by Jane Isaac
“Interesting,” Wilson said. “All quite a few years apart…”
“These were the people that took the trouble to complain,” Jackman said. “There could have been others that didn’t. What about Faye’s work?”
“According to her national insurance record, she drops in and out of the system. Last place was a launderette in 2014. Doesn’t look like she’s stayed anywhere for long.”
“How did she meet Jo?” Jackman asked.
“The techies are still going through her internet history. They’ve retrieved loads of searches from her hard drive on strangulation, links to news reports on the rape of Shelley Barnstaple. They’re cataloguing them with dates and times as they go along. Looks like it started a month or two before Eugenie Trentwood’s attack.”
“So, if we assume Faye planned this and was our copycat attacker on Operation Ascott, why did she attack Eugenie Trentwood? There’s no connection there.” His question was met with blank faces. “And, why did she kill Jo?”
“To get close to Grace?” Wilson said. “They didn’t meet up again until after Jo died.”
“But why befriend Grace afterwards?”
“It’s not unusual for a killer to stay close to a case.”
“No, there’s something else,” Jackman replied. “Get the hair samples at the murder scene pushed through. Let’s see if anyone else visited Faye that evening. And chase that production order for the support group that Jo attended. If Faye had a history of mental health problems, it’s possible they could have met through those channels.”
“I’ll check on it,” Wilson said.
“The intelligence indicates that Faye has befriended people in the past for personal gain, but murder seems a stretch. Why change tactic? Was somebody else involved?” He turned to Carmela who’d stood in the background, watching the briefing unfold. “Your friend at the College of Policing, the profiler. Do you think we can get him back in to look over the case?”
She nodded.
“Right.” Jackman looked back at the room. “Any news on school records, medical records, where she has worked?”
“We’re working on it,” Wilson said.
“We need to find out more about Faye’s history.”
“We’re struggling with that one, sir,” McDonald said. “We know her mother died when she was young, but there’s a huge gap in between that and her working life.”
“No luck with social services?”
He shook his head. “They can’t find her records.”
Jackman surveyed his team. They looked tired, weary. And there was still a wealth of enquiries to follow up on. “Okay, I’ll pick that one up. We need to move fast on this now. We’re close, we’re just missing something.”
***
Grace staggered into the custody cell. She didn’t hear the door bang shut, the lock click, the yell of a fellow prisoner as he called for his brief. All she could hear right now was the blood pulsing in her ears.
Faye was involved in Jo’s murder? An image filled her mind. The two women laughing together, Faye tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It morphed into her placing a strap around Jo’s neck and yanking every breath from her body. Grace wrapped her arms around herself. Jo had been undressed. Sexually assaulted. Her body left exposed to the elements.
Grace’s mind reeled. How did they know each other? How did they meet?
She thought of her first meeting with Faye in the supermarket. The shopping centre when they lost Meggy. The thought of Faye watching and waiting for an opportunity to get close sickened her.
The woman she’d spent time with, shared confidences with, invited into her home. All those conversations and questions about Jo’s case. She’d been grateful to have someone to talk to, to confide in. Taking her into Jo’s room, her comments over their visit to Nottingham. Yet all the time Faye was trying to wheedle her way closer into their lives and destroy everything in sight. Faye had even pressured her to report her own attack to the police, all the time knowing it wasn’t relevant.
She’d been so thrilled with the scarf Faye had bought her, had even worn it when the police had arrested her. Grace placed a hand to her neck. The custody sergeant had removed it to be kept with her personal items. She wanted to rip it to shreds.
Disbelief gave way to anger. How could she have forged a friendship with a woman involved in her daughter’s murder, invited her into her home, into her confidence and not suspected anything? How could she not have seen through all those lies right in front of her? A ball of rage rose inside, gathering momentum. Grace didn’t know who had killed Faye, but of one thing she was completely sure. They’d done her a favour. Because if Faye wasn’t already dead, she would kill her herself.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Rural Leicestershire was quiet the following morning. Bach filled the void in the car, the ebb and flow of the music once again easing Jackman’s mind. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was 10.30am. They could only keep Grace for another eight hours under her current custody conditions before they had to apply for an extension. Something about her interview, her relationship with Faye, didn’t ring true.
Faye’s motivation itched away at him. The earring, the items found at her house, her phone, all pointed to her involvement in Jo’s case, but they were lacking a motive. Was there somebody else involved in the case, somebody Faye was harbouring? A male partner perhaps?
The rain had ceased, although a blanket of cloud still covered the sky leaving a grey January day in its midst. He wound down the window, inviting the damp air to seep into the car. A frustrating hour had been spent that morning, making call after call, being passed from one office to another, in an effort to track down somebody that was working in Leicestershire Social Services who might have a recollection of Faye’s early life. Turning back the clock to the eighties had proved tricky. Many of the officers he spoke to hadn’t worked there at the time, he suspected some of them hadn’t even been born then. Eventually he’d been emailed a list of retired officers and worked through them, one by one. Two of them had passed away, another was on a cruise. Finally somebody recognised Faye Campbell’s name and gave him the details of someone they believed had worked her case in the 1980s: Meredith Atkinson, retired in 2006. It had only taken him a few minutes to trace her address and phone number, but when he’d tried to call there was no response, so he’d driven out there anyway in the hope that he might catch someone at home.
Jackman arrived at a detached house with a large oak door. As he approached he was surprised to find it open. An elderly lady looked out. She was leaning on a wooden stick. “Can I help you?” she asked.
Jackman introduced himself, held up his badge. “I’m looking for Meredith Atkinson.”
The woman peered in closer at his badge before she met his gaze. “I’m Meredith Atkinson. What can I do for you?”
“I’m working on a case you might be able to help me with, from your social services days. A Faye Campbell.”
Meredith rocked on her stick. “You’d better come in.”
Her stick tapped the parquet flooring as she guided Jackman through to the front room. He turned down her offer of refreshments. He didn’t want to see her struggle with a tray, and she struck him as the sort of woman that wouldn’t likely accept assistance.
“What can you tell me about Faye Campbell?” he asked, when they’d settled themselves into the two armchairs.
“What do you want to know?”
“As much as you can tell me really.” He gave a scant overview of Faye’s body being found. “I’m working on the murder investigation. We’ve been struggling to put together Faye’s background.”
“I was allocated her case when her mother died of a drugs overdose in the early 1980s.” Creases folded around her eyes as she narrowed them. “She must have been about four.”
“I’m having difficulty tracking down the records.”
“I’m not at all surprised. It was before computer systems existed in the way
they do now. Everything was recorded in paper files. The offices I worked from had a fire in the early nineties. Loads of files were destroyed at the time, Faye’s being one of them, no doubt.”
“Do you have any recollection of your cases? I appreciate it’s a long time ago.”
“Not all of them. Just the significant ones.” Meredith pushed a wisp of grey hair out of her face. “Behavioural problems are expected in a case like Faye’s. She hadn’t bonded during her younger years. Foster parents are trained, supported on how to deal with children that have experienced this kind of trauma. But Faye was an exceptional case.
“We tried several homes. It was all fine at first and then problems would creep in. She seemed to delight in telling lies, upsetting people. When she was six she ran away. The police found her on a station platform, begging.”
“What happened?”
“She was moved to a children’s home. Given counselling. Dropped out of the system ten years later. I always wondered what happened to her.”
“Do you recall what schools she attended?”
Meredith thought for a moment. “They’ll have been the local ones in Market Harborough, I suppose.”
“Can I ask, have you ever heard of Grace Daniels?”
“Daniels? Isn’t that the woman whose daughter was murdered last year? I read about it in the local newspaper.”
Jackman nodded.
“Awful affair. Faye wasn’t involved in that, was she?”
Jackman didn’t answer. Grace wouldn’t have been Daniels back in the eighties. He worked through the file in his mind, finally recalling Grace’s maiden name.
“She would have been known as Grace Norton,” he said. “Do you know if Faye had an association with her, growing up?”
“Is that the same woman? Goodness, I never made the connection. Well, yes. I remember the Norton family very well indeed. In fact, Faye even stayed with them for a while when she was young.”
***
Jackman pulled over and answered the phone on his way back to the station that afternoon.
“Hello, stranger.” Davies’ rich Geordie accent filled the car.
“Hey you. How’s things?”
“Pretty good. Got a phone call last night, asking me to hotfoot it over to interview another five witnesses from the support group first thing this morning.”
“Ah, sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. Most exciting thing to happen to me in a while.”
“How did you get on?”
“Five ladies all together. Not a particularly chatty bunch, I have to say. But one of them had coffee with Jo Lamborne a couple of times before the sessions. She says they talked about Jo’s life in Nottingham, her family mostly. Jo had a rough time before she left for university, called at drop-in centres occasionally for some help. She was texting a woman she’d met at one of them called Faye.”
Jackman felt a frisson of excitement. “Did your interviewee ever meet Faye?”
“She says not. And Jo never mentioned her again.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
“The statements, the previous reports, her medical records and her background all indicate a pattern of behaviour. Faye Campbell was a high functioning sociopath. Charming, charismatic even, but manipulative.” The usual feet shuffling and paper turning quietened at this point as everyone’s attention was on the profiler, Terry Barnes.
“Her mother died of an overdose when she four and it seems that she was passed from one foster home to another. Nobody could cope with her,” Jackman added.
“How did we not know this?” Wilson asked.
“There are no records. Apparently the social worker’s office to which she was allocated had a fire in the early nineties. All Faye’s records were destroyed. According to her medical records, Faye was diagnosed with conduct disorder at aged twelve, received treatment for around four years, when she dropped out of the system.”
“Conduct disorder?” Wilson asked.
“They don’t diagnose sociopathy until adulthood,” Barnes said. “Many sociopaths exist in society. Raised in a secure environment they can cope with their condition, have jobs, families. You would probably never notice anything different about them. But Faye was unusual. She didn’t bond during her childhood, failed to accept the normal rules of society. Her pattern of behaviour suggests when she was on a high, she was logical, decisive, charming. When she was on a low, she was completely destructive to herself and those around her. It’s the most dangerous combination.”
“There’s more,” Jackman said. “The social worker told me that Faye lived with Grace’s parents for a while when she was nine years old.”
“What?” Wilson looked shocked. “Surely Grace would remember that?”
“Not necessarily. Grace’s parents couldn’t have children of their own, so they adopted her.”
“We already know that.”
“But they also fostered. They’d have taken in hundreds of children while Grace was growing up. Some stayed a few weeks, others months, the longest was just over a year. Faye attended Grace’s school for a while.”
“Why did she leave the family?”
“Apparently she’d developed an obsession with the boy next door. Followed him everywhere. When he didn’t return her affections she stole things from him, and eventually tried to set fire to his bedroom. The story was hushed up at the time. He was a close friend of Grace’s, so much so, that he became her first husband.”
Wilson’s eyes widened. “Jamie Lamborne? He was Jo and Lydia’s father. Died of cancer five years ago.”
“That’s the one,” Jackman said. “It’s possible she met Jo, recognised the name and discovered the connection. Perhaps she became jealous of Grace’s stable home, the fact that Grace married Jamie and had a family of her own. Faye never had any of those things.”
“But why murder her daughter?”
“The intelligence reports suggest Faye befriended vulnerable people, latching onto them for financial and personal gain,” Barnes said. “When she had bled them dry she moved to the next victim. People are easier to manipulate when they are vulnerable. Faye came along at the right time. Well, no, that’s not strictly true. She manufactured the whole thing, chose her moment carefully, would have planned meticulously, hence the sexual motive. It was the perfect mask. The police would be sent in a different direction, immediately thinking they were looking for a man. She’d read about Shelley Barnstaple’s attack, copied the details as much as possible, manipulated the evidence to suit her own needs. Eugenie Trentwood was her practice, her run-up to the main event.”
“Grace mentioned Faye was interested in Jo’s case,” Wilson said. “She took that as friendship, an offer to assist her in finding the truth.”
Jackman nodded. “If she could find out about the police investigation, she could help to steer the attention away from her. Hence the visit to Anthony Kendall in Nottingham. I’d bet it was Faye who encouraged Grace to take that trip.” He thought about Grace’s confession of her own attack. Once again attention had been pushed elsewhere.
“She lied about where she lived, her backstory was so contrived, so practised that she probably deluded herself into believing it,” Barnes added. “She even lived with Grace for a while, enjoying the lifestyle, the close friendship while it suited her.”
“So what changed?” Wilson asked.
“Seemingly there are no constants in Faye’s life,” Barnes said. “No siblings, parents, family or friends to speak of. Every relationship she has is short lived. She might have set out to harm Grace and her family, but she’s unbalanced. She plays with her victims. Watches them, gets close. The same scenario was playing out over again. Only this time, she took it further than she’d ever done before.”
“So she told Grace she’d murdered her daughter?”
“I doubt she admitted it. Grace certainly hasn’t said anything to support that. We are dealing with a highly manipulative woman here. Maybe she scattered clues, left Grace
to discover the truth for herself.”
The door snapped open. McDonald entered, closely followed by Carmela. “Remember Faye’s neighbour said she saw the person who’d visited Faye that evening?” McDonald said. “We’ve just had the results of her ID. She picked out Grace.”
Jackman nodded. “Okay.”
“There’s something else.” He waved a piece of paper in his hand. “Faye’s credit card bill show she hired a white escort van for two days from the 29th of October.”
“The day Jo died,” Jackman said. “Contact the hire company. We’ll need to seize the vehicle, get it examined by CSI.”
Carmela looked at Jackman. “A word please?”
Her face was frosty as Jackman stepped into the corridor. “We have Grace’s DNA at the scene plus hairs from her dog, probably fallen from her clothing,” she said. “We have a witness placing her there that night. She had motive, means and opportunity.”
Jackman shook his head. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
“What? A gut feeling?” she scoffed. “We don’t work on feelings here, Will. We work on evidence. The CPS are going to charge Grace with murder pending further enquiries. Your work is done here.” And with that she turned and walked away.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Grace sat, staring into the shadows of the corridor beyond, separated from her by a line of solid steel bars. It was cold down there. Sporadic memories of the morning’s events washed through her.