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

by Caroline Mitchell

  DI Donovan’s name flashed up on the screen. She liked him, probably more than she should, but after her experience with Adam, she had sworn off men. ‘DI Winter,’ she answered, because she did not want him to know she had saved his number on her phone.

  ‘We’ve found her.’ His voice was warm, ruffled by the breeze filtering down the line.

  Amy paused as she took in the news, but Donovan must have taken her silence as confusion.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s Donovan here, I’m at the burial site. We—’

  ‘But it’s only been a few hours,’ Amy interrupted, unable to believe they had found Vivian – body number two.

  ‘I had people on standby to dig the grave.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Amy said.

  ‘We would have dug them all if we had to. I’m just glad she’s come good.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s her?’

  ‘We’ve found the clasp of a handbag she carried and a few other bits. It’s enough to go on for now.’

  ‘I’ll have to inform the family.’ Amy’s heart plummeted at the thought. She was still feeling guilty about seeing the Price family, but a visit to Viv Holden’s next of kin would have to be organised. She had made it clear to Donovan: she had to be the one to break the news.

  ‘I don’t think your budget will stretch that far,’ Donovan said. ‘They emigrated to Australia last year.’

  ‘Oh.’ Amy raised her right hand, kneading her forehead as she tried to work out her next move. ‘Have we got their number?’

  ‘We do,’ Donovan said, ‘but they’re already aware. Some of their friends came to the graveyard. They’ve been keeping a close eye since Barbara was found.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. Facebook?’ Amy groaned.

  ‘Yep, I’m afraid so. The press were here, too. Bloody vultures. We’ve had a job keeping them away.’

  ‘The main thing is that you’ve found her. I can’t thank you enough for your help.’

  ‘My pleasure. It’s not every day I get to make progress in a case as big as this.’

  It was more than a case to Amy, but she was not about to tell him that.

  ‘Hopefully, we’ll get news of Wendy soon. I’ll up the pressure this end. Keep you in the loop.’ Amy felt her insides churn. What would Lillian want in exchange for the last piece of information? Surely she was saving the best for last.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Hemmy murmured in her sleep, feeling the soft stroke of hands against her hair. At weekends, Mum would wake her gently: touching the crown of her head before placing a cup of tea next to her bed. Yet as she awoke, the stench of fish and rotting timbers reminded her that she was not at home.

  Her head pounding, she surfaced from the fog. This wasn’t a normal awakening. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth, her body ill at ease with itself. Gloved hands caressed her cheek, before moving onto her shoulders and finally, pulling a blanket over the dip of her waist. Hemmy shrieked as she realised what was going on. Pulling her knees up, she scooted back on the bed. ‘Get off me!’ she cried, grabbing the grubby woollen blanket and drawing it up to her chest.

  Her captor was not peering through the hatch, but sitting on the edge of her bed. A dry rattle pierced the air as they drew in a breath through the black latex mask.

  ‘Shh . . . Hemmy needs to be quiet.’ Again that muffled, distorted voice and the rattle of their breath. Hemmy’s heart hammered against her ribcage, her eyes darting around the room. If she could get away . . . could she make it out the door?

  ‘Purdy is here. If Hemmy is good, Purdy lives.’ Leaning towards the end of the bed, her captor lifted the pet cage containing her beloved cat.

  Purdy was a pathetic sight, her white fur smeared with patches of yellow. As she caught sight of Hemmy, she meowed loudly, clawing her cage door. Inching towards the cage, Hemmy grimaced, sucking air between her teeth as her head pounded in pain.

  ‘Does Hemmy’s head hurt?’ her captor said, opening his combat jacket, which looked too big for his frame.

  At least, she thought he was a man. Every inch of his body was covered, making it almost impossible to tell. For the briefest of seconds, Hemmy felt hope. He did not appear all that strong. So how had he managed to get her here? Had there been more than one person behind her when it happened? The whole episode seemed fuzzy and distant, but her senses quickly sharpened as the handle of a scalpel caught her eye. The slim blade protruding from her captor’s jacket pocket was more terrifying than any hunting knife. She dropped her gaze as all hope of escape fizzled and died.

  The pop of foil was followed by two paracetamols being placed onto the bed. Leaning over, her kidnapper picked up a plastic bag from the floor and laid it at her feet. More food. But what about her cat? Opening the wrapper, she tore off a piece of tuna and cucumber sandwich and stretched to the cage at the side of the bed. Still clinging to the blanket, she looked at her captor for permission.

  He nodded, eyes glinting behind the mask. Fascinated, he watched as she pushed half of her sandwich between the rusted cage bars. A small tin container was secured to the inside. Moving slowly and carefully, Hemmy placed her stockinged feet on the floor. After a cautious sideways glance, she unscrewed the water bottle and poured a generous amount into the tin bowl. Purdy swallowed down the last of the bread before diving for the water, parched.

  Hemmy swallowed back her tears as she retreated to the corner of the bed. Quickly she assessed the cage. It was spring bolted. Purdy would not be able to escape without help.

  ‘Who are you?’ Hemmy asked, too scared to ask what he wanted from her, for fear of what he might say.

  ‘No talking,’ he replied. Outside, a sudden whoop of wind caused the boat to creak and sway. Hemmy had forgotten about the outside world. It was just her, Purdy, her captor, and the incessant pounding in her head. ‘Who are you?’ she asked again, desperate to understand. She froze as her captor leaned towards her, sliding the blade from his pocket. She wanted to run, to hammer on the door and escape. But something deep inside told her to remain very, very still. Her breath shallow, she stiffened as he brought the scalpel to her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she uttered, gripping onto the blankets. ‘Please don’t hurt me.’ Squeezing her eyes shut, she winced as effortlessly, he sliced off a length of her hair.

  Taking slow, noisy breaths, he pocketed the long blonde strands. ‘Next time Hemmy breaks the rules, Purdy gets cut.’

  A sharp nod of understanding conveyed Hemmy’s willingness to behave.

  As they rose, she took a breath to ask if she could keep Purdy with her, but then remembered his instruction to be quiet. He was gone in seconds, taking the cat along with him, her meows filling the vessel’s hollow spaces before drifting away. She waited until she heard his steps above her before getting up. Crawling to the end of the bed, she caught sight of the bucket and pack of wet wipes. How had she not awoken when he came in and left them here? She thought back to when she was kidnapped, how a mask had been pressed over her face. Was he gassing her? She could not remember falling asleep last night, just crying as she curled up on the metal bed.

  She cast an eye over the sandwich wrapper lying crumpled on her bed. The expiry date hadn’t passed. Had her kidnapper left her alone long enough to buy fresh food? Her jaw tightened in determination. The time for crying was over. She was not staying here to become another statistic. And whoever her captor was, he sure as hell wasn’t killing her cat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  As always during her phone calls with Lillian, Amy had closed her office door. She sat at her desk with her head bowed low, her desk lamp casting a shadow in the room.

  ‘What do you want?’ she snapped, in no mood for games.

  But Lillian seemed oblivious to her curt tone. ‘Why have you let your chief inspector take all the credit? Is it because you don’t feel worthy of the praise?’ Lillian paused for a sly breath. ‘Or is the truth finally sinking in?’

  ‘It’s not your concern how we handle our investigation.
When are you giving me Wendy Thompson’s location?’

  ‘My dear Poppy,’ Lillian said, using the opportunity to call her by her old name. ‘Always so impatient. I’m still waiting for my thank you for giving you the last two.’

  ‘Thanks? You’re the one who put them there.’ Amy shook her head incredulously. Lillian possessed little or no conscience, and the only way to persuade her to help was to make her think there was something in it for her. ‘Mrs Thompson hasn’t got long. Think of how good you’ll look in the press if you tell us where Wendy is before she dies.’

  ‘Don’t forget probation,’ Lillian replied. ‘It’ll impress them, too; especially if they know I have a supportive daughter on the outside.’

  ‘Mandy?’ Amy snorted. ‘She just about tolerates you.’

  ‘We both know I wasn’t talking about Mandy,’ Lillian said. ‘Now, are you going to sulk forever? I’m helping your career, yet still you show no respect. What do you want from me? Blood?’

  ‘You could start by telling me why you called,’ Amy said, ignoring the platitudes. Given the late hour, Lillian must have had her reasons. How was she even getting access to a phone? ‘Have you got the address?’

  ‘Oh, come on now, you know it’s not that easy. I can’t just give away secrets I’ve been holding onto for years. Not without something in return.’

  ‘What?’ Amy said, wanting their conversation over as quickly as possible.

  ‘Another family reunion,’ Lillian replied. ‘You must have been expecting it. It’s time you and Damien were reacquainted. You have a lot to catch up on.’

  ‘I presume he’s aware?’ Amy said, sliding a pen from across her desk and opening her jotter to scribble the address.

  ‘Of course. You’ll meet him tomorrow. And don’t give me all that guff about not being able to take time off. Your DCI Pike is all hot in her pants over this. She’ll give you whatever you need.’

  ‘The address?’ Amy said. She wasn’t going to disagree. She had never seen Pike so pleased. And the sooner she could get this meeting over with the better. Lately it felt like Lillian was invading every aspect of her life. She couldn’t eat, she could barely sleep, and she felt sick to her stomach every minute of the day. All she wanted was for things to get back to how they were. But she should have known that Lillian was not going to make things easy.

  ‘I want him to come to your house,’ Lillian said. ‘I do live for what goes on in the outside world. I want to hear all about you and your mummy dearest.’

  ‘No deal.’ Amy’s voice was firm.

  ‘I think you’ll find there is. That’s if you want that Thompson bitch to find what’s left of her daughter.’

  ‘You disgust me,’ Amy spat, unable to hold back her anger. She had seen the press images of Wendy Thompson, a beautiful twelve-year-old girl. Her emotions dictated her words. ‘You’re a piece of shit, you know that?’

  ‘I love you too, Daughter dear,’ Lillian replied tersely. ‘I’m going to count to three. And don’t for a second think I’m bluffing, because I’m not. There’s far more at stake here than you know.’

  Silence fell between them as Amy gathered up her thoughts. Lillian took a breath to speak. ‘It’s his birthday tomorrow, so I want you to make him tea and scones with clotted cream. We don’t get nice things on the inside, but I’d love to hear about your afternoon tea.’

  ‘You want me to play happy families and have him report back to you? I’m not doing it,’ Amy said. ‘You’re not part of my life.’

  ‘But it’s not me, is it?’ Lillian was quick to reply. ‘It’s your brother – your flesh and blood. He’s done nothing to you. None of this is his fault . . . unless you’re saying he’s guilty by association. In which case that would also apply to you.’ A tinkle of laughter sprinkled her words. ‘You can’t run away forever. And by turning your back on him, you’re the biggest hypocrite of all.’

  Lillian’s words rang with a hint of truth that cut Amy to the bone. ‘I’ll buy him a pastry in Starbucks. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘In that case I’ll leave it, and your Mrs Thompson will die without knowing if her daughter was ever found. Can you imagine it? Looking into the bottomless pit of nothingness, deprived of the comfort of knowing your little girl can rest in peace.’

  A beat passed between them before Lillian spoke again. ‘Shame it has to end like this. I suppose two out of three ain’t bad, as the song goes. Tell you what, I’m feeling generous. I’ll give you three seconds to decide.’

  Amy rubbed her face, dragging her skin. How she wished she could step into someone else’s shoes and be anywhere but here. Was this why Robert had tried to protect her all these years? This woman was a monster. But what choice did she have?

  ‘One.’ Lillian began the countdown.

  Amy swallowed. Could she really invite Damien into her mother’s home? She had sublet her old flat. There was nowhere else she could go.

  ‘Two.’ Lillian cut through her thoughts.

  What about Flora? She would have to get her out of the house for an hour. But then again, what about Wendy Thompson’s mother? Didn’t she deserve peace? She belonged to the family that had inflicted such horrors. She owed her.

  ‘Three,’ Lillian said.

  ‘All right, all right. I’ll do it!’ Amy shouted into the phone. She took a breath, cursing her outburst. She knew Lillian enjoyed getting under her skin. ‘Just me and Damien. I’m not having Mum tangled up in all of this.’ Amy gained a small satisfaction from calling Flora mum.

  ‘Deal,’ Lillian replied.

  ‘Wait,’ Amy said before she hung up the phone. ‘How’s he going to know where to meet me?’

  ‘He’ll call your office in the morning. You can give him your address then. You never know, you might end up thanking me. And I’ll sleep easier knowing I’ve brought my family that bit closer together.’

  Amy shook her head. Her biological mother had more faces than Medusa. ‘Can’t you tell me where Wendy is now? We don’t have much time.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Thompson’s managed to keep going for all her newspaper and television appearances,’ Lillian said, as if somehow she was the victim in all of this. ‘A proper little celebrity. I’ll be glad when she’s dead. You should be, too, the way she casts aspersions on our family name.’

  ‘Show her some mercy. You can put an end to this now.’

  ‘Mercy?’ Lillian snorted. ‘It’s because of her that I get so much hatred from the press, her and that son of hers. Poor Wendy’s mother who’s been dying for what feels like forever. If you ask me, it’s all put on.’ The heat of Lillian’s anger rose as she ranted down the phone. ‘The cheek of it, when I was the victim in all of this. I was the one trying to keep my family safe.’

  Amy licked her lips, tasting bitterness on her tongue as bile rose in her throat. Speaking to Lillian was making her physically ill. ‘I’ve got to go. So, unless there’s anything else you can tell me . . .’

  ‘I can’t wait to hear how you and Damien get on. You wouldn’t believe the lengths I would go to, to keep my family together. One day soon you’ll understand.’

  As the phone clicked with the buzz of a dead line Amy wondered just how delusional Lillian Grimes was. What was her fascination with introducing Amy to her birth siblings? Was it really to impress probation in the hope of leniency? Recent events had hit the press hard, the newspapers capitalising on the story of the innocent lives lost. Yet some had produced a mildly sympathetic report on Lillian’s life, presenting a different point of view. Late-night television programmes debated whether she deserved sympathy due to her remorse. Amy had wanted to scream at the television, to tell them to remember the victims. To remember Sally-Ann. It was strange that when mentioning the innocent victims, her sister’s name was rarely brought up. She was tainted. They all were. A sudden helplessness washed over her. She hated dealing with cold cases. It left her with such a feeling of emptiness because there was nobody left to save. All Amy could do was speak up for the voicel
ess dead and help the families of those involved as best she could. She switched off her desk light and sat in the shadows, alone with her thoughts. Rehashing the past brought its own particular kind of pain.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ‘Hard day at the office?’ Elaine asked, kneading Paddy’s shoulders as she tried to loosen a knot.

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to start,’ Paddy moaned softly as Elaine worked her magic. He was glad to be home and sitting at their small kitchen table. His dinner was reheating in the oven, the gravy to accompany his roast beef bubbling on the hob. He was three hours late but, as always, Elaine understood. Sighing in contentment, he sipped his can of beer. Being with her made everything else bearable. He winced as her fingers slid around his neck.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, her pink cardigan brushing against his cheek as she kissed the top of his head. ‘That burn is taking time to heal. And here was me thinking you worked in a nice safe office.’

  Paddy smiled, forcing out yet another lie. ‘You know me love, can’t resist a tussle.’

  ‘You can say that again, the number of bruises you come home with. What does your DI make of all this?’ She turned to stir the gravy. Given the size of their kitchen, she was never very far away.

  ‘She’s troubled. Distracted.’ He sighed heavily, wrapping his fingers around his can. ‘I don’t know what’s going on with her lately. I mean, she’s always been a closed book, so it must be getting to her, whatever it is.’

  ‘Pressures of work?’ Elaine said, turning off the gas and slipping on her oven gloves.

  ‘I’ve seen her handle worse cases than this. You know today, she stuttered mid-sentence during briefing. It was odd.’

  ‘She was probably just tripping over her words,’ Elaine said, her back to Paddy as she held the oven tray mid-air. ‘She must be under a lot of pressure with that Lillian Grimes case, and she’s only just lost her dad, too.’

  Paddy watched her plate up dinner, grateful for the wisdom of her words. ‘Maybe.’