The Lies Within

by Jane Isaac

  Grace opened the top drawer of the dresser and lifted out the photo she’d printed earlier. “That’s lovely,” he said as she handed it across. “But I was rather thinking of a family group? This one has already been used in the police appeals. One of all the family might jog a memory. We are trying to raise the profile, after all. If you could email it to me?” He gave another reassuring smile.

  “Oh.” Grace pulled out her phone, started to scroll through the images.

  “Take your time,” Artie said. “It needs to be a photo you’re comfortable with.” He stood. “Could I use your toilet?”

  Grace nodded and gave him directions. She bit her lip, worked her way through the images on her phone as he left the room. It seemed the wedding was the first time since she’d got this phone where they’d taken group pictures. Finding a suitable one proved more of a challenge than she’d anticipated. The first family shot was missing Lydia. Another showed Chloe’s eyes closed. Finally she found one of the girls about to the leave the house for the church. Phil wasn’t in the photograph, probably taking it at the time, and Meggy was missing, but it was the best of a bad bunch. She’d just pressed the button to email it to the journalist when he came back into the room.

  He smiled. “You have a lovely house.”

  “Thank you. I’ve sent you another photo. Let me know if it’s suitable.”

  “Great.” He finished the last drops of coffee and placed his mug back on the coaster.

  Grace couldn’t help wondering how many other families he’d visited during the course of his career as a crime reporter, how many other desperate people’s mugs he’d drunk out of.

  The telephone calls they received after Jo died dripped into her mind. She glanced at Artie Black. Was that reassuring smile genuine? He’d been gentle and courteous throughout their interview. No, he certainly didn’t seem like the kind of journalist that would sensationalise a story to gain a few extra readers. She pushed the idea aside.

  “Well, I think I have everything. I’ll put together a piece for the weekly newsprint. Should be out tomorrow.”

  Grace watched him slide his pen into the inside pocket of his jacket. “You really think it will help? The police investigation, I mean?”

  “I often find a personal piece focuses the mind,” he said. “Somebody out there knows who killed your daughter. This could just be the prompt they need to come forward.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jackman closed the door behind him. “Thank you for seeing me this morning, Doctor Aston.”

  She stood, sleek and tall in a brown trouser suit, shook his hand and indicated for him to take the chair nearby. “I’m happy to help,” she said. “It’s a tragedy.”

  The chair scraped across the floor as Jackman moved it slightly closer and they both settled into their seats. “How long have you been Jo Lamborne’s GP?” he asked.

  The doctor folded her hands in her lap. “For about the last ten years. The Lamborne family joined us when we set the practice up.”

  “And you’ve been here since the beginning?”

  “Yes. I’m one of the partners.”

  “So you treated Jo through her teenage years?”

  She nodded.

  “Did Jo have any health problems that required treatment recently?”

  “Inspector, you do realise I’m bound by an oath of confidentiality?”

  “I realise that. And we will be applying for her medical records formally. But this is a murder inquiry. Anything you can do to help us find who did this, and quickly, would be appreciated.”

  She paused for the shortest of seconds, before she turned to the side and tapped some keys on the computer. “She came to see me last March. I diagnosed depression and prescribed Citalopram, which she’s been taking ever since. Three months ago we increased the dosage.”

  “Had she been treated for depression in the past?”

  “When she was fourteen she lost her father. There was some evidence of self-harming. She was treated with antidepressants and a course of therapy.”

  “And she became well?”

  “It took about two years before she was weaned off the medication.”

  “No other health complaints?”

  Doctor Aston tapped away at the keyboard. Jackman craned his neck, but the sun was streaming through the window, bouncing off the screen, obscuring his view from this angle.

  “Apart from a course of antibiotics in February last year to treat an ear infection, nothing else to speak of.”

  “Why do you think the depression has returned now?”

  “It’s difficult to say. Could be any number of things, or maybe just a chemical imbalance in the brain, something that needs adjustment.”

  “She didn’t talk about anything else in her life that might be a trigger?”

  “Not to me.”

  “She hadn’t shared this with her family. Why do you think that was?”

  “It’s hard to say. Maybe she didn’t want to worry anyone, preferred to deal with it herself.”

  “We’ve been trying to track down her movements over the past few weeks and discovered that she came back to Market Harborough every Wednesday afternoon from Nottingham. Do you know anything about that?”

  She turned to the computer, clicked a few more keys and frowned. For a moment she was deep in thought. “I did recommend a group therapy session. It’s possible it could be that.”

  “You don’t keep a record?”

  She stared at the screen. “I thought I’d put it in her notes.” She clicked a few more keys. “I don’t keep records of her sessions. That’s down to the therapist. They just contact me if they think there’s a problem or her medication might need tweaking.”

  “Can we speak to the therapist?”

  The doctor turned to face Jackman. “I’ll contact her. Put her in touch with you. But be aware she’s also bound by confidentiality rules regarding her other patients. She’ll only be able to talk to you about Jo.”

  “Anything you can do to help.”

  ***

  Less than forty minutes later, Jackman had just pulled into a parking space at Leicester Headquarters when his mobile rang again.

  “Chief Inspector Jackman?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Karen Wakefield. I’ve been contacted by Doctor Aston. I understand you wanted to talk to me about one of the support groups I run?”

  Jackman cut the engine. “Yes, thanks for calling back so promptly. I’m investigating the murder of Jo Lamborne and trying to build up a profile of her life. I wondered if you, or any of your group could help?”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Any information on Jo really. We know she travelled from Nottingham to Market Harborough to attend a meeting every Wednesday afternoon. I assume that was with you?”

  Karen cleared her throat. “I run a support group for people with mental health issues on a Wednesday afternoon in Market Harborough Health Centre. It’s a voluntary group, numbers vary from six to nine people. Jo attended around six sessions before…” she broke off. “We were all devastated to hear what happened to her.”

  “Why did she come to you?”

  “Jo had a breakdown in her teens and still suffered from anxiety issues. Outwardly she appeared confident, but beneath the surface she struggled with change. She came to talk through her issues.”

  “Did she forge friendships with any particular members, see them outside of the group?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. She wasn’t with us for long.”

  “Would any of your members be prepared to speak to us? Even the smallest detail about her life can help in an investigation like this. I could arrange for them to be interviewed by an officer out of the Leicester area, in confidence, if that helps?”

  The line was quiet a moment. “I’m sure Doctor Aston will already have made you aware, I can’t give you any contact details. But I can raise the issue with the group. It’s possible some of them might be co
mfortable talking to you, especially if the officer isn’t local.”

  Jackman thanked her, ended the call and immediately searched the contact details of his phone as the seed of an idea planted itself in his mind.

  Davies answered on the second ring. “Twice in one day. I am honoured.”

  Jackman chuckled. “I’ve something I think you might be able to help me with.”

  “I see, might have known it would be about work. What are you after?”

  Jackman gave her a short overview of the case and explained about the support group and his phone conversation with Karen Wakefield. “I’m looking for someone out of area to interview any of the members who come forward. We don’t have reason to believe any of them are suspects, so just the normal background interview to see if Jo saw any of them outside of the sessions, ask if they knew her personally or anything about her life. What do you think?”

  “Sounds like a good idea. At least it would get me away from the dreaded spreadsheets.”

  “Great. I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Lydia and Phil were gathered around the kitchen table when Grace walked in with Lucky the following afternoon. They looked up as she opened the back door. The dog rushed in to greet them, her little tail whipping against the chair legs.

  “You’re both home early,” Grace said. The fresh air had made her feel brighter and fresher than she had in days. Almost immediately she noticed their grave expressions. “Has something happened? Is it Jo?”

  Phil nodded to a chair opposite him at the table. “Come and sit down, love.”

  Grace shook off her coat and hung it on the back of the chair. “What is all this about?” Her eyes rested on the newspaper between them. She unfolded it. On the front was the photograph she’d given the journalist. Family Consumed in Grief read the headline.

  Grace lowered herself into her seat. “I’m just trying to do something to appeal for help.”

  “Don’t you think you should have spoken to us first?” Lydia said.

  “I didn’t think you would mind,” Grace said. “We all want to catch Jo’s killer, don’t we?”

  “Have you read the article, Grace?” Phil asked.

  “Not yet.” She looked past him towards the front door. “They only produce a paper copy once a week. I assume it’s just arrived.” Grace felt their eyes boring into her. “What is it?” She looked at the print. The article was a page long. The journalist opened with brief information about the crime. He went on to talk about the possible links with other cases. Eventually he talked about the family and how the prolonged police investigation was impacting on their grief. She flicked through the next paragraph. One sentence stood out: Jo was the glue that held the family together.

  Grace gasped. “I didn’t say that!” She read on about how Jo’s bedroom had been turned into a shrine as the family failed to accept the loss. She recalled the journalist’s open manner, his concerned expression. She’d thought he really cared, when all he was really trying to do was to dish the dirt. The words blurred as tears swelled in her eyes. There was an open appeal at the end. The main reason for the article, to appeal to readers, encourage someone to come forward. Yet all he’d done was to pick through the embers of Jo’s life and create something akin to a gossip column. “We have to complain to someone,” she said quietly. “I didn’t say those things.”

  Phil rubbed his lips together before he answered. “He hasn’t quoted you.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Surely?”

  Phil gave a conciliatory shrug. “We can complain if you want, but I doubt anything will come of it.”

  “What he’s said is wrong…”

  “He’s just played with the truth, put his own spin on it. That’s what journalists do. They’re not the police. Their agenda is different.”

  “But he said he wanted to help.”

  “How could you do this, Mum?” Lydia shook her head.

  “I wanted to do something constructive. You have to understand that.”

  “And you didn’t think to ask us first? Me, Chloe… Before you slap a photograph of us across the newspaper and share what you think we feel!”

  “What do you mean? You miss her, don’t you?”

  “It’s not about that. Do you know how difficult it was to go back to school last week? People don’t know what to say to you. They stare. Whisper in corners. Stop talking as you walk into a room. Even the teachers were weird for the first couple of days. Things were just starting to get back to normal. And now you do this.” Lydia poked the paper. “How could you?”

  Grace reached out, about to say how sorry she was, that she’d done it with the best possible intentions, for all of them, but it was too late. Lydia pulled her hand away. “You talk about her as if she’s still here. You even sleep in her bed. It’s like you’re obsessed!” Lydia left the room. The sound of a door slamming rang through the house.

  Tears trickled down Grace’s face. “I just wanted to do something to help. I didn’t mean…” The words caught in her throat.

  Phil moved around to her side of the table and crouched down beside her. “I know.” His face was inches from hers. “You’ve been under so much pressure.”

  “I should go and speak to her.”

  “Might be best to leave her for now. Give her time to cool down.”

  Her eyes were stinging as she closed them momentarily. “What about Chloe, Meggy? Have they seen it?”

  Phil nodded. “It was Chloe that told me about it. She phoned me at work.”

  “Was she upset?”

  His face darkened slightly, betraying his thoughts, but when he spoke his voice was even. “She was shocked more than anything. Because she didn’t know. But she’s worried about you. We all are.” Grace buried her face in Phil’s shoulder. “I could ask Ged to come back, if you like? Just for a while.”

  The offer was tempting. It would be a comfort to have her sister-in-law back, someone close to her, to talk to. Someone that seemed to understand. But Ged was needed elsewhere. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “We’ve been talking, Lydia, Chloe and I. And we think you need some help. To get you through this.”

  Grace thought about her trips to the surgery after Jamie died. The small room with the sofa and the fake flowers, the box of tissues on the table. The long silences as Kathryn, her therapist, waited for her to speak. She’d been through grief before, knew she had to work her way through, find the path. But this was different. They hadn’t caught the person who’d attacked Jo. How could she possibly rest, navigate a route through the fog when there were so many unanswered questions? It was like an open wound that kept weeping and no amount of grief counselling was going to heal it.

  But one look at Phil’s face told her that she needed to give a concession. He’d been kind, smoothed over the newspaper article, hadn’t been angry that she’d invited a journalist into their home to talk about private family matters when he had every right to be. She thought about Lydia’s comment, accusing her of being obsessed. Was this right? Was she neglecting her family? She eased back, met Phil’s gaze. “I just need some time.”

  “You’ll make an appointment with the doctor?”

  She pressed her lips together. “I’ll think about it.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Jackman squeezed through the bodies until he reached the bar. The staff were busy, moving down the line, switching from one waved note to another. He sat on a nearby stool and glanced around the area. He’d lost count of how many retirement celebrations he’d been to over the years, both in Warwickshire, in the Met and in the Marines beforehand. Usually these were places where he saw familiar faces, met colleagues he’d worked with, caught up with old friends. But due to the short time he’d worked in Leicestershire, there were very few people here he could claim acquaintance with.

  His eyes rested on a sheet of blonde hair beside the door. It glistened under the lights and swished as the petite woman shook her head back. At the sou
nd of her laugh he turned away, towards the bar. Quickly.

  “Good turnout for Taylor, isn’t it?” Wilson said, nudging his elbow.

  Jackman nodded. “Not surprising though. Do you know anything about his replacement?”

  “She joins us next week. Can’t remember her name, but she’s here somewhere.” Wilson made a play of looking around, before her own name was called from the other side of the room. She made her apologies and disappeared into the throng.

  Vowing to stay for one drink, he waved his note at the bartender who now faced him. “Mineral water, please.”

  “I recognise that voice.” Jackman felt the weight of her gaze on his back. It was the blonde woman. He turned to face Carmela Hanson, Head of Regional Training, and tried to look composed as he smiled a greeting. They’d spent some time together, earlier in the year, when she’d helped him prepare for a promotion board. But their friendship had ended awkwardly when he hadn’t attended the interview.

  “It’s good to see you, Will.” She surprised him by leaning forward, planting a kiss on his cheek. “How is that bouncy dog of yours?”

  Jackman’s mouth twitched as he looked back at her. Carmela’s smile was infectious. “Oh, you know, a handful. What are you doing here?”

  “I was just thinking the same,” she said. “This is off home turf for you.” She raised her wine glass to her lips.

  Jackman was just about to answer when Taylor appeared at his side and cut in. “Meet your new superintendent,” he said, tucking a protective arm around Carmela’s shoulder. Jackman’s stomach dipped as he looked from one to the other.

  “So, this is the SIO you’ve been telling me about,” Carmela said. “Will and I know already know each other.”

  “Good!” Taylor clapped Jackman’s arm. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to wrap this case up with you, but I’m sure you’ll find Carmela very supportive. She’s promised to make it a priority.”

  “I certainly will,” she replied.

  Jackman stared at them both. It wasn’t often he was stumped for words. Instead, he raised his glass. “A toast to good working relationships, old and new.”