Setting her empty cup onto the coffee table, Amy stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
Dougie shifted in his chair as he averted his gaze. ‘Look at me being all maudlin. Let me get us a proper drink, and we’ll raise a toast to your dad.’
Amy knew better than to offer to help him retrieve the bottle of Jamaican rum from the cupboard in the kitchen. As he rifled for glasses and ice, she felt a cold shiver dart down her spine. Her hands disappeared into the sleeves of the woollen sweater that she had changed into an hour before. Bunching her fists, she was unable to put her finger on the sudden streak of fear running through her. Unaccustomed to anxiety, she caught her breath as it took her by surprise. Releasing her hand, she accepted the tumbler of rum and ice as it was offered to her, forcing a smile to her lips.
‘To your dad.’ Dougie raised his eyes to the ceiling as he held up his glass. ‘And to your future.’
Amy clinked her tumbler against Dougie’s as she repeated his words. But the chill had invoked a strange feeling inside her. One that said the past wasn’t done with her yet.
CHAPTER THREE
The bars of the prison cell window were cool against Lillian’s cheeks. It had been fifty-eight minutes since she saw the sun. She lived for her moments in the exercise yard, when she could fill her lungs with fresh clean air. She could still smell the aftermath of the rain, although these days she didn’t dare close her eyes as she inhaled a breath. The last time she did that, she received a punch to the stomach and several kicks to the spine when she went down. She touched the bald patch on the back of her head, feeling the prickles of new hair growth. It was one of many injuries she had suffered this week. The wardens kept an eye on her, but staff cutbacks made it hard. It was the funeral of that copper that sparked it off. That, and the silly cow who sold her story to the press. Gladys Thompson had barely known her, yet the papers had lapped up news of her terminal illness, and her dying wish to give her little girl a proper burial. Lillian snorted. If she was such a great mother, then why had her twelve-year-old daughter been wandering the streets alone? Decades had passed since the murders, yet even now, the public could not let it go.
The prison beatings, the newspaper reports and the constant stream of hate mail were doing her head in. Why did Jack have to die, leaving her to face the music alone? It was the stress of his arrest that did it, and just when he was about to spill the beans. Had he suffered an attack of conscience, or was he giving up the burial sites in exchange for a better deal? Keeping quiet was Lillian’s act of defiance. Why should she help the police after all they did to her? At least that’s what she had thought – until now. She would give Gladys what she wanted, but only because it suited her. She turned to the spindly legged table, smoothing her hand over the letter she had written an hour before. She had left it there to rest, allowing the words to speak to her as they replayed in her mind. Rereading it one last time, she knew she had done the right thing.
Dear Amy,
I know this will come as a shock. I doubt your family have been truthful about your background, or even told you that you were adopted at all. I do not want to end my days in this prison cell without seeing you one more time. I am your birth mother. The person who gave you life.
You were just a few years old when you were ripped from my arms. Look at you now. I know that as you read this letter, you will want to discard what I have told you. Perhaps you will feel disgusted, or has denial come to the forefront of your mind? It is easier to face the future believing you come from untainted blood. But you were never one to take the easy way out, were you? My Poppy. My child.
Deep in your heart, you cannot deny me, regardless of how uncomfortable the truth makes you feel. My blood runs through your veins. Mine and your father’s. Whatever lies your adoptive parents have told you, we both loved you very much.
I know you will refuse to visit, so I am bringing you to me the only way I know how. There are three more bodies buried. Three more families you can help put at rest. I will help you find them. But do not keep me waiting. Respond within a week, or I will take my secrets to the grave.
Yours always,
Lillian
CHAPTER FOUR
A shaft of early morning sunlight beamed across the row of treadmills that were spaced with perfect precision in the newly equipped gym. Britney Spears provided motivation with ‘Work Bitch’ drumming a beat through the overhead speakers. Amy grabbed a heated towel from the rolled-up pile next to the water cooler. Five Star Gym was a vast improvement on using the equipment in her parent’s cellar, where spiders lurked in every corner.
‘I didn’t expect to see you today.’ It was the voice of Amy’s DCI, Hazel Pike. It had a husky quality from a cigarette habit she had knocked on the head when workplace smoking was banned.
‘Why not? It’s Thursday. We always train on Thursdays,’ Amy said, avoiding the real reason for Pike’s concern. Being invited to use the gym out of hours was something she had taken advantage of over the last couple of months. The gym belonged to Pike’s son and only those in Pike’s favour were granted out-of-hours access free of charge. Amy had enjoyed the camaraderie, as well as the insight into her DCI’s job.
‘You know what I mean,’ Pike said, her eyes as hazel as her Christian name. Her wavy brown hair was long on top, short back and sides, her figure curvy but toned. For as long as Amy had known her, she called everyone by their surnames and expected the same in return. For Amy, it was no problem, but Pike was not the prettiest of last names.
‘Dad would want me to soldier on.’ It was true. She drew strength from work routines and schedules, and as long as she was meeting her commitments, the ground felt firm beneath her feet.
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Pike rolled her eyes as the track changed to an upbeat tune from will.i.am. ‘I don’t know why we have to listen to this rubbish. What’s wrong with George Michael? He always makes me work up a sweat.’
Amy smiled, checking her watch. ‘Fancy a quick session on the treadmill before some pad work?’
Many of their chats took place as they ran side by side, Pike speaking effortlessly while Amy tried to keep up with her long stride. Without wasting time, she set the treadmill to her usual speed. Today she felt like running in silence, but ten minutes in, Pike began to chat. It felt too soon after her dad’s death to make small talk, and in the absence of a work conversation, she did not know what to say.
‘How’s your mum?’ Pike asked, after filling Amy in on her home life.
Poor Mum, Amy thought. ‘She’s holding it together.’ She averted her gaze in an effort to conceal the lie. Last night as she padded across the landing, she had heard her sobbing in her room. ‘How’s work?’ she said, changing the subject out of respect for her mother.
‘Do you really want to know?’ Hazel’s feet pounded the treadmill, but she was barely breaking a sweat. There were few DCIs left as the rank was slowly being removed from the force. Pike had been fortunate to keep her role, serving as crime manager of her department. As such she was more involved in the administrative aspect than leading multiple investigations.
Amy panted, jabbing the speed button as she cranked it up another notch. ‘Are things that bad?’
‘Gladwell’s covering in your absence. You know what he’s like. He doesn’t like to say no.’
Young in service, DI Andrew Gladwell had a willingness to help that could work to the detriment of her team. Amy’s squad was six months old, formed to deal with specialist cases likely to hit the media in a big way. The unit had become a necessity after a recent spate of bad publicity in the press. Amy groaned at the thought of her department falling into disarray. ‘We’re not there as an overflow,’ she said, imagining her team armpit-high in files that should be dealt with by CID.
‘They’re handling it,’ Hazel replied, between steady breaths. But the expression on her face said otherwise. Amy knew her tell. It came in the form of a small knot that formed in the c
rease of her brow when she was stressed.
‘I’m coming back. Today.’ Amy’s arms pumped by her sides as she injected her frustration into her tiring limbs. She swiped at the sweat stinging her eyes before checking Hazel’s progress. It provided enough motivation to carry on.
‘It’s too soon,’ Hazel said. ‘But pop in for a cuppa tomorrow if you like. The command team is asking for daily updates on our progress.’ She paused to catch a breath. ‘There’s a lot of pressure to prove our worth.’
Amy checked the display as it beeped to inform her she had met her run target today. The treadmill slowed automatically, and the two women walked in unison as they cooled down. The need to find out more itched like a rash. As the treadmill came to a halt she picked up her towel and dabbed her forehead. ‘So . . . erm . . . about work.’
‘I wouldn’t have told you if I thought you were going to worry,’ Hazel said, crossing the room and pulling on a pair of red boxing gloves.
‘I’m not worried,’ Amy lied, wishing she had Hazel’s resources. Until her private gym sessions, she had made do with practising on the old punch bag hanging from the ceiling of her parents’ empty wine cellar. Her father’s makeshift gym was old but functional, and it was Amy who had persuaded her DCI to give boxing a try. As she raised the pads, she planted her feet wide, steadying herself to absorb the punches coming her way. Her biceps tensing, Amy took the blows, a small sense of satisfaction gained. As fit as she was, her DCI still could not punch as hard or as fast as her.
‘Your ex was a journalist, wasn’t he?’ Hazel said, pausing to remove her gloves as they swapped roles. ‘I remember your dad saying. It must have given you a good insight into how they work.’
‘You could say that.’ Amy tried to hide her discomfort as Hazel relayed what her father had said. For a split second, she made a mental note to speak to him about over-sharing, before remembering he had passed away. Taking a deep breath, she led with her left leg and delivered a series of jabs and right crosses that made Pike step back for a reprieve.
‘Remind me never to piss you off,’ she said, before raising the pads for the second time, a trickle of sweat running down her face.
Amy smiled before pulling back her fist and delivering a right hook. Keeping her head down, she followed it up with several more. Left, right, left, right, she threw punches, her pent-up emotions finally finding release. Twisting her hip and back foot, her body moved harmoniously just as her father had taught her. She enjoyed the feeling of power as her glove made contact with the pad. A dance track invoked a spike of energy and Amy became aware of the smell of her own sweat.
‘I’ll pop in around eight,’ she said, wiping the perspiration from her brow as their session came to an end. ‘See how the team are getting along.’
‘It’s too soon,’ Pike replied, mirroring her actions. ‘Go home, have a cry. Open a bottle of wine. We’ll manage without you for a while.’
‘But I won’t,’ Amy said, her words unintentionally firm. She paused, offering up a watery smile. ‘I’ve never lost anyone before.’ Although deep down it felt like a lie. There were memories, dark and festering in the recesses of her mind. Lately it was becoming harder to keep them at bay. She paused for breath, her chest feeling tight. ‘I don’t know how to handle it. Grief . . . it’s all consuming. The only thing that will keep me sane right now is work.’
‘All right, Winter, have it your way,’ Pike said. ‘It’s easy to see where you inherited your stubborn streak from!’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ Amy feigned a smile. She knew Hazel missed her father. Everyone did. Going to work was the only way to stop her grief from swallowing her whole.
CHAPTER FIVE
Amy smiled as her mother slid a food-laden plate onto the table before her. Sausages, bacon, mushrooms and beans released a sweet aroma that smelt like home.
‘Are you sure you want to go back in already?’ Flora said, pouring two cups of tea from the pot on the table. ‘It’s only been a few days.’
‘You have to be your strongest when you’re feeling your weakest,’ Amy said, quoting her father. ‘Besides, they need me. Dad wouldn’t have it any other way.’ Reluctantly, she curled her fingers around her knife and fork. After her workout, the last thing she wanted was a big breakfast. A snuffling sound from under the table told her that Dotty, her beloved pug, was already lining up to help her out.
Flora’s eyes glistened at the mention of Robert’s name, and she swallowed back the words on her tongue. She couldn’t yet talk about him without crying.
Amy had yet to shed a tear. Her inability to cry had provided amusement to her peers during her school years and was still a source of embarrassment for her.
‘You don’t need to cook for me either. I should be looking after you.’ Amy prodded her fork into a sausage and snuck it under the table while her mother’s back was turned. A quick gulping sound signalled that Dotty had made short work of it. ‘Will you be OK for a few hours without me?’
‘You don’t need to worry about me, Winifred’s coming around later.’ Flora closed the kitchen window as droplets of rain spat against the glass. Amy sighed as she took in her mother’s form. Like her, she was short in stature, but where Amy had muscle, Flora was fading away. Anxiety was a constant factor in her mother’s life and Robert’s death had taken its toll. She wished she could hug her, tell her everything would be OK, but subletting her flat to move in with her mum was the best she could offer for now. God knows her brother would not have been able to sacrifice his rampant sex life to stay and comfort her.
At least Flora knew many of her fellow residents of Royal Crescent, the curved terrace where they lived in Holland Park. It was mind boggling to imagine her parent’s property was worth in excess of two million pounds. Many homes on the terrace had been converted into flats, but some houses still remained, the residents sharing the communal gardens on sunny days. For Amy, it was no great hardship moving back in. Each room was bright and tastefully decorated, her own private nook situated on the fourth floor. She glanced beyond her mother to the sash window. It was still raining. Today she would cycle to work. After eating some beans, she slipped a sliver of bacon under the table before rising to leave.
‘Are you going love? You’ve barely touched your food.’
‘Sorry.’ Amy shrugged. ‘I’m not up to a big breakfast after a workout.’
‘It’s a good thing Dotty is then!’ Flora said, her eyes lighting on the pug as she danced around her heels for more.
Amy’s short walk from the bicycle shed to her office was interrupted four times before she pressed her tag against the security pad on the door. Having gracefully accepted her colleagues’ condolences, she carried on her journey with a serene expression that belied the emotional turbulence she was battling within. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her posture, tilting her chin upwards before striding inside. She was wearing her usual uniform of starched white shirt, charcoal suit and leather ankle boots, which added a couple of inches to her height. Her hair was straightened and rested on her shoulders, her make-up lightly applied. All she wanted was to inject some normality into her day. The first face she saw was that of DS Paddy Byrne, the one person in the police who had seen her with her guard down. Having spent the first few years of her career being taken under his wing, she was thrilled to be reunited with him as part of her team. But while Amy was organised, Paddy was anything but. A dab of bloodstained tissue still clung to his neck from a shaving nick. His shirt was ironed, most likely not by him, but his rumpled navy suit jacket looked as if his dog had made a bed of it overnight.
‘Are you psychic?’ she said, gratefully accepting a mug of coffee from his grip. Her James Bond mug had been a gift from her father, another bit of 007 memorabilia.
‘I heard you talking in the hall.’
Amy smiled in appreciation. ‘Here’s to another day of outward smiles and internal screaming.’
Her sarcasm made Paddy’s face crease in concern. �
�You OK?’
‘Yes, fine.’ Amy dipped her head towards her mug as she sipped. ‘But if one more person asks me if I’ve come back too soon, I’m going to implode.’
‘How’s the exercise regime going?’ she said, changing the subject. Paddy had been threatening to get fit since leaving the firearms department five years ago. It made little difference to his expanding waistline, but her teasing lightened the mood.
‘I’ve got into a routine,’ he chuckled. ‘Ten minutes every morning of sitting up in bed thinking about how tired I am.’
Amy smiled in bemusement. ‘Briefing at eight?’
Paddy nodded. ‘Nothing unusual on at the moment, but there’s still time. We’re just trying to sort through the shit storm of jobs Gladwell volunteered us for.’
‘Don’t worry about those. If they don’t fit the criteria I’ll be delegating them to CID.’ Amy watched as the team’s half a dozen officers began to filter in. Their office in Notting Hill Police Station was compact but functional, housing several desks, a small communal kitchen and her tiny office, which could have been assembled from a flat pack. Given the nature of their role, they had access to workspace in any station across the Metropolitan Police’s jurisdiction, and existing teams had no choice but to make room as they assisted with high-profile cases. Cutbacks dictated that it was rare for colleagues to get precious with their workload, being more a case of all hands on deck. ‘I need some alone time with my coffee,’ Amy said, before going to her office.
Closing the door, she rested her forehead against the cool wooden surface and exhaled lengthily. She could do this. What choice did she have? But her father’s death had hit her like a sledgehammer, manifesting as a physical pain in her chest. Her eyes trailed over the array of yellow Post-it notes gracing the planner on the wall. Reaching out, she peeled away one that was curling at the corners. It was dated for today. Lunch in town – Dad. Scrunching it up, she threw it in the bin. The last time she was here, she was blissfully unaware that he had passed away. It was only when she was preparing to cycle home that she picked up her mother’s panicked voicemail, telling her to get to the hospital as quickly as she could. But by then it had been too late. Amy sighed; thoughts of the past descending like silken webs. Out of nowhere they would come, and each time she had to make a conscious effort to brush them away. Leaning against her desk, her gaze fell on the words printed across the mouse mat that had been a gift when she first moved in:
Truth and Lies (A DI Amy Winter Thriller Book 1) Page 2