The Lies Within

by Jane Isaac

  ***

  Pain. A screaming voice, trapped inside, suppressing every sense. Jo was gone. The world was empty. The raw reality was suffocating. Incomprehensible. Unbearable. Grace wanted to scream, but her body let her down. All she could do, all she was capable of, was to sit staring into nothingness.

  Hushed voices filtered through from the kitchen. Phil’s dulcet tones. Whispers of doctors and sedation.

  Pictures of Jo flashed through her mind. The little girl with the unruly curls that people stopped in the street to admire. The same curls that blighted her as a teenager. The straight talking toddler with the open heart who became intensely private in her later years. Going to university and living away from home had given her the sense of independence and identity she’d sought so rigorously. She was just starting to thrive, a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, spreading its wings…

  Lydia moaned, shifted position and slipped back into her slumber. Grace held her close. Chloe had come and sat with Lydia when they’d had to go out earlier. Consoling each other with their tears. By the time they arrived back and Chloe returned home to Meggy, Lydia was exhausted and fell asleep with Lucky by her side.

  Grace shuddered. As soon as they’d arrived in the morgue car park, she realised it was a mistake. Wanted to turn back. But at the same time something compelled her to stay. The desperate need to see her girl.

  On television programmes, when people identified their loved ones they stroked their faces, touched their lips, kissed their foreheads. But any thoughts that she might touch Jo, embrace her even, were soon dashed when Phil and she were guided into a viewing area with a clear screen that separated them from the room beyond. A thick aroma of bleach pervaded the air.

  She’d moved towards the screen, within touching distance of the gurney on the other side when the sheet was pulled back. Jo’s hair was still tucked into the pleat from the night before, her face still touched with make-up, although pale and tinged blue. No curls. The last image she would see of her daughter would be without those beautiful curls.

  A spear of raw anguish had risen from the pit of her stomach. But her reaction surprised her. She didn’t scream or wail. Phil’s hand pressed on her shoulder, his face contorted in grief. Yet Grace was numb.

  Grace pushed her aching back into the sofa cushions. How could Jo be gone? Only yesterday she was seated right here in this spot, chuckling over not being able to get up early enough to help with the wedding arrangements.

  The wedding. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  The moments following the screened room were jumbled and mingled together, like clothes tumbling in a dryer. The sound of a chair leg as it was dragged across the floor was followed by a weight on her shoulder, gently easing her down into it. Consoling words from Phil. Eventually being led back through to another room and asked a stream of questions. Sitting in a muted trance as Phil replied to the detectives. Soothing, soft voices. Kind faces staring at her, sympathising, trying to make it as easy as possible.

  Despair clawed at her insides and she welcomed it. She wanted to feel the pain. Because it was all she had left of Jo.

  Chapter Six

  “I hate this place,” Wilson said. She stared through the window into the laboratory as she pulled on her overshoes.

  Jackman gave a wry smile. “It’s a morgue. You’re not supposed to enjoy it.”

  “It’s all those drains.” She pulled a face. “I’ve never been squeamish, but the sight of them makes my toes curl.”

  “Better keep your eyes up then,” Jackman said. He opened the door and entered the pathology lab. Immediately a sterile smell filled his nose. Spotlights bounced off the stainless steel surfaces. His eyes flicked over the drains and rested on Celeste who was bent over a metal gurney in the middle. A CSI in a white suit was moving around the body, photographing places of interest.

  “Morning again, Celeste.”

  Celeste sent a draft of cool air towards them as she moved back and exchanged pleasantries. The mortuary always felt cold, even in the height of summer. The victim looked lily-white, the welt around her neck darker under the fluorescent lighting. “We’ve done the preliminaries, hands and fingernails,” Celeste said. “Apart from a little bruising and grazing on her forearms, nothing there to suggest she put up much of a fight, so I’d suggest she knew her attacker. There’s bruising on her inner thighs and some internal tissue damage. No obvious sign of semen, but we’ve taken swabs, just in case.”

  “So, we’re thinking a sexual motive?” Jackman said. “How does it compare to the attacks on Operation Ascott?”

  Celeste paused a moment. “I didn’t examine those women. I’ll need to take a look at their files. As far as I’m aware, the first was raped, the second assaulted while unconscious?” She looked across at Jackman who nodded. “This victim has tearing and bruising to the vaginal wall, possibly from some kind of a blunt object.”

  Jackman felt Wilson flinch beside him.

  “Obviously we’ll need to run toxicology tests to see what was in her system at the time.” Celeste moved around to the side of the table and examined the head. “No sign of any grass or mud in her hair, so I’m pretty sure she was killed first and dumped at the scene.”

  “Why remove her clothes?” Wilson asked.

  Celeste looked up at her. “No idea. Maybe there was something on them. Or maybe the killer wanted to keep them.”

  Wilson’s mobile phone rang and she excused herself. The lab door clicked shut behind her. Jackman looked back at the victim. Nineteen years old. Barely a year younger than his own daughter, Celia, although she looked small, young for her age. His gaze fell on her feet, the toenails painted a bright red. The nail varnish looked freshly applied and yet she’d lost her life in the past twenty-four hours since she’d painted them. He imagined her applying her make-up, drying her hair, painting her nails, getting ready for the wedding. Where did she go after she left her sister last night? Who did she speak to?

  “There is one other thing I would like you to see,” Celeste said. She pulled a light from the side, shone it over the victim’s thighs. It highlighted sporadic white lines like tiny worms.

  Jackman looked closer. “Old scars?”

  Celeste nodded. “They’re quite old, more than a few years I’d say. And not deep. They only show up under the UV lamp.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  Celeste switched off the lamp and looked across at him. “We occasionally see this in people who have experienced emotional distress. Sometimes on the wrists too and in other areas. The thigh area is popular because it can be covered.”

  “You’re saying she cut herself?”

  “I’m saying those cuts appeared over a period of time. But they were never deep enough to cause a visible scar.”

  The door swung back and hit the wall as Wilson re-entered. “They’ve pulled her phone records,” she said. “Just working through them now.”

  “Good.”

  “And you’ve a message from a Superintendent Janus in Warwickshire. Wants to speak to you urgently.”

  Jackman nodded and left Wilson to finish up with Celeste who was preparing to make a Y-shaped incision from each shoulder, and down to the bottom of the victim’s abdomen. He stepped out of the lab and checked his phone. Two missed calls from Janus. He took a deep breath and dialled back.

  “Will?” She didn’t attempt to hide the irritation in her voice.

  “Hello, ma’am.”

  “I’ve had Leicestershire’s Chief Constable on the phone this morning. I understand you want to be SIO on a new case?”

  “It’s a fresh murder investigation. Early examination shows signs of a sexual assault.”

  “You were sent to region to look at working practises, Will, not get involved in a new case.”

  Jackman closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He’d worked with Janus for long enough to know that she liked her own way and from the moment he’d expressed an interest in t
aking over the case that morning, he’d been expecting this call. “And I am,” he said, “but this is potentially a serial offender. I’ve got the background knowledge of the other cases.”

  “I placed you on project work, Will, while you are recuperating from an injury. This is a good opportunity for you. I don’t want you out there in the field until you are fit.”

  Jackman instinctively stretched out his left arm. The skin was still tight from the burn, an injury he’d gained on his last case. “I’m fine. The doctor signed me off four weeks ago. Working this case with Leicester Homicide Team will give me a greater insight into their work live-time. It’ll help with my report.”

  She breathed out a long sigh. “Well, it seems I have no choice since both Chief Constables are behind you. Make sure you take it easy, and use your team. I don’t want you taking any risks.”

  “Of course.”

  “And let me remind you, we have a regional deadline of the end of January for this policy report. I don’t want that date missed.”

  Chapter Seven

  Grace felt a hand brush her cheek and blinked to focus at the broken numbers of the carriage clock on the mantel. It was 2pm.

  “Can I get you anything?” She looked up to find Phil’s face, etched with concern, bearing down on her. She shook her head and retrieved her arm from beneath Lydia who wriggled and turned to face the back of the sofa. Moments later, her breathing relaxed into a steady rhythm once more.

  Grace surveyed her longingly.

  Phil offered a sad smile. “Best place for her right now.”

  A chorus of words in the kitchen grabbed her attention. She craned her neck towards the door, trying to catch what was being said but it was too muffled.

  Lucky followed Grace through to the kitchen, dancing around her feet as if something was about to happen. Grace ignored her, eyes glued to DC Emma Parsons who ended the call abruptly. Too abruptly. “Can I get you something to eat?” the detective asked.

  Grace shook her head.

  “Why don’t we all sit down?” She guided Grace towards a chair, pulled out another for Phil and sat opposite them. Lucky slunk over to her basket and curled up, already bored of the conversation.

  “I realise this is difficult for you, but I do need to ask some more questions. We need your help to catch whoever did this, and the sooner we move forward the better. Do you think you’d be up to answering some questions now?”

  Grace slumped inwardly. She watched the detective retrieve her bag. Right now she wanted to wrap herself in her misery and grief. Speak to no one. ‘Call me Emma’, she had said when she arrived earlier and took over from the other detective. But it felt too informal, too invasive. She could only think of her as Detective Parsons.

  “Has Jo ever been to Turkey?”

  Grace shook her head. “Why?”

  The detective pulled a photograph out of her bag and handed it to Grace. It was an earring, enlarged to show the detail. “We found this earring near Jo’s body. It has been identified as an evil eye, readily available in countries like Turkey. It may be unrelated, but I just need to check if you’ve seen it before?”

  “No, never.” Grace passed the photo to Phil who shook his head, baffled.

  “We are working on the contacts you’ve given us, but we will need to put out a press appeal this evening and share Jo’s details,” Parsons continued. “Do you have any photos from yesterday, of Jo in her bridesmaid dress?”

  Phil bristled. “Is that really necessary?”

  “I’m afraid so. It’ll give people a focus, help us to track Jo’s movements last night. A photo is much better than a description.”

  The words cut through Grace. People: family, friends, strangers, hotel staff. Extended family, even those people they only saw every few years at weddings and funerals. The most intimate details of Jo’s life were about to be chewed over by everyone. No longer would she be remembered as the chubby-faced child in primary school, or the colourful teen who was always dyeing her hair. The seriousness of this event would erase those memories and sit at the forefront of their mind. Daisy, her niece, was the daughter of her first husband, Jamie’s, only brother. The family had emigrated to New Zealand when Daisy was in her early teens, yet she’d flown back for an English wedding to make it extra special, with her family around her. She pictured Daisy being interviewed by the police and shuddered. Every year when she celebrated her own wedding anniversary, Daisy would be reminded of the day Jo had been murdered. The thought sickened her.

  Phil was about to speak, but Grace placed a weary hand on his forearm. “It’s okay.” She retrieved her phone from the kitchen side, handed it to Phil. She wasn’t ready to look at photos of her daughter from just the day before, all dressed in her finery.

  “How was Jo’s mood on Saturday?” Parsons asked gently.

  Grace swallowed, struggling to see the relevance of the question. “Good. She was happy. We all were. It was a family celebration.”

  “Did you see her talking to anyone?”

  “Of course. There were lots of people there. I…”

  “Arguing with anyone?”

  The interruption caught her by surprise. She fidgeted. “No. Why would she?”

  Parsons shook her head, gave a kind smile to dismiss the question. “Did she have much to drink?”

  “We were all drinking. But she wasn’t drunk if that’s what you’re implying?”

  “My job isn’t to imply. It’s to establish the facts.” So gentle. Controlled. Direct with just the right measure of warmth. “Did you see her talking to anyone, apart from friends and family that had been invited to the event?”

  “No, but then I wasn’t watching her every move.” Grace stared back at the detective. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail exposing a face that showed signs of prettiness but had sagged with age. She wondered if she had children of her own. Daughters, maybe.

  Parsons tilted her head to the side. “Has she spoken to you about a boyfriend, or girlfriend?”

  “What?”

  “Was she seeing anyone?”

  “No. She’s been single for a while. She didn’t want to be tied into a relationship when she was going away to university.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. No.” Grace swiped a hand over her forehead. “Jo is… was… quite secretive. If she was seeing someone at university, in Nottingham, she didn’t mention it.”

  “I will need a list of all her previous partners so that we can eliminate them from our enquiries. There is one other thing I need to ask you.” Parsons paused. “The pathologist found some old scars on Jo’s thighs. Do you know anything about those?”

  Grace’s heart pitted into the depths of her stomach. Were they to have no secrets? She closed her eyes. When she opened them the detective was looking directly at her. “Jo took it bad when her father died. She struggled. It was a while before any of us knew she was hurting herself.” She looked away. “And managed to help her.”

  The sound of the pen scratching against the paper as the detective made notes caught Grace. Anger rose inside her. Questions, intrusion. Violating Jo’s life. All their lives.

  “What actually happened?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “To Jo.”

  “Her body was found…”

  “I already know where her body,” Grace shrunk back as the word body made her recoil, “was found. I want to know what state she was in. What happened to her?”

  The detective looked back at her a moment, as if she wasn’t really sure how much to say.

  Phil cleared his throat. “Maybe this isn’t the time.”

  Grace shook her head. “No, Phil. She’s my daughter.” She turned back to the detective. “I want to know. I need to know. Everything.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jackman tucked his car into the last space available on the High Street, turned his collar up and wandered down to the hotel. The clouds had moved in after lunch, blocking any trace of the earlie
r sun and making for a dreary afternoon. Shoppers scurried past with pinched faces and hunched shoulders. A woman was battling a buggy against the wind, the sleeping baby inside oblivious of the inclement weather.

  He paused outside The Three Swans and looked up at the white cottage-style frontage set directly onto the pavement. The former sixteenth century coaching inn was quaint in appearance with a black wooden door sandwiched between double windows edged in black. An ornate hanging sign above creaked in the wind. A knot of people were collected in the small bar area which looked invitingly cosy under the low lighting. Jackman walked past the entrance and down an open archway at the side, just wide enough to take a small car, towards the back of the hotel.

  The smell of fine dining tickled his senses as he passed through a patio area, although he couldn’t imagine many people eating outside today. He kept walking until he reached a sprawling car park at the rear with access out onto the street beyond. He stood a moment, watching a couple of cars whizz past, followed by a van and a motorcyclist. It appeared to be a residential area, the streets opposite lined with old terraced houses. He was just making a mental note to check the maps for any council CCTV cameras on the route, and also organise some house-to-house enquiries in case anyone had seen two people arguing out back, when he felt a presence nearby.

  Artie Black’s face widened into a smile. “Good afternoon, Detective Chief Inspector.”

  Jackman nodded a distracted greeting. “What brings you here?” he asked.

  “I noticed the police presence and wondered whether it was linked to your inquiry. It seems I was right.”

  Jackman ignored his answer and inhaled a deep breath before he pointed to the road opposite. “Where does that lead to?”

  “That’s Fairfield Road,” Artie said. “It’s a through route. Leads back towards the High Street if you turn right, out towards East Farndon and Lutterworth if you go left.”