herself a coffee, she wandered down the high street to the small coffee shop she favoured. Taking her latte with her, she was glad to see the librarian opening the doors.
‘Morning.’
She smiled back at her. ‘Morning, I was wondering if you kept copies of old newspapers.’
‘How old?’
‘The seventies.’ Morgan was praying they did; she needed to find something to warrant her interest in Barker.
‘We do, although most of them have been scanned onto the computer. That’s a popular decade.’
She smiled.
‘Come in and take a seat at one of the computers in the corner, I’ll come and get them up for you in a minute.’
‘Thank you.’
Morgan walked in and felt her whole body relax. She was instantly transported back to her childhood. The library had been her favourite place to hang out; she loved reading more than anything. She sat down, the worries and stresses of the last few days pushed to the back of her mind. Tonight, she’d be taking her baton and cuffs home with her, maybe even her police radio. Better to be prepared should whoever the idiot who was messing around come back. She scanned the paperbacks; it had been ages since she’d lost herself in a book. The last six months had all been nonfiction books about law and order while she’d been in training.
‘Right, let me see.’ The older woman leant over her shoulder and began typing in the search bar. Within a minute she was on the archive pages.
‘Was there any particular year, date you were looking for?’
‘Yes, the murders on Easdale Road in 1975.’
The woman stared at her. ‘What are you, a reporter?’
Morgan shook her head. ‘No, definitely not. I’m a police officer.’
‘Oh, well I hope there’s something here that can help you. If you type it in the search bar it should bring everything up. Shout me if you need anything else.’
‘Thank you.’
The woman walked away to sort out the large pile of books on the desk, leaving her to it. Morgan waited for the articles to load and lost herself reading them, scribbling down notes as she read. Greg Barker’s name was mentioned a few times; there were pictures of him looking haggard despite his youth. A lot of pictures of him: visiting the house to lay flowers at the entrance to the drive; at the funeral, wearing dark glasses and a long black woollen coat, looking more like a Mafia boss than a friend. She finally found what she was looking for in a small column. A police source had confirmed they believed the murderer had lain in wait for the family to come home from an evening celebrating at a restaurant for Jennifer O’Brien’s birthday. The reporter on this case had an inside source; there was no doubt about it. There were pictures from inside the house and on one of them the hall cupboard with the caption ‘Waiting to Slaughter’. These headlines were repeated not only in the Cumbrian News, but the reporter had sold them on to the nationals as well. There were several articles stating that close family friend and business associate Gregory Barker had been helping police with their enquiries. Nothing about being a suspect or arrested, and no other suspects had been singled out either. After an hour of reading everything there was, she slipped her notepad into her handbag and finished her now cold coffee. Standing up, she heard a voice.
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘I did, thank you.’
‘That seems to be the hot topic at the moment.’
‘It is unfortunately.’ She walked to the door then turned back. ‘What did you mean when you said it was a popular decade?’
‘A slight exaggeration on my part. You’re only the second person to ask to look at them.’ She laughed.
‘Do you remember who the first was?’ Morgan crossed her fingers, excited at the thought of there being some connection.
‘I do, it was a teenager. He said he was doing research for a college project. Strange research if you ask me, but it’s not my job to judge. I just loaded them up for him like I did for you.’
‘Do you have his name?’
Morgan felt her stomach begin to churn with excitement; the thought of someone coming here to look up the first murders was a huge coincidence and would explain how they knew about the cupboard.
‘I don’t, sorry, I didn’t ask.’
Her excitement was short-lived. ‘Can you remember when he came in?’
‘About a fortnight ago.’
‘Do you remember what he looked like, was wearing?’