The Lies Within

by Jane Isaac

  “Nine years later? That’s a stretch.”

  Jackman shrugged a single shoulder. “So would the same attacker surfacing after nine years, only to strike again after another six months. I’ve got my team checking through prison records to see if there are any other cases with a similar MO, just in case the dates coincide with a release, but it’s turned up nothing so far.”

  Taylor rested his head back. “This is all I need.”

  “We’re still trying to trace the BMW that drove through and spoke to Jo on the night of her murder.”

  “The one that was stolen?”

  Jackman nodded. “We know Jo approached somebody on the other side of the road. It might have been the last person she spoke to, or could have been her attacker. They haven’t come forward, but somebody in that car might have seen them. I’ve repeated an appeal for them both.”

  Taylor sighed as he stood. “Okay, get an extension to hold Oliver Turner for a bit longer. I don’t want any charges being made public until we are absolutely sure.”

  He brushed past Wilson on his way out, giving a brief nod before he disappeared.

  “He doesn’t look well,” she said.

  “Stress of impending retirement, I guess.”

  She huffed. “I wouldn’t mind finishing on his pension.” She brandished a piece of paper in front of him. “Message from the press office. Artie Black wants a chat. Only with you, apparently.” She raised a brow and dropped the slip of paper onto Jackman’s desk.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jackman turned his collar up as he walked across the garden centre car park the following morning. Artie Black stood and tilted his head as Jackman approached the café at the far corner, indicating for Jackman to join him at the table by the window.

  “Interesting choice of places,” Artie said and sat down, opening the buttons on his jacket to reveal an open-necked plaid shirt.

  Jackman slid into the chair opposite. From the moment he’d received the message from Wilson, he’d done some digging. Artie had been lead crime reporter for the Leicester Herald for almost fifteen years and was well known for his moralistic claims of serving the people of Leicestershire with his investigative reporting. Wilson had suggested the café at Sapcote Garden Centre for their meeting as it was close to the motorway, but away from the prying eyes of Leicester City or Market Harborough town where Artie might be recognised. The last thing Jackman wanted was to feed his ego.

  This wasn’t the first time Jackman had been plagued by annoying journalists. The relationship with the press was always shifting and moving in a high profile investigation. Reporters were under pressure to seek gripping news stories. The police used them as a tool to feed updates to the public, appeal for information, and only shared what was absolutely necessary to drive an investigation forward. But Jackman was also acutely aware that he was in a new town where nobody knew him and he needed to keep the media on side. For now.

  Jackman checked his watch, ordered an espresso. He didn’t want to give Artie any indication that this was going to be a long meeting.

  Artie clasped his hands on the table in front. “How’s the case going?”

  “We are working on several lines of enquiry,” Jackman said.

  “Anything I can help with?”

  The waitress arrived, placed the espresso on the table between them. “You said on the phone you have some information for me?” Jackman asked as the waitress retreated.

  A smile tickled the edge of Artie’s lips. He didn’t miss the fact that Jackman had ignored his earlier question. This was a game to him and he was clearly enjoying himself. “I’ve been contacted by a man who was near The Three Swans last night. Saw the victim standing outside shortly after 10.30pm. She was alone. But there was somebody else on the other side of the street watching her.”

  “Then I need to speak to him,” Jackman said.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “For ethical reasons. I can’t reveal my source.”

  Jackman raised his brows. “He might have been involved.”

  “He wasn’t.”

  “Then he has nothing to worry about coming forward.”

  “I’m trying to help here, Inspector. I don’t have to give you more details.”

  “You’re not going to pull the journalistic privilege card on me, surely? This is a murder investigation. Everything is open to scrutiny.”

  “Look, he’s a public figure, an associate of mine. Doesn’t want to be identified for personal reasons. But I do have a description.” Artie pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “Average height and build, baggy denims, black hoody pulled down over their face.”

  Jackman had to stop himself from rolling his eyes at the scant information. The description probably applied to half of the town’s teenage population. “Male or female?”

  “His thoughts are male, but he only caught a quick glance, from the rear. Couldn’t be sure.”

  “Did they speak to anyone?”

  Artie shook his head.

  “Where?”

  “What?”

  “Where was your informant, and where was the other person he saw standing?”

  “The person he saw was on the other side of the street, outside Joules clothing store.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “Nothing. Just standing.”

  “And your man was…”

  “I’m not prepared to say.”

  “So your man saw someone – we don’t know if they are male or female – in a black hoody and denims on the other side of the road.”

  “That’s about the sum of it. Do you want me to put an appeal out?” Artie said.

  “No. If we need a public appeal, we’ll organise a press release.”

  “I was rather hoping we could work together on this.”

  “And I was rather hoping the witness would come forward and work with us to provide a better description.”

  Artie scowled.

  “Look,” Jackman tipped the espresso back, pushed his cup away. It scraped across the laminate table top. “I’m not here to broker deals. I want details of your informant.”

  “It’s tricky. He’s a public figure. Out without his wife’s knowledge, shall we say? He doesn’t want this to get out.”

  Jackman surveyed him a moment. “Why are you helping him?”

  “He’s an old friend.”

  “Is that it?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Is that the only reason you wanted to see me?”

  Artie stared at him, said nothing.

  “Look, if I have to get a court order to make you disclose your witness, I will. But know this. If this investigation is hampered by your withholding information, I’ll make sure both the public and your editors are made fully aware.”

  Artie appeared unfazed, but when he spoke there was a conciliatory note in his voice. “Inspector. We want the same things. Maybe we could print a piece to gain more details, offer my source anonymity?”

  “You know I can’t give any guarantees.”

  Jackman watched him take a sip of coffee. “Any news on the others?” Artie asked as he placed the mug back down on the table. “The other cases,” Artie repeated. “Linked to this one.”

  “We haven’t made a direct connection between the murder and the other attacks,” Jackman said.

  “No, but you haven’t denied it. Both women were the same age as the victim. All had strapping of some kind placed around their necks, all-”

  “I’m familiar with the cases,” Jackman interrupted.

  “Then you’ll be aware of the similarities. Let’s be honest here, Inspector. You can deny it all you like, but the evidence points to a single attacker.”

  Jackman stood. They hadn’t shared Oliver Turner’s arrest with the world yet. It would be interesting to see how the press spun that one. But he needed to be careful what he said here. The last thing he wanted was to be quoted out of
context. “At this stage we are keeping an open mind, examining all possibilities,” he said. And with that he turned and left the café.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The hum of the vacuum cleaner woke Grace. Almost as soon as she’d arrived, Ged had fallen into the rhythm of cooking the meals, cleaning the house and looking after the family. A clone of her brother, she found it difficult to sit down, constantly on the go. Grace crawled out of the shadows to sit around the table and attempt to eat, then disappeared directly afterwards. Back upstairs. Back to Jo.

  She turned her head to the side. The scent in Jo’s bed was waning, replaced by a faint mustiness. She’d resisted having the sheets washed, much to Ged’s disdain, but the aroma of Jo’s shampoo and perfume was fading. Grace uncoiled her body and shifted position, sinking into the slight dip in the mattress. She imagined Jo’s body laying there, her dark curls sprawled across the pillow, and nestled in further.

  Grace closed her eyes. Part of her wanted to sleep, seek some respite from the pain of the void. But another part of her resisted it fervently. In sleep she was at the mercy of her self-conscious. And the nightmares were haunting.

  The vacuum cleaner stopped. She could hear the detective was downstairs with Phil. She was beginning to become accustomed to the whispers, to conversations ending suddenly as she walked in, of laptops being snapped shut. They were trying to protect her, she knew that. And right now she didn’t care, numbed in her world with Jo.

  The door pushed open and Lydia appeared.

  Grace sat up, forced a smile. “Hello, darling. How are you doing?”

  Lydia buried her eyes in the carpet. “Okay.”

  Grace patted the duvet for her to sit and stroked her daughter’s back, just like she had when she was little. “Do you want to chat?”

  Lydia shook her head. “I keep getting messages on my Facebook page,” she said eventually. “People saying sorry for Jo. They’re on your page too.” She bit her lip. “I don’t know what to say to them.”

  Grace had ignored all the phone calls, the messages and shut the world out. It hadn’t occurred to her that others might not wish to. “Would you like to answer them?”

  Lydia gave a small nod.

  “Okay. How about posting a general message rather than going through them all individually? Thanking everyone for their messages and something about how we all appreciate their thoughts and wishes.”

  “They’re on Jo’s page too. Loads of them.”

  Grace baulked inwardly. The very thought of looking at Jo’s own page, where she shared the highs and lows of her life, made her sad. She pulled herself together, desperate not to show her youngest daughter her feelings. “You could post the message on all our timelines if you want. Would that be okay?”

  “Could you write it down?”

  “Of course.”

  Lydia disappeared and returned with a lined piece of paper and a pen. The corner was ripped, as if she’d torn it out of an exercise book. Grace fought to keep her hand even as she wrote out the sentiment and handed it over.

  Lydia’s bottom lip quivered.

  “What is it?”

  “I want to go back to school.” As soon as the words left her mouth, the tears followed. “I’m sorry.”

  Grace embraced her daughter. “Don’t be.” She brushed her hair out of her eyes, kissed the side of her forehead.

  “I thought you’d be angry.”

  “Why? Because you want to go back to school?”

  Lydia sniffed in acknowledgement.

  “Of course I’m not.”

  “It’s just…”

  “What?”

  “I can’t sleep in the daytime like you. And I can’t stop thinking about everything. It makes me feel worse.”

  “Sweetheart, we all cope with grief in different ways. If you think it’s easier for you to go back to school, then that’s the right thing for you.”

  “You’re not angry?”

  “Of course not. Look at Ged and Phil. They can’t sit down.”

  Lydia managed a thin smile.

  “Do you want me to speak to any of your teachers?”

  Lydia shook her head. “I just want to go back. I’ll sort it all out then.”

  Grace sunk back into the pillows after Lydia had left. Facebook. Her girls shared their lives on there, from what they were eating, to places they visited and nights out. She remembered once having to speak to Lydia because she’d told the world they were going to Fuerteventura on holiday ‘next weekend’. People left little thought to advertising that their houses would be left empty. A calling card to the nearest burglar. They followed everyone they met too. An idea pushed in. The names the detective had mentioned: Anthony Kendall and Oliver Turner. She remembered both names now. Maybe she should check Jo’s friendship list, see if there was any connection there.

  ***

  “The techies have spent days trawling through Oliver Turner’s computer,” Jackman said. “He was a big gambler it seems, but no record of any social media accounts where he may have contacted the other girls. No violent pornography and no emails to link him to either Anthony Kendall or the victims.”

  It was Wednesday evening. Taylor had called in for an impromptu meeting and they sat under the cover of lamplight, mulling over the most recent details. Jackman rubbed his forehead as he continued. “We’ve spoken to some of his associates. Seems he imploded after his wife died. He doesn’t have any other family. Apart from occasional visits to his local pub, where he sat on his own, he didn’t mix. We are waiting for forensics, of course, but there was nothing else of significance found in his house search.

  “He had Shelley Barnstaple’s necklace, he had motive and he’s confessed to her attack. But his DNA doesn’t match the blood sample on the earring and there doesn’t seem to be anything else to link him to the other attacks.”

  Taylor looked weary. The desperation to find some resolution, to put this case behind him before he retired, his final swansong, showed in his sallow face. “What about the others?”

  “The links are stronger between Eugenie and Jo. The marks on their necks, the sexual interference, they’re almost identical. We’ve checked locally and nationally but can’t find any further attacks with similar hallmarks.”

  “So we are treating Shelley’s attack as a separate case?”

  “It certainly looks that way.”

  “Put a statement out to the press, confirming Oliver Turner’s charge on the first attack. Say enquiries are ongoing.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to do a press conference? They know you. Might appease them a bit.”

  Taylor whipped back to face Jackman. “I’m not going into a room with those pen boys right now. They’ll tear us apart.”

  Wilson walked into the room waving a piece of paper in her hand. “Artie Black’s given up his witness source.”

  Taylor checked his watch. “Just before the court order.” He sighed. “Talk about timing.”

  “What news?” Jackman said.

  “It’s Quentin Doherty.”

  “The Northamptonshire cricketer? No wonder he wanted to keep that under wraps.”

  “I’ve just spoken to Quentin on the phone. He was able to confirm the description we were given.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes. He’s coming in to make a statement tomorrow. We’ll carry out the normal checks, but it looks like we’re barking up the wrong tree there.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The young woman slammed the car door, tapped her nail twice on the window and beamed. The car pulled away slowly, the woman inside giving her a weary wave, before it accelerated up the High Street. Soon all she could see was the dull glow of the rear lights.

  She stepped back and lent on the cold mortar, scrabbling with the contents of her bag. Moments later, she pulled out a cigarette, cupped her hand around the lighter and took a long drag, resting her head back on the wall behind her as she blew puffballs of smoke out into the night. A couple o
n the opposite side of the road caught her eye as they strolled along. A group of women climbing into a car nearby filled the air with their incessant chattering. It was a buoyant Thursday evening in Market Harborough.

  A car full of lads with windows wound down passed by, the staccato beat of their music momentarily filling the air. It whipped up a gust of wind that made her pull her jacket tighter around her shoulders. Bridesmaid dresses weren’t designed with minus temperatures in mind.

  She took another drag and savoured it a moment until something in the distance caught her attention. She squinted, smiled, raised her hand to wave. The half-smoked cigarette was dropped. There was a fluidity to her movements as she crossed the road.

  Jackman watched the purple silk of the woman’s dress disappear from view. A hive of activity followed as a group nearby started talking. A man checked the settings on his camera. He watched Superintendent Taylor speak to the cameraman, his face tense.

  To stage a reconstruction only a week after a murder was a risky decision. In spite of the strong presence of officers in Harborough over the past week, speaking to patrons in pubs in the evenings and appealing for any sightings, they hadn’t uncovered any fresh leads. The charge of Oliver Turner had gone some way to appease the media, but still raised urgent questions about the other attack, as well as the recent murder. The press were still talking about links. Taylor was determined to pull out all the stops. A specially trained team had been drafted in to recruit good likenesses to their victim and witnesses, record accurate footage to be sent out to local news teams and be posted on social media in the hopes of jogging someone’s memory. But the truth of the matter was that the leads were drying up and this served as another reminder to the press, public and families that they were running out of ideas.

  Jackman watched Taylor turn, speak to the camera and make another desperate appeal for witnesses before he crossed the road and headed back to his car.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “You’re on your last packet of tea bags,” Ged announced.