The Murder House

One More Chapter

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Michael Wood 2020

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Michael Wood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008374822

Version: 2020-02-12

To Scout Master Kevin Embleton. Aka Kevin the Beagle.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Epilogue

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgements

Also by Michael Wood

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Monday, 15 January 2018

02.30

Jeremy Mercer couldn’t sleep. The room was spinning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had drunk so much. Still, it wasn’t a regular occurrence. A blow-out once in a while didn’t do any harm. Maybe he should have slowed down though. Looking back, he seemed to have had a glass of champagne in his hand since early evening until he staggered out of the marquee, into the house, and, somehow, managed to crawl upstairs.

He felt sick. He closed his eyes but that seemed to make matters worse. He quickly opened them again and gave a little laugh. He was back in the bedroom he had grown up in, his mother and father asleep in the attic room upstairs.

Jeremy had been sensible in front of his seven-year-old daughter, Rachel, but once she had gone to bed at eight o’clock, he’d let his hair down and allowed his father to continue pouring glass after glass of champagne down his throat.

Today, or rather, yesterday, was a special occasion. His little sister, Leah, had got married. As the fug of alcohol distorted his memory, one image of the happy day stuck out more than others. Just before the ceremony, he had gone into his parents’ bedroom where Leah was getting ready and they’d had a chat.

‘Wow, you look stunning,’ he said. ‘You look so grown up.’

‘Thank you. I can’t stop smiling,’ she said. The floor-length gown was an off-white colour. It was a simple design, but the material was sheer and elegant. It may have sounded like a cliché, but she really did look like a princess. ‘How’s Oliver doing?’

‘He’s fine. His shoes are hurting his ankles.’

The smile dropped. ‘I told him to put wet newspaper in them a few days before the wedding. Well, I don’t care if they cause blisters and he’s in agony for weeks, he’s leading me on that dancefloor.’

Jeremy sat down on the bed. ‘Can you believe this?’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t seem like five minutes ago you and I were in the back garden pushing each other off the swing. Now look at us; you’re getting married and I’ve got a seven-year-old daughter, a mortgage and debts up to my eyeballs.’

‘It’s fun being a grown-up, isn’t it?’ she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Jeremy felt a tug of emotion. ‘I hope you and Oliver will be very happy together,’ he said, a catch in his throat.

‘Don’t make me cry, Jeremy. I don’t want to ruin my make-up.’

‘Sorry. I was just thinking of …’

‘I know. Today can’t be easy for you.’

‘It’s not. But, today isn’t about me. It’s about you.’

‘I’m not looking forward to everyone looking at me in church.’

‘Have you taken your medication?’

‘You’ve asked me that three times already,’ she said.

‘Sorry. I just want your day to be perfect.’

‘And me off my medication would ruin it?’

‘Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean—’

Leah giggled. ‘It’s all right, Jeremy, I know what you meant. Don’t worry. I’m fine. I feel fine.’ She turned to the mirror and looked at her reflection. ‘Well, time I made a move.’

Jeremy stood up, held his sister by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. ‘I love you, Leah.’ He kissed her on the cheek.

‘I love you too, Jeremy. I couldn’t ask for a better brother.’

‘One day, I might give you your Barbie doll heads back.’

‘Then you really will be the best brother ever.’

There was a knock on the bedroom door. It was time to go.

Jeremy pushed back the duvet and staggered out of bed. He needed a drink of water. Or maybe he needed to vomit, he didn’t know which.

Wearing only a T-shirt, boxer shorts, and, for some reason, one sock, he fumbled along the landing. He was tempted to look in on Rachel but didn’t want to wake her. He was sure she was fine. She had Pongo to keep her company.

Gripping the bannister firmly, he looked down the stairs. This must be what mountain climbers see when they’re at the top of Everest; a long and treacherous way down. Each step seemed to reverberate throughout his entire body. Even his hair hurt. He decided, right now, he was never drinking ever again. Well, maybe a glass at New Year. And at Christmas. And on special occasions, but not to excess. Apart from that, he was never drinking ever again. Obviously, he’d have a pint on his birthday, too.

He somehow made it to the bottom of the stairs. He felt a cold draught coming from somewhere and wondered if a window had been left open.

‘Jesus! You scared the life out of me. I thought everyone had gone home.’ Jeremy smiled. The figure in front of him was blurred. He tried to focus his vision, but he couldn’t make out who was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, or even if there was someone there at all.

The figure moved towards him. Jeremy felt a sharp pain in the side of his body. He placed a hand there, looked at it, and saw red. He staggered backwards and fell into the hall table and onto the floor. He looked around, but the figure had gone.

What the hell had just happened?

His T-shirt was turning red. His left hand was red. This didn’t make any sense. It took a while for his brain to make the connection. Then, the pain kicked in. He’d been stabbed.

He heard the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs and the muffled yap of Pongo.

‘Rachel,’ Jeremy uttered.

He scrambled along the hall to the stairs and tried to stand up, but he couldn’t. He reached the bottom of the stairs, put a red-stained hand on the first step, and dragged himself up. It was no use. The life was seeping out of him and he had no energy to pull himself up a whole flight of stairs.

‘Who are you?’ That was his father’s voice. ‘What do you—?’

‘Dad,’ Jeremy whimpered.

His father was cut off from finishing his sentence, and all Jeremy could hear was the sound of gurgling and grunting followed by a heavy thud. Then, more heavy thuds as the figure ran up the next set of stairs to the attic bedroom. A loud piercing scream from two floors up was obviously from his mother.

‘Daddy?’ A pitiful cry from his daughter in the room next to his.

‘Fuck,’ Jeremy said to himself. He tried to stand up but the mixture of alcohol and heavy blood loss made him weak. ‘Rachel, sweetheart, it’s OK. Stay where you are. Don’t come out of your bedroom.’ His voice was slow and sounded like it was coming from someone else.

There was another yap from Pongo.

‘Daddy. I’m scared. What’s happening?’

‘It’s all right. You’re going to be fine. Just stay where you are. I want you to be a big girl for daddy. Can you do that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Rachel. The chair next to your bed, I want you to put it under the handle of your door so nobody can come in.’ His voice was full of urgency. Slumped at the bottom of the stairs, one hand holding onto his side to stem the blood flow, the other trying to pull himself up the stairs. It was futile.

‘Daddy,’ Rachel cried.

‘Rachel, you need to do this. Please.’ He tried to keep the fear out of his voice for his daughter’s sake, but it was no good. He was petrified at what was happening. He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. ‘Let me know when you’ve done it.’

He listened intently but he couldn’t hear any sounds apart from the grandfather clock in the living room.

‘Rachel?’

There was no reply.

‘Rachel?’ He shouted louder.

‘I’ve done it, Daddy,’ Rachel wept.

‘Good girl. Now, get back in bed and Pongo will look after you.’

‘Will you come and look after me, Daddy?’

‘I won’t be long sweetheart. I’m just …’

The figure stood at the top of the stairs looking down at Jeremy. His vision was still slightly blurred but there was no mistaking the amount of blood he was covered in. Jeremy tried to focus, tried to make a mental picture of his image, but it was no use. He had a balaclava covering his face.

‘What have you done?’ Jeremy asked.

The figure disappeared from view.

‘Not my daughter,’ he whimpered. ‘No. Not Rachel. Please. Kill me but leave her alone. Please. She’s only seven.’

The sound of yapping grew louder as the bedroom door was forced open, then a yelp and a whine as Pongo had obviously come to harm.

‘Daddy!’ Rachel screamed.

‘You bastard,’ Jeremy tried to shout. He was struggling to breathe, and tears were streaming down his face. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ he screamed. ‘Fucking kill you!’

With what little energy he had left in his body, Jeremy tried to pull himself up the stairs. It was no use. He had lost so much blood, he was weakening by the minute. He looked around him. The cream-coloured carpet was saturated with his blood.

The figure reappeared at the top of the stairs and slowly began to descend. There was a large knife in his right hand.

‘If you’ve done anything to my daughter. If you’ve hurt her, I promise your life won’t be worth living.’

He looked up and saw the glint from the bloodstained knife. He didn’t feel it enter his neck, but he could taste blood and his breathing became erratic. He looked down and saw his T-shirt turn red as the blood from a ruptured vein pumped out of his rapidly dying body. He tried to speak but he couldn’t. He choked as the knife was slowly pulled out of his neck and let out a small groan of pain as it was plunged into him once again.

As he lay at the bottom of the stairs, he looked up and saw the one-year-old Dalmatian puppy staring down at him. Jeremy smiled. Pongo was Rachel’s best friend. She loved him from the second he brought him home. She often tried to count the spots on his chubby little body, but Pongo was a wriggler, so she never managed to count them all. It wasn’t only black spots Pongo now had; some were red. Blood.

The last thing Jeremy thought of before he died was how do you get blood out of dog fur. He laughed at the implausibility of his thought as he slumped on the stairs and closed his eyes.

Chapter Two

Monday, 15 January 2018

09.30

Sally Meagan stood in the middle of the living room and looked around her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had used this room, sat on the sofa, snuggled up to her husband and watched television with her feet up. The family room. That was a joke. They were no longer a family. How could they be when their only child was still missing?

The life had been drained out of Sally when Carl was taken on the 25th of March 2015. She no longer lived, she could merely exist, until the fate of her son was known. After that … who knew?

The house was empty. As usual, Philip was at one of their restaurants. He’d left before she’d even woken up. He seemed to be leaving the house earlier and getting home later each day. He only used the house to shower, change his clothes and sleep. She hardly saw him anymore. A few weeks before Christmas, when the restaurants were at their busiest, she followed him to one and stood outside, watching him, seeing how he was at work. It was like looking at a total stranger. He was laughing and joking, schmoozing with the customers, smiling, engaging in pointless small talk, dealing with any issues that cropped up, getting on with life as if everything was peaches and cream. Sally couldn’t do that. She tried, but every time she found herself smiling, having fun, or living a seemingly normal life, she remembered Carl was missing, and she hated herself even more for trying to live while goodness knows what was happening to her child.

How could Philip continue with life as if nothing had happened? On that spring day almost three years ago, someone had broken into their home, killed her mother, who was babysitting, and stolen their seven-year-old son. It was a parents’ worse nightmare, and while Sally was still suffering, her husband had returned to normal life.

Maybe it was different for a father. A mother has a stronger bond with her child, as she’s carried him inside her for nine months. Was that it? Was that the reason? Maybe Philip was looking at the bigger picture; without the restaurants, they wouldn’t be able to pay the bills and the mortgage, and they’d have to sell their home. Sally couldn’t allow that to happen. This was Carl’s home.

She went into the kitchen, took out a bottle of vodka from the freezer, and poured herself a large glass. She slugged it back in one and poured another. She didn’t care it wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning yet. She looked down at the golden Labrador who was permanently at her heels.

‘Don’t judge me, Woody,’ she said.

Woody had been bought for Carl’s sixth birthday. He’d been asking for a puppy for years, and they’d finally relented. They loved each other on sight and were inseparable. Woody even slept in Carl’s bedroom. He accompanied them on the walk to school and pulled Sally on the way to pick him up. When he disappeared, Woody felt the effect of the loss. He stopped barking, he lost his bounce, and spent every night on Carl’s bed, pining, sighing, aching for his best friend to return.

Now Sally was home all the time, Woody had latched himself on to her. He didn’t want to lose another member of the household. He followed Sally everywhere. While she was working on the computer in the study to find her son, he sat on the floor by her feet. When she left the room to go to the toilet, he followed, and sat outside the bathroom door until she was finished. At first, it annoyed her, but as time went on, it was comforting. She spoke to Woody all the time, told him her feelings, and fears. She’d sit on the floor with him, his head on her lap, and she cried buckets as she poured her heart out to him. He seemed to understand. She told him things she couldn’t tell anyone, not Philip, not Matilda, and he never judged her. Even now, when she drank to dull the pain, he still looked at her with those big brown eyes and he seemed to sympathize with her.

‘Come on, Woody, let’s check the emails. Fingers and paws crossed, eh?’

The study at the back of the ground floor was the nerve centre for Sally’s campaign in finding her son. She connected with people all over the world who were missing children to offer a shoulder to cry on. She had a website where people could message her with possible sightings, though they were getting fewer and further between. The room was full of files, missing persons posters, copies of the book she had written. Sally spent more time in this room than anywhere else in the house.

She sat down and powered up the computer. Woody assumed the position at her feet, circling a few times before he found the right spot for him.

On the desk were several framed photographs of Carl. She often looked at them, remembered the exact moment when the picture was taken, what they were doing, what she said, what Carl said, and shed a little tear. Why was this happening to them?

Her first job was to check the emails. There were none. This was the ninth day in a row without a new email. Several people had contacted her from Sweden in the past few months with a possible sighting. She wondered if it would be worth going out there, maybe visiting a few schools. Philip and Matilda didn’t think it was such a good idea, and she didn’t fancy going to a strange country on her own.

Last year, a former detective with South Yorkshire Police had done some digging of his own. He had an ulterior motive, of course. He wanted to solve the case DCI Darke couldn’t. What he’d uncovered made no sense to her, but Matilda was working hard to salvage order out of the chaos of paperwork. If only she didn’t have her day-to-day police work getting in the way of finding Carl. It was a selfish thought, Sally knew that, but …

Her mobile rang, making her jump. She didn’t look at the display. She knew it would probably be Philip asking her if she’d made the changes to the menu she had been promising to do for the past week.

‘Hello,’ she answered. Her voice was tired and lacked emotion.

‘Mummy?’

‘Carl?’ Sally shot up out of her seat, frightening Woody. ‘Carl? Is that you?’

‘Mummy?’

‘Oh my God.’ Tears fell from her eyes and she didn’t wipe them away. Her entire body shook with fear, adrenaline. She gripped the phone tighter. ‘Carl, sweetheart, it’s me. It’s your mummy. Where are you?’

Silence.

‘Carl? Carl?’

‘I’m scared, Mummy.’

‘It’s all right, Carl. There’s no need to be scared. I’m here. I’m going to find you. Can you tell me where you are? Look around you. What do you see?’ Her words were tripping over each other as she panicked to find her son.

The line went dead.

‘Carl? Carl? Are you still there? Answer me.’

She looked at the phone, but the call had been disconnected. In the call log, she saw a number she didn’t recognize. It was a mobile number. With a shaking hand, she picked up a pencil and quickly scribbled it down on a scrap of paper. She then looked up her husband’s number and called him.

‘Philip, it’s me,’ she said. She spoke quickly. Her voice was high-pitched. There was an urgency behind it. ‘You need to come home right now. I’ve just had a call from Carl. He’s alive, Philip.’

She looked down at Woody who was sitting bolt upright. His ears were pricked, and his tail was wagging.

‘Carl’s alive.’

Chapter Three

Monday, 15 January 2018

09.45

Rose Bishop diverted from her journey in to work to head for the Mercer house in Fulwood. She had drunk so much at the wedding reception yesterday that she hadn’t realized she had gone home wearing only one shoe. She had tried to call Serena this morning to make sure the shoe wasn’t casually thrown away with all the leftover food and empty bottles, but she wasn’t answering her mobile or the landline.

She pulled up at the top of the drive and trotted down it. She knocked on the door, rang the bell and stepped back, looking up at the house. The curtains were drawn in every room. Serena had been just as drunk as she was, but Clive wasn’t a big drinker. Surely they should have been up and getting ready to go to work by now. She knocked again, louder, and leaned into the door to listen for the sound of footsteps. It was deathly silent.

She went around the back of the house and entered the marquee. Rose vaguely remembered complimenting Serena on how gorgeous and elegant everything looked when she first saw it after the church service, but, looking at it now, you would be forgiven for thinking a group of eight year olds had held a birthday party here. It was a mess. She made her way through the tent, and, surprisingly, she found her shoe on a table near the wedding cake. She picked it up and headed for the house. It would be rude to leave without saying hello.

Rose was shocked to find the back door wide open. Clive and Serena were so security conscious. They wouldn’t have gone to bed and left the house exposed like this. Maybe Clive was already up and had gone out for a newspaper or something.

‘Hello? Clive, Serena, are you up?’ Rose called out from the kitchen. She looked at the remains of the food on the island. She picked up a smoked salmon canape and popped it into her mouth. It was as delicious as she remembered. She had eaten dozens of them. She made a mental note to ask Serena for the recipe.