Page 55 of One Left Alive
‘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 whisperedget 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.
