by Jane Isaac
Legend Press Ltd, 107-111 Fleet Street, London, EC4A 2AB [email protected] | www.legendpress.co.uk
Contents © Jane Isaac 2017
The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
Print ISBN 978-1-7850792-7-6
Ebook ISBN 978-1-7850792-6-9
Set in Times. Printed in Bulgaria by Multiprint.
Cover design by Simon Levy www.simonlevyassociates.co.uk
All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and place names, other than those well-established such as towns and cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Jane Isaac studied creative writing with the Writers Bureau and the London School of Journalism. Jane’s short stories have appeared in several crime fiction anthologies. Her debut novel, An Unfamiliar Murder, was published in the US in 2012, and was followed by three novels with Legend Press: The Truth Will Out in 2014, Before It’s Too Late in 2015, and Beneath the Ashes in 2016.
Jane lives in rural Northamptonshire with her husband, daughter and dog, Bollo.
Visit Jane at
janeisaac.co.uk
or on Twitter
@JaneIsaacAuthor
THE DI WILL JACKMAN SERIES
Before It’s Too Late (#1)
Beneath the Ashes (#2)
The Lies Within (#3)
ALSO BY JANE ISAAC
An Unfamiliar Murder (DCI Helen Lavery #1)
The Truth Will Out (DCI Helen Lavery #2)
To Colin Williams
The best storyteller I know
PART ONE
Prologue
August 2016 - Criminal Court 3, Leicester Crown Court
The barrister tilts his head back. “Members of the jury, I turn your attention to Grace Daniels, the woman who stands before you this afternoon.”
The eyes of the courtroom descend upon Grace. She searches for a gap in the sea of faces, desperately trying to maintain her composure while avoiding the anxious gaze of her youngest daughter, Lydia, seated next to the rest of her family in the public gallery. Right now she wants nothing more than to be swaddled in the comfort of their support. But even the shortest of glances will induce fresh tears to her eyes. And she can’t allow that to happen. Not now.
The barrister, James Sheldon, a tall, slender man with curls of thick brown hair that tumble out of the back of his wig, pauses for the briefest of moments. “During the course of this trial you will hear accounts from friends, family, neighbours and employers about her good character and nature. She is a mother, sister-in-law, daughter and grandmother. A woman who works and contributes to the fabric of society. But you are not here to consider her character. You are here to examine the facts.” His words hang in the air as he moves down the line, pulling the eyes of every juror with him.
Grace notices Lydia turn away and risks a fleeting glance. When her girls were young she’d impressed upon them the importance of being honest. ‘You have nothing to worry about if you’ve done nothing wrong,’ she would say. What would Lydia make of that today? She’s sixteen now, although her blue eyes bulge with the same trepidation they held on her first day at school.
Grace flicks her gaze to the jury. Seven women and five men. On the face of it, they seem a reasonable mix. Earlier that morning, several of them faltered over their words as they were sworn in. It was strange to think that they could possibly feel more nervous than she. The woman on the end wore a dark jumper overlaid with a colourful vintage scarf. Sheets of hair were tucked behind her ears, her expression kind and comforting.
Sheldon is concluding the prosecution opening with the assured confidence of a man skilled in his art. In spite of the curled wig, the black gown that flaps behind him as he moves, his gestures are convincingly subtle. A simple touch. A gentle, considered turn. No sweeping theatrics. Not a moment’s hesitation in his voice.
Grace looks across at the profile of Eleanor Talbot-Deane, her defence barrister, through the glass screen that separates her from the courtroom. Eleanor is as still as stone. His words haven’t fazed her, yet Grace feels her hands start to tremble and squeezes them together.
“Over the next few days the Crown will produce compelling evidence to support the fact that this woman meticulously planned a cold-blooded murder.”
Grace recoils, aware of Lydia’s eyes boring into the side of her face. They’d talked about this moment several times. Together. With her solicitor. With her barrister. As a family. But no amount of talking could prepare her for the real prospect of losing her mother to the confines of prison walls. No child should ever have to watch a parent on trial.
“You will hear evidence that places her at the scene, witnesses who heard her plan the murder,” Sheldon continues. “Plan how to kill a woman who considered herself a friend.”
A head on the jury turns. The woman with the vintage scarf. Grace imagines she is just like her, with a job and a family; a small dog that sits beside her on the sofa while she watches MasterChef on television. But there is no familiarity in her expression, no sorority. Just cold, hard shock.
Grace’s throat constricts. Even though she has been briefed on how to react: what to say, what not to say. Even though she has been dragged through hours of police questioning, nothing can truly prepare her for the exhausting fatigue that exudes from the intensity of hanging on to every word, every tiny detail, still trying to find a hole in the evidence mounting against her. And this is only the beginning of a trial that is scheduled to run for days.
“Be under no illusions by her smart clothes, her kind face, her eloquent manner. Do not form judgements. I implore you to keep a clear mind and consider the evidence in front of you. And that evidence alone. This woman is guilty of murder. And by the time this trial has finished, you will be in no doubt that she should go to prison for life.”
Chapter One
10 months earlier
Detective Inspector Will Jackman watched the brown fluid ooze into the Styrofoam cup. It was surprising how quickly he’d developed a taste for this excuse for coffee when it was all that was available. The iridescent lights buzzed and flickered as he made his way back down the corridor.
It was darker in his office, a single desk lamp providing the only light in the small area. A nest of photos stared back at him as he sat and sipped his drink. Jackman had seen many shocking images over the years: bodies gouged with gunshot wounds, stab victims left in a pool of their own blood, dismembered body parts after car accidents. Every one of them stayed with him, but none more so than the living. The bright eyes of these young women had screamed of youth, opportunity, vitality. Until they were brutally assaulted.
He moved the photos aside and instead stared into the faces of the victims after the attack. Seventeen-year-old Eugenie Trentwood’s long hair was the only resemblance she bore to the original photo. Her right eye was swollen to twice the size; a gash in her temple resembled a puckered pair of lips. Almost immediately, detectives linked the case with the unsolved attack on Shelley Barnstaple, nine years earlier. Just a year older than Eugenie at the time of the incident, the swelling around Shelley’s crown was so severe it gave the appearance of an odd-shaped head. Dark smudges sat beneath her eyes. Both women had been att
acked on their way home from a night out, within a mile of each other in Leicester’s Oadby district.
He dug out the map, slowly ran his finger along each of their routes on the nights of the incidents. Eugenie had been walking down a side alley, almost home. Shelley had taken a shortcut across waste ground. Both had a ligature thrown around their neck. They awoke later to find themselves on the ground. They’d been sexually assaulted. Eugenie’s stilettos had disappeared. Shelley’s necklace stolen. Neither saw anything.
Jackman sat back in his chair. He’d protested fiercely when Superintendent Janus had called him into her office, a few weeks earlier, and told him she was assigning him to special projects. ‘The force are rewriting their public protection policy. I’d like you to be the regional lead on adult sexual offences.’ She’d dressed it up as a developmental move, temporarily promoting him to Chief Inspector, seconding him to region to visit neighbouring forces and review outstanding cases with a view to looking for links and streamlining methods of working. ‘It’ll be a good opportunity to see how other serious crime teams work, to network with other senior investigating officers,’ she had said, peering up at him from beneath her heavy fringe. Jackman could see the merit of review teams: a fresh pair of eyes, a new approach when all previous leads had dried up. But the prospect of several weeks being confined to a desk, picking through the bones of someone else’s investigation with a view to overhauling working practises just left him numb.
He switched back to the photos. Bruising and indentation on their necks indicated the presence of a ligature. Both women had been taken to within an inch of their life, and yet they hadn’t been killed. Whoever had done this had wanted them to live with the enduring terror.
In spite of an army of CSIs dispatched to comb both scenes, they’d recovered nothing of any significance. Stranger attacks were relatively rare. Most people were assaulted by someone they knew, someone close to them. Yet officers hadn’t found anything in either of the girls’ backgrounds to indicate a stalker or somebody acting out of the ordinary and, apart from the fact that they were both of slight build with long curly hair, nothing to indicate why the assailant had picked those two, or to explain the time lapse in between.
Speculation about a serial offender grew in the media as confidence in the police waned. He looked back at the fresh-faced photo of Eugenie. Seventeen years old. Her family claimed she was a diligent student with an ambition to become a lawyer. This time last year she would have been studying for her GCSEs.
But endless hours of interviewing officers, trawling through bank records, phone logs and rereading witness statements had yielded nothing new. Even after visiting the victims and their families, hopeful faces staring across at him, imploring some new evidence that might put an end to their terror, Jackman was no closer to finding a motive, let alone a suspect. And he had nothing to help him write the first part of his tedious policy report.
He glanced across at the pile of boxes on the desk opposite. The word ‘archive’ made him flinch. It suggested a pile of historical documents, or old bank records, not statements, phone records or items of bloody clothing belonging to real people. These women were somebody’s sister, somebody’s daughter. Victims of real crimes left unsolved. The investigation was code-named Operation Ascott. Files would be kept open, fresh appeals put out for information, but the evidence of those crimes that had cast a shadow over their lives and of those around them was destined to be bundled up and shut away in the confines of a dark box.
The window rattled in the light breeze. Jackman checked his watch. Almost midnight. Not for the first time, he cursed the roadworks on the Coventry roundabout. He knew there would be cars almost at a standstill, even at this late hour. The subsequent tailbacks and delays on his commute from Stratford this past week had forced him to check into a hotel nearby. Although, right now, he was hardly in a rush to get to the bland hotel room.
The sound of his mobile buzzing at this late hour startled him. He fished it out of his pocket.
“Sir, this is Inspector Peters, Leicester control room. The body of a woman has been found in rural Leicestershire. Our duty SIO is handling a drugs-related kidnapping in the east of the city. You’re listed as reserve.”
Jackman grabbed his pen. “What do we know?”
“A cyclist discovered the body on his ride home from work at 23.18 hours and called it in. The CID nightshift are escorting him back to the station to make a statement. The victim is naked, thought to be late teens. Looks like she’s been strangled. Nothing to indicate her ID.” He relayed the address.
“No other witnesses?” Jackman asked, jotting down the details.
“Not, as yet. Uniform have cordoned off the area. CID have called in CSI and a pathologist. DS Wilson is at the scene. She’ll fill you in.” Jackman stood, dislodging a pile of papers on the corner of his desk in his haste.
“One other thing.”
He watched the papers splash to the floor. “Yes?”
“The body shows signs of sexual assault.”
***
Leicester Lane was a quiet country road flanked by trees on one side and a ditch that ran practically its full length on the other. Bare fields unrolled into the open countryside beyond.
Jackman parked up at the end of a line of cars. Under the obliging light of a full moon, he could see a huddle of CSIs further up the road, skirting around a temporary lamp.
The blue and white police tape flapped in the breeze as he climbed out of the car and opened the boot. He was struggling with the zipper on his holdall when he heard a voice behind him. “You must be our SIO.” He whisked around, just as the woman pulled back her hood and proffered her hand. “Sergeant Dee Wilson.” Her words sent a spray of white air out into the night.
“Will Jackman.” He shook her hand.
Her white teeth gleamed against her dark skin as she smiled back up at him. “Have the control room filled you in?”
“Pretty much.” Jackman relayed the scant details. “Anything else I should know?” He retrieved some coveralls from the bag and started pulling them on.
“I don’t think so. There’s not much to go on at the moment.”
Jackman was bent down, snapping on his overshoes when he felt another presence nearby.
“Sergeant Wilson!”
He followed the voice and stood back to see a heavy-set man in a dark jacket approach. Raven hair was gelled back from an inquisitive face.
Wilson turned. “Well, well. Artie Black, Leicester Herald’s finest. Caught a whiff of this one quickly, didn’t you? You’d better keep out of our way, otherwise you’ll be in line for the next sniffer dog intake.” The journalist gave a fake chortle. “Can’t tell you anything at the moment, Artie,” Wilson added.
“Come on, now. You must have something?” The journalist pointed at Jackman. “Who’s this?”
“This is DCI Jackman,” Wilson said. “You’re wasting your time, Artie. He won’t tell you anything either.”
Artie reached out a hand, which Jackman reluctantly shook. The handshake was firm, eager. Jackman withdrew to find a business card in his palm. “Give me a shout as soon as you’ve got something,” Artie said. “I’m sure we can work together on this.”
Jackman shook his head and shoved the card into his pocket as Artie disappeared into the shadows. He fleetingly wondered how much time the journalist spent skulking around, watching, waiting for the next scoop. It was pitiful.
Tiny stars peaked out of the inky blue sky above. Jackman scanned the surrounding area. It was remote and unlit. “I understand the informant was a cyclist?” he said as they started to walk towards the other officers.
Wilson nodded. “He’s back at the station, giving a statement.”
“What was he doing cycling down here in the middle of the night?”
“This road links the back end of Market Harborough with Airfield Business Park. Mostly warehouses and factory units. Many of their workers are on shift patterns. We’ll check it out
, of course, but I’m guessing he was on a late shift.”
“Anything on the victim?”
Wilson shook her head. They’d reached the edge of the tape now and she turned her attention to the officer guarding the cordon, exchanging pleasantries as they paused to sign the incident log.
They drew closer to the light. A CSI was moving around, photographing the body from all angles. A woman in blue coveralls was crouched down in the ditch examining the body.
“Morning, Celeste,” Wilson said as they approached. “This is DCI Jackman, our SIO.”
The pathologist stood, stretched her shoulders back and beamed. “I know Will Jackman,” she said, a rich French accent coating her words. She snapped off a glove, pushed away the wisps of dark hair escaping from her hood and shook his hand, then looked towards Wilson. “We worked together… goodness, it must be ten years ago now, when I was training.”
“Good to see you again, Celeste,” Jackman said. “How’re you doing?”
“Okay, thanks. Nothing a couple more hours of sleep couldn’t cure. How are your lovely family?”
Jackman hesitated for a second before he replied. “Fine, thanks.” He lowered his eyes to the victim. She was petite, her face ornate, almost doll-like, even with her glassy eyes hung open. Brown hair was swept back and coiffed into a twist making the dark ring that encircled her neck all the more prominent.
Celeste inhaled a long breath before she spoke. “Looking at the welt around her neck and the enlarged tongue I’m pretty sure the cause of death was strangulation. Bruising on the inner thighs indicates possible sexual interference.” She pulled off her other glove, scratched the side of her face. “Rigor is just starting to set in. I’d estimate time of death within the last 4-5 hours. Looking at the environment and the state of the body, I’d say she was attacked elsewhere. She looks too clean to have been killed here, but I’ll be more sure when I get her back to the lab.”
