by Jane Isaac
“Is everything okay? It’s like a morgue in the incident room.”
She ignored his question. “As you know, I’m under pressure with the recent terrorist threat.”
“So you said.”
“This is going to be a high profile investigation. We need to send more officers.”
“More from my team? We’re already short.”
Carmela sat back in her chair. “I understand that, Will. But there are other priorities at stake here. And the chief is getting restless. We’re not getting any further in the case. Maybe it’s time to get a fresh pair of eyes in, to take a look at things.”
“A review team, already?”
“There’s something else,” she said, ignoring his question. “Warwickshire want you back.”
“What? I thought you said you’d keep me as long as you could?”
“And I have. But we’ve had you for almost five weeks. Warwickshire are short-staffed too and your own Super wants you to concentrate on your policy report.” She met his gaze. “You leave today.”
Jackman clenched his teeth. “Who is taking over on Operation Ascott then?”
“That’s still to be decided.”
Jackman scratched the back of his neck as he left her office and marched back down to the incident room. He’d tried to negotiate, appeal to Carmela’s better nature, just one more week, but she was unwavering.
She hadn’t mentioned their indiscretion. Hadn’t spoken of their dinner together. The words were stark in their absence and soothed his conscience slightly. Perhaps she regretted it as much as he did. He hoped so.
Wilson was walking up the corridor towards the coffee machine as he made his way back to the office. He relayed his conversation with Carmela.
“When are you off?” she asked.
“Soon. You?”
“I’m one of the few staying on, picking through the embers, playing the PR game.” Jackman felt a brief moment of relief that at least the case wasn’t losing her. “The press are going to give us hell.”
He wanted to say they wouldn’t, but he knew he’d be lying. It wouldn’t be long before news of his return to Warwickshire would reach them and they would likely pounce on it, using it as an excuse to exploit the waning investigation.
“Keep in touch,” Jackman said. “I’ll be at the end of the phone. Any new developments, anything at all. Let me know?”
“Sure. But before that I think we need to have a few drinks. Can’t let you go without a send-off.” She moved into the incident room to announce the impromptu leaving drinks.
He felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. A number he didn’t recognise flashed up on the screen and he moved away to answer it, surprised to hear Grace’s voice at the end of the line, and even more surprised when she asked to see him as soon as possible. By the time he walked back in he felt a buzz of excitement as people started closing down computers, putting on coats and getting themselves organised for an evening out.
“I’ll meet you there,” Jackman said. “There’s something I need to do first.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Grace sat facing the detective. The camera in the corner of the room felt strangely disconcerting, eyeing her as she relayed her story.
She’d never told anyone about the attack. Ever. And now she knew why. It was impossible to keep secrets. The more people you told, the more chance there was that the sordid details would spread like a stain that could never be removed. But she hadn’t anticipated for it to be made public knowledge.
A wave of nausea had hit her as she’d ended the call to Faye the other day. Would she respect her wishes, as she’d promised? Grace worked back over their conversations. Faye had confided in her over the stillbirth, been candid about her father’s illness and later death. The two women had shared confidences together, as friends do, although nothing on this scale.
Her head was in a vortex. She’d phoned Faye back, cancelled her visit, feigning a headache. Problem was, with each hour that passed, Faye’s words had wormed their way under Grace’s skin. It wasn’t difficult to work out that Jamie wasn’t Jo’s dad. A family photo pointed out the clear differences in their appearance.
The very notion that he might have been tracking her, watching, waiting, lurking in the background for years brought fresh bile to her throat. What she couldn’t reconcile in her head was why he would attack Jo too. And why now? But if there was any chance that there might be a connection between her attack and Jo’s murder, she had to do something.
She’d retreated, ignored Faye’s texts as she mulled it over. When Faye eventually arrived on her doorstep, full of apologies, Grace confessed. Told Faye how she’d decided to go to the police. Faye offered to come with her and Grace agreed as long as she promised not to share the secret with another living soul. ‘I don’t want my family finding out,’ she’d said.
By the time Grace reached the station, she was on the verge of changing her mind. The idea of going over the vile details, having them recorded on file, made her lightheaded. She’d asked for DCI Jackman, the senior detective with the green eyes who’d been kind to her. And when she finished, he’d simply said, ‘Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I’ll have your account drawn up into a statement for you to sign.’ She’d gone on to repeat her fears about it being made public. ‘We won’t do anything before speaking with you first,’ he’d said.
Jackman had said that there was no reason to suspect the cases were connected, but that they’d look into it. He’d checked she still had his card, asked her to call him personally if there was anything else she remembered later.
Faye was still in the waiting area as she walked back through, in spite of the hour and a half that had passed. Winter arrived as they left the station. Grace hunched her shoulders against the cold. They didn’t speak of the secret cemented between them as they approached the car.
“Shall I drop you home?” Grace asked as they battled with seatbelts.
“No, I have some shopping to do. Drop me at the High Street and I’ll walk back.” Faye stared out of the window as the engine purred into action. “And Grace?”
“Yes?”
“Well done. I’m proud of you.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Jackman arrived at the incident room early on Monday morning. He’d spent a harrowing weekend scrolling through reports of sexual attacks on women during the late 1990s. Looking for any possible similarities in the MO. Grace was at pains to say she didn’t see her attacker’s face and the bland description of a tall motorcyclist in leathers, of medium build with a Midlands accent, didn’t give him much to go on. Part of him couldn’t imagine that Jo’s natural father was her attacker after all these years, but in the same breath he couldn’t afford to ignore it.
Wilson crossed the threshold just as he was beside the kettle, mug in hand. “Hello,” she smiled. “Wasn’t expecting to see you this morning.”
“There are a few more things I need to go through with you,” Jackman said. He held up a spare mug. “Coffee?”
“If you’re making.” She shrugged off her jacket. “What happened to you on Friday then?”
By the time Jackman had finished with Grace it was late. He’d sent Wilson a text with his apologies. He didn’t relish the idea of joining a bunch of cops who would have been decidedly worse for wear by then. “Got detained.” He carried their coffees over to her desk, pulled up a chair and relayed Grace’s account of her own attack, followed by his searches over the weekend.
Wilson didn’t speak until he’d finished. “Well,” she said, “looks like I missed all the action.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Do you really think her attack, over twenty years ago, is connected with Jo’s murder?”
Jackman glanced towards the window. It was a grey day, thick clouds overhead threatening rain. He looked back at Wilson. “Probably not. I’ve gone through all reported attacks, five years either side, put out a request for national cases with any simila
rities.”
“Grace didn’t recognise anything? Smell, voice? Nothing familiar?”
“It was a long time ago. I suppose she’s blocked it out.” A couple of other officers entered the room, looking a mixture of startled and pleased as they saw Jackman.
“Why didn’t you call me? I could have helped.”
“Grace wants to keep her attack confidential. She was quite insistent. Hasn’t even told her family. She only came to me in case there was any connection to her daughter’s case. I think the less people that handle this file, the better.”
“You got it.”
Parsons rushed in, tugging at the scarf around her neck. “Just been caught by the Super in the corridor. She wants to see you in her office,” she nodded at Jackman, gave a knowing look. “Now.”
Jackman sighed. “News travels fast around here, doesn’t it?”
Carmela’s door was open as he approached. He wandered in without speaking. She was stood at the window, looking down at the street below, hands rested loosely on her hips. She whipped around as the door clicked shut. “Will. What are you doing here?”
That weekend she’d sent a text asking to meet if he was free, no mention of his dismissal, and he’d replied to say he was busy. A couple of other texts followed but he ignored them. He’d been wrong. There was no regret about their indiscretion on her part, and he was left with an overwhelming sense of guilt.
“There’s a new development.”
“This had better be good.”
She didn’t indicate for him to sit, but he sat anyway, forcing her to take her own seat behind her desk. He explained Grace’s revelation, the work he’d done over the weekend, the subsequent checks.
Carmela listened intently. “I thought I’d made it clear that you were to hand over the case?” she said when he’d finished.
“And I have. But Grace contacted me on Friday evening.”
“And you didn’t think to call it in?”
“This wasn’t a formal interview. She contacted me in confidence. And that’s the way it stays.”
“Okay, thank you,” Carmela said, a conciliatory note in her voice. “We’ll take over from here.”
“Any news on my replacement?”
She ignored his question, but her face was softening. “You didn’t answer my texts.”
“You were away. I was busy.”
A tinge of sadness flickered across her face before it hardened once more. “Don’t forget to let your own Super know where you are,” she said. “And Will?” He was almost at the door when he rounded to face her, “Keep in touch.”
Jackman’s stomach sunk as he made his way back to the office. Carmela had been a good friend last summer, but she clearly wanted more. He couldn’t deny he was drawn to her. Maybe, in different circumstances. But Alice was still here. She needed him. He turned the corner, lost in his thoughts, when he almost collided with Wilson. She stopped abruptly.
“You hanging around for a bit?” she asked.
He shook his head as a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Do me a favour, Dee. Watch that journalist.”
“Artie Black? You’re not serious. He’s a pussycat. An annoying one, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m not sure.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know exactly.” He gave a quick run through of his earlier concerns, carefully avoiding any mention of the terrorist footage. Although the work with Special Branch was ongoing, it was still bound in a thick tape of confidentiality, restricted to senior management level. “Just keep an eye on him.”
Wilson gave a nod. “We’re all gutted you’re going. We’ve not even been able to have that night out, to say goodbye.”
Jackman gave a short laugh. “I can always come back.”
“Don’t you just hate politics?”
Jackman shrugged a single shoulder. “Last week we were top of the list. Now there are new priorities. That’s policing.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“What?”
“The superintendent board.”
“I’m not with you.”
“You haven’t heard? A board’s been announced for January. The first in six or so years. Madam Carmela is only acting. She’ll have her eye firmly fixed on the goal.” Jackman stood mute as the implication behind the words sunk in. “Judy, the chief con’s secretary, said an email went out to top brass last week. That’ll be why she’s directing her resources into other areas. She won’t want to be connected to a failed enquiry with bad PR like this one.”
It took all of Jackman’s reserves to supress his anger. He thanked Wilson, collected his jacket from the incident room, made his goodbyes and had reached the corridor before the growl of anger raged at him. How dare she? An email had gone out last week. Those words picked away at him. Carmela hadn’t mentioned it. Was that why she’d kept her distance? There had been something odd about her manner, the way in which she wouldn’t answer his questions about a replacement, and now he knew why.
“Is this your phone, sir?”
Jackman turned and glanced at the officer who rushed towards him, puffing like a train. “You left it on your desk.” He nodded and thanked the officer. “It’s rung several times. You might want to check your messages.”
Jackman glanced at the phone when it rang again. He recognised Christine, Alice’s carer’s voice from Broom Hills, before she introduced herself. “Is everything okay?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I’ve some bad news for you, Will. Alice suffered a stroke this morning. The paramedics are with her now.”
PART TWO
Chapter Forty-Eight
Grace looked out of the window as she stirred the gravy. Another Christmas without snow. She was waiting for Phil to arrive with Matt, Chloe and Meggy in tow. Any minute now they would crash through the door, Meggy laden with her new presents to show them all, buzzing with excitement. An event like this would usually swell her heart, fill her with happiness, but today it felt as though a stone had wedged itself in her chest. And it wasn’t just the thought of their first Christmas without Jo. Something had changed.
The dull sound of Lydia’s music thumped the floor from above. She was still distant, spending more and more time in her room and around friends’ houses of late. The supermarket had been taken over by a larger chain and Phil threw himself into his work, regularly staying late in an effort to meet the new targets and priorities that were now being introduced. Evenings were full of stilted conversation, dinner on trays in front of the television instead of around the table together, often at different times. Even Chloe and Meggy visited less frequently as Meggy started a playgroup and had a routine of her own. Jo’s name was rarely mentioned, and when it was all eyes shot to Grace, almost as if it was taboo. Over the past few weeks, the distance between them had grown to such an extent that it seemed to Grace her family were becoming strangers.
The familiar sound of Faye’s chuckle wafted in from the front room where Grace had left her watching a Christmas edition of Have I Got News For You. The two women were together almost daily now, so much so, that Grace found she missed her when she wasn’t around.
The initial unease of the police interview about her own attack had passed and, when no news was forthcoming, Grace had once again buried the incident in the depths of her mind.
As the days and weeks rolled forward, Grace found that the more they dabbled in Jo’s background, the more her sadness deepened. No further attacks followed and, although the shock of Anthony’s middle-aged face in Nottingham that day had branded itself on her brain, she didn’t want it to be her lasting reminder of Jo. Apart from occasionally discussing the case between themselves, and receiving Parsons’ updates, the two women had gradually pulled back on their covert investigations.
Instead they focused on Faye’s plans for refurbishing her father’s bungalow and their daily routines. Faye was interested in everything, from gardening to childhood memories, and it seemed they were never
at a loss for something to talk about. Sometimes Grace would even forget herself, hear the sound of her own laughter, feel a rare touch of happiness, and she was grateful to her friend for those special moments.
A robin hopped about on the lawn outside, searching for food. Grace dropped her eyes to the line of candles that ran the length of the windowsill, a legacy of the candlelit memorial service they’d held for Jo, a week earlier. Jo had always loved candles. She could still see the wonder in her daughter’s eyes as she marvelled at the flickering flame.
The packed church, people jostling for spaces in the aisles, others standing along the back, filled her mind. Solemn faces singing happy tunes, holding their own young ones close. The fact that it could happen to any of them, that their child could suffer a similar fate, showed in their strained faces. Chloe wrote a poem about finding sisterhood, that Phil read for her, and Lydia read from Peter Pan, Jo’s favourite childhood book. Afterwards everyone lit a candle in Jo’s memory. The church was ablaze with tiny dancing lights. Grace couldn’t leave without bringing some of it back and, at the end of the service, she’d gathered up close family’s candles and brought them home.
Yesterday, she’d painstakingly dusted and vacuumed Jo’s room, carefully arranging the ornaments and photos back in their usual place. To Grace, the space needed to be preserved, until the police released Jo and she could find her a special resting place of her own.
The drone of an engine was followed by the crunch of gravel outside. Doors banged shut. She looked down at the gravy, which was now bubbling in the pan, and lifted it off the heat as she felt a presence beside her.
“What’s Faye doing here?” Lydia whispered, tucking her hand beneath the foil covering a dish on the side and pulling out a strip of turkey.
Grace swept her daughter’s hand away from the meat. “I invited her.”
“On Christmas Day?”
“She didn’t have anywhere to go.”
“How long is she staying?”
“For the day.”