Dark House

by Helen Phifer

Genres: Police Procedurals; Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

A shadowy figure in the dark was dragging something heavy behind them. Lizzy pulled the covers over her head, then realised what was being dragged... For years, the Moore Asylum housed the forgotten children of Brooklyn Bay. But now, a man is found murdered in the derelict building, strapped to a steel trolley, launching a heart-racing investigation for Detective Lucy Harwin. Lucy quickly discovers the victim was once a Moore Asylum doctor, and when a woman also linked to the home is killed on her doorstep, Lucy knows she must dig into its history. What dark secrets lie within the asylum’s walls – what was the scandal leading to its closure thirty years ago? With her own demons to fight, Lucy starts to uncover the heartbreaking tale of the Moore Asylum children, and begins to wonder: who will be the next victim? A gripping serial killer thriller that will chill readers of MJ Arlidge, Angela Marsons and Rachel Abbott to the bone. Previously published as The Lost Children See what readers are saying about Dark House : ‘I really enjoyed this book, the writing is engaging, honest and believable… I devoured it over 2 evenings and I stayed up until WAY past my bedtime on the first night because I didn't want to put it down!’ Urban Sapphire ‘ What a book! I really enjoyed reading this…What better place to set a chiller thriller than an old asylum full of atmosphere and old ghosts? If only the walls could tell stories and in this case, they do.’ Mrs Bloggs Books ‘There are many different and unusual twists and turns throughout the story that keeps the reader totally gripped…Well worth the 5 stars.’ All Things Books ‘A mesmerising story…If you like LJ Ross, Mark Billingham, and Jo Nesbo, you’ll love this.’ Avid Reviewer ‘This crime thriller stands out from many of the others on the shelves today…I loved the story. I loved the characters. I loved the setting. I loved the fact that it was written by somebody who works in the police, so all of the phrases and techniques are current and accurate’ Nigel Adams’ Book Worm ‘The character is believable and the storyline is dynamite. I’m very much looking forward to the next instalment.’ For the Love of Books ‘The story was gripping and I ended the book needing more! I can’t wait to read what is Lucy up to next. I would definitely recommend this book if you like police series.’ Bookneeders ‘The book was wonderfully paced, the characters are introduced as the plot moves along so you’re straight into the action from the beginning… Would I recommend it? Absolutely yes. ’ Sarah Withers Blog ‘ I loved this book - I can’t wait for the next one in the series. I enjoyed the story, I loved the characters, it was interesting and it kept me engaged all the way through the book. I couldn't put it down.’ Bonnie’s Book Talk ‘ Fans of thrillers will be very happy with this story. I'll definitely be keeping an eye out and will continue to follow Detective Lucy around on her adventures.’ Where The Reader Grows Praise for Helen Phifer: ‘ Loved this book so much...It’s a fast paced thriller with plenty of twists in the plot, that keeps you guessing to the end... I would give it 10 stars if I could.’ Goodreads reviewer ‘ AMAZING book…really pulls you in with every page… this is a MUST READ.’ Goodreads reviewer ‘ Kept me hooked all the way through…An explosive storyline and really likeable characters provide a great read and I can't recommend this book highly enough.’ Goodreads reviewer ‘It had a major plot twist towards the end which I seriously did not see coming…I highly recommend this book, if I could give it more than 5 stars I would! ’ Stardust Book Reviews

Release date: March 24, 2017

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 312

Sample

‘Alice? Alice?’ Lizzy hissed.

Ward thirteen was unusually quiet. In fact, it was too quiet, and this was what had disturbed Lizzy. She lay on the too-firm mattress, afraid to move because her bed creaked louder than anyone else’s. Alice, who had been there much longer than Lizzy and was almost fifteen, was asleep.

Looking around to see who was still awake, the first thing Lizzy noticed was that Tommy’s bed was empty. This afternoon he’d gone berserk and he’d been taken away for treatment. When they’d brought him back he hadn’t said a word. He’d lain on his bed, staring into space with even more dribble than usual running down his chin. Treatment – the very word struck fear into Lizzy’s heart. She was only nine years old, but she knew well enough that if you didn’t behave they would inject all sorts of poison into your veins and call it medicine. Where was Tommy? It was quarter past four in the morning now, and there were no nurses behind the desk like there usually were. Lizzy pushed herself up on her elbows so she could see into the small staffroom behind the desk. This was shrouded in darkness as well. Where was everyone?

Feeling braver now, she tiptoed out of her bed across to Alice’s and tugged her arm. Alice groaned, then turned to look at her.

‘What’s up?’

‘Where’s Tommy?’

Alice sat up. ‘What do you mean?’

Lizzy pointed to his empty, still-made bed.

‘Maybe they let him go home? Go back to sleep, Lizzy.’

‘Then why didn’t he take his teddy? And his pyjamas are still on the end of the bed.’

Alice rubbed her eyes, threw her legs out of the bed and walked barefoot across the cold floor to Tommy’s bed, which was opposite hers. She picked up his teddy, then looked back at Lizzy, who was watching her, and shrugged.

‘I don’t know; maybe he got sick.’

‘This is a hospital; we live here. If he was sick, he’d still be here, wouldn’t he?’

‘I don’t know, Lizzy. Yes, I suppose he would.’

‘They’ve hurt him.’

Alice looked at her carefully and nodded. ‘Yes, they probably have. And we should get back into bed before the nurses come back and catch us, or they might hurt us as well. Best not to ask any of them where he is either.’

Lizzy turned and climbed onto the chair next to her bed to peer out of the large window, which looked out onto the back of the hospital grounds. There were fields, which were nice, and there was a cemetery for the patients who had died here. That wasn’t so nice. It was scary: there were rows and rows of simple wooden crosses, each one marking someone’s grave. On each cross was a number, and Lizzy had asked one of the nicer nurses what the numbers meant. She’d replied that they were the patients’ hospital numbers, so they knew who each one was. Lizzy had wanted to ask her why they didn’t just put the patients’ names on instead, but had been too scared.

A small pinprick of light moved across the path that led from the hospital towards the cemetery.

‘Alice? There’s someone outside with a torch.’

Alice climbed on the chair next to her, pressing her face against the glass. They watched as the beam moved slowly. They could make out a shadowy figure in the dark. Whoever it was moved as if they were dragging something heavy behind them. Lizzy’s small hand slipped into Alice’s and she whispered, ‘What are they doing?’

Alice jumped down off the chair, pulling Lizzy with her before they got caught peeking.

‘I don’t know, but you should get back in bed and don’t say a word to anyone. Or you will end up like Tommy.’

Lizzy clambered back into bed, her heart thudding so fast it was all she could hear. She lay on her side and pulled her covers over her head. What did Alice mean, she would end up like Tommy?

Then she realised what it was that was being dragged behind the person with the torch. She rammed her fist into her mouth to keep herself from screaming.

The bright green Citroën with ‘Arnold’s Estate Agents’ emblazoned across the side stopped outside the huge, rusted gates. Cheryl Tate shuddered; she hated this place and cursed Adrian, the agent in charge of business sales, for ringing in sick today of all days. He had done nothing except brag all week about what a killing he was going to make on the sale of The Moore, and now he wasn’t even going to be showing the potential buyer round the place. Instead, the task had fallen to Cheryl.

The Moore had once been the county asylum, serving the whole of this part of the north-west. It had originally housed thousands of patients, but over time the adults had been phased out until only the children were left. Every child with mental health or learning difficulties from all over the county had ended up in there. It had finally shut for good amid a patient abuse scandal in the seventies.

Why anyone would want to buy this place was beyond Cheryl. The pictures in the file showed a grand building, which had probably been deemed one of the finest mental institutions in the country when it was built. Now, however, it was a wreck, the windows all broken and boarded up. The limestone exterior was covered in moss. There were weeds growing all around the outside, making it look scruffy. The roof had huge, gaping holes that were sprouting trees or bushes of some kind. It looked like a huge mausoleum. And perhaps that was fitting: the number of patients who had died from tuberculosis in here was legendary. No matter what you turned it into – a five star hotel, luxury apartments or a grand house – you would never be able to get away from what it once was. No one could ever be truly happy living there, could they? It would always have the dark, sad, atmosphere that lingered around it, clinging to the building. A mental asylum was not a happy place to develop, Cheryl thought, no matter how much money you might throw into it. However, this was only her opinion, and it wasn’t her place to say anything. Her job was to show this buyer around the parts of it that were deemed safe, and then she would get the hell out of there.

She got out of her car, the keys for the new padlock in her hand. She unlocked it, pushing the heavy gates wide open so she could drive through. The gates were damp and smelt of rust. Wrinkling her nose, she wiped her hands on her black trousers to rid them of the brown particles. She drove along the bumpy, overgrown drive until she reached the wide steps, where she looked up at the entrance and the imposing oak front doors and sighed.

Forcing herself to get out of the car, she grabbed the large torch she’d brought with her, and the huge key ring that opened the many doors to the building, then walked up the steps. At least Adrian had had the sense to put a sticker on the key which opened the building, otherwise she might have been here until tomorrow figuring out which one to use.

Trying to think about what she was going to make for tea to take her mind off where she was about to go, she twisted the key in the lock. The door opened effortlessly. It swung open, revealing the dim entrance. Turning on the torch, Cheryl swept the beam around to make sure there were no homeless people sleeping inside. Although if they were brave enough to sleep in here on their own, God forbid, who was she to turf them out? She stepped inside, her feet crunching on a carpet of broken glass. The torch beam picked out the faded blue graffiti which covered the walls. There was a faint smell of something gone bad.

Cheryl heard the rumble of car tyres on the drive. Relief washing over her, she turned and walked briskly back outside. A huge, shiny black Porsche Cayenne came into sight. It looked expensive, with its privacy glass and personalised number plate. As it pulled up alongside her car and she saw the size of the man who was driving it, she felt a lot better about going inside the asylum. He got out of the car and smiled at her, his brilliant white teeth almost dazzling. He was at least six foot tall and had a very muscular build. She felt her stomach flip: he was so attractive she didn’t want to take her eyes off him.

‘Hello, you must be Mr Phillips? I’m Cheryl Tate.’ She held out her hand towards him and he took it, shaking it firmly.

‘I am, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms Tate.’

She felt her cheeks begin to burn. ‘Please call me Cheryl. Well, I suppose we should get it over with, then.’

As soon as the words left her mouth she could have kicked herself; she was supposed to sound excited. Enthusiastic, not scared shitless. Mr Phillips didn’t say anything, just nodded. Cheryl turned around to go back inside the building, wishing she’d worn flat shoes instead of courts. Leading him inside, she looked at the thick, peeling chunks of paint that were hanging down. The walls underneath were covered in furry black mould.

‘I’ll spare you the sales talk; I think you can see for yourself it’s in dire need of serious renovation.’

He nodded, walking on ahead of her. ‘Thank you; I appreciate that. I knew it was going to be bad; I just wanted to see how bad. If I’m going to be asking my investors to back me, I need to be able to tell them I’ve seen it for myself. Do you know how long it is since anyone has been in here?’

She tried to remember what Adrian had told her. Was it three or six months? She couldn’t remember.

‘I think it’s been around three months.’

He sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell?’

‘I don’t know; I could smell it when I walked in.’

‘There must be a dead animal somewhere.’

He walked towards a set of closed double doors at the far end of the entrance area. She followed him, trying her best not to trip over the glass and debris on the floor. He pushed the doors open. The smell which came out was vile, and she gagged. Lifting a hand to cover her mouth, she noticed that Mr Phillips did the same.

‘Wow, that’s bad,’ he said through his fingers, his voice muffled.

Taking the torch from her, he shone it inside the entrance to the ward, the light reflecting off the worn metal patient trolley directly in front of them. It was the only object in the middle of the large corridor which led into what was an otherwise empty room. Mr Phillips lifted the torch higher – and the sound that erupted from Cheryl’s mouth was not one that she’d ever heard herself make before. Unable to register what she was looking at, she simply knew it was bad.

Mr Phillips jumped at her screech, then he stepped forward. One arm lifted to cover his nostrils against the foul stench that was permeating the air, he slowly moved the light over what was strapped onto the trolley. A body. A pale, bloated body. Cheryl couldn’t take her eyes away from it. It was fully clothed, but the hands which were strapped down were purple and black. The worst thing was the face: the poor man, who had still had a head full of thick, silver hair, looked terrifying. His head was tilted in their direction, and where he should have had an eye, there was a metal spike sticking out of the socket.

Dropping the torch in shock, Mr Phillips stepped backwards. Grabbing hold of Cheryl’s hand, he tugged her and ran towards the main doors. Cheryl was still screaming. Once they were outside, he gently slapped her cheek. Tears were falling from her eyes and he led her to his car, where he opened the door and helped her inside. She sat on the soft leather seat and he passed her the handkerchief from his suit pocket. Then he shut the door to drown out the sound of her crying, and phoned the police.

Detective Inspector Lucy Harwin drove through the quiet streets of Brooklyn Bay, once again thinking how sad it was that the once-thriving seaside resort was now more of a ghost town. She pulled up outside the row of large, brightly coloured Victorian townhouses, relieved she could park so near to where she was going, considering it was Thursday morning.

She no more wanted to go inside and speak to Sara Cross about her personal problems than she wanted to tell Browning who she worked with. However, she had no choice, because it was what the doctor from headquarters had ordered. She would go through the motions as best as she could, although she’d rather be sitting in the studio getting her tattoo finished than being here. It would be far less painful than having that strange woman probing into the darkest depths of her mind.

Lucy got out of her car and pulled her hood up, briskly walking across the road, afraid in case a police car turned into the street and one of her colleagues saw her going into the psychologist’s office. Some things were too private for public knowledge. Not that she knew half of the response officers now; they seemed to have had an influx of student officers, all under the age of twenty-five.

She walked in and took a seat in the waiting room, which had once served as someone’s living room. Picking up a magazine from the impressive display on the coffee table, she began to flick through it, not taking much notice of its contents. The waiting room was sparse: some chairs that weren’t exactly comfortable, a coffee table, and some black and white prints of the older, more striking Victorian buildings that were the town’s landmarks. The walls were painted in what she supposed was a calming duck-egg blue, and the chairs were all cream. Lucy didn’t like it. It was too much like the woman who she was supposed to tell her innermost fears to – far too friendly. There was something about Sara Cross that Lucy didn’t like. Then again, Lucy didn’t really mix with most people; she’d never been one of the popular kids at school. It wasn’t that she didn’t like people, because she did. What she objected to was getting too close to them, and the inevitable hurt that always seemed to follow. They either moved on or died – and she hated the thought of anyone that she cared for dying. Her years working as a response officer had only confirmed her belief that the human race was destined for disaster. This had resulted in her growing even further away from anyone in her close circle.

‘Lucinda, you can come through now.’

Lucy jumped; she hated her full name but Sara Cross insisted on using it, much to her annoyance. She stood up, pulling down the sleeves of her sweatshirt so her tattoos were hidden. That was a part of her she only showed when she was off duty; she never had them on show for work, and this was technically work. She always wore long-sleeved shirts or blouses, even in the summer. Lucy was very proud of her ink, but she didn’t like to mix work with her private life. As far as she was concerned, the two couldn’t be further apart if she tried.

As she followed the woman into her office, her phone began to ring: she’d forgotten to switch it to silent. Sara frowned at her.

‘You know the rules, Lucinda; no phones whilst we’re in session. Please switch it off.’

Lucy muttered an apology then tucked the phone back into her jeans pocket, where it vibrated to tell her she had a voicemail message.

Both women sat down – Sara behind the big white desk, which had a vase of crisp white lilies and a huge black notebook placed on it. Lucy tried not to sigh as she wondered what crap she could tell her today without actually revealing anything about her life.

‘How are you this week?’

‘Fine.’

‘How’s your daughter Ellie?’

‘Fine.’

‘So. Today’s the big day; it’s been three months since that tragic incident. Are you looking forward to going back to work this afternoon?’

Lucy looked up at the large cream clock on the wall behind the desk. This was going to be a very long hour. Her phone began buzzing and vibrating in her pocket. She looked at Sara, who was watching her every move. The woman was waiting to see if she took the phone out of her pocket. Lucy tried to ignore it, then thought: Fuck it. She pulled out the phone and looked down at the screen.

‘I have to take this call.’ She turned away from Sara.

‘Boss, you have to come down here and see this. It’s really bad.’

‘Come down where, Mattie? You have to be a little more specific.’

‘The Moore – you know, the old county asylum. It’s up for sale, would you believe it? One of the estate agents was showing a potential buyer around when they found him.’

‘Found who?’

‘Well if we knew that, I’d tell you.’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘Thank god for that. Browning said if I couldn’t get hold of you that he would deal. I can’t work with him all day, not on something like this. Please don’t do that to me; you know what a miserable git he’s been lately.’

Lucy laughed and ended the call; she didn’t know about Browning because she hadn’t been in work. She turned around to look at Sara, who was sitting there staring at her with her piercing blue eyes, drumming her fingers against the shiny surface of the desk. She stopped now, and clasped her fingers together.

‘You heard that,’ Lucy said. ‘I’m very sorry, but I really have to go to work.’

‘Lucinda, I know you don’t relish the thought of our sessions, but can I remind you that it was a part of your action plan? As part of your managed return to work, you should attend the counselling sessions offered to you. I’m very busy and had to do my best to squeeze you in; if you leave now, I can’t guarantee another appointment for a while.’

Lucy thought this was the best news she’d heard all day. ‘I’m well aware of that; however, work comes first.’

‘Work is tearing you apart; you need to engage with me. I’m not that bad. If you just opened up a little, I’m sure we could become great friends. There must be someone else in that big police station apart from you who can deal with a crime scene?’

Lucy shook her head.

‘I’m sorry, Sara, no, there isn’t. I’m needed by my team.’

‘Then you leave me no choice and I’m sorry to have to do this. I’ll have to inform your superiors that you’re not engaging with me.’

Lucy shrugged, trying her best not to laugh. Was that supposed to be some kind of threat?

‘That’s your decision and if that’s what you believe, then I’m fine with that.’

She turned and walked out of the door, letting it slam shut behind her. She’d been hauled in front of her boss for far worse. And although she didn’t welcome the thought of being sucked into a murder investigation so soon, there were only so many weeds she could pull and seeds she could plant in her small back garden. As much as she loved pottering around out there, she loved her job more.

She reached her mint green Fiat 500 that was parked across the street and climbed inside. Her phone beeped and she looked down to see another message from Mattie.

Glad you’re back, this is a bad one. Right up your street.

Lucy typed back. Yeah, cheers for that. I wouldn’t have wanted you to go easy with me on my first day back.

Lucy pulled the large pair of Chanel sunglasses out of the glove compartment and slipped them on – a present from George. And the one and only thing from him she’d kept after he’d left her for a girl who worked behind the beauty counter in a department store. The rest of the stuff she’d bagged up and given to the charity shop; they would have had a field day rooting through it. She wondered how much of it had actually reached the shop rails.

As she drove away, she didn’t notice Sara’s tall figure watching her from the upstairs window, shaking her head. Even if she had, she wouldn’t have cared. Counselling was never going to get rid of the memories of that dusky, cold afternoon. They would always be there, tucked away for now ‒ but still there, and liable to sneak out of their corner of her mind when she was least expecting it.

As she started on the fifteen-minute drive to the long-abandoned mental asylum, she pushed the memories back into their corner. She had no time to dwell on her own self-pity. She needed to be focused and ready for whatever horror Mattie had decided was worthy of sharing with her.

As she drove through the run-down seaside town of Brooklyn Bay – her home – she sighed. It had once been a bustling place, full of picture houses and music halls, and the funfair along the south end of the promenade had once been thriving. It was sad that all that was left of the fair now was the huge tower that had once been the main support for the biggest ride. The land was boarded off and overgrown with weeds. It was waiting for the council to secure enough funding to do something with it. Lucy thought they should have just left it as it was. She loved it here, though; she loved walking along the promenade and past the old pier, reminiscing about her teenage years spent in the amusement arcades with the few friends she’d had back then.

She was glad that it wasn’t school finishing time; the roads around here only really got busy between three and five. She left the town and drove along the coast road, which led to the beach and all the small hamlets and villages that ran along it. The asylum had been built far enough away from the town centre that the patients would have quite a walk to reach civilisation. Yet not too far, in case anything should go wrong and need police intervention.

It was a cold morning. The sea had gone out, leaving the sands glistening in the sunlight. There were only a couple of cars parked up along the beachfront. In the summer it would be crowded, as cars full of parents and kids tried to find somewhere to park up and buy an ice cream. Roy’s Ices were famous throughout the area, and as she passed, Lucy thought she could just do a home-made apple crumble ice cream in a waffle cone. She’d had a terrible sweet tooth since she was a kid; now her vices were sugary vanilla lattes, chocolate and ice cream. Luckily, she’d inherited her gran’s genes which meant she could eat and drink whatever she wanted and not gain any weight, unlike her poor sister, Lydia, who had been cursed with their dad’s genes, meaning she only had to think about an ice cream and she’d pile on the pounds. Lucy had always been grateful that she wasn’t Lydia, who the kids at school had teased over her size. Lucy had got into a fair few fights sticking up for her older sister.

She reached the small, tree-lined lane which signalled the turn-off for the asylum, and began to indicate. Turning the corner, she could see the imposing one-hundred-foot clock tower of the hospital peeking through the bare branches of the trees. It was built in the same limestone as most of the other grand buildings in the area. As she drove nearer, it struck her how scary and desolate it looked. It was the kind of place that you would want to go ghost hunting in, if you liked that kind of thing. The huge ‘for sale’ sign filled a large chunk of the metal gates, which were wide open. She hadn’t realised it was being sold – not that she’d had any reason to. Who in their right mind would want to buy it? It was far too creepy; the number of people who’d died here didn’t bear thinking about.

As she drove through the gates, she tried to push down the butterflies that had begun to fill her stomach and make her heart race. She could do this; she lived to do this. Since coming out of her probationary period, she had worked hard to climb the ranks as fast as she could, making detective inspector by the age of thirty-four. They’d promised that when she came back from her time out – gardening leave; whatever they wanted to call it – she could have the chance to take on the role of detective chief inspector. She’d declined. She didn’t want to be the one who spent all her time worrying about how much money an investigation was costing. She much preferred to be the one out there, catching the criminals.

The assortment of police vans and the single Ford Focus looked out of place against the backdrop of the hospital. There was also a vile green car which had to belong to the estate agent – this was parked next to a very nice Porsche. Lucy nodded at the paramedics leaning against the side of the ambulance. She parked her car alongside them and took her sunglasses off, inhaling through her nose and breathing out. You. . .