Truth and Lies (A DI Amy Winter Thriller Book 1)

by Caroline Mitchell

  My New Year’s resolution is to:

  1. Stop making lists.

  B. Be more consistent.

  7. Learn to count.

  The joke was old, but it brought a sad smile to her lips. The pile of mail next to it caught her attention. One letter displayed a postmark that gave it priority over everything else. Who would be writing to her from prison?

  As she picked it up, there was something about the spidery scrawl that made her heart jump. Running her thumb beneath the rim of the envelope, she tore a jagged line and pulled the notepaper out. Her eyes darted from left to right as she scanned the words, her frown deepening as she read. Her lips parted to accommodate a sudden intake of breath. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. And yet . . . a sense of the past rising up to greet her brought with it a feeling of dread.

  ‘Poppy.’

  As the whisper left her lips, the envelope fell to the floor.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rapping his knuckles against the door, Paddy poked his head into Amy’s office, the scent of a just-smoked cigarette on his breath. ‘Gladwell’s coming over for briefing. Will I tell him you’re covering it today? Ma’am?’ His voice seemed distant, as if coming from the mouth of a tunnel. Normally, Amy would tell him off for using such a formal title. Instead, she failed to acknowledge him as she stared unblinkingly into space.

  As he stepped forward, Amy snapped out of her trance and spun around. ‘Sorry,’ she said, battling a sudden sense of foreboding. ‘I can’t. I . . . I’ve got to be somewhere.’ Bending to pick up the letter, she shoved it into her jacket pocket along with the envelope it had come in. Heads raised from computer terminals as she burst from her office, but Amy kept her eyes fixed on the door. It was too much. This was all too much. She needed to get home. To confront her mother about what she’d found.

  ‘Mum?’ Amy’s voice echoed in the hall, her heels clicking on the tiles as she closed the front door. Their bright and spacious home still carried the fragrance of the many flowers they had been sent following her father’s death. Pushing open the living room door, she was surprised to find her mother alone.

  ‘Why aren’t you dressed? I thought Winifred was coming over,’ Amy said, a slight tremble on her breath. Stunned by what she had read, she could barely remember the short journey home.

  As she stared at the blank television screen, Flora’s grief was evident in her red-rimmed eyes. Sitting on the floral-patterned sofa, her fingers tightened around a tissue that had seen better days. ‘I lied,’ she sniffed, trying to gain her composure. ‘I have to get used to being on my own.’

  Sitting there, still wearing her slippers and pink frilly dressing gown, her mother looked so small and fragile that Amy’s heart melted. She wanted to throw away the letter that was burning a hole in her pocket, forget everything except their shared grief, but she knew it was not that easy. She could not erase the words blazing at the forefront of her mind. ‘Mum?’ she said tentatively, taking a seat next to her.

  Blinking back her tears, Flora focused on her daughter’s face. ‘You’re as white as a sheet. Are you all right?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Amy said firmly, forcing herself to push on. She took a breath, a pause to gather her strength. ‘I was sent this letter . . .’ Pulling it from her pocket, she thrust it into her mother’s hands. ‘Tell me it’s not true.’

  Picking up her glasses from the arm of the sofa, Flora cleaned them with the corner of her dressing gown before resting them on the bridge of her nose. Confusion etched her features, her lips moving silently as she read. Slack-jawed, she shook her head and lowered the paper to her lap. ‘No,’ she said quietly, as if beaten by life. ‘Not now.’

  Amy’s hopes plummeted. She wanted her mother to tell her it was some kind of sick joke. ‘Why is Lillian Grimes writing to me from prison?’ Her body tensed as the reassurance she had hoped for failed to materialise.

  ‘We didn’t want you to find out like this.’ Casting the letter aside, Flora reached for Amy’s hands.

  Amy stiffened. ‘Find out what?’ Her heart thundered against her rib cage. She had been aware she was adopted from an early age, but she had compartmentalised the memories of her past life a long time ago. Jack and Lillian Grimes were nothing short of monsters. She clenched her fists, her nails biting into the palms of her hands as she waited for Flora to speak.

  ‘You were taken into care at four years of age, old enough to have a handle on things,’ Flora said. ‘But you didn’t want to talk about your birth family. Your dad said it was a blessing. A reason to start again.’

  ‘No,’ Amy said, her voice brittle. ‘It can’t be. Those monsters. They’re not related to me.’

  ‘By blood only.’ Flora tightened her grip on Amy’s clenched hands. ‘We were advised that your memory would return, but that time never came. Apart from some pictures you drew and an odd mention of your name . . .’

  ‘Poppy,’ Amy said, the word staining her lips. A sudden flap of the front door letterbox made her jump as the postman delivered their mail. Dotty leapt from her slumber in the kitchen, her bark sounding like a smoker’s cough as her nails clacked rapidly against the hall tiles.

  ‘Dotty!’ Amy called, grateful for her presence. Satisfied she had chased the postman away, her pug flounced into the living room and clambered onto Amy’s lap. It was as good an excuse as any for Amy to release her fingers from her mother’s tight grip.

  ‘We tried to tell you when you were ten,’ Flora continued. ‘But every time we brought it up you refused to listen, preferring to weave your own story of your past.’

  Amy remembered the wistful fantasies she had dreamed up when she hit her teens. The child of a famous Hollywood actress, she was abandoned by her mother in favour of life on screen. Or perhaps she had come from royalty, a scandalous love child, put up for adoption to save the family’s reputation. As she got older Amy focused on her future, dismissing her magical thinking. But she was always vaguely aware of something dark and monstrous buried deep inside. Something that made her blood turn cold. Amy tuned out of Flora’s narrative, watching her lips move as she apologised for failing her. She sensed old scars about to be ripped open. But how could she blame her mother, when the truth was too ugly to face?

  ‘Please try and understand,’ Flora continued. ‘Robert was adopted too, remember? I trusted him when he said it was best to let things lie.’

  ‘His upbringing was a bit different to mine,’ Amy replied. Like her, he never felt the need to find his biological mum and dad. But Amy was pretty sure his genes were not tainted by serial killer parents.

  ‘Exactly,’ Flora replied. ‘How could we force you through the trauma of reliving it all over again?’

  ‘You must have wondered if I would turn out like them.’ Stroking Dotty’s head, Amy finally met her mother’s gaze. ‘Did you hide the knives? Keep your bedroom door locked at night?’

  Shaking her head, Flora tutted in disgust. ‘Oh, Amy, if only you could have seen yourself back then. You were nothing but a scrap of a girl, as white as a ghost from lack of sun. You’d been brought up in a bubble, afforded so little contact with the normal world.’ Her features softened at the memory. ‘It took your father months to persuade you to stop swearing. You had your little ways, but you always put a smile on his face.’

  ‘It’s why he wanted me to join the police,’ Amy said, her thoughts running wild. ‘To keep me on the right path. Because deep down he knew I could turn.’ She paused, shaking her head as another venomous thought reared its head. ‘No wonder I’m so good at dealing with serial killers. Their blood runs through my veins. Rapists and murders. They’re part of me.’

  Flora’s features creased in an agonised frown. ‘Sweetheart, please don’t torture yourself. ‘Your father and I love you very much. He’d hate to hear you talk like this.’

  ‘But Dad investigated their case,’ Amy said, recalling the newspaper headlines. ‘Is that how he came to adopt me?’

  A sudden shower tapped against the
outside windowpane like tiny insistent fingers. Without the autumn sunshine to brighten the room, the temperature had plummeted. Tightening her dressing gown, Flora sighed. ‘It’s why we moved from Essex to London. We were willing to give up everything to give you a new start. Then your grandmother died, and we inherited this house. It seemed like fate.’

  Amy knew that her parents had inherited their five-bedroom terraced home. It was definitely big enough to house both her birth siblings. What had happened to them? She strained to remember one of the many newspaper reports of the crimes. ‘My brother and sister. Why didn’t you adopt them too?’

  ‘They were damaged, and I . . .’ Flora’s gaze fell to the floor. ‘I wasn’t equipped to deal with all three. Your dad worked long hours. It was just Craig and me. I was desperate for a little girl.’ Tears wet her eyes as she recalled the memory. ‘I wasn’t able to have any more children. I’d longed for a daughter to complete our family.’

  Amy knew Flora and Robert must have jumped through hoops to adopt her, but the truth of her background felt raw and exposed. ‘So, Dad picked me out like a puppy in a pet shop and left the others to rot,’ Amy said bitterly. ‘Does Craig know?’

  ‘No.’ Flora dabbed her eyes with a well-practiced hand.

  ‘And Dougie?’ Amy said, remembering his comment about her having a rough start.

  Flora nodded. ‘He was with us throughout it all. He even worked on the case with your father, transferring to the Met not long after your dad left. We were all overjoyed when the adoption was finalised.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do now?’ Amy said. Bored from the lack of attention, Dotty jumped from her lap. Amy’s eyes fell on the letter. ‘She’s given me an ultimatum. She’ll tell me where the last three victims are buried if I visit her in prison. Those families deserve to be in peace.’

  ‘But so do you,’ Flora said, her features hardening. ‘That woman’s an evil, wicked monster.’ She seemed to remember her audience and bit her lip. ‘If you knew the things she did . . . It was enough to keep your father awake at night.’

  Amy raised her hand, halting Flora’s words. ‘I’m not ready for that. Not yet.’

  ‘Why does she have to torment you so soon after Robert’s death?’ Flora emitted an anguished cry. ‘I can’t handle this on my own.’

  ‘If she hadn’t written the letter then I wouldn’t know the truth.’

  Flora nodded, her face drained of colour. ‘You need to arrange counselling, darling. You can’t be expected to carry on as normal after a bombshell like this.’

  ‘I owe it to the families to put them first. Now, more than ever,’ Amy said. Stuffing the crumpled letter in her pocket, she rose. ‘I’m going for a walk. I won’t be long.’ Calling for Dotty, she took her lead from its hook in the hall and clipped it on her collar. As far as Amy was concerned, the best therapist came with fur and four legs. Her shoulders weighted with the burden of the truth, she turned towards the door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Amy welcomed the biting chill, dodging puddles as she tried to untangle her thoughts. It felt like her brain had turned into a ball of knotted wool. With Dotty trotting ahead of her, she turned onto Holland Park Avenue. The rumble of black cabs and double-decker buses reminded her she was in one of her favourite places in the world: the beating heart of the city. She could never imagine living anywhere else, but working in such a vibrant metropolis brought its own challenges. The onslaught of violent crimes was relentless, and in the last few years she had attributed her nightmares to her job. Mixing with murderers and psychopaths was bound to have a knock-on effect. Yet when she thought about it, the dreams she experienced were through the eyes of a child: stepping into a spider-infested basement, searching, always searching, unable to find her way out. The thick and cloying smell was one she had experienced many times in her line of work. It was the smell of death.

  As Dotty trotted beside her, Amy’s stomach lurched without warning. Frantically, she reached for the doggy poo bag in her pocket, opening the flimsy plastic just in time to throw up the breakfast her mother had made. Ignoring curious glances from passers-by, Amy tied the top of the bag and deposited it into the nearest bin. Staring at her with cartoon-like wide eyes, Dotty emitted a whine.

  ‘It’s OK.’ Amy wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘We’re going to be OK.’ But her words were hollow. She had been running on empty since Robert’s death. Where on earth was she going to find the strength to face Lillian Grimes? If only her father were here to talk it through. She could not help but feel a sense of betrayal. Surely he could have broken the news when she was young? Helped her deal with the past and move on? Or were they ashamed of who she really was? Kicking a stone, Amy failed to notice Dotty trailing behind her until the lead became taut.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Amy said, feeling a pang of guilt for walking so fast. ‘Had enough?’ Dotty’s tongue lolled to one side. She was a lady who liked to take her time. ‘Want to go home?’

  Dotty replied with a whole-body wiggle, tugging on the lead to return the way they had come. Amy glanced up at the sky. Another shower was due. Her thoughts as heavy as the darkening clouds above, she trudged towards home, the tips of her shoes absorbing the recently shed rain.

  As she turned into Royal Crescent, the onset of heavy footsteps broke into her thoughts. ‘Dotty!’ Amy gasped, as the lead was yanked back. Usually unimpressed by strangers, her pet’s sudden flurry of excitement suggested she knew the person behind them.

  Blinking against a speckle of rain, Amy turned, recognition dawning on her face. ‘Oh! What are you doing here?’ Her displeasure was evident in her voice.

  Adam Rossi was no stranger to being rebuffed, given his profession as a journalist, though rejection was not a problem he usually encountered from the opposite sex. Shortening his stride, he fell into step beside her. He had not changed much in the six months since Amy last saw him. The same confident swagger, the same twinkle in his eyes. His Italian heritage granted him both the looks and charm needed to talk himself out of any situation. But not this time. Amy continued walking automatically, wishing she had stayed inside.

  ‘You stopped answering my calls,’ he said, ‘and I’m guessing you blocked my emails, too.’

  ‘I blocked you for a reason.’ Amy’s eyes locked firmly on the path ahead. There was no point in going over old ground. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you transferred.’

  ‘It didn’t work out for me. I missed London . . . I missed you.’ He smiled in response to Amy’s thunderous glare. ‘C’mon, why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘I’m not responsible for what my face does when you speak,’ Amy replied. She focused on the cracks in the concrete, on the weeds turning their heads to the feeble morning sun. She would not allow herself to get sucked in. Not again.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your dad. I know he didn’t like me, but he was a good man. Your mum must be devastated.’

  ‘She is,’ Amy said primly, her steps quickening as she caught sight of home. She did not deny what he said because it was the truth. Her mum had been thrilled with their engagement, and her brother had given it his seal of approval, too. Even Dotty melted in Adam’s presence. But her father . . . He was reserved from day one. Now she could see why. It wasn’t the fact that Adam played around, it was his profession as a journalist that had made Robert so guarded. The possibility he would discover the truth.

  ‘I’m back working for The London Echo. They gave me a promotion. I’m the head of current affairs,’ Adam said.

  ‘I’m glad things are working out for you.’ Amy’s fingers rested on the spiked metal railings outside her home. ‘I’ve got to get inside so . . .’

  ‘I was wondering,’ Adam interrupted, bending to scratch Dotty’s head as she danced around his feet. ‘Your father’s funeral has brought the Grimes case into the spotlight again. I thought it would be good to interview family members and talk about his work in apprehending’ – he raised his fingers in mock qu
otation marks – ‘the Beasts of Brentwood.’

  Amy stood, aghast. Adam was insensitive at the best of times, but this was a new low. It served as a sobering reminder of why their relationship had come to an end. Another thought flashed like a shot across her bow. What if he knew the truth about who she really was? Her fists curled over the lead as she tugged Dotty away. ‘You vulture,’ she spat, her face stony. ‘Dad’s barely cold in the grave, and you’re already picking over his corpse!’

  ‘Hey, I come in peace.’ Adam smiled, raising his palms. ‘I had a lot of respect for Robert. I just wanted to pay tribute. We’ve lined up other interviews with family members of the victims . . .’

  Amy rolled her eyes, stung by his disrespect. ‘Tribute?’ Anger flared inside her. She lifted her finger, poking his chest with each sentence she spoke. ‘A tribute would be going to the funeral and paying your respects. A tribute would be staying on afterwards and comforting Mum when she was upset. Officers standing in uniform in the pouring rain – that was a tribute. You haven’t got a clue.’ Fumbling with her front door keys, she exhaled sharply as she tried but failed to find the right one.

  ‘Amy, if you’ll just listen,’ Adam said, mild annoyance greasing his words.

  ‘No, you just listen. I didn’t invite you to intrude on my day. You came here and followed me. So I don’t have to listen to a word you say.’ Amy froze as Adam grabbed her shoulder.