by Jane Isaac
“You’ve done this before,” Chloe said, thanking her.
Meggy was rubbing her knuckles into her eyes as her mother lifted her into the stroller.
“Thanks for meeting us,” Grace said, reaching for her coat.
“Oh, there’s no need for you to come too,” Chloe said, waving her away. “I’ll take Meggy home. You stay, have another coffee. Be nice for you to catch up.”
Grace couldn’t help but smile at Chloe’s words. She sounded just like her father.
“That would be lovely,” Faye said. She tucked her hair behind her ears, uncovering a pair of silver hooped earrings. “If you’ve time?”
Although she would have preferred to leave the café, if nothing else for the sake of some fresh air, Grace felt a little cornered. She gave a single nod and instead pulled the rain cover down over the pushchair while Chloe heaved on her coat. They said their goodbyes. The door swung shut behind them and she turned back to Faye, smiling awkwardly. As much as she’d tried, she couldn’t remember her from school. Although, her memory was so bad these days, she hadn’t been able to recall the number plate of her own car when she’d been in a prang last month, and that was before losing Jo. So it wasn’t too much of a surprise. It just left her feeling rather like she was sitting with a stranger now that the others had gone.
“What brought you back to Market Harborough?” Grace said after they’d ordered a fresh latte each.
“I’m sorry?”
“You said you’d been living away?”
“Oh, yes.” The waitress arrived with their coffees. Faye waited for her to leave before she answered. “I’ve been in Manchester, must be for the best part of the last twenty years. Came back a couple of months ago. My dad was ill.” She picked up a long spoon and stirred her drink, watching as the froth blended with the milky coffee.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” The spoon tinkled as she tapped it against the side of the glass and placed it down.
“I bet he likes having you around now though.”
“Who?”
“Your dad.”
Faye’s eyes glazed over momentarily. “He died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, really. He had cancer. It was terminal. I don’t think he knew much about it at the end.”
Grace thought about Jamie. Those last days and weeks of caring as he slowly faded away. “It’s tough,” she said knowingly.
“You’ve been through it too?”
Grace’s own transparency shocked her. She took a moment to recover. “My first husband, Jamie. He died five years ago. Lung cancer.”
“That’s cruel. At least my dad was in his seventies.”
Grace surprised herself by launching into the story of Jamie’s illness. How he’d attended all the tests, received the early diagnosis, and didn’t share with her until he had all the details. “Sometimes he’d wake and we’d sit and chat in the darkness,” she said. “The days drifted into weeks, all merging together as I fed him, changed him, administered his medicines until he was within an inch of his life.” She looked away. “Later, when he slept most of the time, I’d sit beside him, finding the rise and fall of his chest comforting.”
Faye gave a murmur of agreement. “I know what you mean. Dad spent his last weeks in the local hospice. He couldn’t speak or feed himself. I’d sit beside him and chat, and every now and then he’d squeeze my hand.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “It’s strange how a simple gesture can be so comforting.”
“It’s hard afterwards, isn’t it?” Grace said. “Even though you know what’s coming, you have time to prepare, it still hits you.”
Faye nodded. “People say time is a great healer. It dulls the pain a little, the shadows fade. But they never truly disappear.”
Grace felt the heat rise in her face as she pictured Jo. Losing a child. Would those shadows ever disappear?
Faye seemed to guess her thoughts and pressed her hand to her chest. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know how we got onto this subject.”
It was a moment before Grace replied. “I’m used to it,” she said eventually. “People avoid what happened to Jo all the time. I see them in the street, in the supermarket, in the park with my dog. It was different with Jamie. He died of a disease so it was more acceptable to pass on their condolences. Now, they stand there with their sorry faces, can’t wait to get away. They feel awkward. Don’t want to say the wrong thing. Eventually they say nothing at all. Even my family don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was quite liberating to have a normal conversation for once.” Grace took a deep breath. “My family want me to get therapy.” The words spilled out of her mouth, almost unwittingly.
“Do you think it would help?”
“Talking to someone, reliving all those last moments… Honestly?” She shook her head. “Not this time.”
“Then you have to follow your heart. You’ll know what’s right for you.”
A chair squeaked behind her, turning Grace’s head. Apart from a couple in the far corner, the café was now almost empty. Faye pulled back her sleeve. “Goodness, it’s almost four,” she said. “I should probably go.”
“Me too.” Grace grabbed her coat and bag while Faye settled the bill she’d insisted on paying.
The rain had stopped, although the early night clouds were already moving in and it was grey and bleak as they stepped outside. Faye paused, and scrabbled in her bag a moment. Grace was surprised when she produced a packet of cigarettes. She held them out, at an awkward angle. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.”
She offered her one, but Grace shook her head. The evening air held a damp freshness and she inhaled, long and deep, and watched as Faye cupped her hand around the lighter. When she emerged she took a long drag and held the cigarette up and out beside her shoulder, like a fifties film star. “Talking about my dad always makes me want a puff,” she said.
Grace gave a faint smile.
“Thanks for inviting me out. It’s been nice.”
“It has.”
Faye took another couple of drags, dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath her foot. “Well, if you ever want to chat again, we could exchange numbers? I promise not to regale you with my dreary tales next time.”
The laugh trickled out of Grace’s mouth like a musical tune. It had been weeks since she’d felt anything other than sadness and, although she knew it would be short-lived, it was momentarily invigorating. Grace pulled her phone from her bag, flicked through and relayed her number.
Faye entered it into her phone. When she looked up, her face glowed. “Good, that’s sorted then.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Grace stood at the window and watched Lydia greet her friend at the end of the driveway. The straps on her backpack flapped in the wind as she disappeared around the corner. It pained Grace that they still weren’t speaking properly.
She rubbed her hands up and down her face and trudged back upstairs to bed. Her days were becoming lost in a fug, fuelled by nights of broken sleep where recollections of Jo’s childhood floated in and out of her dreams. It was as if her subconscious was digging deep, trying to recall distant memories in an effort to dilute the pain. Before she woke this morning, she’d been sitting on the beach at Cromer watching her girls buy ice creams from the van nearby. Jo would have been about six at the time, yet she stood there in the queue with her younger sister huddled behind her, ordered their ice creams, handed over the money and chatted to the van driver long after Lydia came running back. Lydia mirrored Grace in every respect, even now people mistook her for her mother from behind as they shared the same shoulder length fair hair and wider build, much to the teenager’s chagrin. She was meeker as well, unlike Jo who’d always appeared confident. Although Grace knew the real Jo.
She couldn’t get her eldest daughter out of her head, yet she couldn’t talk about her, desperately avoi
ding raising the issue at home. The newspaper article had caused damage and they hadn’t had time to recover. Her family coped by tiptoeing around the situation, pushing it aside and attempting to carry on as normal.
Grace pushed her head back into the pillows and glanced around the room. A yellowing patch of damp discoloured one corner of the ceiling from a dislodged roof tile that had been mended over fifteen years earlier. However many times they’d painted over the watermark, they never seemed to be able to extinguish the mark. One of Phil’s suits, just back from the cleaners, hung from the edge of the wardrobe beneath it. The opposite corner, that had once housed their cribs, was dominated by a full length pine mirror that the girls had later used to admire themselves, as teenagers, all dressed up for a night out.
She smoothed the bedclothes around her. For many years she’d shared a bed in here with Jamie, the soft rumble of his snores keeping her awake into the dark hours. Later, after he became ill, the hum of his electric bed filled the room as his health slowly deteriorated. She wondered how he would cope with this cruel turn of events. The loss of his first daughter would have been near impossible to bear, but the fact that she was sexually assaulted and murdered… For the first time, she was grateful he’d died young. At least he was saved the pain.
The trill of the phone interrupted her thoughts. She glanced at the screen, her stomach dipping as she recognised the library’s number. This was her boss, Julia’s, weekly call, asking Grace how she was doing, politely fishing to see when she was coming back to work. She closed her eyes, silenced the ringtone. Julia had been understanding, arranging for people to cover her part time hours, saying that she could come back when she was ready on reduced hours. She couldn’t have been more accommodating. But the last thing that Grace wanted to do was to discuss the trivialities of working hours. It just didn’t seem important anymore.
She thought of Faye and the way that she’d confided in her the other afternoon, how good it felt to laugh. Faye had been easy company. Just the right measure of friendliness, without being intrusive.
Apart from a brief text thanking her for a lovely afternoon, Faye hadn’t been in touch since. Perhaps she was busy. Perhaps she didn’t want to bother her. Who’d want to become friends with a woman whose daughter had just been murdered, their killer running loose? A woman her own daughter had accused of being obsessed. But it would be so nice, refreshing even, to spend time with somebody outside of their family circle. Grace bit her lip, dithered a moment more before reaching for her mobile. It took less than ten seconds to scroll through, find the number and press call. The phone rang out: one, two, three, four. Just as she was about to hang up a voice chimed down the line.
“Hello, Grace.” The warmth of Faye’s tone brought an instant smile to Grace’s face. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”
“Is this a good time?”
“Yes, it’s fine. I would have called you before now, but I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you.” She gave a short laugh. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. I was wondering if you’d like to meet up?”
“Sounds good. When are you thinking?”
“How about tomorrow. We could meet at the same café again, say about eleven thirty?”
“Great. See you there. And Grace?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks for phoning.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jackman placed his hands behind his head and stretched his elbows back. For the last couple of hours he’d pored over his policy log, picking out points of interest, scribbling notes on a pad. Officers had pulled on coats, muttered words of goodbye. The night had crept into the empty office.
He crossed the room to a notice board plastered with photos of Eugenie Trentwood, details of her attack and a map of the scene, next to Jo’s murder wall, and stood back wondering what he was missing. The locations, although both in Leicestershire, didn’t appear to bear any relation to each other. The girls were similar in appearance, yet didn’t seem to share any interests and weren’t connected as far as their enquiries showed. He checked the dates: 24th April and 29th October. Just over six months apart. They were approaching four weeks since the murder and leads were drying up, yet they were still no closer to catching the killer. He was still standing there, arms swung behind his head when he heard a voice behind him.
“You’re working late, sir.”
Jackman turned and smiled at Wilson who bustled into the office. “I thought you’d gone.”
“Left my jacket.” A button twanged against the desk as she pulled it from the back of a chair nearby. Instead of heading back out, she approached the board. “Anything I can help with?”
“We’re missing something, somewhere. Can’t put my finger on it.”
“That statement will appear on your epitaph,” she replied with a bubble of laughter. “Why not leave it for today? I’m sure it’ll look clearer in the morning.”
“You’re probably right. See you tomorrow. Have a good evening.”
She was almost at the door when a thought occurred to him. “Dee? When did your other DCI – Caldwell is it? – when did he join the homicide squad?”
“April Fool’s Day. He joined us from Northamptonshire Force. I remember it clearly because we sent him an email to meet Superintendent Taylor at Charles Street Police Station. He was almost there before he realised the station had closed eleven years ago.”
Jackman laughed. “I hope he took it well.”
Wilson nodded, her white teeth glistening under the lights. “After a while. Anything else I can help you with?”
“No, thanks.”
He turned back and noted the date on Eugenie’s board. She’d been attacked shortly after Caldwell had started. He looked across at Jo’s board. Her attack occurred shortly after Jackman was brought in to look at the cold cases. Was this instrumental, or a coincidence?
He switched back to his computer, worked through the old press reports. Shelley Barnstaple had never been named in the media. Early reports talked of a rape but were limited. Eugenie’s attack, almost nine years later, was high profile. Two weeks after the attack, Eugenie took the unusual step of making herself known. She was interviewed in the press about her incident. He scrolled down. The person that interviewed her was Artie Black.
Artie went on to highlight the similarities with Shelley’s attack. Was his memory really that good, or did he have help from the inside? Speculation spread in the media, pressuring the police to commit as to whether they were searching for a repeat offender. Taylor refused to comment, although he said that both cases were still live investigations and every lead would be thoroughly investigated.
Jackman flicked back and checked the byline on each article. All bar two were written by Artie. He went to the current news reports on Jo Lamborne. Once again, Artie covered the case, quick to point out similarities. His eyes lingered on the latest piece, a heart-wrenching interview with Jo’s mother where she talked about how her family were affected by not being able to lay her daughter to rest.
Artie Black had arrived that evening at the crime scene, been in the car park at the hotel the next day. He always seemed to be around, skulking in the shadows. Were his sources that good? Was he really drawn by the attention, so astute that he was ahead of the game? Or was his involvement more of a sinister nature?
He checked his details against the profile. Artie was 44, Leicestershire born and bred. No doubt he’d have known the area well. The nature of his job meant the hours he kept were akin to shift work.
He looked back at the articles. His words were sharp, harsh in places. He’d cultivated the image of an investigative crime journalist seeking justice for victims and their families. But wading through these articles, one after another, it looked more like a personal crusade, bordering on obsession. An obsession compounded through years of reporting Leicestershire’s crime? Jackman couldn’t be sure.
Artie’s initial refusal to put forward the witness, the last person to se
e Jo alive, still niggled at Jackman. It was almost like he was playing a game, showing that he wouldn’t be pushed around by the police.
It was well known that some serial offenders liked to stay close to a case, so that they could check on the police investigation while planning their next move. It wasn’t unusual to find reports of them visiting old crime scenes, getting to know the family afterwards. Jackman sifted back through the interviews. The journalist seemed to have all the tools at his disposal to sway public opinion and he couldn’t help wondering if Artie was really on a crusade for justice, or playing a dangerous game.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Grace emptied the bucket down the sink and placed it back in the corner of the kitchen. She’d come down early that morning to see Lydia before school and discovered a pool in the kitchen, rapidly expanding as more water dripped from the ceiling. Half a dozen phone calls later and an emergency plumber was now upstairs, working on a leaky pipe beneath the bathroom floor.
Grace cast an anxious glance at the clock. It was almost eleven. She was just thinking about postponing when her phone buzzed with a text from Faye. See you in half an hour. She grabbed her phone and selected Faye’s number.
Faye answered on the second ring. “I was just leaving.”
Grace explained about the burst pipe.
“What a nightmare. I hope there isn’t too much mess. Do you want to leave it for today?”
“We could. Or you could come here if you want?” Grace asked tentatively. “I don’t think he’ll be too much longer, but you can never be sure.”
“Where do you live?”
Grace relayed her address.
“Oh, that’s not too far away. I’ll come to you then. Give me an hour. Anything you want me to bring?”
“Just yourself.”
***
An hour later the plumber had left and Grace was picking at the skin around her nails. This was only the second time she’d arranged to meet Faye. If they were out somewhere, she could have made excuses, left early if things weren’t going well. That wasn’t going to be so easy at home. As more time passed, she felt itchy, and when the doorbell did eventually sound, she jumped.
