Page 91 of One Left Alive
‘I really liked Olivia, she was so pretty and always nice to me. Much nicer than Bronte ever was. Honestly that was why I stayed with her. I liked seeing Olivia; I’d always hoped she’d like me the same way she liked Greg.’
Morgan knew she should get him to the station to give a statement, but she was scared he wouldn’t talk once he was in there and she realised she’d drunk two shots of vodka. The room was beginning to spin a little; Christ, what was she doing drinking on an empty stomach? She needed a clear head for this.
‘Bronte felt bad about her mum once she was dead, but it was too late: there was no going back. I think she hadn’t realised the seriousness of the situation. I mean it’s okay talking about this stuff and watching documentaries but when it’s real… She didn’t care about Bea or Saul, she hated them; she said Saul was far too weak for letting Olivia treat him the way she did. Bea was just an inconvenience; she needed her out of the way for her plan to work.’
Morgan realised that would explain the savageness of the beatings, if she felt no love towards her sibling and father. Bronte had many traits of a psychopath.
‘Wow, I would never have guessed.’ The words came out much slower than usual and she felt as if she was talking through a mouthful of cotton wool. She tried to ask him who had attacked Bronte, but the words didn’t come out.
Harrison pulled a white iPhone out of his pocket and placed it on the breakfast bar. A picture of Saul and his two daughters smiling flashed up on the screen and fear filled her mind. Olivia’s phone: she pushed herself to stand up, but her legs couldn’t hold her weight.
Harrison had stopped eating and was watching her, with a huge smile on his face.
‘Bronte… who?’ she managed to say, before she felt her legs give way underneath her.
As she slumped to the floor in a heap, Harrison was standing over her.
‘Morgan, for a copper you’re so gullible. You remind me of Olivia: she was kind like you. Look where being nice has got you, though. Why did you let a killer in your flat? Who do you think did that to Bronte? Me, I did. I’ll tell you why, I was furious with her. Furious with all of them.
‘I thought Olivia loved me and then I saw her in that car park with him and I knew she had to pay the price. Bronte wouldn’t have the nerve to have killed anyone. She was all talk. She didn’t hate her family so much once she realised they were all dead, that I’d taken that decision out of her hands.’
Morgan was on the verge of passing out. She tried to get her phone out of her pocket, but her fingers wouldn’t do what she wanted them to.
Harrison bent down so he was close to her, and she opened her mouth to scream. But the only noise that came out was an almost silent, ‘Agh.’
Fifty-Six
Ben lay on his sofa, watching some documentary about the ancient Egyptians, trying to take his mind off Greg Barker. Something was niggling away at him and he couldn’t think what. As much as he wanted a glass of something strong he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since the night Morgan had found him in a drunken state, contemplating suicide. Instead he’d come home, showered and shaved. Rooting through the cupboards, he found an old bottle of Cindy’s moisturiser and had lathered his face in that. He’d then gone downstairs for some bin bags and done what he’d been putting off for three years.
First of all he cleared everything except the anti-wrinkle cream: he kept that, God knows he needed it. All the dusty shampoo bottles, hair dyes, make-up, face wipes, sanitary towels – he binned the lot, filling two bags. He took them downstairs and put them in the garage. Next, he went into the master bedroom they used to share. It was so dusty in there he grabbed a T-shirt and wrapped it around his face. Dragging her large suitcase off the top of the wardrobe, he opened the doors and began to fill it with her clothes. There were so many it filled the case and another five bags: who needed so much shit? Then he dragged them to the garage; he would take those to a charity shop.
Going back upstairs, he’d bagged all her underwear, then her shoes. He was exhausted by the time he’d finished running up and down the stairs and sweating, his hand throbbed, but it felt good. He then set about dusting, polishing, hoovering and changing the bedding. The windows were open wide and the sound of the heavy rain lashing against the glass soothed his heart while he worked. Even as a kid he got excited when it rained; he loved it.
By the time he’d finished cleaning, the room smelt much nicer, not as stale. When his days off put in an appearance, he’d give it a coat of paint and really freshen it up. Get rid of the ugly pink and yellow flowers.
Three hours it had taken him and another shower, but now as he lay in his lounge watching the television he felt so much better. As if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He loved Cindy, of course he did, and he always would, but it was time to move on. He was still alive; he realised that he should be thankful. He also realised that if he ever plucked up the courage to ask anyone on a date it wouldn’t be much fun bringing her back here to the shrine of Cindy. There was one more thing he needed to do though.
Standing up, he went around the house collecting the framed photos of them on various holidays and their wedding day. These he wouldn’t bin. He found a large box in the garage and put them inside. He wasn’t wiping out her memory; he’d never do that: he’d loved her and she’d been his entire life. They would be there on the days he wanted to remember her, but hopefully those days would get fewer and fewer as he moved on with his life.
As he walked up the stairs to go to bed he looked up at his loft hatch, thinking he could store the photos up there tomorrow. And then it hit him like a brick: the murder weapon Morgan had found was up in the loft. Through that tiny door that she’d had to squeeze through. There was no way on this earth that Barker had managed to climb up there: he wouldn’t fit, he was a big guy. It was impossible. So, either he had an accomplice who could fit or he didn’t kill the Potters.
He rang Morgan. It rang out, looking at his watch, he saw it wasn’t that late. He tried again; this time it went to answerphone. Not once this week had she ignored his calls. A feeling of dread settled in his stomach. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what but all his years in the police had taught him to trust his instinct. He ran into his bedroom and dressed, then realised he didn’t have a car.
He phoned Amy.
‘What now?’
‘I need a lift, can you pick me up?’
‘Ring a taxi.’
‘Amy, now.’
He ended the call and phoned the duty sergeant’s office: no answer. He thought this was probably just as well until he actually got to Morgan’s to see if she was okay. He was pacing up and down his hallway waiting to hear Amy’s horn blare outside; she’d kill him if it was a false alarm, but he’d rather take the risk.
Stan Brookes was suffering bad, the worst kind of affliction a man his age could have. He finished his drink, put his glass on the bar and walked out of the pub. It was late and he was the last person she would want to see, but he had to do this. For days now the guilt of being a total selfish, greedy pig had finally got the better of him. He should be proud of his daughter for choosing a life of serving the Queen and country, not ashamed. His stupid, warped, messed-up, alcohol-addled mind had screwed up his sense of loyalty. He should never have stolen her necklace; he didn’t think he’d ever stooped that low in his entire life. He knew how much she cherished it and he’d taken it from her. She must hate him, but he knew she couldn’t hate him as much as he hated himself.
The rain was hammering down. Good, it was what he deserved. He set off on the walk to Morgan’s flat. If she wouldn’t open the door then he’d apologise through the letterbox. He had to do something to lift this heavy guilt that he was carrying around with him. He thought back to the days when life was different, happier. When he’d come home from work to find Sylvia in the kitchen baking scones and cakes; Morgan would be on the sofa or the old armchair, her nose in a book. She’d been a good kid and he’d never appreciated it, just like Sylvia had been a good wife. He’d had it all and now he had nothing; it was a sobering thought.
