The Lies Within

by Jane Isaac

  “I stopped going to that pub. Stayed in with Essie on a Friday night. But she was always in bed by ten and I was restless. It was the end of the week. Sometimes I’d go out for a late walk. If I passed The Windmill I’d often see Shelley, finishing her shift. Sometimes on her own, sometimes she was with someone. Usually I’d hear that distinctive cackle before I even set eyes on her. She never saw me, I stayed back in the shadows. If she was on her own I followed her home. That’s when the idea came to me. I wanted to do something. To frighten her. Stop her from making a fool of herself, for degrading my brother’s memory. I didn’t intend to hurt her.” He shook his head.

  “Tell me about the night of the 28th of April 2006,” Jackman said.

  Oliver drew a ragged breath. “I went for a walk, hung around the pub, waited for her to leave. She was later than usual. I was about to change my mind when she wobbled out, clearly drunk, a man I didn’t recognise with her. She turned and snogged him, before he walked off in the opposite direction. I was angry. More than angry. I’d never felt fury like it. I remember pulling my belt out of the stays, snapping it together. She looked around. I thought she’d seen me, but she turned away and started towards her home.”

  “And you followed her?”

  Oliver nodded. His eyes were sad. A defeated look on his face. “I waited until she reached the waste ground at the bottom of her road and flung the belt around her neck.” He covered his face with his hands a moment. “I don’t know, it all happened so quickly after that.” He looked up. “I’d researched for hours on how to strangle someone without actually killing them – just pull at the ligature until they go limp. But she fought like a cat. I remember punching her, watching her fall to the ground.”

  Wilson looked up. “What happened then?”

  He choked a swallow. In that moment his large form seemed to reduce to a third of its actual size. “I was in a rage, I didn’t know what I was doing. One moment she was on the ground, the next I was zipping up my trousers, brushing off my knees.”

  “You raped her?”

  “Yes.” His face turned ashen.

  Jackman squared his hands on the table between them. “Did the police speak to you at the time?”

  Oliver nodded. “They spoke to everyone who knew her. Essie said I was at home. She thought I was. Had left me in the armchair when she went up to bed. But it was in the news. I was convinced the detectives would eventually find out. I dreaded the phone ringing, dreaded every knock at the door. And as the days and weeks passed, when it didn’t come, I thought I’d feel relieved.” He shook his head. “But I didn’t. It ate away at me. And I couldn’t confess, dredge it all back up. It would have broken Essie, especially with her bad heart. She didn’t deserve any of this.”

  Jackman’s eyes rested on the gold chain in an evidence bag, sat on the table between them. “Why did you keep her necklace?”

  Turner followed his gaze. “I don’t know really. I don’t even remember pulling it off her neck. It wasn’t until I got home that I found it in my pocket, when I put my clothes through the washer. It was a present from my brother. I remember when he showed it to me. I guess I didn’t think she deserved it. But it didn’t seem right to throw it away. I hid it in with my spanners down the shed.”

  “Why come forward now?” Jackman asked.

  Oliver reached for the cup to his side. His hand trembled as he took a sip. “Essie died earlier this year. I wanted to come then. I planned to, after the funeral, when I’d laid her to rest.”

  “And where were you on Friday the 24th April 2015?”

  Oliver met Jackman’s gaze. “I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t me. The 24th of April was the date we buried Essie. I was at her wake when the second girl was attacked. Didn’t hear about it until the next day. But it scared the living daylights out of me. The timing, the similarities. It was almost as if somebody knew, was making me pay… I watched the news reports again and again, turned it over and over in my mind.”

  “Why now?” Jackman said.

  “The other girl, the teenager that was killed. I saw it on the news and thought I ought to come forward, to clear any link with Shelley’s case.”

  “So you’ve grown a conscience?” Wilson said.

  “Look, I don’t know who attacked the other two girls, but it certainly wasn’t me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “His story seems to check out,” Wilson said. They were seated in a small meeting room, on a conference call with Taylor. “We’re getting it all confirmed but the 24th of April was the date of his wife’s funeral. There are bound to be witnesses. And initial enquiries confirm that last Thursday he was at The Red Lion. Apparently he’s been going there since his wife died. Landlord put him in a taxi at 12.30am, drunk.”

  “Where does that leave us?” Taylor said.

  “If his confession stands we’ll get a DNA match with the semen found on Shelley Barnstaple and we can charge him with her attack,” Jackman said. He thought of Artie Black and his unrelenting interest in the case. “The papers are bound to latch onto this one. We’ve arrested Oliver Turner on suspicion of all three attacks to give us time to confirm whether or not his alibis play out. Let’s keep him in custody and keep it to ourselves for the moment, until we know what we’re dealing with. I want to check out his movements before we make any statements.”

  Wilson scrunched her face, causing tiny lines to appear down each side of her nose. “I can’t believe he got away with it,” she said. “Stranger rape is so uncommon. It was before my time, but it would have been allocated high priority. They would have pulled out all the stops.”

  “It was almost ten years ago,” Jackman said. “We weren’t obsessed with cameras like we are now, very few people had CCTV. A residential area. No witnesses…”

  “Okay,” Taylor interjected. “Get the DNA pushed through. I don’t care how much it costs. I don’t want this lingering for any longer than necessary. How about the others?”

  Wilson caught Jackman’s eye. “If they’re not connected, then someone’s definitely done their homework,” she said.

  “What about the guy from Nottingham? Anthony Kendall?”

  “We’re still looking into his background,” Jackman said. “At the moment, nothing suggests he’s involved, but we’re keeping an open mind.”

  “Okay, keep me updated on all developments.” The phone line crackled as he ended the call.

  It was a moment before Jackman spoke. “Get somebody to look into Oliver Turner’s background,” he said almost to himself. “He’s given himself a motive for Shelley’s attack. Does he have an association with the other girls? We’ll need to seize his computer and his phone, and get his house locked down and guarded until we’ve had a chance to give it a thorough search. Make sure they’re discreet though, will you? I don’t want to draw any undue attention. And see if there’s any association between Turner and Kendall.”

  Wilson looked up from her notes. “What are you thinking?”

  “It’s a long shot.” He recalled Celeste’s comments about the similarities and differences between the attacks. “But we can’t rule out the fact that they might have been working together, or even as part of a group.”

  ***

  Grace was standing by the kitchen window when the sound of the doorbell caught her attention. She turned her head as Parsons answered. The door rattled as it opened. Parsons greeted the caller with recognition in her voice. Lydia looked up from her magazine and stretched her arms back as her mother leant towards the door, listening intently. “Is that Auntie Ged?” Lydia said, her words muffled by a yawn.

  Grace flicked her eyes to the clock. She walked over and brushed the hair out of Lydia’s face. “I don’t think so, darling. Her flight wasn’t due in until after two. I doubt she’ll be here for at least another half an hour.”

  Grace was surprised to see the chief inspector enter the room, followed by Parsons. A shot of adrenalin rushed through her. His presence meant news.

>   They all walked into the front room. He sat on the edge of the sofa, clasped his hands together.

  “How are you, Grace?” he said.

  “Okay,” Grace managed to squeeze out through bated breath.

  Jackman nodded soberly. “I wonder if I could ask you a couple more questions?”

  Grace’s breath faltered. For a brief moment she’d thought he’d come to tell her they’d made an arrest.

  “Has Jo ever mentioned the names Oliver Turner or Anthony Kendall to you?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “Think hard, please,” Jackman said. “It might be important.”

  Grace sat quietly, digging into the depths of her memory. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  The detective’s face was impassive. “They’re just lines of enquiry we’re investigating. Has Jo ever been associated with The Windmill pub, or had any friends in Oadby?”

  “Not that she mentioned.”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  “You haven’t caught him then?”

  “We are working on several leads, but no charge has been made yet.” He inched forward. “We have some camera footage of Jo standing outside The Three Swans, after her sister left on Thursday night. It shows her waving at somebody, crossing the road towards them. Do you know who that might be?”

  Grace shrugged. “Could be someone from the wedding. I really don’t know.” The news report from earlier that morning played on her mind. She met his gaze. “Can I ask you a question, Inspector?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think the person that attacked Jo also attacked those other two girls, in Oadby?”

  “Again, it’s a line of enquiry we are looking at. We can’t be sure at the moment.”

  “But the similarities…” Her voice broke.

  “I understand your concern,” Jackman replied.

  “But you still don’t know?”

  “Not at this precise moment, no.” His words were soft, quiet. He placed his hand in his pocket and pulled out a card. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I know this is difficult. But we are doing everything we can. If you think of anything, or have any questions, please give me a call. That’s my direct number.”

  Grace couldn’t move. Her throat constricted. Lydia reached out and took the card.

  A car door slammed on the driveway. The sound of the front door opening followed. Phil’s face appeared around the door, his eyes immediately widening as they rested on Jackman. “What’s happened?”

  Grace looked up at him. “Nothing, love,” she said. “Absolutely nothing.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jackman glanced out of the open shed door and into the garden beyond. The early morning clouds had thickened, bringing with them the threat of rain and casting a murky sheen on the surrounding area. He pressed a switch. The light bulb flickered a couple of times before illuminating the room. He pushed the door to a cabinet shut, peered up at the ceiling beams, then crouched beside a workbench. Apart from an array of old cobwebs masking the windows, Oliver Turner’s shed was possibly the most ordered he’d been in. He wasn’t really sure what he was looking for, but the fact that Oliver claimed to have kept Shelley’s necklace in his toolbox felt significant, almost as if he wished to bury his secrets down there, away from the house.

  He rubbed his hand along the workbench, the wood tugging at the rubber of his glove, before he switched off the light. His mobile rang as he shut the door behind him. ‘Wilson’ flashed up on the screen.

  “I’ve been in touch with the doctors’ surgery this morning,” Wilson said. “It seems Jo Lamborne’s own GP is away in Cyprus until next week. They’ve accessed the medical records and confirmed her prescription, but couldn’t see anything in her notes to confirm a weekly medical appointment. Want me to go out and visit, see if I can speak to one of the other doctors there?”

  “No, if there’s nothing in her notes, it’s unlikely they’ll be able to tell you anything. We’ll leave it until her own GP’s back. She may have discussed things with her that aren’t on file. What about Oliver Turner’s alibis?”

  “We are working our way through his late wife’s friends and family. It seems he’s been rather a loner since his brother died. We just need to account for all his movements during her wake, in case he dropped out for a bit.”

  “And last Thursday?”

  “Landlord’s confirmed he was in The Red Lion from 9pm until the early hours. It was his birthday. Apparently he drunk the best part of a bottle of whisky and made quite a nuisance of himself.”

  “Okay, anything else?”

  “Forensics have discovered a tiny spot of blood on the earring found at the crime scene, barely visible to the eye but they’ve managed to extract the DNA. It doesn’t match Jo.”

  “Excellent. Get it checked with Oliver’s, will you?”

  Jackman ended the call and glanced up at the back of Oliver’s house. The CSI team were clambering around inside. So far, no amount of searching had uncovered anything to link him with the two other girls.

  ***

  Grace sat at the kitchen table in her pyjamas, a white towelling bath robe hanging off the edge of her shoulders, a tepid cup of tea in her hand. She could hear Phil and Ged in the front room, the floorboards above creaking as Lydia moved around upstairs. A food magazine sat open in front of her, although she’d barely looked at it for the last twenty minutes she’d sat there. Lucky scampered over and placed a paw on her calf. She bent down and stroked the dog’s head.

  Dinner with Ged had been a sober affair last night, a takeaway from the nearby Chinese. Poor Phil. He’d chosen crispy duck and pancakes, Grace’s favourite, in an attempt to encourage her to eat, no doubt, but she could only manage to nibble the edge of one of them. They talked in half-sentences about his sister’s flight and her house in Spain. Danced around the incident with Jo. It was clear that Ged wanted to hear all the details. Grace understood this, although not wishing to hear them relayed again she’d excused herself and gone to bed.

  Today, Ged had risen early, gone shopping for eggs and bacon and cooked them all a breakfast. It was good to have Ged here, to care for the family, allow her to escape into her own world. She hadn’t even passed comment when she’d found Grace sleeping in Jo’s room this morning.

  Lucky curled around her ankles. Grace watched her a moment, admiring her ability to instantly fall into a deep sleep, then scanned the kitchen, her eyes eventually resting on the laptop on the corner of the table. She pulled it towards her, opened it, logged onto the internet and gasped.

  It was all over the news.

  Of course it would be. She had to check herself. But the stark reality of it made her breath catch in her throat. Grace read through the reports, one by one, fresh tears itching her face as they sloped down her cheekbones. There was heavy speculation about a connection with the other attacks. The press talked about clumsy police work, a failure to link the investigations. Grace was both drawn to and appalled by what she read. She recalled the short-lived elation she’d felt yesterday when she’d seen the detective, only to scuppered by more questions.

  The detective’s attempt at reassurance had fallen on deaf ears. She liked the DCI. He seemed a nice man. He’d come out to see her himself, tried to answer her questions, given her his personal card. The newspaper articles said he was a senior officer, brought in especially as a regional lead. Yet they were no closer to catching Jo’s killer. He’d asked more questions, talked about lines of enquiry. She dragged a hand through her hair as she tried to remember the two names he’d mentioned: Oliver Turner and… She wracked her brains.

  Grace didn’t hear Ged appear. Wasn’t aware of her presence until she felt a hand on her arm. “Oh, Grace.” Ged closed the laptop before her eyes. “Don’t torture yourself.” Before she had time to protest, Ged had pulled out the chair and sat beside her sister-in-law, wrapping her arms around her. “What a bloody awful thing to have happened,” Ged continued, rubbing Grace’s back tenderly. “S
he was such a lovely girl. I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  The clocks stopped as they wept softly together. Phil came through and passed them tissues. Finally Grace drew back and took a deep breath. “I want to do something to help,” she said feebly.

  “Of course you do,” Ged said, pressing her hand on Grace’s. “It’s only natural you’d want to do that. You were her mother.”

  “The papers are linking it to the other attacks in Oadby.”

  “I know, love,” Ged said. “But we have to leave the case to the police now. We’ll help as much as we can.”

  “I think we can do more.” Grace flipped open the laptop. “If we only…”

  “Don’t,” Phil said quietly, putting his hand over hers. The computer light switched off as the lid closed. “Don’t read the news reports.”

  “But they’ve raised all sorts of issues. There’s one reporter, he’s…”

  “Phil’s right,” Ged said. Her face slackened as fresh tears swelled in her eyes. “Don’t do it, Grace. It’ll only mess with your head.”

  ***

  Taylor steepled his fingers as Jackman updated him later that afternoon. “The techies are going through their social media accounts, checking for any association between Oliver Turner, Anthony Kendall and any of the girls. Nothing’s cropped up yet.”

  “What about Oliver and the other girls?”

  “Eugenie Trentwood claims she’s never met him. We’ve spoken to Jo’s family. If he was acquainted with Jo, they didn’t know.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  “We’re still waiting for the DNA on Oliver before we charge him with the first attack, but his alibis for the other two attacks seem to stand.”

  Taylor dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “There has to be something.”

  Jackman relayed Celeste’s concerns over the differences. “There is one other possibility we haven’t considered,” Jackman said. “It could be a copycat. Somebody who saw the press attention linked to the first attack and sought the media attention.”