Page 46 of One Left Alive
Unscrewing the cap on the bottle, he poured enough to almost fill the small glass, lifted it to his lips and swallowed it in one gulp. It burnt the back of his throat and he began to cough as it warmed up his insides. Refilling it, he held the glass up:to you, Cindy, wherever you are. I miss you and I’m sorry I messed everything up.
Tears flowed freely down his cheeks now; pent-up months of sadness, guilt and grief poured out of him. He drank again and again, not caring that he might pass out and end up sleeping semi-naked on the floor. All he wanted was to forget it all. The last two years he’d finished up sitting at the kitchen table, every pill from every pot lying across it in a long line. He’d stared at them, willing himself to do it. To take them one by one until he overdosed and sank into unconsciousness; every year he’d failed, waking up in the morning usually to find them strewn across the floor.
He was a lot of things, but brave enough to take his own life on his darkest days, no, he couldn’t even do that.
Thirty
Morgan dragged the cushions off the chair onto the floor, then she opened the file she’d brought home with her. It crossed her mind that she probably shouldn’t have brought it home with her. But then again, she’d been the one to spend the best part of an hour in a pigeon-shit-filled attic searching for it. It was hers for the time being. She was in charge of looking into this case so who was going to shout at her? She had a large glass of wine and a bag of chilli Doritos, perfect supper. She also had a notebook and pen. Taking the small packet of photographs out first, she began to flick through them. They were bad, worse than the Potters’ crime scene. The house looked a lot different, old-fashioned despite it being a relatively new build.
She’d done a search and found that it had been built in the early seventies. The previous house had been a tiny stone cottage that was falling to pieces. The O’Briens had bought the land, demolished the original and built their much bigger property in its place. She sipped the wine, as she studied each photo. Since her early teenage years she’d wanted to be a cop, well a detective, and had loved the US TV shows that used to play. When she’d applied to be an officer, she’d been told it would be a long, hard slog to make a detective. She hadn’t even completed her first week and here she was up to her neck in violent murders and trying to solve cold cases.
She laid the photographs into what she assumed was the order they’d been taken in. A shot of the house from outside, nothing out of the ordinary, just a nice house in a peaceful part of England. Inside the entrance hall again it looked normal, no tell-tale sign of what the photographer was about to uncover. The stairs had dark streaks on the walls, though, that went all the way to the top. There was a picture of the hallway, where the first body lay. Then a close-up of that body. It had a piece of heavily bloodstained cloth covering the face. She sat up straight, her spine rigid and stared at the photograph. The cloth looked almost identical to the ones used to cover the Potters’ faces. Whoever killed the Potters knew about the O’Briens’ murders and was copying their crime scene. She knew this body was a man by the striped, button-down pyjamas. One leather moccasin slipper was on the right foot; the left foot was bare, with drops of blood on it. There was a trail of blood along the wall here, as if whoever had done this had put their hands in it and smeared it along the pristine, white walls for effect. She scribbled in her notebook:dramatic scene, blood handprints all along the white walls.Why?
The next photograph was of a bedroom. It was painted a pale yellow and on first glance it looked as if the walls had been speckled with a dark red paint. She held the picture closer; it wasn’t paint. It was blood. The next one showed the bodies of two children on the floor, their heads caved in. The same cloths covered their faces. Morgan let out a small gasp. They looked so small and helpless; what an awful way to die. She stared in horror at the images that were forever burned into her mind. How did you get used to this? she wondered, and if you did, what kind of a person did that make you? Forcing herself to put the picture down, she put that one to the side, just out of view.
The rest of the upstairs was normal or as normal as it could be considering an entire family had been murdered in cold blood. Had Jason O’Brien died trying to defend his daughters, she wondered or did the killer let him see them lying there smashed to pieces before killing him? She shuddered; it was too horrid to contemplate. More photos of the downstairs: the lounge, dining room, an office were all intact, until it got to the kitchen which was another total bloodbath. This must be Jennifer, wife and mother. Again her head was severely beaten and there was a large pool of blood on the white, tiled floor.
She glanced at the other two photos of the bodies. They were lying on thick carpet so the blood didn’t look as horrific on those. It would have soaked into the pile. The tiled floors made it look as if a small lake of blood had flowed from Jennifer’s head. Her face was covered like the rest of her family. Morgan found her fingers reaching up for her beloved necklace, which was her source of comfort whenever things got too much for her and realised it was gone.Fuck you, Stan, I hope to God you choke to death on the vomit from the alcohol you bought with my necklace.
She did the next best thing and downed the rest of the wine. She put the picture with the ones of her children and husband. Picked up her notebook and wroteWHY?in capital letters. Why had someone killed this family? Why had another family been killed in the same manner, and in the same house, forty-five years later? Could it be the same killer? She began scribbling furiously.
Are the families connected?
What did Jason and Saul do for a living?
Murder weapons?
Meaning of cloths on face, same material in both sets of murders?
What is the significance of the house?
Motive?
Both families had two daughters, any significance?
Picking up the photos of the house that weren’t actually gory, she studied them carefully, looking for something. On the one of the landing there was a large, built-in cupboard, and the door was slightly ajar as if it hadn’t been closed properly. She scanned the other photos to see if any other doors weren’t shut properly. Every single one was closed; even the kitchen cupboards and drawers were shut tight. She stared at that cupboard. It was large enough for a person to hide in. The perfect place for a killer to lie in wait for their victims to come home and catch them unaware. She double-checked: all of the victims were in their nightwear, ready for bed. At their most vulnerable and unprepared for an attack.
Was that cupboard still there? She couldn’t remember, and if it was, maybe they could still get evidence from it. She needed to speak to Ben. She had no doubt he would want to know about the similarities. If she was in charge she would. Grabbing her phone, she rang him, but it went straight to voicemail; instead she rang the station. No one answered in the office either, which left her with one option.
She phoned the control room at headquarters and asked for Ben’s address, telling them she had an urgent file to deliver to him. They looked it up and in minutes she pulled a hoody over the top of her pyjamas, slipped on a pair of battered Nike trainers and was in the car typing his postcode into the sat nav. She was glad she’d only had the one glass of wine and not finished the bottle before she had this brainwave. It did cross her mind that it was the wine making her act so impulsively, but she dismissed it. She was on a mission to find a killer and this was important.
Thirty-One
She parked outside the large Victorian detached house her sat nav had directed her to and nodded in admiration. It was a bit unloved for all its promise, though; the garden was overgrown and the gate looked as if it would fall to bits if you pushed it too hard. It was wedged open. She made her way up the tiled path to the front door and rang the bell. It echoed around the inside but she didn’t hear footsteps. Ben’s car was parked on the drive so he was home. Maybe he’d gone to bed, but it wasn’t that late.
She peered through the bay window into an empty room. The only thing inside was a Chesterfield sofa. She knocked on the door, there was still no answer. Opening the letterbox, she saw a light on at the far end of the hall. He must be at the back of the house. She slipped through the side gate and walked around to the rear. This garden was huge and even more overgrown than the front. It was the perfect family home; she’d love a house like this. Renovating it would be a dream.
As she looked through the large window, she could see Ben sitting at the kitchen table., she stepped back. He had an almost empty bottle of whisky in front of him and a row of white tablets. Her heart began to race and she felt bad for intruding. No idea what was wrong with him or why he’d be looking at the pills, she hammered on the back door, he didn’t answer so she knocked on the window.
His face appeared at the glass, looking out into the darkness and she realised he might not be able to see her. He must have seen something, though, because she heard his muffled voice through the glass as he shouted: ‘Piss off.’ Then pulled the blind down.
Morgan felt the fear inside her turn to a fiery ball of anger. How dare he? She only wanted to speak to him. She pushed the kitchen door handle; it didn’t move. She had a deep-seated fear that he was going to do something stupid, so she ran around the front and tried that handle too. It didn’t budge.
Unsure what to do, but knowing she’d better do something, she looked for something to throw at the window and spied a crumbling house brick. Picking it up, she raced around the back again.
‘It’s Morgan, open the door.’
No answer. She didn’t want to ring for backup to come and help her. Ben would kill her and wouldn’t thank her for the intrusion. Taking a step back, she pulled her arm back and launched it at the smallest pane of glass in the kitchen window. The sound of cracking filled the air followed by the Ben’s voice.
