by Jane Isaac
But in spite of all this, and phones ringing off the hook in the incident room, they were still no closer to a firm lead.
Jackman checked his watch. It was almost twenty-four hours since the initial call had come through. The informant was a local man, yet they’d found no connection between him and the victim, no reason to suggest he was involved.
As he crossed the road and walked through the back streets he thought about the team of officers he’d sent up to Nottingham earlier, rummaging through Jo’s room, speaking to her friends and tutors. He hoped they’d come up with something soon.
By the time Jackman was heading back up to The Three Swans, almost an hour had past. He paused, swiped a hand through his wet hair, causing a shower of droplets to fall to the pavement as he glanced across at the ancient Grammar School. The old stone was fresh, clean. Recently renovated. This was a manicured town, the centre pretty, well maintained and steeped in history with a river running through the centre. In some ways it reminded him of a smaller version of his home town of Stratford-upon-Avon. There were a few hotels, although its Midlands setting didn’t really lend itself to the droves of tourists they received in Warwickshire. The number of restaurants, tea shops and coffee houses suggested a sense of local community. The crime figures were standard: the usual burglary, criminal damage, domestic violence. But serious crime, murders and sexual attacks, were in the minority by percentage of population compared to larger towns and cities.
A young couple exited their car and rushed past him into the pub, the girl squealing as she covered her hair with her handbag. The rain had picked up, falling in sheets from an angry sky. Jackman hovered outside the pub for some time, water dripping off his chin as he glanced across at the intersection opposite. This is where Jo had stood last night, only an hour or so earlier. Before she met her end. Where had she gone afterwards? Her sister said she was meeting friends in The Angel, yet enquiries there and subsequent checks of their CCTV suggested she’d never arrived. Did she change her mind? Take another route? He’d checked the map. The roads opposite led in the general direction of her mother’s home, although they ran in and out of each other and there were a number of different routes she could have taken. Mostly residential too, which meant little chance of cameras.
His hair was saturated again now, his shoulders damp where the rain had penetrated his jacket. He turned and walked slowly back towards his room at The Angel. Hopefully tomorrow would bring something new.
Chapter Eleven
There’s something sinister about lies. They curl and fold, tie themselves around in knots so that in the end they become a tangled ball of wool and you can’t find the end. Grace had wanted to tell someone, all those years ago. But how could she? Her mother had trusted her, given her the taxi fare herself. She wasn’t sure how she’d made it home that night. Vague memories of scrabbling around for her shoes on the concrete slipped in and out of the shadows of her mind.
The following morning her mother came into her bedroom, sat on the edge of her bed and asked how the night out had gone. Grace remembered pulling the bedclothes over her head, shutting out the world. At the time her mother mistook the gesture for a hangover. She even laughed as she left the room, returned with paracetamol and water and left her to sleep it off.
But Grace withdrew, frightened, a child in an adult’s world. It hurt to sit down and move around for several days afterwards. She feigned a stomach upset so that she didn’t have to go out. What if he was still out there? What if he knew who she was and came looking?
She ignored her friends’ calls over the ensuing days. When Susi and Kath came looking, they were so sympathetic that she almost told them. Almost. But she couldn’t. They’d taken her to the taxi rank, thought she was safe. They would be wracked with guilt and there was a chance they’d tell her mother, alert the police. She couldn’t go through with it.
As the weeks passed it became a dirty secret. Buried deep. Grace desperately tried to put it all behind her and push forward. It was summertime. She’d finished her A levels, taken extra hours at the newsagents over the holidays. She started to venture out in the evenings with friends, but insisted on driving. Her parents seemed pleased. At least it meant she wasn’t drinking.
But the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach remained. She didn’t want to go anywhere alone and even in company felt queasy and weak. When they sent her home early from work, she suddenly realised that her period was late.
And now, with her beautiful daughter gone, there was a pounding inside Grace’s skull as she lay there in the darkness, the old memories filtering through her mind. Burning eyes searched for the illuminated digits on the bedside clock. It was 2.07am. The damp pillow clung to her cheek. Phil’s heavy mass emitted slow breaths beside her, the only sound that broke the silence of the room. She released her fingers from his grip, slipped out of bed. She needed something for the pain. Now.
Her limbs felt soft and rubbery as she navigated the stairs. In the kitchen, Lucky raised a weary head from her basket, but didn’t bother to climb out when Grace switched on a light. By the time she had searched through the cupboard, popped two of the strong painkillers that Phil had been prescribed for a back injury last year, and downed a pint glass of water, Lucky had emerged and was stood by the back door, looking up at her expectantly.
The cold night air reached in as she opened the door, working its way underneath her nightshirt, filling every corner of emptiness. It was chillingly sharp, almost cutting into her flesh.
The pregnancy, all those years ago, had cast the attack into a whole new light. As time passed, how could she tell anyone that she’d maintained a front for so long? She was pushed deeper into a well of despair. Booked into an independent clinic in Leicester where they confirmed her darkest fear.
Grace remembered leaving the clinic that day in a daze, stopping at a café in the city for a coffee. She sat at a table on her own in the corner. The room was busy, but it paled into insignificance as the reality of her situation crowded her mind.
She was eighteen, single and pregnant.
No more university. No more freedom.
It’s not that she was a virgin. But Jamie and she had broken up recently, much to her mum’s displeasure. Jamie was their neighbour, two years older than her, who’d recently trained as a plasterer. They’d been pushed together since children. As they had grown up, his infectious personality and quick wit made him a great friend. In his late teens he’d thickened out and she’d watched the other girls drool over him. But to Grace, he was almost the brother she’d never had. When they became adventurous in their teenage years, she was underwhelmed. Maybe sex wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. Until her friends talked in giggled whispers of their own experiences and she began to realise that she feigned the excitement her peers claimed to enjoy. Something was missing. Days before her eighteenth birthday, Grace was starting to feel suffocated and ended the relationship. She wanted out. To explore the real world. To fall in love.
Being adopted and an only child, Grace hankered for a large family herself. Although her parents fostered and there were always children coming and going, there was no constant. She wanted a family of her own one day, siblings that would grow together, be company for each other. But not then. Not like that.
She considered a termination. The idea of raising her attacker’s child repulsed her. But somehow, she was already starting to feel different, protective over the new life growing inside her. And it wasn’t the child’s fault. The dilemma bore down on her. She didn’t sleep and barely ate. Finally, the thought of her parents’ disappointment crushed her resolve. She called the clinic and arranged a termination for a week later.
The Saturday before the appointment, Susi persuaded her to go out into town. When they arrived at the club, Jamie was at the end of the bar and she sat next to him, reluctant to join her friends twirling around the dance floor. Kath had offered to drive and, given the chance of alcohol to numb the pain, Grace had polished off severa
l vodka and cokes before the clock hit ten. Jamie chatted away, edging closer as she laughed at his ridiculous jokes. She later remembered him kissing her. He’d walked her home that night and the following morning she could still feel the warmth of his arm around her shoulder.
He called her the next day, took her out for a walk. Within a few days they’d picked up the remnants of their relationship. Jamie wasn’t her idea of a life partner. As much as she tried, there were no thrills, no excitement, no butterflies in the stomach. But he was kind, a great friend and he adored her. And, in the midst of the fog, he became her safe haven.
The following week she called the clinic and cancelled the appointment.
When Jo was born, he never questioned her dark hair, her olive skin, in spite of the fact that they were all fair. They joked she was a family throwback, from generations past.
Grace wasn’t sure how long she stood there in the cold. Time stood still. Her clogged mind stared out into the silvery moonlight. A siren in the distance caught her attention. Lucky was back in and tucked up in her basket before she became aware of her senses and closed the door.
She switched off the light and slowly walked up the stairs. At the top, Grace’s gaze rested on Jo’s door. She paused. Hovering for just a split second, she gave in to the sense of longing beckoning her and entered, closing the door behind her.
Grace brushed past the dark curtains, trailed her fingertips along the top of Jo’s dressing table. Feathered fairy lights were wound around the pictures on the far wall. The girls shared this room when they were little and had pleaded for those lights. They hadn’t worked in years, yet Jo refused to part with them. Her eyes rested on a framed photo of Jo and Lucky on the bedside table. Jo loved animals. She’d plagued her parents for a dog for months until they’d finally given in and rescued Lucky.
Grace planted herself down on the edge of the bed, her eyes taking in every poster, every ornament. This room was Jo. The little girl who believed in fairies, who danced around the garden in long dresses and wellingtons and loved to sing. The teenager with the odd fashion sense, the sharp wit and dry sense of humour.
The cold hand of grief engulfed Grace once more. She could smell the sweet aroma of Jo’s perfume as she laid back on the bed. The scent was at its strongest on the pillow. Grace pulled it down and hugged it, inhaling deeply, until a wave of fatigue washed over her and she fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter Twelve
Jackman arrived at the incident room before seven the next morning. After a restless night he’d woken early, turning the case over and over in his mind, examining the different scenarios that the victim could have faced in her final hours. In the end he rose, drove into the office and sat at a desk in the main incident room, outlining their priorities for the day. He was aware of people trickling in, calling greetings and removing jackets. Phones rang in the distance. A mug of coffee was placed in front of him. It wasn’t until he felt a presence beside him and looked up to see Jenny, one of the support staff, that he realised daylight had reached in and spread throughout the room, extinguishing the shadows. “I’m guessing I have your seat?” he said.
She nodded. “If you want me to move elsewhere…”
“Of course not.” He smiled, gathered his papers together and moved over to the map on the far wall, marking the possible routes the victim could have taken from The Three Swans the night she died.
“Sir, you need to see this.” He followed the voice across the room to where Wilson was standing behind McDonald, hands on her hips.
As soon as he reached their desk, McDonald clicked a button on his computer. An image of The Three Swans faced them. A blurred figure rushed past. Then nothing. Jackman looked across at Wilson, but she raised a hand. A young woman slowly came into view. Her hand was cupped in front of her face. She removed it to reveal a lit cigarette, took a drag and dropped her hand, rocking from side to side as if trying to keep warm. McDonald zoomed in. A jacket was slung over her shoulders but he glimpsed a lilac dress beneath. Her hair was tied back. It was Jo.
Jackman leant into the screen. She looked easy, relaxed. A couple passed by, hand in hand. A black BMW cruised down the road, a hand casually draped out of the window. She rolled her eyes at them, looked away. They disappeared. For a few more seconds she stood there, puffing at her cigarette.
“Is that it?” Jackman asked.
“Wait.” Wilson tilted her head back to the screen.
All of sudden, Jackman saw Jo look up and smile. She waved her hand, stubbed out the cigarette and crossed the road, disappearing from view.
“Play it again,” Wilson said.
The footage restarted. They watched the victim go through the same routine.
“Can we get any cameras from the other side of the road?” Jackman asked.
Wilson shook her head. “We’ve already checked. So far this seems the only place she’s featuring on any kind of town centre footage.”
“She didn’t walk that far then?” Jackman said.
“Either she didn’t walk that far, or there weren’t cameras on her route. Market Harborough’s a small town. A main drag and then it pretty quickly turns residential.”
“What about friends, family, hotel staff?”
“We’re still interviewing, but so far the last person to come forward and claim to have seen her is her sister.”
“See if you can enhance the image and trace the BMW. Looks like they’d slowed to speak to her. They might have seen who she went to meet,” Jackman said. He thought about Celeste’s comments at the scene, ‘Nothing to suggest she’d put up much of a fight.’ So far all the evidence suggested she knew her attacker. “Any news on the movements of known sex offenders in the vicinity?”
She shook her head. “Again we’re still working through the list, but it’s not leading us anywhere at the moment. There’s only a handful that don’t have a substantiated alibi and we can’t link any of them with the victim at present. We’ve also had the preliminary forensic report through, but there’s little in it.”
“No footprints at the scene?”
“The vegetation was broken around the area, but no clear prints.”
“Okay, what about our guys in Nottingham?”
“They’ve searched her room at the college, and are now interviewing her friends and tutors. They did find some medication in her room. Citalopram. It’s an antidepressant. Might be significant.”
Jackman frowned. The marks on Jo’s thighs pushed to the forefront of his mind. “Get Parsons to check with the family, see if they know anything about them. And find out which surgery she’s registered with. Anything else?”
“The search team found her phone in the field, only about twenty yards from her body.”
“Really? Did they find anything else?”
She shook her head.
“It’s odd to find an earring, a student card and her phone, all nearby. Scattered around. Almost as if they’d been placed deliberately.”
“They wanted us to find them,” Wilson said, guessing his thoughts. “But why?”
“The phone and student card are personal items. They wanted us to be able to identify her quickly.”
Nobody spoke for a while.
“The techies have pulled some interesting stuff off her phone,” Wilson said eventually. “Mostly standard texts to friends, it seems. But there is one number…” She crossed the room, pulled a sheet of paper from her desk. “Looks like she got to know this guy really well.”
She passed him the paper and he ran his eyes down the messages, resting his gaze on three highlighted lines, all sent within the past two weeks:
The house is empty. Undress to impress.
I can still taste you.
Be here in ten. We’re gonna play a game.
The contact was saved as FWB.
“Who’s FWB?” Jackman asked.
“No idea. Sounds a bit clandestine to me.”
“Can we trace them?”
“Their phone is
n’t registered. I’ve got our team up in Nottingham asking her friends and acquaintances if she was seeing anyone.”
“Okay, thanks.” He tapped the sheet twice with his forefinger before he passed it back to her. “Pull all the records you can get for that number. See if any of the numbers correspond with numbers on Jo’s phone. It might be that someone else in her contacts can identify them.”
“Will do. There is one other thing you need to know. According to one of her tutors she’s been catching the train back to Market Harborough every Wednesday lunchtime for several weeks. Apparently she had a routine appointment in the afternoon. Was back in college the next morning.”
“Get Parsons to check with the family,” he said. “See if they can shed any light.”
Jackman’s phone rang as he moved back down the corridor to his room. He hated being stuck down there, away from his team. If the room hadn’t been packed so tight, with the extra bodies Taylor had drafted in, he’d have been minded to take a desk in the corner so that he was nearby. But the reality was that there simply wasn’t the space right now.
“Chief Inspector.” Celeste’s thick French accent was accentuated over the phone line.
“Morning, Celeste,” Jackman said. “What have you got for me?”
“Toxicology results are back,” she said. “They show a reasonable level of alcohol, nothing excessive. No evidence of Rohypnol, or a similar date drug.”
That stifled another line of enquiry.
“I’ve read through the other cases in Operation Ascott,” she continued. “The ligature marks on all three women are positioned on the mid-section of the neck, fairly consistent with some kind of strapping. Compression of carotid arteries restricts the oxygen supply to the brain, rendering most people unconsciousness within 10-15 seconds. But asphyxiation is very imprecise.”