‘Don’t touch me,’ she said, and instantly his grip was released. Without looking back, Amy climbed the few steps to her door.
‘Porca miseria!’ The Italian swearword rose behind her. ‘Call me when you’ve calmed down,’ Adam shouted, before walking away.
Closing the door behind her, Amy heard her mother’s voice filter through from the kitchen. ‘Is that you, love?’ she said, sounding brighter than before.
‘Yes, be with you in a minute,’ Amy replied. Unclipping Dotty’s lead, she hung it on the hook in the hall. ‘Traitor.’ She glared at Dotty, who gave her an unapologetic wag of her curly tail. Amy smiled. She could never stay mad at her for long.
Dipping her fingers into her pocket, she pulled out the letter and gazed at it one more time. If Adam found out about this, she could be headline news. What would her colleagues think of her then? Her world would come toppling down, one domino after another. It would be so easy to throw the paper into the open fire, to walk away from it all. But the words taunted her. The chance to grant her father his last wish. There are three more bodies buried. Three more families you can help put at rest.
Opening the envelope, she was about to slide the letter back inside when she caught sight of a Post-it note. In her haste to open the letter, she had missed it the first time around. Unpeeling it, her eyes widened as she found the same spidery scrawl.
I’ve booked you in for a visit this Thursday at 2.30 p.m.
Thursday? That was tomorrow. She must have made the booking after she wrote, giving Amy little time to back out. Physical visiting orders were becoming obsolete, as many bookings were now made online.
‘Cuppa?’ Flora’s voice carried from the kitchen.
‘Yes, please,’ Amy called, sliding the letter back in her pocket. Glancing in the hall mirror, she smoothed back her soft brown hair, which had grown frizzy from the rain. She knew Flora would try to dissuade her, warn her against seeing Lillian again. She couldn’t tell her what she was about to do. Despite all the upset, she felt strangely resolute; the incentive of finding the burial sites of the three missing girls was reason enough to forge ahead. Seeing her mother dissolve in her grief made Amy the strong one, the person who would hold it all together. She had to do what was right, instead of what was easy. To put her own feelings aside, fulfil her father’s last wish and bring those girls home. Kicking off her shoes, Amy padded towards the kitchen, silently repeating the mantra that would give her strength. She could do this. She would do this. But her legs felt weak at the prospect of coming face-to-face with the woman who could tear her life apart.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Paddy accepted the call from home, allowing it to filter through the speakers of his new Jag. Having worked twelve hours straight, he was glad to escape the office. His day had consisted of sorting out the workload that had been thrust upon them by other teams. As a sergeant, he had no choice but to accept what was delegated. The enigmatic Amy Winter could not come back quick enough as far as he was concerned.
Working as her sergeant made for a strange role reversal, given that he tutored her as a teen. But he had watched her climb the ranks over the years with pride. He knew her little ways: her obsession with list making and the rumbling thunder she tried to contain when she was pushed too far. He pushed the car into gear, the familiar sound of his wife’s voice washing over him as she spoke about her day. Undoing the top button of his shirt, he slid his tie from beneath his collar before throwing it on the passenger seat. Craning his neck left to right, he pulled out of the junction, joining the rest of the work-weary London commuters on their way home.
‘The Tesco shop came,’ Geraldine replied. ‘I wasn’t expecting the roses, you shouldn’t have.’
‘If it put a smile on your face, then it’s worth it.’ Paddy replied, negotiating traffic as he made his way home.
‘Dare I ask, how’s work?’
‘Relentless.’ The words were followed by a long, tired sigh. ‘Amy came back for an hour, then rushed off. She seemed upset.’
‘It’s only natural,’ Geraldine replied. ‘They were close, weren’t they?’
‘Mmm,’ Paddy murmured in agreement. Automatically, the car wipers came to life as a smattering of rain hit the windshield. The bad weather was showing little sign of abating, and right now all he wanted was to go home and sink a beer. ‘She won’t admit to it, but she’s taken it hard. We all have.’
‘Will you make it home tonight?’ Geraldine said.
‘Unlikely,’ Paddy replied. ‘I’m on my way to a job now. A shooting in the park. The kid responsible is only twelve.’ Paddy did not need to tell his wife to keep details of the case confidential after over twenty years of marriage.
‘Oh dear, how awful. Well, don’t worry about me, I’ve got plenty of food. You stay with Pete tonight and get home when you can.’
‘Will do,’ Paddy said. ‘It’ll probably be tomorrow. I’ll see you then.’ The remainder of their conversation was about a television programme that Geraldine had watched. With little contact with the outside world, she could only discuss fictional interactions involving soap characters on daytime TV. After saying his goodbyes Paddy ended the call. He had been telling the truth about the case, but having dealt with it earlier it was already wrapped up with a full confession and charge by the time he’d finished work.
Parking his car in the drive, he activated the central-locking system before shoving his key in the door of the two-bedroom semi he called home. ‘It’s only me,’ he called, depositing his jacket on the coat hanger in the hall. He sniffed the arm. It stunk of smoke. A habit his other half was desperate for him to kick. He would sneak it into the linen basket later on, then pull it out before he went to work in the morning. A crumpled jacket was a small price to pay to keep a smile on her face. The smell of home cooking welcomed him, and he kicked off his stiff leather shoes before padding into the kitchen.
He found her stirring a pot of chicken in what looked like a white wine sauce, her bobbed blonde hair casting a shadow over her face. Nuzzling her neck, he peered into the cooking pot, wrapping his arms around her generous waist. ‘That smells nice,’ he said, feeling a fuzzy sense of happiness that only came from with being with her.
‘It’s a Jamie Oliver recipe,’ Elaine said, turning her face to kiss him briefly before switching off the stove. ‘Long day?’ she asked, opening the oven door and sliding out the plates she had warmed just minutes before.
‘A strange one,’ Paddy said, repeating a conversation which he had already pushed to the back of his mind. ‘The DI came into work today, but she didn’t stay very long.’
‘Bless her, her dad’s just died, hasn’t he? I hope you’ve been nice to her today.’ Elaine turned her back to plate up.
‘It was her decision to come back,’ Paddy said. ‘And I’m always nice. But not too nice; she hates that.’
‘I suppose now is a bad time to ask to meet her. That is, unless you’d like to invite her round to dinner?’ Elaine said, raising her eyebrows hopefully.
‘She’s moved in with her mum for a while. I don’t think she’ll be socialising much. I’ll ask when things get on an even keel.’
‘It would be nice to meet some of your colleagues. Anyone would think you’re ashamed of me.’ Elaine smiled, but her words were teasing, because she knew he was a private man.
‘You know how it is,’ Paddy said. ‘I don’t like mixing work with home. It’s hard enough, some of the things we deal with . . .’
‘And you like to keep it separate. I understand.’ After reaching into the fridge, she handed him a bottle of beer.
‘Take it as a compliment,’ Paddy said, reaching for the bottle opener and pinging the cap into the bin. ‘Coming home to you keeps me sane.’
‘Even if I don’t get to see you on weekends.’ Elaine sighed. ‘I don’t see why they have to work you so hard. All those courses you do. You must be the most well-educated DS on the team.’
‘It will be worth it when I’m pr
omoted,’ Paddy said, smiling in approval at the feast being laid before him. Elaine did not do things by halves.
‘As long as they reward your dedication,’ she said, finally joining him at the table. Her cheeks flushed from cooking, she poured herself a glass of wine. After dinner, Paddy would run her a bath, so she could soak while he cleaned up downstairs. Elaine’s home was small but cosy, and they had nothing but happy memories there.
‘Let’s not talk about work,’ he said, taking another sip of his beer. ‘It’s just good to be home.’ And it was. This was all he ever wanted. He could never tell Geraldine that Pete, the work colleague she thought he was staying with, didn’t exist. His wife would never understand.
CHAPTER NINE
The solid prison door was bolted behind her, shutting out all natural light and cutting her off from the outside world. Amy Winter felt like she was going to throw up for the second time in as many days. She was not just meeting Lillian Grimes, striding down the airless corridor, she was returning to the bowels of a nightmare that had plagued her for years. Fear tugged at her senses, bringing an unfamiliar feeling of insecurity. Was she doing the right thing? Last night she had not slept easy, and it had taken several glasses of gin before she could persuade herself to go to bed. Sleep came, bringing the same recurring nightmare: tip-toeing down the basement steps, then Sally-Ann, wide-eyed and terrified as she helped her to hide. The faces that were once blurry came into view with chilling clarity: the faces of the Beasts of Brentwood, Jack and Lillian Grimes.
Lillian was not the first psychopath she had encountered, but she was the first one claiming ownership over her. Just get through today, Amy reminded herself, flexing her fingers, which had cramped from being bunched so tightly. I owe it to the victims to see what she has to say.
Reports of Jack and Lillian’s crimes made for grim reading. Lillian had been just one of the case studies mentioned in a recently published book, Why Women Kill. The author, Professor Quigley, was a leading expert in psychopathy, and until now, Amy had gobbled up his work. Although Lillian had declined to be interviewed, it came as no surprise that she had scored highly on the psychopathy tests.
It was with these thoughts in mind that Amy entered the visitor’s room. She cast her eyes over the rows of low tables and soft spongy seats. A vending machine took up space in the corner, a yellowing tiled ceiling illuminated by fluorescent lights overhead. Timed air fresheners attached to the wall provided a fake woodland smell. A privately owned prison, HMP Bronzefield was the largest category A jail in Europe. Given that it was a women’s-only institution, Amy had not had cause to visit it too often. The type of crimes she dealt with usually involved men. It was a small blessing that it was based in Ashford, unlike the other women’s prisons, which were several hours’ drive away. Not that she was planning on a return visit.
After taking a seat, Amy fixed her gaze on the door where the prisoners entered. She had dressed in a black skirt suit and sat primly, her knees together and shoulders straight. Her eyes fell on the inmates as they filtered in, involuntarily narrowing as she saw her. Lillian appeared a softer, more rounded version of the image displayed in the press. Amy touched her hair, her heart faltering at the resemblance: Lillian’s hair was shorter than hers, but also parted at the side. Like her, she had high cheekbones, but where Amy had smile lines, Lillian’s mouth seemed set in a permanent frown. A prison-issue blue bib covered her grey sweatshirt, and a slim-fitting pair of jeans hugged her hips. Amy stared, her mouth dry. The monster she had built up in her head looked as ordinary as anybody else.
Amy watched, stony-faced, as Lillian scanned the room. Finally, Lillian’s eyes lit upon her, and she swerved between fellow inmates to Amy’s table, a gentle smile on her lips.
Amy would not allow herself to be swayed. She knew what this woman was capable of.
‘Poppy! It’s so good to see you again,’ Lillian said, her eyes filling with tears. She paused, wringing her hands. ‘I suppose a hug is out of the question?’
‘Take a seat,’ Amy said stiffly. The woman in her dreams was always out of focus, but now that she was here, in her presence, she knew it had been Lillian all along. Something felt out of kilter though, and Amy kept up her guard, monitoring every movement she made.
Lillian did as instructed, swiping away her tears before sitting on the edge of the blue padded chair. While psychopaths could not feel empathy, they made an art of mimicking it to suit their own needs. ‘Look at you,’ she said, still smiling. ‘My little girl is all grown up.’
It was only then that Amy noticed the yellowing bruise on her temple. She knew from experience that on a sliding scale of offences, prisoners with previous for murdering women and children would be viewed as the lowest of the low. It was hard to have sympathy for the violence she must have encountered since making the prison her home.
‘My name is DI Amy Winter.’ Reaching into her jacket pocket, Amy slid a small black recorder onto the table, something that had been cleared by security before her arrival. She could have asked for a legal visit, spoken privately, and got the police involved, but this would have taken longer to organise, and Amy needed to know if reporting their meeting was worthwhile. ‘This is a recording device. One of the conditions of my visit.’ Amy reeled off the location, time and date. ‘I understand you have information regarding the whereabouts of victims Barbara Price, Vivian Holden and Wendy Thompson.’ She kept her eyes on Lillian, trying hard to concentrate as the chatter of inmates filled the room. She did not interview many people as a detective inspector, but it was a skill she hadn’t lost thanks to refresher sessions and guidance on the latest techniques. Crossing her legs, she rested her clasped hands on her knee. It was difficult to keep Lillian’s gaze without thinking about their shared bloodline. Sally-Ann, she thought, her sister’s face coming into view. Jack had killed her right before her eyes. The next day they had carried on as if nothing had happened at all. A deep stirring awakened inside her as long-buried memories hatched free.
‘Ooh, don’t you sound posh,’ Lillian said. Her smile faded as Amy stared at her, stony-faced. ‘Please, Poppy. I’ve missed you. How are you? I want to hear all about your life.’
Amy’s knuckles turned white as she clasped her fingers harder. Glaring at Lillian with an ill-concealed fury, she spoke through tightened lips. ‘If you call me Poppy one more time, I swear I’m going to walk.’
A nervous titter escaped as Lillian delivered a victorious smile. ‘Oh, there she is, my little firecracker.’ She licked her lips, straightening her bib before crossing her legs. ‘Have it your way. I’ll call you Amy, now I know you’re listening to me.’
‘I’m listening all right,’ Amy said, annoyed with herself for losing her temper within seconds of Lillian sitting down. She knew from experience that a psychopath like Lillian would hone in on vulnerability. She may not feel empathy, but she was particularly adept at seeking out other people’s pain. ‘You promised me answers,’ Amy said. ‘Where have you buried the bodies?’
‘Patience. You’ll get your answers.’ Lillian smiled, her dark eyes alight with amusement. ‘And don’t scowl. The wrinkles will ruin your pretty face.’ She raked Amy’s form as she looked her up and down. ‘I see you’re not wearing a wedding ring. Here,’ she chortled, ‘you’re not one of those gays, are you?’
Amy took a deep breath in through her nostrils, briefly closing her eyes as she maintained control. ‘If you won’t give me what I need, then I’ll just go.’
Leaning back in her chair, Lillian fell silent, her eyes narrowing as she tilted her head. She folded her arms high on her chest, a shadow crossing her face as she deliberated her next move. ‘You’re used to bossing people around, aren’t you? Getting your own way. But would you really walk out on the victims’ families after coming so close to the truth?’ A smile twisted her face. ‘Just admit it, you don’t really want to go. I am your mother, after all.’
Amy could see what she was doing. Playing on her sense of duty to make he
r stay. ‘You’re a cold-hearted, psychopathic killer. Don’t think for a second I’m interested in seeing you.’
‘Really?’ Lillian stiffened. ‘Is that any way to talk to your own flesh and blood?’
‘I’m not insulting you, I’m describing you.’ Amy shrugged. ‘Why have you dragged me here? Why now? You could have told the police about the victims’ whereabouts at any time.’
‘I could paper my cell walls with the letters I got from the Thompsons asking where Wendy is buried. You know, her mother actually wrote to say she forgave me for killing her. Fucking cheek. She can fuck right off.’
Amy watched as Lillian’s walls came down and her voice fell back into the Essex accent embedded in her roots. This was the person in her fragmented nightmares. A flash of memory returned. Lillian, encouraging her to swear as a child, her drunken laughter sounding like a high-pitched scream. Now she knew why their initial exchanges had not felt quite right, why the nicely worded letter seemed odd. Had Lillian been making an effort to change, or was she just trying to pull the wool over her eyes?
‘So why now?’ Amy said, swallowing her revulsion.
‘You always were the direct sort,’ Lillian mused. ‘Never did a thing you were told and, oh that mouth of yours . . . You used to give me hell. Remember when your hamster escaped? You were always sneaking around looking for him, delving into places you shouldn’t. Do you remember, Amy? Little Hammy, how your sister gave up her life to save yours?’ Lillian’s voice darkened. A chill crawled up Amy’s spine while the room seemed to close in around them.
‘Sally-Ann would never have gone into the basement if she wasn’t looking for you. She knew better than to disobey her father. Why didn’t you stop him? Your daddy loved you. He would never have killed her if he knew you were there.’
Daddy. The word made Amy’s stomach churn. Another flash of memory rippled. Lillian was describing a scene from Amy’s nightmares. Only it wasn’t a nightmare.
Truth and Lies (A DI Amy Winter Thriller Book 1) Page 4