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

by Caroline Mitchell

  ‘No ma’am, it’s quite the opposite,’ Amy said, knowing her boss’s old-fashioned ways extended to the use of formal titles at work. Use of her first name was usually followed by a frown. ‘I wanted to talk to you about a cold case that’s been in the press. Also, I’ve been talking to Craig. He said a kidnapping has come in.’

  ‘And it’s being dealt with. Your team has enough to contend with, as you said . . .’

  ‘Not any more,’ Amy piped up. ‘I’ve reallocated some of the work back to where it came from.’

  ‘I know. Your brother’s already been on the blower. He’s insisting CID can take the kidnapping case.’ Pike tilted her head as she regarded her with concern. ‘Are you sure you’re ready for DI Gladwell to relinquish cover? He’s due in for one more day.’

  ‘I’ll soon be up to speed,’ Amy replied, wondering why it was fine for her brother to come back early but not her. ‘About this kidnapping, I hear it’s Tessa Parker’s daughter.’ The first thing she had done after Craig left was look up the case herself. He was taking it out of spite. She could have let him keep it, eased back into work slowly, but as soon as she clicked on the image of fifteen-year-old Hermione Parker, she knew she had to handle the case. Now all she had to do was to persuade her DCI to allow her to take control.

  ‘It’s in the hands of CID,’ Pike said, wearing her referee face.

  ‘Please, ma’am. A high-profile case like this is ideal for our team. Plus . . . I’ve got another piece of news. Something that will interest you.’ Amy was unashamedly using her liaison with Lillian to win her the kidnapping case. After a week of her team dealing with jobs nobody else wanted, they desperately needed strong results. Her heart began to thunder at the prospect of sharing details of her visit with Lillian Grimes. She could already feel herself becoming entangled in the case, something her DCI almost certainly would not approve of, should she learn the truth. ‘I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t think anything would come of it. And now that it has . . .’ Amy looked at her hopefully, willing her to ask for more.

  ‘I’m intrigued,’ Pike said, downing a mouthful of coffee and licking her lips. ‘But you’ll have to be quick, I’ve got a strategy meeting in ten.’

  Folding her hands across her lap, Amy paused to assemble her words. She was usually very articulate but her once orderly thoughts were jumbled and in disarray.

  ‘Lillian Grimes has hit the press again. With Dad’s passing and Mrs Thompson still begging for answers, it seems like the case is on everyone’s radar.’

  ‘Ah. I understand,’ Pike said warmly. ‘It’s only natural for you to want to do something for your dad. I know how much not being able to find the graves of those girls tormented him. But you should be at home with your family, not opening up old cases . . .’

  ‘I’ve visited Grimes in prison,’ Amy blurted, as she caught Pike glancing at her watch. ‘She’s ready to tell us where the last three bodies are buried.’

  Pike’s mouth dropped open. It took two full breaths for her to realise and snap it shut. Her composure regained, she narrowed her eyes and delivered a questioning glare. ‘You’re telling me you’ve seen Grimes in prison? When? How? I don’t remember seeing a visitation request.’

  ‘This morning, during a private visit,’ Amy said. ‘She wrote to me and arranged it for the next day.’ She fiddled with her hands as she forced the words. ‘The thing is . . .’ Amy paused, the truth stuck in her throat. Six words. That’s all she needed to say. Lillian Grimes is my biological mother. But it felt like a lie. Flora and Robert were her mum and dad. It seemed unnatural to say otherwise.

  ‘She heard that Dad died. I think she had an attack of conscience,’ she said instead.

  But her DCI was yet to be convinced. ‘I remember the court case. She was completely unrepentant. She blamed everything on Jack and said the murders had nothing to do with her.’

  Amy nodded. Lies did not come easily. ‘Perhaps Dad’s death triggered something. She’s still not admitting to the murders, only that Jack told her where they were buried when he was alive.’

  ‘Right.’ Pike’s eyes were alight as she accepted Amy’s explanation. ‘Whatever the reason, this is excellent news. So how do we do this? Have you arranged for a legal visit?’

  Amy shook her head. ‘She wants to show us in person. I suppose it’s a trip out of prison for her. She’s promised to give us the address of the first victim as soon as we can organise it.’

  ‘You never cease to amaze me,’ Pike said, a look of triumph blazing in her eyes. ‘Despite everything, you’ve found a way to fulfil your father’s last wish. He’d be so proud of you right now.’

  ‘I don’t want any credit.’ Amy shied away from the sentiment. ‘Although one of Lillian’s conditions is that I’m present throughout.’

  ‘Fine by me. But take credit when it’s given. This could be a great opportunity for you. She wouldn’t have agreed to it if she didn’t connect with you in some way.’

  Amy inwardly bristled at the truth that was too awful to bear. ‘Can we credit the team instead? It would put us in a good light. If they need to name someone, I’d like it to be you. Without your support, the team never would have got off the ground.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can pull it off first,’ Pike said, leaning back in her chair. ‘She could be toying with us. Isn’t Wendy Thompson’s mother terminally ill? We don’t have a lot of time.’

  ‘She is,’ Amy said solemnly. ‘I’ll get cracking on it straight away.’

  Pike nodded, her gaze distant as she thought ahead. ‘Get in touch with Essex Police, have the file sent over so you can familiarise yourself with the case. It’s best to go into this with your eyes open. It would make for some great publicity for the force.’

  ‘And give peace to the families involved,’ Amy added. She had made the right decision to keep quiet about her background for now. Her DCI would never have let her see the file if she knew who she really was. It wasn’t downright dishonesty. She had omitted to tell her the truth. All the same, it did not rest easy with her.

  ‘She’s giving me the location of the first body to begin with, then she’ll tell us where the others are in follow-up visits,’ Amy said, manufacturing another reason as to why Lillian Grimes would help the likes of her. ‘I don’t think she’s having an easy time of it in prison. I noticed some bruising on her face. She could be hoping for better conditions inside.’

  Slowly, Pike nodded. ‘Don’t make her any promises. Knowing her, she’ll want something tenfold. But then I don’t need to tell you that.’ Pike gave her a knowing look. ‘You always had a knack for dealing with the underbelly of society.’

  Takes one to know one. Amy stiffened in her chair as the thought reared its head.

  Pike checked her watch for the second time, and Amy took it as a signal to leave.

  ‘Just one more thing.’ Amy rose from her seat. ‘The kidnapping case. Can we have it? It would be a brilliant follow-up to what we’re doing with Lillian Grimes.’ She looked at Pike pleadingly. Having baited the hook, she hoped she would not be able to say no.

  ‘Very well,’ Pike said, breathing out as if she didn’t have the energy to argue. ‘Make the call. You can lead. If they give you any grief, refer them to me.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  1986

  Poppy shook with such a force that the wicker basket trembled around her. Her eyes tightly closed, she scrunched her body into its smallest possible form. Her heart was beating so hard beneath her ribcage she felt sure it would break free. Sally-Ann had been still, so very still on the floor of the basement that a part of her had wanted to jump out of her wicker cave. But she was no match for her father, who had silenced her sister for good. She remembered Sally-Ann’s warning, Don’t make a sound. No crying or you’ll be done for, too, but she could not stay here forever. Her knickers were soaked through from sitting on the urine-stained sheets, the tang of crusted blood curling up her nose. Forcing her eyes open, Poppy peered through the gap
in the basket. In the windowless basement, it was impossible to know how much time had passed, but all that was left of her sister was a stream of blood where she had lain.

  Gathering a fistful of linen, Poppy stuffed it into her mouth, pushing back the sob rising in her throat. The dry, bitter taste proved a vital distraction. She swallowed back her tears, a physical pain swelling in her chest at the loss of the one person she truly loved. She knew she would never see her sister again. It was her fault. She had brought her down here. And now she was gone.

  Poppy did not know how long she sat in the basket too scared to move. It was long enough for the shaking to subside. For her heart to resume a regular beat. She smacked her lips as she removed the corner of soiled linen from her mouth. Peering through the basket, she could see that the trunk her father had dragged from the corner was now back in its place. It was deathly quiet, and the scratching sounds that lured her in here had long since ceased. A fresh sense of horror bloomed. She was lost in the dark, like in the woodland stories Sally-Ann used to read to her in bed. Only Daddy was the giant in Jack and The Beanstalk and the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. He was the Bogey Man, the Child Catcher, every bad man from every story she had ever heard. As the cellar door opened, Poppy sealed her mouth shut, sucking her lips over her teeth until her gums bled. A long, dark shadow loomed from above. The room smelt of sweat and the bitter stench that sometimes carried on her daddy’s breath. He was coming for her, she felt sure of it. He had killed Sally-Ann and now it was her turn. He would break her in half, just like he did with the lady in the trunk. Nobody would see her again.

  One step then two descended the wooden stairs. Panic grew inside her, making her flesh creep and her heartbeat thunder in her ears. She froze. If she closed her eyes and blocked out the sound then Daddy could not get her. She squeezed them shut, whispering a silent prayer. I’ll be a good girl. Please, please make him go away. But her prayers had little effect as more footsteps came. They were growing closer. They were coming for her. Down the steps, over the mattress, then onwards, towards the basket in which she lay. The cloying smell of urine threatened to make her gag as Poppy shrank further into the sheets she had soiled. Pushing her face into her knees, her concentration was interrupted by a soft tickling sensation at the back of her neck. Brushing it with her hand, she realised that one of the long-legged basement spiders was crawling in her hair. A sharp squeak escaped her lips, finally betraying her. The footsteps stilled.

  A switch was clicked on, and as the basket lid was lifted, a shaft of light beamed in. Poppy clenched her small grubby hands into fists. She would fight if she had to. She would scream, swear and shout. She would not give in.

  ‘There you are,’ a voice said, warm and reassuring, flooding her with relief.

  Squinting up at her mother, Poppy’s eyes were filled with remnants of the terror she had witnessed.

  Lillian brushed the spider from the rim of the basket as it tried to make its escape. ‘Shush now, don’t make a sound,’ she said. ‘Daddy’s asleep. If you wake him, he’ll be cross.’

  Poppy nodded in understanding, uncoiling her hands and face from the sheets in which she had been wrapped. Her legs had numbed, and as her mother lifted her from the basket, they fizzed angrily at being left in such a state for so long. She needed to be quiet. She needed not to cry. Mummy would keep her safe. She wrapped herself around her mother like a spider monkey, her fingers pinching the back of Lillian’s neck as she clawed for something to grab onto.

  ‘Ouch, not so tight,’ Lillian said. ‘You’re pinching me.’

  But Poppy was unable to let go. As her mother climbed the stairs she knew she would never go into the basement again.

  Her sister’s bed was empty, and a ball of grief lodged in her chest, pressing on her lungs and making it hard to breathe. Outside, a storm was in full flow, the wind screeching mournfully through the cracked single windowpane. Unfurling Poppy’s fingers from around her neck, her mother worked quickly, stripping off her urine sodden nightclothes and pulling one of Sally-Ann’s old pink t-shirts over her head. As Lillian laid her down, Poppy pointed towards her sister’s vacant single bed. Unable to speak, she could only gesture as her mother rolled her blankets up to her chest.

  ‘Just go to sleep,’ Lillian uttered, unable to meet her eyes. Without saying another word, she turned and walked out the door.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It had taken Paddy several seconds to find his bearings when he awoke. Sometimes, he had to glance around the room to remind himself which bed he was in. The wrong word, an ill-timed text – the smallest action could send his house of cards toppling down. Starting his night in Elaine’s bed, he had ended it in the home he shared with Geraldine. Not that he was some kind of stud. Intimacy with Geraldine had ended when they started sleeping in separate rooms. At five o’clock in the morning, the last thing he had wanted was to rush to her side; but facing the guilt of lying to Elaine about being called into work was far better than the alternative. He would never have forgiven himself if Geraldine hurt herself. Her earlier good mood had yo-yoed to threats of self-harm.

  ‘You don’t have to rush off just yet, do you?’ Geraldine said now, tugging his jacket as he released it from its hook in the hall. His afternoon shift was a blessing, and he was grateful for the few hours’ sleep he had been afforded before work.

  Standing in her candlewick dressing gown, Geraldine did not seem to notice the mismatched slippers into which she had plugged her feet. Perhaps later she would also come to realise that she had forgotten to brush her hair and clean her teeth.

  ‘It’s work,’ Paddy said. ‘You don’t want me to be late now, do you? Not when I’m going for promotion.’ It was a lie. Paddy had given up any hopes of career advancement years ago.

  Geraldine rolled her eyes, releasing her grip on his coat. ‘And Miss Winter hates latecomers, doesn’t she?’ Her lip arched in a sneer. ‘You don’t want to let her down. After all, I’m only your wife. What does that matter?’

  Paddy touched her forearm. He hated seeing her like this because he knew her anger was coming from pain. ‘Please, love, don’t be like this. We’ve had a nice morning together. Let’s just leave it at that.’

  ‘I made you breakfast,’ Geraldine replied, folding her arms. ‘And yet here you are, sneaking off without saying goodbye.’

  It was a bit late for breakfast, but pointing out that it was noon would not improve his wife’s mood. ‘In a minute, I’m just putting on my jacket. It’s a bit nippy in here.’ Another lie. He had been hoping to slip away while she was still being reasonable.

  But after twenty years of marriage, Geraldine was not that easily fooled. ‘Come off it. You can’t get away from me quick enough. After all the trouble I’ve gone to, and you just turn and walk out the door.’ Her voice was shrill now, her fists clenched.

  ‘I’m not going without breakfast.’ Paddy sidled past her into the kitchen. ‘What have you made?’

  ‘Porridge,’ Geraldine spat as if it were a dirty word. Her temper had boiled over, much like the porridge sticking to the top of the gas stove. With a recently fitted kitchen, their terrace house in Ealing was much bigger than his home with Elaine. Not that Geraldine knew about that. It had been years since she had ventured outside the front door. The worst thing about her agoraphobia was that she saved up all of her frustrations for him. ‘Is that stuck-up bitch bringing you out for breakfast? I bet you love leering at her, don’t you? You dirty old man. You’re not getting any from me, so you’re sniffing around her like an old dog. Another thing I’m no good at. I know you’re going elsewhere.’

  ‘Please, love. I don’t know what’s happened to put you in such a bad mood.’ Paddy sighed, trailing his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘Why don’t you join me for a bite to eat before I go?’ His wife’s moods were as changeable as the weather. For now, all he could do was bow his head and bear the storm. Pulling out a stool, he took a seat at the compact breakfast bar.

  Closing her
eyes, Geraldine’s nostrils flared as she drew in a deep breath. Paddy guessed she was counting to five in her mind. Turning to the stove, she reached for the saucepan while Paddy waited to be served.

  ‘Of course, you’re right,’ she said, her sickly sweet smile carrying on her words. ‘I’m sorry. Here. Have your breakfast.’

  Without warning, she tipped the contents of the saucepan over the back of his head. ‘Ahh!’ Paddy roared in disbelief, as what felt like molten lava slid down his skin.

  Impassively, Geraldine watched as he leapt from the stool, sending it skittering across the tiled floor. His steps unsteady, he staggered to the tap, swiping away the porridge burning his skin. ‘Help me,’ he shouted, his face flushed with pain.

  Geraldine stood motionless, limply holding the saucepan in her hand.

  Pulling off his jacket, Paddy rinsed a tea towel under the cold-water tap, wincing as he eased it over his neck. Stodgy lumps of half-cooked oatmeal trailed down his shirt and onto the floor. He should have been watching her, but at least the burns were limited to the back of his neck this time. A loud clang ensued as the saucepan fell from Geraldine’s grip. Her legs buckling beneath her, she slumped back onto a stool.

  But there was no time to protest. Whatever anger had possessed her was now satisfied.

  A cold shower eased the pain, but being late for work would bring recriminations he could ill afford.

  ‘Sorry,’ Geraldine said flatly, as Paddy descended the stairs for the second time that day. ‘Is it bad?’ she asked, unable to meet his eyes.

  ‘I’ll live,’ Paddy said tersely. Lifting a scarf from the coat hook in the hall, he gently wrapped it around his neck. His skin would blister, stick to his shirt collar and make him wince as he tightened his tie, but it could have been worse. He had the scars to prove it. Geraldine’s temper may have been satisfied for now, but leaving was the safest thing he could do. He used to have days, even weeks between such episodes, but lately, they were more frequent and impossible to predict.