‘It’s her anniversary,’ Geraldine said. ‘That’s why I was upset. I thought we could talk about it over breakfast.’
Paddy stalled. He should go before she flared up again. But she was wrong this time, and he had to put her straight. ‘No, it’s not,’ he said, his fingers twisting the latch on the door. Warily, he glanced over his shoulder to see her fists bunched into her dressing gown pockets, her lips a thin white line. What was she holding? A knife? A screwdriver? Something worse?
‘I’m her mother.’ Geraldine’s words simmered with fresh anger. ‘Don’t tell me I’m wrong. It’s ten years to the day since you bought our daughter that bicycle. Do you remember? How it took her so long to learn? Yet you insisted. You forced the point. If you hadn’t kept on . . .’
‘I’m late,’ Paddy said, a sliver of cold air creeping in as he opened the door. ‘I’ll call you later. Why don’t you clean up the mess you made?’ He pulled the door wide, watching her visibly shrink at the sight of movement outside. He would feel guilty later for the satisfaction it gave him, but for now it afforded him a safe departure.
‘Bastard!’ she screamed, taking two steps backwards. ‘Off you go, to your tart. Well, don’t expect me to be waiting for you. Not after what you’ve done!’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Running her fingers through her hair, Amy toyed with the idea of a change of style. Perhaps some highlights? Layers? It was disconcerting, the similarity between her and Lillian Grimes. She thought about their shared height, the fullness of her lips. Her fingers crept to her mouth. What if their similarities weren’t just skin-deep? A knock on her office door made her start. Standing sheepishly in the open doorway was DS Paddy Byrne. ‘Come in.’ She snapped her compact mirror shut. ‘Take the weight off your feet.’ She could just about fit a desk and two chairs in her poky office, which had once been used for storing files, but her diminutive space was the least of her worries today. She hoped Paddy would provide a good excuse for disrupting morning briefing by arriving halfway through. If it were anyone else she would have called them out for it. Lately, it felt that everything she worked so hard to achieve was starting to slide. She had said nothing as he slipped in, knowing he would explain later on.
‘Sorry for being late,’ Paddy said, offering a weak smile as he sat down. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘You know how bad timekeeping gets under my skin,’ Amy replied. ‘What sort of example are you setting, when you can’t be bothered to show up yourself?’
Shoulders drooped, Paddy lowered his gaze, offering nothing but silence in return.
Amy’s forehead creased. There was more to this than tardiness. ‘What is it? Is there anything I need to know about? Problems at home?’
‘It’s nothing,’ Paddy said. ‘A gasket blew in the car.’
‘Another one?’ Amy replied, seeing through his lame excuse. It was his fourth time late for briefing this month. ‘And why the scarf? Don’t tell me you’re cold.’
‘Bit of a sore throat,’ he said, fiddling with the edges of the black woollen material as he tightened it around his throat.
‘You are looking a bit peaky,’ Amy said, noticing the light sheen of sweat coating his brow. Sighing, she checked the time. A sense of dread had clouded her morning as she thought about what lay ahead. ‘I take it you’re up to speed on both cases? Because if you’re not, then tell me now.’ Briefing had been over an hour ago, long enough for him to catch up on what he had missed. The wheels of the investigation had been set in motion. Missing for almost twenty-four hours, Hermione Parker was cause for grave concern.
Paddy nodded, looking relieved to change the subject. Amy never laboured a telling-off. Like her, it was short and to the point. But people who let her down only got so many chances. She would hate to see Paddy go, but she was fed up covering for him. Pike would transfer him to another department if he failed to pull his weight.
Paddy crossed his legs, bumping his knee against her desk. ‘I’m impressed that you managed to see Lillian Grimes. What was she like?’
‘Outwardly, like any other sixty-five-year-old woman.’ Amy tapped the side of her forehead. ‘It’s what’s in here that sets her apart.’ Her announcement that she had visited Grimes had brought a ripple of gossipy chatter to the briefing room. It was a sad state of affairs when a serial killer was as much of a celebrity as an A-list actress. ‘I hope to get it tied up soon, so we can concentrate on the kidnapping case.’
‘Oh, about that,’ Paddy said, his face brightening. ‘Mol’s been talking to Hermione’s best friend, Paige. She mentioned Hermione had a crush on a sixth former named Michael. She’s looking into it now.’
‘Surely those enquiries should have been done by CID,’ Amy said, her face grim. ‘Why is it only coming to our attention now?’ Her brother’s team had made a good start on the investigation before Amy’s officers took the lead.
‘Paige was too embarrassed to repeat their last conversation,’ Paddy said. ‘It was schoolgirl stuff, teasing each other about boys.’
Amy shook her head in disbelief. How could she be so coy when her friend’s life was at risk? ‘Are we still going with the theory that Hermione knew her attacker?’ Early case notes suggested it was possible.
‘Her mum said it’s the only way she would have opened the front door.’
An image of Tessa Parker, Hermione’s mum, floated in Amy’s vision. The last time she saw her, she was featured on a rerun of Dragon’s Den on the TV. ‘She must be insane with worry,’ Amy mumbled. Tessa may have come from humble beginnings, but she had grown into a businesswoman who was used to being in control. ‘Arrange a visit to her when I get back from the prison. We should be done by late afternoon.’
‘Will do.’ Paddy winced slightly as he loosened his tie.
‘And get something for your throat. There’s some paracetamol in the first-aid cabinet.’
As he skulked out of the office, Amy leaned back into her chair. Paddy was usually conscientious, but lately he was letting things slide.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the cheerful ringtone of her mobile phone. Frowning, she made a mental note to change it to something more in keeping with her mood. The call that followed did not serve to improve it. Back from her enquiries with the sixth former, Molly was ready to drive her to the prison where they would pick up Lillian Grimes. ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ Amy said, her mouth dry. Picking up a bottle of water from her desk, she tipped the lukewarm liquid down her throat.
As she slipped on her jacket, it felt like it was made of lead. There was no question of not going through with this, but what if Lillian let her identity slip? Was that what this trip was about? She threw the empty bottle in the bin, catching sight of the newspaper she had previously dumped. Adam’s betrayal still burned, but she would not allow resentment to wear her down. She would deal with this, just like everything else in life that came snapping with its teeth bared. Her eyes rested on the framed photo of her father, which took pride of place on her desk. It was hard to look at it without feeling a wave of grief. ‘I won’t let you down,’ she promised, the words barely audible on her lips.
Molly Baxter had once held the position of DCI Pike’s trusted driver and could be relied upon not to speak to the press. She had been a constable in uniform then, but Pike had a knack for sniffing out talent and encouraged her to study for the detective’s exam. From what Amy had seen, it had been a good call.
‘Relax.’ Amy smiled as she sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked car. ‘Hold that steering wheel any tighter and you’ll rip it off.’ Their movements had been planned to precision, their trip approved by the command team.
Molly gave a breathless laugh as she relaxed her grip. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘This case is so famous, I can’t believe I’m about to ferry Lillian Grimes about.’ In a pinstripe shirt and black trousers she was smartly dressed for the role, though her pallor and wide eyes revealed her nervousness.
‘Just treat her like any other prisoner,
because that’s all she is,’ Amy said, as much to convince herself as Molly. ‘Keep conversation to a bare minimum. No small talk. From what I’ve gathered, she’s going to drip-feed us directions. I don’t think she’d try to escape, but keep your guard up just the same.’
‘I suppose we’re lucky she’s telling us anything at all.’ Molly’s seat belt punctuated her sentence with a click as she fastened it into place.
‘She’s not told us anything yet,’ Amy reminded her. ‘Just to recap, I’ll sit in the back with Lillian after we pick her up. A marked car will accompany us to and from the destination in Essex. A local unit’s going to attend when we get there as backup.’ It had all been discussed at the briefing, but Amy mentally ticked the boxes one more time anyway.
‘Can I just say . . .’ Molly said, turning over the engine of the car. ‘I’m thrilled to be a part of the team. You and the DCI have been a real inspiration.’
‘That’s good to know, thanks,’ Amy said, acknowledging the admiration while it lasted. If Lillian blurted out the truth, their return journey would be very different.
Easing the car from its parking space, Molly drove towards the automatic gates which rolled back to allow her out.
‘That’s a nice Jag,’ Amy said, in an effort to change the subject. She noticed the freshly polished red car was sporting a new registration plate.
‘Oh, that’s Paddy’s. Lush, isn’t it? We’ve nicknamed him Inspector Morse.’
‘Indeed,’ Amy murmured. Unlike Morse, Paddy was not a fictional character from a popular television show. He was responsible for supervising her team. There was no way a new car would be breaking down every weekend. She made a mental note to speak to him about it later. Looking left and right, Molly pulled out of the junction and into a gap in the traffic. She offered Amy an appreciative smile, and it felt like she had been waiting to speak to her alone for some time.
‘I followed you throughout the John Miller case,’ Molly said. ‘How do you do it? Get inside their heads?’ She was referring to a case that had won Amy a commendation. A family of four had been murdered, the only surviving member an eighteen-year-old boy. All the evidence pointed to his father, who had allegedly shot his family then turned the gun on himself, but there was something about John Miller that did not ring true. It was called ‘The Case that Shocked the Nation.’ One of the many headlines that Amy’s ex, Adam, used throughout her career. Picking apart the evidence like badly sewn stitches, Amy gained a confession from the young man who was now spending the best part of his life in jail.
To Amy, the whole thing was tragic. ‘The mistake most cops make is seeing things from the wrong perspective. Psychopaths’ brains are wired differently to ours,’ Amy said. ‘The threat of punishment doesn’t worry them. If you want their cooperation, you’ve got to make them believe there’s something in it for them.’
‘Which is what you did with Miller?’
‘Yes,’ Amy said. ‘Although it wasn’t easy because he was so convincing at first. People couldn’t believe he was capable of such brutality. I mean, killing his own family . . . it was easier to think his dad had lost his mind.’
‘It’s the same with Lillian Grimes,’ Molly said. ‘You wonder what goes on inside these people’s heads.’
‘Don’t let her see that you’re interested,’ Amy replied. ‘She’ll get off on your curiosity. At the end of the day, she’s not a pop star. She encouraged her husband to rape those women then dump their bodies like they meant nothing at all.’
‘Gives me the shivers thinking about it,’ Molly said, pulling a face. ‘I mean, I’ve dealt with some tough things in my time, but killing your own daughter on top of everything else . . .’
A vision of Sally-Ann floated into Amy’s mind. She was grateful for the sudden change of traffic lights as Molly sharply applied the brakes.
‘We’ll talk about Lillian in the debrief. Focus on your driving for now.’ It came out sharper than Amy intended, her pent-up emotions seeking release.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lying in a half dream, Hemmy inhaled slowly, the smell of rotting fish creeping up her nostrils. Darkness enveloped her, a soft lapping licked the walls as left, right, left, right, her body swayed. She smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, rubbing her sleep-encrusted eyes. Where was she? Blinking, her head pounded as she tried to sit up. She fumbled against the cold metal edges of what felt like a single bed. Purdy, she thought, touching the bruise on her forehead. Vaguely, she recalled there had been something wrong with her cat. ‘Hello?’ she croaked. Her throat scratchy, she blinked in the darkness, trying to accustom herself to the lack of light. Why was the world moving? Each time she tried to stand, gravity nudged her back onto the bed.
Breathing rapidly, she tried to take in her surroundings, seeking out the tiniest glimmer of light. She had finished school, gone home . . . then the phone rang. She narrowed her eyes as the pain in her head forced her to pause. It was just enough time to catch her breath and allow the memory to surface: taking a step towards Purdy; a shadow hovering over her; heavy breath as gloved hands forced a rubber mask on her face. A further flash of memory made her limbs tremble. She had tried to struggle, kicking and screaming, but each breath dragged her down into a darkness from which she could not break free. Her hand flew to her throat at the vague recollection of her necklace snapping. It was gone. It was one her father had bought her. The most precious piece of jewellery she owned. What had they done with her? There was one thing she was sure of: she wasn’t at Mrs Cotterill’s anymore. Just how long had she been unconscious?
Her eyes wet with tears, she checked herself for injuries, exhaling in relief as she discovered she was OK. He hadn’t touched her down there. She would know, wouldn’t she? Was it even a ‘he’ that took her? She didn’t know. Her chin wobbled, and she whimpered in the darkness as she tried to formulate a plan. She had to get out, but the room kept moving. Was this what a hangover felt like? She peered through the dimness. Was that a window over her head? A small chink of light escaped from the edge of a square block of wood hammered over what appeared to be a rusted circular frame. Getting to her knees, she clambered across the bed, pressing her face against the cold, unforgiving wood. The soft lapping again. Water. She could hear water. Her lack of balance was due to the waves beneath her feet. She gasped at the revelation. It was a porthole. She was in a boat. Was she alone at sea with her captor? Panic gripped her. She could be miles away from anywhere, and it wasn’t as if she could swim very well. The dam of tears she had been holding in finally broke free, yet she kept her sobs contained, stemming her breathing to listen for sounds. Should she scream for help or keep her head down? Blinking away her tears, her vision adjusted to the darkness, and she made out the outline of four nails hammered into the wood. If she could pull them out, at least get her bearings . . . She shivered involuntarily, damp biting through her school uniform to her skin. The mattress springs emitted a rusty squeal as she climbed off the bed. With groping hands, she felt her way around the edges of the space. It did not feel like she was going anywhere. There was no forward movement, only a swaying side to side.
She envisioned her phone in her blazer pocket hung from the bannister. What had she been thinking? It was Purdy that made her lose all her common sense She would do anything for her cat . . . Another thought filtered in. He had been watching her. He had taken Purdy to lure her two doors down. This was not a random kidnapping. Would they be delivering a ransom note? The thought increased the urgency of what she had to do: get away from this place, find a weapon, break free. Shuffling forward, she came to a halt as her fingers found the outline of a door. ‘Come on. Please.’ The words escaping her lips were followed by an anguished moan as she rattled the handle for all she was worth. Pushing and pulling, she expelled all her energy, her hopes fading as it refused to budge. Finally, she allowed panic to take over, ramming her fists against the heavy solid door. ‘Let me out! Help! Help me, someone! Please!’ But her protests went igno
red. All she could hear was the sound of her heavy breath and the lapping of the water beneath. She touched her wrist to find her watch was gone. Her abductor had left her with nothing but the clothes on her back. What if they didn’t come back? What if they had left her here to die? ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Are you there? Is anyone there? Please, somebody, talk to me.’ Groping her way back to her bed, she pushed her ear against the porthole once more. Was that? Could it be? A police siren in the distance? Were they coming to set her free?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Amy had been on two mystery tours in her lifetime and each one involved Lillian Grimes. Another memory broke free as she recalled her first excursion with social services. They had been in a people carrier then, though up until now, their mode of transport had manifested as a World War Two tank in her dreams. The image suited the battlefield of her early upbringing, but it made her wonder about the validity of her resurfacing thoughts. What she had previously dismissed as nightmares, she was now claiming as facts – but how accurate were her recollections? Being back in contact with Lillian had teased them out at an overwhelming rate. She brushed the memory of that first trip away. Today, she could not get away from Lillian if she tried, being tethered to her via a set of handcuffs in the back of the unmarked Ford Mondeo.
Lillian’s presence was all-consuming, her silence disconcerting. Amy had half expected another trip down memory lane; but with her colleague driving in front, her biological mother had been true to her word. Having directed DC Molly Baxter to Essex, she had given nothing else away. Amy would not give Lillian the satisfaction of pleading for the full address. The silence was good. The less she said, the better, and Amy hoped that her cooperation was not part of some sick game.
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