thought of Oliver and Leah Ridgeway. ‘Not at the moment, no. I think this is going to be solved with forensics. You should have seen the crime scene, Pat, it really was a bloodbath. The killer must have left something of himself behind. It’s just going to take a lot of hard work finding it.’

  ‘You’ll get there,’ she said, a positivity in her voice.

  ‘I hope so. Did Anton say anything about Serena Mercer?’

  ‘He only met her a couple of times. He liked her, but he thought she was holding herself a bit too much.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Matilda frowned.

  Pat moved away from the fire and sat on the opposite sofa. ‘You know when you’re at a party and you really don’t want to be there; you’re all tense and rigid. Well, that’s what Serena was like on the occasions he met her.’

  ‘Like she wasn’t comfortable in her surroundings?’

  ‘Kind of. And you know the rumour about Clive and Jeremy, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Really? I thought one of the nosy neighbours would have told you.’ Pat leaned forward. ‘There’s a rumour, but it’s never been denied, that Jeremy wasn’t Clive’s son.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Anton said Serena had an affair not long after they were married and fell pregnant. He forgave her and brought up the child as his own.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  Pat shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think I could forgive someone cheating on me.’ She chuckled. ‘Mind you, who’d be mad enough to throw themselves at Anton?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘When he was a strapping twenty-year-old with a full head of hair and a flat stomach, yes, but now? No. I think I’m safe. Would you have forgiven James if he’d had an affair?’

  Matilda looked over to the wedding photo on top of the mantle. ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  ‘There you go then. So, why did Clive forgive Serena?’

  ‘Is Leah his child?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Pat, fancy a job on my team?’

  ‘With you as my boss? Not bloody likely,’ she laughed. ‘Anyway, the reason why I’ve driven out to the middle of nowhere this evening is because I wanted to talk to you about Sally Meagan. This call that she claims to have had from Carl.’

  ‘Claims? You don’t believe her?’

  Pat sighed. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The thing is, there have been no real sightings of Carl for months, the case is going nowhere, and Sally is living on her nerves. She’s getting really desperate.’

  ‘So you think she’s made up this call? Why?’

  ‘Sympathy, maybe. Or maybe she’s wanting to attract attention to keep the case in the public eye. Or maybe she doesn’t know she’s doing it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think she might be losing her grip on reality.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Matilda said. ‘Was Philip there when you went round? What did he say?’

  ‘He wasn’t there.’

  ‘No. I haven’t seen him for months. Every time I’ve gone round he’s always been at one of their restaurants.’

  ‘So Sally is left on her own for her mind to mutate and come up with all kinds of scenarios.’

  ‘It would appear so. What do you think we should do?’

  ‘First of all, we need proof.’ Pat dug around in her bag and pulled out a scrap of paper. ‘This is the number Sally said the call came from. Can you check it out?’

  ‘Of course. I’m guessing it’ll no longer be in use, though.’

  ‘I’m guessing that, too.’

  ‘But that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s Sally making the call.’

  ‘No, but you might be able to triangulate whereabouts the call was made.’

  ‘You’re wasted as a civilian,’ Matilda smiled.

  ‘I know. But South Yorkshire Police couldn’t afford me now,’ she laughed. ‘I’m going to have a word with Philip, see what he thinks about all this. Also, I’d like to wait to see if Sally gets any more calls, and if there’s anyone around to witness it.’

  ‘I really hope she isn’t cracking up,’ Matilda said.

  ‘So do I, but she’s been doing nothing for the past few years but look for Carl. It’s slowly killing her.’

  ‘Shit.’ Matilda put her cup down on the coffee table with a bang. She stood up and walked over to the fireplace. She looked into the flames. The heat stung her eyes and she blinked away the tears that formed.

  Matilda blamed herself for Carl going missing. It was her fault the ransom drop went awry and every time the Meagans were mentioned she remembered that dark time in her life when her husband, James, succumbed to the cancer that was killing him. He died on the day of the ransom drop and Matilda was not focused on anything. The days that followed were now a blur. She remembered nothing of that time. The only reminder was the deep-seated guilt that still rattled around inside her.

  ‘Matilda, you’re not to blame for any of this,’ Pat said. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but you can’t beat yourself up for the way Sally is living her life.’

  ‘She isn’t though, is she?’ Matilda turned around from the fire. Her face was red. ‘She isn’t living. I just keep thinking that she’s going to die a lonely old woman, not knowi
ng what happened to her son.’

  ‘But you can’t go through life tormenting yourself like this. We all make mistakes, errors of judgement. You can’t solve every case.’

  Matilda looked into the deep eyes of former Detective Inspector Pat Campbell. For the first time, she saw a long career of successes, but there was something there, something on Pat’s mind that added a touch of despair to her gaze.

  ‘Which case keeps you awake at night?’ Matilda asked.

  Pat took a deep breath. ‘Do you remember the Pauline Clover murder? Monday, the tenth of April 1989. I’ll never forget that date. She was twenty-eight-years-old. She’d been married for three years and had an eighteen-month-old daughter, Charlotte. Everything in her life was going so well for her. Then, this particular Monday night, she doesn’t return home from work. She was found in Graves Park the next morning. She was literally hacked to pieces.’

  ‘I remember,’ Matilda said.

  ‘We put it down to a random act of violence. We had no suspects, no motive, no witnesses. Pauline Clover keeps me awake at night. I often see her lying there in the middle of the woods. But even after all this time, I don’t blame myself. It was just one of those things that we didn’t catch her killer.’

  ‘But I should have caught Carl’s kidnappers. If my mind wasn’t …’

  ‘No. You can’t say that. You don’t know what would have happened even if your mind was one hundred per cent on the case. You can’t spend the rest of your life feeling guilty.’

  ‘Don’t you feel guilty about Pauline Clover?’

  ‘No. I feel incredibly sad for not finding her killer, but I didn’t kill her. I’ve nothing to feel guilty about. I did everything in my power.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you did. Now, leave Sally to me.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better be off. If I stay out any longer, Anton will think I’ve left him and start leaving the toilet seat up,’ she joked.

  ‘You’ll keep me informed?’

  ‘Of course I will. Promise me you’ll try and get over this self-hatred thing you’ve got going on.’

  ‘I am trying. That’s another reason why I’ve moved. I want to restore some life into myself.’