The Lies Within

by Jane Isaac

  Jackman crouched down. The blueish tinge on the victim’s torso made her look cold and exposed. He felt an urge to cover her over. “Any signs of a struggle?”

  “Some sporadic grazes and bruising on her forearms. Could be defensive. Not enough to suggest she put up much of a fight though.”

  “Possibly someone she knew then?”

  “Maybe. I’ll know more when I get a better look at her.”

  As Jackman stood he noticed a CSI wandering towards them holding an evidence bag out at an odd angle. A single piece of jewellery slipped about in the bottom. “Not sure if this is relevant, but we found it in the hedge up the way.” Jackman followed his gaze to a line of hawthorn hedging. It couldn’t have been more than ten yards from the body.

  Jackman thanked the CSI, took the bag and peered in closer. “Looks like an earring of some sort.” He pulled out his torch and shone it on the contents. It was silver, inlaid with what appeared to be blue, white and black circles of glass. There was a tiny chip in the side, but it didn’t look weathered. It hadn’t been there long.

  “It’s an evil eye,” Wilson said. “They were all over the place when I went on holiday to Turkey last year. Supposed to protect you against bad luck.”

  Jackman looked back at the victim. Her ears were bare. “Why remove her clothes, yet leave something like this nearby?”

  Wilson shrugged. “Maybe it slipped out, or they dropped it?”

  Jackman glanced around him at the rough scrub. “After taking the trouble to strip her, bring her out here?” He turned to Celeste. “What do you think they used to strangle her with?”

  “The marks are distinct, fairly straight and deep,” Celeste said. “Some kind of strapping, I’d say.”

  “Dee, has anyone checked for missing person reports?”

  Wilson snapped a nod. “Already done, sir.”

  “Good. Get them to check the National Missing Persons’ Database too, will you? And ask someone to compile a list of all known sex offenders in the area. We could do with checking their movements yesterday evening.”

  Wilson walked away, pressing her mobile phone to her ear. Jackman stared out into the darkness. It seemed a strange place to leave a body, especially with the promise of traffic, albeit a slow stream, running through from the nearby industrial estate.

  Shoes squeaked on the tarmac behind him. Wilson pocketed her phone as she rejoined him. The whites of her eyes looked oddly eerie in the darkness. “Done. The list should be ready by the time we get back to headquarters.”

  The mention of headquarters reminded Jackman he wasn’t on home territory. Unlike his home force of Warwickshire, Leicestershire preferred their incident rooms to run out of their head office and had designated suites for them. He wouldn’t get away with calling in favours and setting up a room in a nearby station here. He took another look at the surrounding countryside. A quick scan of the map earlier showed the small market town to be on the edge of the Leicestershire border, almost twenty miles from the Enderby-based headquarters.

  “Okay, take the cordon out wider and make sure it’s guarded,” Jackman said. “We don’t want any more visiting reporters. And get a tent erected over her, please.”

  Chapter Two

  The first thing Jackman heard as he entered the incident room was the shrill sound of phones ringing in unison in the background. He immediately thought of Artie Black back at the crime scene. It didn’t take long for the vultures to descend.

  A single photograph of the victim sat beside a map of the area on the board at the front.

  Officers in plain clothes gathered around the board as they entered. Wilson moved to the front, briefing them on their findings so far. “ID is our current priority,” she said. “Who does the earring belong to? Let’s get the victim’s photograph circulated to neighbouring forces, and keep trawling through the Missing Persons’ Database.”

  She looked across at Jackman. “Some of you will have met DCI Jackman, who’s been with us reviewing our sexual offences cases over the past couple of weeks. We’re very fortunate to still have his assistance as SIO at the moment. He came out to the scene with me tonight.”

  Jackman stepped forward and turned to address the array of faces in front of him. “Thank you everyone, for coming in at short notice. I really appreciate your input. Please speak up if you have any thoughts at all, however insignificant you may think they are. Sometimes the smallest point can lead us in the right direction.” He smiled as he continued. “Most of us haven’t worked together before, so please raise your hand when you wish to speak and introduce yourself.” He turned to the map again, pointed at the single marker indicating the crime scene. “Okay, the pathologist is pretty sure that the victim was killed elsewhere and moved to this point. Why there? We need to check all routes leading to Leicester Lane for police cameras and scrutinise the CCTV footage for vehicles heading in that direction. Who interviewed the informant?”

  A hand rose at the back of the room. A female officer wearing a stretched white shirt, that looked like it could probably have done with a damn good iron, and dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail spoke up, “DC Emma Parsons.” A brief smile flickered across her face. “I interviewed the informant. A Ray Shields. He’d just finished a ten-hour shift at Carlson’s Distribution Centre and was cycling home to Main Street, Great Bowden in Market Harborough when he noticed the body at the side of the road. He says he thought the local kids had been messing about at first, leaving a shop mannequin with her hair all tied up in the ditch. When he dismounted and saw it was a body, he called the police.”

  “Thanks, Emma. What are your initial thoughts?”

  “He was shaken, understandably so. We contacted his workplace. His account checks out, they have a clocking-in system and CCTV. He lives with his wife. There’s no police record or intelligence on him. We took his clothes for forensic examination, just in case.”

  “Thanks. Let’s run all the usual background checks on him, bank accounts, phone and so on, to make sure that he’s not linked to the victim in any way.”

  The officer looked up from her notes and nodded as Jackman continued. “We’ll need to contact the key holders for the units at the nearby industrial estate. Get details of who was working and when they finished. Did they employ security firms that visited the site at night and might have passed through Leicester Lane?” He paused for a moment. “Is there any news on that list of registered sex offenders in the area?”

  “We’ve gathered it together.” Jackman followed the Scottish accent to a grey-haired bear of a man with his shirt-sleeves rolled up at the back of the room. “It’ll take a while to work our way through it. Is there any chance our victim could be linked to Operation Ascott?”

  “And you are?”

  “Stuart McDonald, sir.”

  “Thank you, Stuart.” Jackman thought back to the body. “It’s difficult to say at this stage. The victim’s profile fits with the other girls: female, late teens, sexually assaulted, ligature marks around her neck. No suggestion she was beaten though. The pathologist reckons she was strangled with a strap or belt. But if it is linked they’ve changed their approach. She wasn’t merely assaulted. She was killed and stripped naked. Initial thoughts are they moved the body afterwards. Why?”

  “Maybe something went wrong?”

  “It’s possible. The autopsy is scheduled for this morning. They’ll run the usual toxicology tests. The scene has been secured. We’ll get a POLSA search team out at first light to examine the surrounding area and see what else comes up. Let’s focus on missing persons and see if we can identify the victim. We’ll get a press appeal out for any sightings, so brace yourselves for more phone calls. Thank you, everyone.”

  Wilson sidled across as the officers dispersed to their desks. “Do you have somebody on call in your press office?” Jackman asked her. “We could do with putting an appeal out for witness sightings as soon as possible - late night dog walkers, people that were in the area to come forward. T
he press have already got hold of this. Let’s give them something to report before they have a chance to start poking about themselves.”

  Wilson nodded. “I’ll get hold of someone.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jackman wandered down the corridor to his office and dumped his coat over the back of the chair. The pile of papers were still scattered haphazardly on the floor. He bent down to gather them up and pulled out the photo of Eugenie Trentwood taken after her attack. Her face looked pale, sallow. He stood and replaced the case notes and photos in a wire tray on the corner of his desk, settling down to outline their findings, something that would form the basis of a structure for an investigation. He was vaguely aware of a mug of coffee pushed under his nose, phones ringing in the background, officers passing in the corridor, the sound of keys tapping through the open door.

  By the time Wilson put her head around the doorframe, he was watching the footage of the informant’s interview on his laptop. Ray Shields was a thin man with pinched features, swamped by the dark jogging suit he’d changed into to replace his cycling clothes. His voice held the edge of a stutter as he diligently answered the questions. Jackman watched his body language, looked for signs of latent guilt. But all he saw was a terrified middle-aged man, haunted by the images he’d witnessed earlier that evening. Images that would no doubt revisit his thoughts on many occasions in the upcoming days, weeks and months ahead.

  “Sir, I think there’s something you should see,” Wilson said.

  The excitement in her voice caught Jackman’s attention. He followed her down the corridor and into the incident room. Officers were searching through filing cabinets, watching footage, talking into phone receivers.

  Wilson moved over to DC McDonald in the corner, who was working his screen with his mouse, and beckoned Jackman to join them. “CSIs found a student discount card in the hedging, about fifty yards from where the earring was found,” she said. “It belongs to a student named Jo Lamborne, from The University of Nottingham.”

  “We’re thinking the card belongs to the victim?”

  “It’s a photo ID card. We’re just getting it enlarged.”

  McDonald tapped a few more keys and sat back. “There.”

  The head of a young woman filled the computer screen. Her face was stretched into a wide smile; corkscrew curls rested on her shoulders. Her brown eyes sparkled and at this angle she appeared to be staring back at them. It was slightly disconcerting. Seconds later, the photo was reduced to make room for the image of the victim to fit alongside. Jackman switched from one to the other. The curls were missing, the hair twisted gently back behind her head, but the resemblance was striking.

  “Do we know what she was doing in Leicestershire?” Jackman asked.

  McDonald clicked a few more keys. The photos were replaced with a page of broken text. He paused a few seconds, and then highlighted a couple of lines close to the middle of the screen. “Jo Lamborne, on the voters’ register at 102 Arden Way, Market Harborough. Also registered there are Grace and Philip Daniels. And there’s a minor living at the same address, a Lydia Lamborne.”

  “Different names,” Wilson said.

  McDonald scrolled down. “Grace was previously known as Lamborne. Looks like she changed her name, remarried maybe.”

  “Are any of them known to us?” Jackman asked.

  “No, not that I can see.”

  Jackman turned to the rest of the room. “Okay, it looks like we might have identified the victim as a Jo Lamborne, a student from The University of Nottingham, possibly home visiting friends or relatives. Let’s see what we can find out about her. What was she studying at Nottingham? Does she have a boyfriend? Who are her friends, acquaintances, family? Who did she go out with tonight? Keep it low-key at the moment. Sergeant Wilson and I will head out to see the family. We don’t want any details of the victim getting out before she’s been formally identified.”

  Jackman thanked the room and followed Wilson across to the board at the front. She stretched a hand up towards the top of the map, pointing out 102 Arden Way, Market Harborough, then followed it down to a marker near the bottom, indicating the crime scene. “The address is only a couple of miles from where the victim was found,” she said. “Everything is pretty close in Market Harborough, it’s such a compact little market town.”

  “Morning!” Jackman followed the eyes of the room to Detective Superintendent Taylor who beamed as he entered. “Thanks for putting in the extra hours,” he said. He weaved through the desks with the agility of a man far younger than his years and smiled at Wilson as he reached them. “Hi, Dee. How’s it going?”

  “Good, thanks sir. We’ve just got a potential ID on the body.”

  “Excellent. Keep me posted,” he said and abruptly faced Jackman. “Could I have a word?”

  Jackman followed the superintendent down the corridor, past the office he had been using this past two weeks, until they reached the door before the lift. Cool air rushed out of the room as Taylor opened it and switched on the light. It looked like a meeting room of sorts, with a round table in the middle, a couple of cushioned chairs surrounding. Taylor undid his jacket and sat, indicating for Jackman to do the same. The light glistened through the thinning grey hairs around his crown.

  He settled back into his chair. “Why don’t you bring me up to speed?”

  Jackman checked his watch. Almost 6am. He was impressed to see Taylor in the office so early, although not surprised. In the short time he’d been seconded to Leicester HQ he’d had several dealings with Taylor who managed the Homicide and Major Incident Team. Taylor was a trained detective himself, showed a personal interest in the cases under his watch and knew each of his staff by first name. Jackman sighed inwardly. With talk of direct entrant inspectors, that kind of old school, hands-on experience was likely to be on the decline. He laid out their progress so far.

  “Nothing from the press appeal yet?” Taylor asked as Jackman finished up.

  “Not yet, but it’s still early. The radio has promised to put out hourly bulletins, asking for anyone that passed through the area last night, or close by, to contact us, and the Herald have already put our appeal on their web page. I’ve made a start on a policy log, outlining the current strategies and priorities.”

  “Very thorough. We appreciate your help.” He leant forward. “If you let me have your notes, we’ll take it from here.”

  Jackman took a breath, held it a moment before he answered. “I’d like to be Senior Investigating Officer on this one.”

  Taylor stared at him. Frowned slightly. “You’re seconded to region. I should bring in another SIO.”

  “There are possible links with Operation Ascott. I’ll work with Wilson. If it’s the same perpetrator, I’ll spot the links.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “We have a live time situation here. If you bring somebody else in there’ll be a delay at a crucial part of the investigation.”

  A muscle flexed in Taylor’s jaw. “What are the possible links with Op Ascott?”

  “A woman attacked, sexually assaulted, late teens. Ligature marks around her neck.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Do you need any more?”

  “She could have been attacked by a boyfriend.”

  “It’s possible,” Jackman said. “The first two women were attacked in relatively quiet, isolated areas. This one is different. They took the trouble to drive her out to a rural area. Moving the body was risky.”

  “So, we don’t think it’s the same offender?”

  “It’s a different approach, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s not the same person. Maybe it’s not connected. Or maybe it is and they are changing the way they work, growing in confidence, adapting.” He mentioned the presence of the journalist in Leicester Lane that morning.

  “Artie Black. He’s just a pain in the arse.”

  “Whatever we think right now, these are high profile cases that remain unsolved. The attacker is sti
ll out there. The press are bound to make links. We need to act fast, reassure the public.” Taylor walked across to the window, rested his hands on his hips and stared out into the night, deep in thought. “Look at it from the public’s point of view,” Jackman continued. “You are pulling out all the stops, assigning the regional lead on adult sexual offences to the case. Shows initiative, positive action.”

  Taylor rubbed his chin and turned back. His face brightened a little at the last words. It never ceased to amaze Jackman how sometimes you had to massage an ego in order to sell a decision. He also knew that Taylor was due to retire in a few weeks. He’d heard talk in the office, they were planning his retirement party. No detective, especially one with a record as decorated as his, would want to leave under the shadow of such a high profile investigation, still ongoing. “I’ll speak to your Super and the Assistant Chief Constable. But I’m not making any promises.”

  A door clicked open behind them. Wilson’s face appeared around the doorframe. “We really need to go, sir.”

  Jackman switched back to Taylor. “Do you mind?”

  Taylor stood. “Okay, continue as you are for now. I’ll see what I can do. But keep your phone with you.”

  Chapter Three

  Grace was unpacking the dishwasher when the doorbell rang. It was almost 7am and darkness still clung to the windows outside, holding onto the final minutes of night. Her head felt woolly from the evening before, but nothing, it seemed, not even a hangover, would prevent her habitual early rising.

  Lucky, her Jack Russell, started barking almost immediately. She hushed the dog and shut her in the kitchen, rushing out to answer before they rang the bell again.

  Phil was already at the door by the time Grace reached the hallway. His eyes met hers for long enough to pull a face. They weren’t expecting visitors. He opened the door to reveal a tall man with a mop of dark hair, a solid stance and striking green eyes. The black woman next to him was smaller, but almost as stocky. Her mouth formed a thin smile. She looked past Phil towards Grace. “Mrs Daniels?”