Last Light: An absolutely gripping thriller with unputdownable suspense

by Helen Phifer

  She walked over to the whiteboard, where she’d stuck a photograph of the victim’s face to it and a couple of the crime scene photos. ‘Gather round you lot. I need an ID on her like now.’

  Detective Constable Colin Davey, Lucy’s go-to guy for anything computer related, shuddered.

  ‘That’s a terrible way to die, having your throat cut and bleeding to death upside down. I can’t even begin to imagine the horror of what was going through her mind, and why here, why would anyone choose Brooklyn Bay? It’s not a big city or even that busy for a town.’

  ‘Col, please can you check the intelligence system for me? I’ve sent a global email with a photo of her face asking if anyone can ID her.’

  Col, who was now staring back at his computer monitor, held up his hand. ‘We have an ID; one of the PCSOs has just emailed to say that she looks like a woman called Sandy Kilburn who lives on Bridlington Court. Give me a minute.’ He began tapping on the keyboard. Lucy wanted to kiss Col – having an ID made her life so much easier.

  ‘Here you are, boss, it’s her.’ Crossing the room she looked at the enlarged mugshot on the screen; it was a few years old, but it was definitely their victim.

  ‘God I love it when things go right for a change. Brilliant, so Col, you do the background checks.’ She looked at Mattie, and Rachel who was another of her detectives. ‘Can you two grab CSI and go to her flat? I want it locked down and searched for any evidence.’

  They both nodded. Lucy began to write ‘Sandy Kilburn’ above her photograph in red marker. The overwhelming tiredness she’d felt sitting in the morning meeting had been pushed to one side. Forgotten; now they had viable information and an ID, they were closer to finding whoever was responsible. Somebody had to know something. As Mattie and Rachel stood up she turned to face them.

  ‘Oh, and the DCI’s mum’s decapitated cat needs looking at.’

  There was a loud groan and several head-shakes.

  ‘Seeing as how Detective Sergeant Browning is late, he can have the dead cat.’

  Browning walked in just as she’d finished speaking, and Lucy waved him over.

  ‘That was good timing. We have a murder enquiry on the go, and there’s a dead cat waiting for you to look at.’

  ‘What’s a dead cat got to do with me? Give it to some nice, keen student on section or a PCSO – they love that kind of stuff.’

  ‘I would if it wasn’t the boss’s mum’s beloved cat. Its head’s been hacked off and left on her front doorstep; she’s very upset.’

  Browning grimaced. ‘I’m very upset; I don’t like cats.’

  ‘The boss has it in his head that the victim found last night in the burnt-out church was killed by a devil worshipper. I don’t want anyone saying we didn’t check the dead cat to make sure it wasn’t another sacrifice to Satan.’

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’m being serious. If there are any satanic symbols or candles then call CSI out to photograph the scene. I need someone with a bit more experience to assess the situation and that’s you.’

  ‘Bloody hell, what’s happened? I feel as if I’ve stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone.’

  ‘Look, I don’t really believe it either. Hopefully there won’t be anything to suggest it’s anything more than a neighbour with a grudge.’

  He shook his head in disbelief, turning to walk back down the stairs. Lucy wondered what had put him in such a bad mood so early in the day: she hadn’t meant he had to go right now.

  She went into her office and closed the door, needing five minutes to clear her head. Her mobile began to ring; glancing at the number, she wondered if she should answer. No doubt it would be some drama. It didn’t stop, so she picked it up.

  ‘Morning, Ellie.’

  ‘Did you tell Dad I couldn’t go to Maisie’s party tonight?’

  Her daughter’s voice echoed down the phone and she knew she should have ignored the call.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why! You didn’t go to school all week and spent most of it in that shithole of a cellar at the youth club. Not to mention you broke into the bloody cellar in the first place. There are laws against that kind of behaviour, Ellie.’

  ‘I hate you.’

  The line went dead, and Lucy sighed. ‘Yes, I know you do.’ She’d had no idea being the parent of a teenage girl would be quite this traumatic. She’d been ready for the mood swings and attitude, something which had marred her own teenage years. She hadn’t been ready for the lies and borderline criminal behaviour, not to mention the drinking and manipulation. Ellie was spending a couple of nights at her dad’s. Lucy was well aware that Ellie was trying to push her luck with the both of them. She’d only recently split up with George, and already their daughter had figured out that it might not be a bad thing, realising that she could play them off against each other to her advantage, which she supposed any teenager in the same situation would do. As frustrating as her attitude was, Lucy loved her more than life itself.

  There was a knock on her door and she waved Col in. He handed her a sheaf of papers still warm from the printer.

  ‘Sandy Kilburn has quite a dossier; she has previous for drunk and disorderly, assault, sex in a public place, shoplifting. It’s all there for you to read.’

  ‘Thanks, Col, at least it gives us something to work with.’

  He nodded. ‘Yep, you can say that again.’

  Closing the door, Lucy wondered if this was some kind of revenge killing. Revenge for what though? What could Sandy have done to have made another person so angry with her that they wanted to leave her in the burnt-out shell of a church, bleeding to death on a makeshift crucifix?

  Chapter Four

  Browning parked the unmarked Ford Focus outside the tired-looking semi. He’d imagined the boss’s mother living in one of those new retirement flats on the seafront. Not sure what he was going to do with a decapitated cat, he sighed. Getting out of the car he pushed open the rickety gate and walked up the uneven brick path. The weeds were winning the battle for this garden, which was a shame. A selection of rose bushes sported some beautiful blooms despite being strangled by copious amounts of bindweed running through them. He didn’t care much for the organic stuff; he much preferred a short blast of chemicals to do the job. As he approached the front step his eyes fixated on the bloodied corpse of the headless cat. She could have at least covered it with a bin bag or something. It was lying there in all its stiff, dead glory for the world to see. He looked around for its head and was taken aback to see it sitting in a plant pot as if it was a prize flower that had been nurtured and grown for display. He felt his stomach lurch. The poor bastard was staring right at him, its green eyes now covered with a milky film. Browning shuddered. Normally it was the cat who was the hunter – who had decided to turn the table and hunt the cat? There were no satanic symbols or anything else to suggest devil worship.

  ‘He was such a good boy, who would do such a thing?’

  Browning tore his gaze away from the cat and looked up to see the old woman dabbing her eyes with the corner of a tissue.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. It’s horrible. I’m Detective Sergeant Peter Browning, Tom asked me to come. Should we go inside for a chat?’

  She turned and he followed her inside, relieved to not have to stare at the abomination any longer, although someone was going to have to scoop its sorry arse into a bin bag to get rid of it. She led him into a living room which was an explosion of eighties floral and striped paper, the bright yellow faded enough he was thankful he didn’t have to shield his eyes from the glare. It was messy, nothing like he’d expected, and in the corner on the floor was a place mat containing bowls of dry cat biscuits and water. He tried not to draw attention to them. The woman was still wiping her eyes with a tissue. She pointed to the gap on the sofa next to a pile of People’s Friend magazines, and a stack of newspapers which were yellow and turned up at the corners. He n
ever imagined the boss would let his mother live like this. It wasn’t dirty, just cluttered and full of junk. He squeezed his bulk into the space and waited for her to sit down in the chair opposite him.

  ‘I really thought that Tom would have come himself. I suppose he’s too busy. He’s always at some kind of meeting; if they held a meeting about the sky turning grey when it rained he’d probably be there.’

  She began to chat away about the weather and the price of milk.

  He smiled at her. ‘Mrs Crowe, can we talk about the cat?’

  ‘Please, call me Margaret. The cat? Oh yes, you mean Mr Biscuit. Who would do such a thing to him? He’s a friendly little thing, so trusting he would let anyone stroke him.’

  ‘I don’t know, it’s very cruel, whoever it is. Have you fallen out with any neighbours recently?’

  ‘No, I have not. I’m too old to be falling out with my neighbours. I talk to everyone, even the ones I don’t like. That couple next door but one is always arguing in the street and having noisy parties, but I still speak to them. I don’t hold grudges.’

  ‘Are there any kids, teenagers you might have shouted at because they’ve been a nuisance lately? You know the annoying ones who always play football outside your house when you’re trying to watch the television?’

  She shook her head. ‘I love kids, I even love teenagers. We were all that age once. They get a tough time. I don’t shout at them. They have to play somewhere, and the kids in this street are pretty good to be honest. I pretty much keep myself to myself, it’s the best way.’

  ‘Well, I’ll look into it for you. I’ll make some enquiries. What are you going to do about Mr Biscuit?’ Browning felt himself cringe, his fingers crossed behind his back.

  ‘I don’t know. I asked Thomas to come and sort him out for me. I didn’t expect him to send someone else. That’s just typical of him – he will find any excuse not to come here and visit his mum.’

  ‘Erm, would you like me to take him with me? The CSIs might want to take a look at him?’

  He knew fine well what the response from Jack or Amanda would be if he walked in with a dead, decapitated cat and it would more than likely end in off.

  ‘Could you do that? I don’t really want to have to dig a hole and bury him, my knees won’t stand for it. They ache so much.’

  ‘Have you got a bin bag?’

  ‘You can’t put Mr Biscuit in a bin bag, he won’t like that. Haven’t you got one of those paper sacks they use on CSI?’

  Browning felt his jaw drop; Lucy owed him big time for this. Not only did he have to deal with Loopy Lou, she expected him to bag up the dead cat and take it with him.

  ‘I’ll just go and see if there’s one in the car.’ He stood up, his cheeks burning. That pack of wankers would all be tucking into their breakfasts and he was here trying to find something to scoop up a dead cat with. He had a good mind to dump it on the boss’s desk so she could sort it out.

  He opened the boot of the car and found a plastic evidence bag. Tugging on two pairs of latex gloves, he grabbed another bag. Storming back towards the dead cat, grimacing, he bent down, picking the cat up by its tail. He shoved it into the plastic bag, then, grabbing its head by its ear, put that in the bag too. Sealing the bag, he stripped off the gloves and threw them into the overflowing wheelie bin. Then he threw the bag into the boot of the car, slamming it shut.

  He went back into the house where the old woman was now frying bacon.

  ‘Margaret, I have to go now. I’ve got your cat. I’ll let the CSIs take a look at him.’

  She waved the spatula in the air. ‘Thank you, what a nice man you are. I’ll tell Tom you’ve been very helpful. Try and find the brute who hurt Mr Biscuit, won’t you? Would you like a bacon sandwich before you leave?’

  He shook his head. Hungry as he was, after handling that manky cat he didn’t think he could face eating anything just yet, and for all he knew she might have been touching it with her bare hands. He shuddered at the thought.

  ‘No, thank you. I’ll be in touch if I find anything of any value.’

  He turned, leaving her to it, wondering how often Tom visited her. If you asked his opinion Margaret should be in a retirement home, being looked after. That’s where his mum would be if she was still alive – being looked after and not having to worry about some nutter killing her pet.

  He drove back to the station, to the tune of his phone ringing all the way. As he parked up in the back yard he answered it to his flustered wife, who began shouting at him. Hauling himself out of the car, he began walking to the station, the dead cat all but forgotten about as he began shouting back at her as she continued their earlier argument.

  Chapter Five

  December 1987

  The wet sound of skin slapping against skin was so loud it broke him from the daze he was in. He was lost in the world of ‘The Bash Street Kids’, tucked under his bedcovers, reading with his torch because it was late. He heard the noise from his bedroom, which was at the opposite end of the hall to his parents. He had cried so much when his mother had made him move from the nursery next to their room and into this one, not realising at the time she was doing it for his benefit. He’d cried like a baby despite being eight years old, not wanting to be so far away from her, and she’d begged him to be a big boy. Promising to buy him new comics every week, the ones his father wouldn’t let him read because he didn’t agree with them. She wasn’t allowed to go out of the house unless it was to go shopping or for his father’s daily paper. Some of the other kids at school had mums who worked at the shoe factory. He’d heard her pleading with him last week to let her get a job there to help pay the bills, but of course that had led to another beating. Now, when he heard the all-too-familiar muffled cry as his mother tried to hold the pain inside so he couldn’t hear her, it made him flinch. Every single time it happened she tried to hide it from him, the cuts and bruises. The broken jewellery, the clumps of missing hair, and heavy eye make-up she’d take up wearing after a beating. He knew she was trying to protect him from the horrors she suffered, but he knew exactly what went on behind their bedroom door. He heard the sound carry along the draughty hallway. Whenever it happened his father’s angry voice filled the air. Not quite a shout, but too loud to be considered a whisper.

  ‘“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”’

  The silence filled the air more than the noise. He knew he would be there, standing over his mum with his hands together as if in prayer. Taking the same stance as Father Vincent did every Sunday in church. Only Father Vincent wasn’t scary like his dad, who would demand she repeat the words after him. He knew this verse, and many others, off by heart because his father wouldn’t let him read about naughty school kids having adventures with their friends. Instead he made him read and memorise the different passages of the Bible. This in his opinion was far worse than Dennis the Menace could ever be. It was all bloodthirsty fights and scary stories of burning bushes and the sea parting. This particular favourite of his father’s was from 1 John 1: 9. The sound of another slap filled the air, and he buried his head under his pillow. Squeezing his eyes tight shut, trying to force himself to go to sleep because there was nothing he could do to help.

  ‘I said: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness”. What are you waiting for woman? You can still speak, can’t you? I saw the way you smiled at that man who delivered the post today. I know what you were thinking. This is your last chance to come clean and make it known in front of God and me that you didn’t have any impure thoughts.’

  Her sob filled the air. ‘I smiled at him because it’s polite. I wasn’t thinking anything except thank you for bringing the letters.’

  ‘Then say the words and we can move on, woman. You need to absolve your sins and admit your sinful behaviour.’

  She whispered the words, and he silently
mouthed them in unison with her, begging her not to get it wrong or to say anything else, because he knew the bastard would keep on hitting her until she got it right. When she finished the sentence, he let out the breath he was holding. If he came in here and found him awake, he would beat him as well. He’d done it so many times before he couldn’t keep count. He wanted more than anything to run in there and protect her, but the last time he tried it hadn’t gone to plan. Instead of him stopping at the shame of being caught, his father had turned his anger on him. Beating him black and blue – the bruises had taken for ever to fade to yellow and his body had ached for days after. His mother had cried for hours over his cuts and bruises then had made him promise never to interfere in whatever happened behind their bedroom door again, and he’d promised. Unable to leave the house, he had been kept off school until the marks disappeared. Missing his first speaking part in the end of term assembly, his mother had cried more about him being hurt and not being able to take part in that than for the beating she’d taken.

  He knew what was coming next and he hated this part even more. He’d rather listen to the endless Bible verses than this. A sob so loud he imagined it shook his bed carried along the hallway; it was always like this and he hated him. The anger, the beating, the preaching, the crying and then the begging for forgiveness. His mother, who was terrified of his father, would soothe him as if he was the one who was hurting – it was all so wrong. His small, chubby hands curled into tight fists. One day he would be big enough to punch him back. He would hit him again and again. Nothing would feel better than watching him curl up on the floor in a ball and cry, like he made his mother. Then he’d be sorry, because he was pretty sure God wouldn’t help him. He wondered what verse he could shout as he buried his fists into his nose and face. He wouldn’t hit him where the bruises wouldn’t show. He’d hit him everywhere they would; he wanted people to know what a bastard his father really was. If the Father could see him now he wouldn’t welcome him with open arms into the church or laugh and joke with him. He wouldn’t want anything to do with him, and who would blame him.