by Jane Isaac
Grace looked up from her position on the kitchen floor. Meggy was sat beside her playing with the pots she’d taken out of the cupboard, making pretend meals for everyone. “I’m sure Phil will pick some up.”
“You’re almost out of cheese too, and eggs,” Ged added, glancing through the fridge as she replaced the milk. “In fact you could probably do with a good top up.”
Grace hauled herself up and joined Chloe who was seated at the table, fiddling with her phone.
“I could do the shopping if you like?” Ged asked.
“If you like,” Grace said wearily. Ged had been with them almost a week and, while Grace was grateful for everything she’d done, her presence and energy were starting to grind her down.
“Good, that’s settled then. I’ll go and switch the computer on.” Grace exchanged a glance with Chloe as Ged continued. “I can’t face going to the supermarket. I don’t know how my brother does it, day in, day out. I’ll set you up online. They’ll deliver tomorrow.” She bustled out of the room.
“She likes to be busy, doesn’t she?” Chloe said and pulled a mock grin.
Meggy climbed up onto her grandma’s lap, leaving the pots and pans scattered across the floor. Grace passed her a baby cup and she guzzled down the juice inside. After a moment, she stopped and wriggled around to face her grandma. Warm sticky breath blew in bursts into Grace’s eyes making her blink. “Granny,” she said, “Mummy said Auntie Jo’s gone away to heaven.”
Grace looked into her wide, innocent eyes and nodded.
“Are you sad?” asked Meggy.
“We’re all sad, because we’ll miss her.”
She picked at a button on her grandmother’s cardigan. “What’s heaven like?”
Grace forced a smile. “It’s beautiful. She’ll have lots of friends there and be able to eat chocolate every day.”
“I want to see her.”
A lump formed in Grace’s throat, preventing her from answering. She looked at Chloe and could see her eyes watering. Meggy climbed down from her lap and toddled back to the pans, oblivious to the misery around her.
The day before, in what had taken less than a minute, Grace had watched a replay of the last moments of her daughter’s life. A tsunami of grief had washed over her as she’d turned off the TV. The actress was a good likeness. There was a confidence to her movements, very similar to Jo. But it wasn’t Jo. It wasn’t her at all.
Grace had listened to Ged’s advice and hadn’t checked the news reports since last Monday. But a week later the police were no closer to catching the killer.
Chloe lowered her voice. “Have you thought about arranging the funeral?”
Grace looked across at her. “Not yet.”
“Sorry,” Chloe said. “I just thought it might help. You know, a beautiful service, her favourite songs, some of her friends to speak. It would be personal. Might help to put her to rest.”
“That sounds nice.”
Chloe’s face brightened. “Why don’t we think of a few things now, to start you off?”
Grace nodded and rose with a glimmer of vigour, pulling a pen and paper out of a nearby drawer. “Where should we hold it?” she asked as she returned to the table.
Chloe thought for a minute. “Somewhere peaceful.”
“I could ask the vicar of Great Bowden?”
Chloe nodded. “I’d like to say a few words, if that’s okay?”
“She’d love that,” Grace replied, and made a note of Chloe’s name. “I’ll ask Lydia too. What about other friends?”
They worked through several names and Grace noted them with a question mark, intending to contact them individually. She drew a line underneath, looked up and felt her face stretch into a smile for the first time in days. “Thanks, Chloe. I’ll speak with Emma, the detective who has been looking after us. See if she can help with some dates.”
***
It was late afternoon before the detective arrived. Grace ignored the look of surprise on Emma Parsons’ face when she met her at the door, before she’d even pressed the bell, and invited her through into the kitchen.
“Any news?” she asked brightly.
“From the reconstruction?” Parsons shook her head. “Not just yet. But it’s still early days. We’ve lots of calls to work through.”
Grace flicked the switch on the kettle and started preparing the mugs for tea.
“So, how have you been Grace?” Parsons asked, her head inclined.
“Okay, thanks. Lydia has gone back to school.”
“How is she doing?”
“Better, I think. Sugar?”
“One, thank you. Is your sister-in-law still with you?”
“Yes, she’s just taken Lucky for a walk with Phil.”
Steam rose out of the mugs as Grace placed them on the kitchen table. “There’s something I want to talk to you about actually,” she said. “I need to check with you when Jo can come back to us.” Suddenly she sounded like a child’s mother arranging a playdate and swallowed, fighting to keep her voice even. “I’d like to arrange a service.”
The detective hesitated before she spoke. “Of course, I’ll check. But the investigation is still live and usually we need to keep the deceased in case of further forensic examination.”
Grace’s face fell. “What do you mean?”
“It’s likely to be a while before we’ll be able to release her to be buried.”
The disappointment rained down on Grace. Each new setback pounding into her skin like hailstones. “How long’s a while?”
“Weeks. Maybe longer. It’s difficult to say at this moment.” Her tone softened. “It doesn’t stop you organising a service of remembrance though. I think that’s a lovely idea. Especially if it helps.”
Grace looked up. “This isn’t about helping me, or anyone else for that matter. It’s about Jo.” Grace placed the mugs on the table and stirred her tea, tapping the spoon excessively on the side of the mug as the anger festered inside her. “I want her back.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that easy.”
“She’s not a piece of meat to be pulled apart, used as evidence in some inquiry.” The tremor in Grace’s voice only served to exacerbate her anger. “She deserves some dignity.”
The back door clicked open to reveal Phil and Ged, their cheeks pink from the cold wind. “What’s going on?” Phil asked, seeing the look on Grace’s face.
Lucky pushed through the gaps in his ankles to greet them at the table, but Grace ignored her. She ignored all of them. A headache throbbed at her temple. Everything was spinning, spiralling out of control. The table rocked as she shoved it forward and marched out of the room.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ged stroked the back of Grace’s head. “I wish I could stay longer.”
It was Saturday and, almost a week after she’d arrived, it was time for Ged to go home. With a heavy heart, Grace released herself from her embrace. “You’ve done enough. And you have your apartment on the market. You need to be back in Spain.”
Ged took Grace’s hands in hers, held on to them a moment before she spoke. “Call me, if you need anything, you hear? I’m only a short flight away.”
“I will.”
“Are you sure you won’t come to the airport?”
Grace shook her head. “I’m better here.” She rubbed her sister-in-law’s arm fondly. “Thanks so much for looking after us.”
Phil pecked Grace on the cheek and picked up his sister’s suitcase. Ged gave Lydia one last hug and walked out of the door after him.
Grace and Lydia were stood watching Phil lift the case into the boot when Grace heard Ged speak in a low voice. “Look after her, Phil. I’m worried about her. She seems to have lost a stone in a week.” Lydia was checking her phone beside her mother, oblivious, but Grace heard every word of the exchange. When did people start talking about her as though she wasn’t even there?
The car pulled off the drive. Grace instinctively lifted her hand to wave but sto
pped herself and closed the door. As Lydia retreated to her room to finish her homework, the anger inside Grace intensified. It made her feel weak, out of control. Is that how they saw her?
She placed her hands on her forehead. It would have been easy to drop off the tightrope this past week, fall into the abyss with only her own thoughts for company. Everyone rallied around, dealing with grief in their own way. But Grace couldn’t resort to cleaning, cooking and housework. It seemed wrong somehow. Too normal. She knew that Phil was worried about her sleeping in Jo’s room. Had heard him say to Ged that he found it unnatural. The fact that she’d parked herself in Jo’s room didn’t seem to bother Lydia, who came to see her mother when she came in from school, called in to say goodnight when she went to bed. But Phil responded awkwardly and rattled around the house, desperately trying to carry on. Grace could see the helplessness in his face. He couldn’t solve the problem and was at a loss to know what to do. He craved his old routine, some kind of reality from their former lives to cling on to.
With Ged now gone Grace felt an ache in her belly as she realised just how much she would miss her.
The detective’s words on Friday were still raw in her mind. They wouldn’t be releasing Jo any time soon. The thought of all those people pulling Jo around, examining every inch of her made her rile with anger and shame. Even after suffering an awful death, Jo was still subject to humiliation.
Grace drew a breath. Oliver Turner and Anthony Kendall. The names rang out in her head. She cast a furtive glance at the laptop and waited for Lydia to settle upstairs. When she could hear the soft beat of her music, she opened it up and searched the news, flicking through the latest report, and then googled Oliver Turner. Several links came up: one to a blog, the Facebook profile of a man in Texas; an obituary for someone that died in 2012. Grace replaced the search with Anthony Kendall. A string of entries littered the screen. She clicked on one of a man searching his genealogy; another was a Facebook profile, this time of somebody in America. How would she even know if she found the right one?
She switched to Facebook, entered Jo’s account. A group photo filled the screen. It looked like it had been taken in the parklands at The University of Nottingham’s campus. They were sitting on the grass, leaning in for the photo, arms slung around each other. Jo was centre stage, a huge grin on her face. Grace peered in closer. She didn’t recognise the people in the photo. They must be other students, friends she hadn’t yet met.
She searched Jo’s friend listing. Oliver Turner didn’t appear, but Anthony Kendall came up. His profile picture was of a garden gnome. She clicked on his name and waited for the screen to change, but a message appeared across the front of the screen. Anthony’s privacy levels were high. She had to be friends with him to see his profile.
Grace switched back to the main page. A pang shot through her chest as she reached what seemed a never-ending list of condolence messages. Goodnight, Jo. We’ll love you forever… Darling Jo, taken from us too early. She skipped passed the other messages, scrolled down to early October.
Jo had posted almost daily. There was a picture of a sunset, a note saying she missed Lucky. Grace paused over a photo of a group of women, all raising glasses to the camera; another where Jo looked like she was on a night out. Further down was a joke about a couple, the dog taking up all the room on the bed. Underneath was the caption, Priorities, Anthony. She clicked on the name and the same Anthony Kendall’s profile came up, with the same privacy message. Further down was a post to another name she didn’t recognise, Don’t mention to Anthony about the happy hour change at Sack’s Bar… he’s bound to want to join us. A winking face next to it. Was he a boyfriend in Nottingham? Grace closed the laptop. In some ways it was comforting to think that her daughter had found someone special in Nottingham. But why didn’t Jo tell her about it? And why did the police want to question him?
***
On Sunday evening, Erik swivelled around Jackman’s legs as he thanked his neighbour and guided the dog back to his own house. “Come on, mate,” he said, cuffing the dog’s head as he pushed open the back door.
Erik bolted inside, his paws slipping on the kitchen tiles in his haste. Jackman smiled. He’d missed Erik over the last few days, his wide Labrador smile, his excitement and lust for life. He followed the dog into the front room and flung open the French doors. The cool night air rushed in, immediately freshening up the stale aroma of a room that hadn’t been used in days.
The sound of the phone ringing pulled Jackman into the hallway. He leant down and picked up his mail as he answered.
“Don’t you answer your mobile?”
Jackman smiled at the sound of his daughter’s voice. He laid the post on the table and fished his mobile out of his pocket with his free hand. The screen showed three missed calls from Celia, two voicemail messages. “I was driving,” he said.
“And you didn’t think to use the hands-free? Come on, Dad, it’s about time you started using it, don’t you think?”
“Did you phone for a reason, or just to whinge at me for not checking my phone?”
A hint of humour cut into her voice. “Actually, I phoned to wish you a happy birthday. Or maybe you forgot? I’m guessing you worked through it?”
Jackman leant up against the cold plaster of the hallway. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten it was his birthday, it just didn’t seem important these days. An irrelevance in the whole scheme of things. “Thanks.”
“Did you get my card?”
“Yes.” He stretched out the word, furiously sorting through the pile of post until he uncovered a silver envelope marked with her handwriting.
“You haven’t opened it.”
“Give me a chance, I only got home from Leicestershire ten minutes ago. I’ve just collected Erik.”
“Aw, bet he missed you?”
Erik padded in from the garden and cocked his head comically, almost as if he knew they were talking about him. “He’s fine. Angie’s been looking after him.”
Celia laughed. “Spoiling him rotten more like. You home for good now?”
“No, I’m back in Leicestershire tomorrow. Got a case on.”
“Ah.” Her voice dropped an octave. “Sorry I couldn’t come home for your birthday, Dad.”
He watched the dog scamper back into the front room. “We discussed this. You have an exam tomorrow, it’s no problem. I wouldn’t have been around much anyway.”
“Well, I’ll be back soon and we’ll have a good celebration then, make up for it.”
“Sure.”
“How’s Mum?”
Jackman swallowed. “The same, darling.”
“Okay. Give her my love when you see her.”
They said their goodbyes and Jackman ended the call. He was looking forward to seeing Celia. Although she was now in her third year at Southampton University studying marine biology, he’d never quite got used to the house without her presence.
Erik had now rejoined him. “Shall we go for a run?” Jackman said. The words whipped the dog into a frenzy. He leapt into the air and his whole body waggled in unison as Jackman raced up the stairs and got changed. By the time he was ready, Erik was waiting by the back door, his tail bashing the side of a kitchen cupboard.
Jackman jogged across the Shipston Road, through the underpass and crossed into the recreational ground, welcoming the fresh night air that rushed into his lungs. His muscles were taut after a week behind a desk and it felt good to stretch them out properly. A light covering of rain had fallen earlier, sparkling along the hedgerow. It was good to be back in Stratford-upon-Avon, on home turf, running around his beloved park. Bright stars dotted the inky blue sky above, illuminating his path. The field beyond was empty. The only sound to be heard was the occasional car passing on the road nearby.
After two laps of the field, he moved towards the canal. Moonlight flickered on the swirls of water that gently lapped against the sides. It was calming, in spite of the chill in the air. Eventually he slowed, sat on
the grass and enjoyed the vista. Erik slumped beside him and he rested back, using the dog as a pillow.
Eugenie Trentwood’s face drifted into his mind. She’d sat on the sofa beside her mother when he’d visited last week, her lank hair parted like curtains to reveal sunken cheeks and patches of indigo under her eyes. He thought of the photos on her file, the pictures of her before the attack they’d used to appeal for witnesses. Statements from friends and family described her as a strong, fun-loving, bubbly girl. She’d been brave to come forward to do a press appeal and identify herself. But as the weeks after her attack turned into months, and no promise of an arrest was forthcoming, she’d retreated into the shadows, a shell of her former self. And his visit had done nothing to change that.
It had been almost ten days since the murder and every day that now passed made it more difficult to gather the evidence required to secure a conviction. Witness memories were less clear, evidence was degraded by the elements, suspects had potential chances to clean up and cover their tracks.
Quentin Doherty, the cricketer, had given his statement but Wilson had been right in her assumption. All he could do was to confirm the description they already had of someone in a hoody. He claimed he hadn’t really taken much notice. Jackman couldn’t help but wonder if Artie already knew this and, if so, why he hadn’t given him up earlier.
His team had worked their way through the staff at the hotel, and friends and family, all to no avail. Detectives in Nottingham had searched Jo’s room, her personal possessions, interviewed friends and tutors, yet hadn’t dug up anything interesting on her life there.
Anthony Kendall’s frightened face at the interview slipped into his mind. None of Jo’s friends or family knew why she travelled back to Market Harborough every Wednesday.
He thought about Oliver Turner. His admission to the first attack could explain the inconsistencies between the three incidents. But it also confirmed their fears of a link between the other two cases. Did another attacker copy his methods? Was Celeste right? Was asphyxiation so imprecise that they killed Jo by accident? But why move her body, and why leave items nearby to enable them to identify her so easily?
