The Lies Within

by Jane Isaac

  “Are you saying they could be linked and the attacker went too far with the third victim?”

  “Partial strangulation is a risky business. I had a case last year of auto-erotic asphyxiation. The deceased, a middle-aged man, deliberately created a noose to temporarily compress the carotid arteries in his neck to make him lightheaded during orgasm. He got his timing wrong. A couple of seconds is all it can take.”

  “But you do think they’re linked?”

  “Well, I’d like to look into it more before I could be sure. The first woman was brutally raped. At the examination they found evidence of semen, but haven’t been able to find a DNA match. There was some tearing on the right side of the vaginal passage on the second woman. No semen, or pubic hairs. No semen or hairs with our current victim too, although her vaginal passage bears tissue damage in the same place.”

  “So he used a condom with the second two?”

  Celeste was quiet a moment. “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The injuries on the second two are more consistent with a blunt instrument, inserted at an angle. No evidence of bleeding on our current victim, so the damage was probably done post mortem.”

  Jackman thanked Celeste and ended the call. He’d reached his room now. He lowered himself into his chair, hung his head back. He was aware of the lack of forensic evidence in the second case. Police at the time had speculated that the attacker had possibly been disturbed and ran from the scene before he was able to finish the attack. But, although Jo’s body was moved, there was nothing to suggest that her attacker had been disturbed. ‘A blunt instrument… inserted post mortem.’ The words ran through him. Jo’s body had been undressed and moved. But why?

  Chapter Thirteen

  A tugging at her arm heaved her back from the deep depths of the ocean. Grace turned away. It was warm below, a heavy weight anchoring her down. But the tugging was strong. Too strong to resist. Such was the depth of her slumber, it took a moment to focus. Phil was crouched next to her, filling her line of vision.

  “You okay, love?”

  Grace blinked several times. Her eyes felt heavy. She looked past him, around the room. Jo’s crumpled denims were pooled on a chair in the corner. She’d never learnt to fold her clothes.

  Phil reached forward. Encased her in a long hard hug. Grace didn’t respond, a rag doll, her limbs lifeless. “Goodness, you’re as cold as ice,” he said. She’d fallen asleep on top of Jo’s bed with only her cotton nightshirt covering her. But Grace didn’t feel cold. This morning she didn’t feel anything at all.

  “I thought you were downstairs when I woke up and you were gone,” he said, pulling back. “It’s almost eight thirty.” Grace hadn’t slept past seven in years. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew this. Although it didn’t seem relevant anymore.

  “I made you some tea.” He gently placed an arm around her, pulled her forward and held the mug to her lips. Reluctantly she let go of the pillow she was still clutching, took a sip. It tasted odd. In all their time together Phil had never managed to make tea the way she liked it. Always too much milk. She took another sip, pushed it away.

  “Lydia…” Her voice croaked.

  “I’ve checked on her. She’s still asleep.”

  He put the mug on the bedside table and disappeared a moment, returning with a robe and slippers. “Let’s get you out of here before you know who arrives, eh?”

  Strong arms lifted her forward, twisting her around so that her legs hung off the edge of the bed. Carefully he lifted each arm, placing them into the robe, one after the other, heaving her to standing as he tied the cord with the deftness of a parent dressing a toddler. Next he sat her down, pulled the slippers over her feet. Grace hated cold feet and was always moaning at the kids for not wearing their slippers. Today she sat there, feeling the odd tug, shift, side movement as he worked.

  Even as he placed his hand in the small of her back, guided her out of the room and down the stairs, Grace still didn’t utter another word. In the kitchen, he sat her down at the table and let Lucky in from the garden who came to greet her like a long lost friend. Grace instinctively stroked the dog’s head, blinked again. Her mind was a fug. And that’s when she heard it. The babble of conversation. Voices in the background.

  She frowned, disorientated for a moment before turning towards the radio. “Detectives have identified the woman found dead on Thursday night, just outside the Leicestershire town of Market Harborough, as a Jo Lamborne…” Phil dashed forward. A loud click. The kitchen was immersed in silence.

  Suddenly the mist lifted. Grace was snapped back into the present. The world in which her daughter had been murdered. The phone rang. Phil moved into the front room, closed the door behind him. Seconds later he returned. She looked up at him expectantly, but he shook his head. “Wrong number,” he said. But something about his expression wasn’t right.

  “Who was it?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Phil?” Grace could hear her own voice rising. This wasn’t the time for secrets.

  Phil’s face folded. “It was a journalist.”

  Grace was flabbergasted. “How did they get our number?”

  He shook his head, clearly dumbfounded.

  The phone rang again. Grace turned her head towards the hallway. “The answerphone can get it,” he said.

  “Why?” But as soon as the word left Grace’s mouth, she knew the answer to her question. A story, a quote, even a photograph would be top news at the moment. Hadn’t they suffered enough? It was torturous. Grace placed her elbows on the table, dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, Phil. When is this going to end?”

  Phil exhaled a ragged sigh. “It will. When they catch him. In the meantime, we don’t answer the phone. I’ll tell Chloe to text me if she needs me.”

  A movement upstairs. Lydia was awake.

  The sound of the doorbell. Lucky barked and rushed off to the hallway, closely followed by Phil. Grace recognised DC Emma Parsons’ voice as she greeted him. A rush of cold air followed the detective into the kitchen.

  “Any news?” Phil asked as he followed her through.

  Parsons shook her head and gave Grace a gentle smile. “How are you feeling today?”

  Grace blinked, looked away.

  “I do have some more questions, if you feel up to it?” Parsons said.

  A floorboard creaked above them. “I have to go to Lydia,” she said. And with that she marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

  ***

  Jackman wandered back into the incident room later that afternoon. Officers pored over desks, stared at computer screens; some had phones glued to their ears, others were tapping away at keys. He halted beside McDonald’s desk. “Any news on the BMW?”

  “Not yet,” McDonald replied. “I’ve done some work on the footage, but we still can’t decipher the number plate. It doesn’t seem to have been picked up on any of the police cameras, coming in or out of Harborough either, probably turned off into one of the side roads.” He sighed. “There’s so many of them.”

  “Check the town centre residences and businesses for any private camera footage on that route. Might be clearer. And contact the press office to put out an appeal for the car. The driver or passengers could well have seen whoever it was that was waiting for the victim.” Jackman looked around, addressed the room. “Anything else?” Heads shook in unison.

  He turned as Wilson rushed in, holding her phone high as if it was a winning lottery ticket.

  “Good news,” Wilson said. “We’ve traced FWB. The texting friend.”

  Jackman felt a frisson of excitement. “Who is he?”

  “Name’s Anthony Kendall. A fellow student at Nottingham, studying psychology. He’s on his way down to talk to us now.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Grace took one last look at Lydia before she shut the door to her bedroom and made her way downstairs. Lydia’s friend had visited to comfort her. Perhaps it would ta
ke her mind off things for a while.

  At the bottom of the stairs she could hear voices coming from the kitchen and veered off into the front room. It was quiet in there. She sat on the small sofa, rested her head back and looked up at the ceiling. Her eyes ached, her head felt heavy, but sleep danced on the edge of her vision, refusing to come forward and sweep her away.

  It wasn’t long before the door pushed open. Detective Parsons appeared, a cup of tea in hand. “Heard you coming downstairs,” she said. “Thought you might like one of these.”

  Grace stared at her suspiciously, but when she didn’t follow it up with any more questions, she relaxed slightly, took a sip. It tasted good, not like the weak excuses for tea that Phil made.

  They sat there for a while. The detective passed comment on the weather, although Grace wasn’t really listening. Phil came through, sat beside Grace and gave her an awkward smile.

  Eventually the detective eased forward. “Could you tell me more about the problems Jo suffered in her teens?”

  Grace shook her head. “I’d rather not talk about it. It’s something we put behind us. Years ago.”

  “I’m afraid I do need to ask some more questions about it.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s essential for us to get to know the real Jo, so that we can put together a picture of her life, old and new. It’s possible that an event somewhere might trigger something fresh.”

  Grace drew a long, defeated breath before she spoke. “Most people didn’t really know Jo,” she said. “They saw the confident girl that made everyone laugh, singing at karaoke, not afraid to share her opinions with the world. But she was quite fragile underneath.” She rubbed her forehead. “She took her father’s death badly in her early teens. Became withdrawn and quiet. We all rallied around, supporting each other. But Jo’s always been stubborn. She keeps things inside.” She hesitated a moment. “Like the scars on her legs…”

  Parsons nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  “She kept them covered up. I walked in on her in the shower one day, noticed them by accident. Turns out she’d been cutting herself for months.” Tears pricked Grace’s eyelids. “It was so difficult. She refused to admit anything was wrong. Said she felt suffocated, by all of us. Only agreed to get help if we backed off and let her do it her own way.” Grace swiped a tear from her cheek. “It took a while, but medication and counselling really made a difference. That was years ago and she’s been fine, all through her A levels. We’ve put it behind us.”

  “We found some Citalopram in her room.” Parsons voice was barely a whisper.

  Grace felt as though she’d been plunged into cold water. “What?”

  “It’s an antidepressant.”

  “I know what it is,” Grace snapped. She was struggling to breathe. “But it wasn’t necessarily Jo’s. She shared the room with another student.”

  “It was found amongst her belongings.” The detective’s face softened. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you if…”

  “No. If Jo was back on antidepressants, I didn’t know.”

  Grace was still for a moment. Searching through her memories. Trying to recall moments, indications that Jo had relapsed. But there were none.

  “There’s something else I need to ask you,” Parsons said. “It’s been reported that she has been coming back to Market Harborough on a Wednesday afternoon for an appointment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s been confirmed by two sources at Nottingham, although they don’t know why. Do you know anything about that? Apparently she was getting a train on a Wednesday lunchtime, returning so as to be back in class the next morning.”

  “No, I don’t know anything about it.” Grace shot Phil a look. He shook his head too, mystified.

  “Perhaps your other daughter, or Chloe might be able to help?”

  “No.” Grace shook her head firmly. “I will not have you talking to Lydia. I’ll speak to her. And Chloe. But I very much doubt either of them knew anything. Like I said, Jo didn’t always like to share.”

  “I’m sorry. I know this is difficult for you. But is there anything else you haven’t told us? Maybe an old relationship, or something that has gone wrong in Jo’s life, or the family in general?”

  Grace swallowed. She grappled with her thoughts, wondering if she should share the details of her own attack. But what good would it do? She had no idea who’d attacked her all those years ago. What relevance could it possibly have now? She sat tall, shook her head. “We keep getting calls from reporters,” she said, changing the subject.

  “Yes. Your husband has spoken to me about that. We’ll be dealing directly with the press. They shouldn’t be contacting you. If you receive any more calls, please let me know and I’ll take it further.”

  ***

  Anthony Kendall looked up as Jackman and Wilson entered the room. He was of average build, with light brown hair swept back to hide a thinning patch around the crown and striking hazel eyes that followed their every movement.

  Jackman mustered a kind smile and introduced them both. “Thank you for coming down from Nottingham to see us today,” he said.

  “Anything I can do to help. Still can’t believe it, to be honest.”

  Jackman sat on the sofa opposite, Wilson beside him. He’d reserved one of the softer rooms they usually kept for vulnerable witnesses to interview Anthony, expecting a nervous young student, and was surprised when a mature man had arrived at reception. “Can I get you a glass of water, or a coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “When did you find out about Jo?” Jackman asked when they’d settled themselves down.

  “Friday evening. We were in the student bar. Everyone was talking about it.”

  “It must have been quite a shock.”

  “You can say that again.” He shook his head.

  “How long have you known Jo?”

  “We both joined university at the end of September. Became friends soon after.”

  Jackman eased back into his seat. “You’re a mature student?”

  “Yes.”

  “Studying?”

  “Psychology.”

  “May I ask what you did before?”

  “I’ve been in sales for most of my working life. A couple of years ago I decided I needed a change.”

  “Where did you live before?”

  “I’ve always lived in Nottingham. Was fortunate to get a place at the local uni.”

  Wilson’s pen scratched the pad as she made her notes. “How long have you been seeing Jo?” Jackman asked.

  “We weren’t… seeing each other as such. We just got together sometimes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she wasn’t my girlfriend or anything like that.”

  Wilson clicked the end of her pen twice. “Can you remember when you first spoke to her?”

  “I’d seen her in the student union bar a few times, chatting, drinking. She used to complain about the music they played. One evening she brought in some of her own. Biffy Clyro, I think it was. I congratulated her on her music taste and we got talking. Must have been,” he stroked his chin, “a week or so after we started.”

  “About four weeks ago then?” Jackman said.

  He gave a slow nod.

  “How often did you see her?”

  Anthony rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe a couple of times a week.”

  “But she was just a friend?”

  “Kind of.”

  Wilson looked up from her notes. “Do you have a girlfriend, Anthony?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Happily single.”

  Jackman surveyed him a moment. His demin jacket and scarf seemed a feeble attempt at student attire. A far cry from the sales world he was previously used to, Jackman imagined. “So she wasn’t your girlfriend. She was your ‘kind of’ friend?” Jackman said.

  “Yes.”

  Nobody spoke for a minute. Anthony shifted in his seat.


  Jackman retrieved a paper from the file on the table beside him and passed it across to Anthony. “Do you recognise these text messages?” Anthony glanced at the paper and dragged a flat hand down the front of his face, leaving it to rest on his chin. “Did you send them?” Jackman added.

  He nodded.

  “It seems you had quite an intimate relationship for a friend.”

  “Look, she was a good laugh. We met up some times. Had sex. Neither of us wanted more than that.”

  Jackman pointed to one of the text messages. “What do you mean by ‘a game’?”

  Anthony’s hand dropped to his lap. “She was a bit… adventurous. Liked to do things differently. You know.”

  Jackman shook his head. Celeste’s comments about auto-erotic asphyxiation skipped into his mind. “Have you ever put anything around Jo’s neck?”

  “What? No!”

  “Or your own?”

  “What is this?”

  Jackman ignored the question. “How old are you, Mr Kendall?”

  “I don’t see that’s relevant.” The silence lingered. “Thirty-six,” he said eventually.

  “And Jo was…” He made a play of consulting his notes. “Nineteen. So you met up with a nineteen-year-old for occasional sex?”

  “Nothing illegal about that.”

  “So why do you feel uncomfortable about it?”

  Anthony looked down. It was a moment before he met Jackman’s gaze. “Well she’s dead, isn’t she? Doesn’t feel right talking about her like that now.”

  Jackman softened his tone. “Did Jo talk to you much when you were together?”

  “A little.” He shrugged a single shoulder. “Sometimes not at all. Depended on her mood really.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Nothing much. Uni stuff.”

  “Did she ever seem upset? Mention someone that might be angry with her, want to hurt her?”

  “No.”

  “What about at university. Was she popular?”

  Anthony gave a half-hearted nod. “She always seemed to have friends around her.”

  Jackman sighed inwardly. He’d read through the statements from her friends at Nottingham. They spent time together, knew about her family. But none of them claimed to be close confidantes. Her friends in Market Harborough had also been interviewed. Even her best friend from secondary school didn’t appear to know much more about her. It seemed she kept herself to herself. What was it about this girl that made her so mysterious? “When was the last time you saw her?” he asked.