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 wrote WHY? 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