One Left Alive: A heart-stopping and gripping crime thriller (Detective Morgan Brookes Book 1)

by Helen Phifer

  ‘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.

  Twenty-five minutes later he turned into the drive of the fancy house Morgan rented the ground floor flat in. She was awake because all of her lights were on; that was good. He pressed the doorbell and heard the chime echo around the communal hallway. She didn’t answer. He realised it was late, and if he had credit on his phone he’d have phoned her and asked her to let him in.

  Trudging around to the huge window that looked into her lounge, he pressed his face against the glass and saw a scene out of a horror film. There was a teenage boy in there, Morgan was on the floor and she looked… Oh God, his heart began to race. She wasn’t moving. His hands were shaking; he couldn’t get in to help her.

  Pulling out his ancient Nokia, he dialled 999 – thank God that was free – and asked for police.

  ‘You have to come, I think he’s trying to kill her.’

  ‘What’s the address, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know the name, it’s a large house on Singleton Park Road; it’s turned into flats. You have to hurry, I can’t get in to help her.’ He ended the call.

  The teenager was looping a length of fabric around Morgan’s neck. Stan hammered on the glass, startling him, and he rushed to look outside. Stan realised it was difficult because her lights were on and he stepped to one side so he couldn’t see him. The teenager drew the curtains across, blocking his view of what was happening inside and a sense of panic filled his chest. Looking around, he spied a huge rockery stone; that would do it.

  The rock was slippery with the rain and coated with moss, but he managed to heave it up.

  Stumbling forwards towards the window, he lifted it as high as he could and launched it at the glass. The sound as it cracked against the glass was ear-splitting and then shards of glass were flying everywhere. O
ne embedded itself in his cheek, and he tore it out, not caring, and threw himself through the jagged, gaping hole. Landing heavily on one leg with a crash on the other side, he felt a sharp pain as another shard of glass sliced through the paper-thin flesh.

  But they’d gone.

  The front door was open and he pulled himself up, limping towards it.

  Dripping rainwater and blood everywhere, he followed them out into the communal area.

  Fifty-Seven

  Amy drove fast on a good day, but tonight she was reckless and Ben was grateful to her for getting to his in a matter of minutes. They didn’t speak. His hands were shaking as he repeatedly tried to phone Morgan.

  ‘Boss, ring it in.’

  ‘What if it’s nothing and I’m freaking out?’

  ‘Then you have to live with the shame for a couple of days. No biggie, you’ve done worse.’

  He dialled 999. ‘It’s DS Matthews, I need backup at 1 Singleton Park Road. Concern for welfare.’

  ‘We already have a patrol on its way. We had a request a couple of minutes ago.’

  ‘By who, the occupant?’

  ‘A man, he hung up without giving his details.’

  Amy looked at Ben, shaking her head. ‘Shit.’ She put her foot down and drove even faster.

  Before they knew it she was speeding through the drive, gravel underneath her tyres spraying everywhere. There was a gaping hole where Morgan’s huge window had been. Ben got out and ran towards it, Amy following behind. The howling wind and rain were making the curtains flap in and out of the broken window. He pushed one to the side to go in.

  ‘Careful, boss, someone has already hurt themselves.’

  He looked down to where she was pointing, to see a trail of bright red blood, and his stomach clenched so hard he thought he was going to be sick. Then he was inside, stepping around the blood. There was shouting coming from the hallway. Sirens could be heard in the background and Ben was glad he’d phoned.

  As he stepped into the hall he was greeted by utter carnage. Morgan’s lifeless body was hanging from the wooden balustrade leading up to the first floor, and at the bottom of the stairs a badly bleeding Stan was grappling with Harrison Wright.

  Amy ran up the stairs to grab Morgan’s arms and Ben put his shoulders under her feet, taking the weight off the noose around her neck. Amy deftly untied the knot and lowered her onto Ben’s shoulders.

  ‘Have you got her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She ran down the stairs as two officers ran out of Morgan’s front door. They looked at the carnage and ran to where Harrison was still trying to get away from Stan. Amy helped Ben lower Morgan to the ground. She shouted at the officers who had separated the two fighting men. ‘Ambulance now.’

  ‘On its way.’

  Ben pressed two fingers against the side of Morgan’s neck; she still had a pulse.

  ‘Is she breathing?’ Amy asked desperately.

  He couldn’t speak but gave Amy a thumbs up. Gathering Morgan up into his arms he sat on the floor cradling her.

  Both Harrison and Stan were in cuffs. Stan was bleeding heavily and pulling to get to Morgan.

  ‘Is she alive?’

  Ben nodded.

  Stan turned to try to get to Harrison. ‘I’ll kill you, you bastard.’

  The officer holding Stan pulled him away from Harrison. Ben looked at them.

  He pointed to Harrison. ‘Get him in the cage now. And uncuff the other guy.’

  ‘Are you sure, boss?’

  ‘Yes, he’s her dad.’

  The officer mumbled an apology to Stan and released the cuffs. Stan lurched forwards, falling to his knees. He reached Morgan and tugged her necklace out of his pocket, passing it to Ben.

  ‘Give her this when she wakes up and tell her I’m sorry, I love her.’

  Amy turned away. Ben saw the tears in her eyes. More sirens and then hammering on the front door. She ran to open it, relieved to see the paramedics. Both of them rushed towards Stan and Morgan.

  ‘You can tell her yourself you love her, Stan, you owe her that.’ Ben clasped her necklace in his hand. ‘But thank you.’

  Stan’s eyes closed and he sank back against the stairs. The paramedic requested another ambulance. One of them began to work on Stan, applying pressure pads to the deep wounds; the other began to check Morgan over. Lifting her eyelids, he slid a pulse oximeter on her finger.

  Ben held her as gently as he could and didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want to lose her; he’d only known her for a short time and yet she’d changed his life completely. He didn’t care if she didn’t feel the way he felt about her; being her friend was enough for him. He could live with that; he’d settle for anything. He didn’t realise he was crying until the second ambulance arrived and the paramedics brought a trolley in to lift her on to. Stan was already in the first and on his way to the hospital; Morgan would soon be following.

  Amy passed him some rolled-up tissue. ‘You go with her; I’ll sort this mess out.’

  ‘Thanks, Amy.’

  He followed the paramedics out and climbed into the back of the ambulance. He’d stay with her until she woke up and was only leaving if she told him to.

  Morgan had been put in a side cubicle. Despite the bruising around her neck she was breathing unaided. Ben had told them he suspected she may have been drugged and they were waiting for the results of her blood tests to come back. Despite being squeezed onto the hardest, most uncomfortable chair for the last couple of hours, he found his eyes were closing; he was desperate for sleep. As he drifted off, he heard his name being called.

  ‘Ben.’

  His eyes opened. Morgan was staring at him.

  ‘What time is it?’

  He frowned and looked at his watch.

  ‘Four twenty-five,’ they said in unison, her voice a hoarse whisper.

  She smiled at him. ‘Bloody insomnia; even when I’m stoned, I still wake up at that time.’

  He leant forward and clasped her hand. ‘I was so worried about you.’

  ‘You were?’

  He nodded. Pressing the necklace into her hand, he let go. She lifted it up and a single tear trickled from the corner of her eye.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Stan came through, he brought your necklace back and saved your life.’

  She tried to sit up. ‘He did?’

  ‘He did, he turned up to give it to you himself. I haven’t got the whole story off him yet because he hurt himself pretty bad in the process of trying to save your life.’

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘Bruised, lost a lot of blood but yeah. He did good. I know where you get it from now.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dramatic entrances: wait until you see the state of your flat. He only went and threw a boulder through your picture windows.’

  Despite the seriousness of the situation they both began to laugh, a little too loud for the emergency department, but they couldn’t help it, and Ben realised he liked the sound of her laughter a lot more than anything else.

  Fifty-Eight

  One Week Later

  Morgan stared at her reflection; she was ready to go back to work. The DCI had insisted she take some time off, but she was already bored and sitting home on her own didn’t help. Apart from the couple of times she’d visited Stan in the hospital, she hadn’t been out of her flat. Ben had done a good job of getting the window repaired and the flat cleaned up before she’d returned. She hadn’t seen the mess or the blood because she’d been unconscious by the time Stan had made his heroic attempt to save her life. Who’d have thought it, after all this time he’d finally shown her he really did care and she was grateful to him. Her fingers reached up and touched the crescent moon necklace he’d brought back for her. It would take a lot of time to repair their fractured relationship, but at least they were both speaking to each other and she would accept that. She tugged a black roll-neck jumper over her head to hide the fading ring of bruising around her neck
that was still visible. She didn’t want people to stare at her. For seven days she had been forced to lie around doing nothing; she was bored beyond belief and eager to get back to work.

  Inside the station she crept up the back stairs, avoiding the parade room and the officers in it. She reached the office which she’d been given and pushed the heavy wooden door open. Flipping the switch, a small ‘Oh’ escaped her lips. The desk and computer she’d been given were gone, along with the case notes. The realisation that she’d been moved out of Ben’s team so fast stung. She leaned against the door frame; at least she could hold her head up high when she re-joined her shift downstairs. Even if she said so herself, she’d done a pretty respectable job in the short time she’d been up here. Two killers had been remanded and were behind bars thanks to her. An overwhelming feeling of sadness for the life she could have led overcame her; realising she’d been so dispensable hurt a lot more than the injuries she’d suffered. Not once when Ben had visited had he told her she was no longer needed, and she’d thought they were friends.

  Determined not to let anyone see how devastated she was, she strode along the corridor. Pushing open the door that led into the CID office, about to tell him where he could shove his attachment, her mouth fell open. There in the corner on the desk she’d used a couple of times was her stuff; a foil banner was draped across the desk, the words ‘Welcome Home’ emblazoned across it. A bunch of blue helium balloons hovered above the computer and her whiteboard with all her notes on it had been fastened to the wall behind it. Amy, Ben and a few others began to clap and in unison shouted ‘Surprise!’

  For once Morgan was truly speechless. After a few moments she found her voice and looked at Ben.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  He grinned. ‘Is that desk okay? Sorry about the balloons, they didn’t have any pink ones, but I figured you wouldn’t care what colour they were. Oh, and that was the only banner they had as well, but it’s the thought that counts.’