The Lies Within

by Jane Isaac

  She’d woken with a start. Raised voices, banging; fists on metal. Her neck still ached from the hard pillow in the police cell.

  Breakfast had been a cup of weak tea and two slices of buttered toast, brought in by a jaded custody officer who looked like he was approaching the end of a heavy shift. He’d placed it down on the edge of her bed and retreated.

  Later, a female detention officer had guided her down the corridor, past the other cells, into a shower area. The backs of the officer’s boots were visible through the gap at the bottom of the cubicle door as Grace rubbed the tiny slab of white soap over her body. The towel was threadbare at one end, its harsh bristles dragged across her skin. She’d had to borrow a hairbrush, leave her hair to dry naturally. No hairdryers and cosmetics here. Her family had brought in her black trouser suit and white shirt, the one Grace kept aside for funerals and important school meetings, in an Asda carrier bag, along with clean underwear. She thought about the police checking through the contents and recoiled. She’d been charged with murder. This was her life now. Nothing was private.

  Grace ran her fingers around her right wrist, gently massaging the skin. A female security officer arrived almost as soon as she was dressed and handcuffed her own wrist to Grace’s. She was then led through the car park and into an internal cell within a police van, and asked to sit on a plastic bench, her handcuffs removed before the door was banged shut. The journey to the court seemed like hours. But they’d arrived early, beating the local press, which was something to be thankful for.

  Grace picked a stray thread from her trousers. She’d sat in the same cell that morning, waiting to be called into court. Her solicitor, Jane Barrington, had come to see her, briefed her on what to expect, although Grace didn’t recall the conversation. She just kept thinking, hoping, that suddenly the police would find something, realise their mistake and let her out of the cell so that she could go back home with Phil and Lydia. Leave this nightmare behind her.

  Anxiety rose as she’d sat there waiting for the court hearing. Her solicitor had said it was a formality, but how could it be? Why was she there if there wasn’t an element of hope?

  She could hear the guards in their offices nearby, talking amongst themselves, making phone calls. She heard Peterborough mentioned, and somewhere called Foston Hall was talked about time and time again. It wasn’t until they mentioned Holloway that she realised they were calling prisons. Making arrangements. Surely not for her? Holloway was for serious offenders. People like Myra Hindley and Rose West. Surely they wouldn’t send somebody like her there? She blanked out the voices, thought about her family. She longed to see them, feel a little of their support.

  Finally an officer had arrived, unlocked the door, re-cuffed her and led her up the metal staircase. The courtroom was austere and imposing and not unlike those Grace had seen on the television in crime dramas. What she hadn’t realised was how terrifying it was. She’d caught sight of the three magistrates at the front of the room, two men and one woman, watching her as she walked in. It wasn’t until she was in the dock, the handcuffs removed, that she saw the public gallery. Phil was there. He’d offered her a gentle smile, although his face was creased in concern. He was flanked by Lydia and Chloe who both looked pale. Beside them she recognised the police sergeant from Jo’s case, Dee Wilson.

  A man had stood, asked her to confirm her name. Her voice croaked as she did so. The magistrates barely looked at her as the prosecutor, a grey-haired man in a similar grey suit had then stood and read out the charge of murder, asking for the matter to be sent to the Crown Court. His passing shot, “Bail is not applicable in this case,” knocked her sideways.

  Grace had glanced across at Phil. The courtroom swayed around her. Was this really it? The moment that she would be sent away, interned? She’d been raised to think that prisons were for bad people, criminals that had committed heinous acts. Stone walls, barred windows. People transported with blankets over their heads. Not innocent everyday folk, wrongly accused.

  And what about her family? How were they to cope with this? She was innocent. She’d wanted to scream and shout, to bang on the screen in front of her. How could this happen? Instead she’d felt a tugging at her arm. The officer wrestled with her wrist as she replaced the handcuff. In less than two minutes it was all over. She’d managed one more look back at her family, their terror-filled faces the last thing she saw before she was led away, back down to the cell.

  Her solicitor had barely spoken a word. Grace hadn’t been invited to defend herself. She’d been told that the hearing was a formality, a part of the process to give the state continued powers for detention. But it was pointless. She was going to prison and there was nothing her or anyone else could do about it.

  Grace sat back on the bench and pressed her back into the cold wall. A raised voice in the distance caught her attention. “Holloway it is then. I suppose I’d better go and give her the good news.”

  ***

  Hours later, Jackman joined the group of officers standing around the computer screen as they watched the press conference. Carmela was sat beside the chief constable as he announced the results. A female murderer was big news. The chief constable had taken it upon himself to face the public, in full uniform, ready to squeeze every bit of PR out of the result. The police had been heavily criticised for not catching the offender earlier and he was finally able to assure them that the serial attacker was off the streets. Grace’s charge was mentioned briefly, but played down. Nobody was going to allow her involvement in Faye’s murder to spoil the PR bubble.

  Carmela praised her officers for their commitment and tenacity, working around the clock to solve the case, hailing it as a result for the whole of Leicestershire in the fight against serious crime. A stepping-stone closer to a safer community.

  Artie Black opened the questioning, chewing on the end of his pen as Carmela promised him an interview in the Herald the following day. It wasn’t long ago that they’d speculated over his possible involvement, and now he was interviewing the Super. Jackman thought about their dealings together: the witness he’d refused to give up early in the case, the terrorist film footage with which he’d followed protocol. He was a slippery character, one of the trickiest journalists he’d crossed paths with, but not a killer.

  At the end of the conference, Carmela flashed a warm smile.

  Cameras clicked as they took their leave.

  “She certainly knows how to play the press,” Wilson whispered in Jackman’s ear as somebody flicked the screen off.

  McDonald gathered his coat. “Right, who’s up for the pub?”

  A low-bellied roar went up around the room. She turned to Jackman. “You’re not escaping this time.”

  ***

  On the road back to Stratford, Jackman’s mind was on the case. He couldn’t argue with the witness statements, the hair fibres found in Faye’s house. With no suggestion of any other suspects, everything pointed to Faye killing Grace’s daughter and worming her way into her friendship afterwards. It was almost reasonable to accept that Grace, having discovered this, would feel betrayed and want to avenge her daughter’s attacker. But Grace’s face in that interview room… Every time the image entered into his mind, Jackman winced. He’d interviewed hundreds of people over the years, but something about her involvement in Faye’s murder didn’t ring true.

  PART THREE

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Grace glanced out of the window. The sun was rising. Beautiful swirls of yellow and orange peering over the rooftops, decorating London’s skyline. This was the fourth cell she’d been moved to since her time in Holloway and she was grateful for the view it offered over the walls and into the world beyond. Many a time she’d stood there, watching vehicles crawl down the nearby roads, pedestrians dancing around them like little ants in the distance, dreaming about what the people of London were getting up to. Her eyes dropped to the coiled barbed wire that topped the prison walls.

  Almost eight months ha
d passed since she’d been swept through the prison gates, only to face the humiliation of being searched by the guards, and later examined, internally and externally, by a doctor. She’d been issued a bag of basics which included a bar of carbolic soap, a towel that felt more like a wire brush and a pair of starched cotton pyjamas that scratched at her skin.

  It wasn’t until Grace reached Holloway that she realised her story had made national news. She was surprised how many of the inmates knew who she was and were surprisingly sympathetic to her plight. Many of them were mothers themselves. Women had sauntered in and out of her cell all afternoon on that first day. Some just wanted to take a look at her, others sat on her lumpy mattress and asked questions; some even patted her on the back, showing their approval as if she was already convicted.

  But there were others who took an instant dislike to her, their disapproval fuelled by her notoriety. She learned to be mindful of their watchful gazes, the warm breath on the back of her neck as she used the communal telephone to call home. But the remand wings were transitional places, people constantly coming and going, prisoners being moved cells to avoid them forming close associations, and no two days were the same.

  She quickly grew accustomed to the constant jangle of keys, the clang of metal, the banging of doors. Holloway ran on a strict routine. Doors were unlocked at 8am, when they were allowed a short interval to shower and breakfast before they were expected to either head for work or the education block. No prisoner was allowed to be idle. Within days the education officer had looked at her file and placed her in the library, indexing their historical collection. A job which eventually earnt her credits towards a television in her cell, a grateful addition to pass the boredom during lockdown.

  Grace moved away from the window and smoothed the dark suit Phil had sent in for her. She’d had to breathe in to fasten the trouser zip when she bought it for Meggy’s christening, almost two years earlier. Today it hung off her bony frame. For the next few days she would be in limbo, held between two worlds, while the courtroom picked at the bones of her previous life, scrutinising every aspect, every relationship, as twelve people decided her fate.

  The remand cells were different to the rest of the prison. These inmates weren’t convicted criminals and were offered more privileges like wearing their own clothes, receiving food parcels from home, and regular visitors. Leicestershire’s close proximity to London had been a blessing, enabling Phil to hop on the train twice a week, dedicating both his days off to making the hour and a half’s journey for a short visit. During his last visit he’d told her there had been an announcement in the press. The government were closing the Victorian prisons, replacing them with modern new-builds. Whatever happened, it was unlikely she’d return here. Phil’s days off were always separate. The supermarket insisted on it. Which meant, if she wasn’t placed close enough for him to be able to travel down and return in the same day, his visits would be restricted to monthly, or even less. The very thought filled her with horror.

  She picked up a pile of letters, bound together with an elastic band, and ran her index finger over the biro scrawl. Phil. In addition to his visits, he’d written two or three times a week. Sometimes just a few lines, sometimes several pages. Everyday news about the family: what Meggy was doing, how his work was, updates about Lydia and Chloe, Ged’s life in Spain, their friends, their neighbours. Sometimes they took a while to reach her and were superseded by his visit. They had to be passed through the prison censorship, especially if they were accompanied by a photograph, but she still devoured them afterwards, fixed the photos to the board next to her bed, and they became her most treasured possessions.

  The last photos brushed together as she plucked them from the board. Her gaze lingered over one of Lydia, standing beside her sixteenth birthday cake, holding her thumbs up, smiling for the camera. Her hair had grown into a short bob and was tucked behind her ears.

  Grace stroked the photo. On the few occasions Lydia had visited her mother in Holloway, she’d been tense and barely spoken. Her eyes bulged and her skin was sallow. Phil said she’d shut herself away, under the pretence of studying for her GCSEs. But Grace could clearly see the signs of a struggle. And no wonder. She’d lost her father, her sister and now faced the threat of losing her mother. This was around the age that Jo had displayed signs of depression and the thought of losing another daughter, especially when she couldn’t be there to help her, was agonising.

  Eventually Grace had written to Ged, asking her to invite Lydia to Spain for the summer, take her away from the mounting press speculation, the comments and whispers. She flew out as soon as her exams were finished, not even returning to receive the results, which Phil collected and read to her over the phone. She’d scraped through the most important ones, but, as feared, the grades weren’t good.

  Lydia had written, less than Phil, but an email arrived every few weeks. They were always upbeat, as if she was trying her hardest to cheer her mother up. Ged wrote occasionally too, mostly to reassure her that Lydia was eating, going out, socialising. They’d both flown home yesterday, and would be in court to support her. Apprehension and excitement at the thought of seeing them filled Grace in equal measure.

  Grace placed both piles of letters into her prison-issue bag and checked her bedside cupboard one last time. She’d been told to be up early. Be packed and ready to go through the release procedure in readiness for her transportation to Leicester Crown Court. Her solicitor had told her that the next few nights would be spent in a holding cell at Peterborough Prison because it was nearer the court. The thought of going to another prison was terrifying, but she couldn’t think about that. Right now she needed to be strong, truthful, confident, so that she could convince the court of her innocence.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, churning over possible questions she might face. At their meeting yesterday, her solicitor, Jane Barrington, had encouraged her to write out her account of the case again, to make sure it was fresh in her mind. They discussed possible awkward questions, apparent inconsistencies within her account. Answers to those questions whirled around her head until they made no sense at all. She took a deep breath, sat tall. Calm. Keep calm.

  A single bang at the door interrupted her thoughts. The sound of a key being inserted into a lock followed. The door was wrenched open to show a guard with a grim expression on his face. “Ready?”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Less than three hours later Grace was standing in the dock, staring through the safety glass that separated her from the courtroom. The drive down from London that morning, sitting in the back of a security van with only a small side window, had felt like they were cruising over a constant line of potholes. The holding cell, beneath the courts, was cold and stark. The endless walk up the stairs, handcuffed to an officer with a train of keys strapped to her belt, had blurred into the background, overtaken by the humiliation as she entered the small room at the back of the courtroom and felt a sea of eyes rest upon her.

  James Sheldon, the prosecution barrister, had completed his opening speech. The court hushed as the first officer on scene took to the witness stand and described finding Faye’s body in a pool of blood when he arrived at Western Avenue on the morning of the 12th of January.

  Statements were read out about hair samples showing Grace’s presence in the house, her saliva on Faye’s dead body. Expert witnesses on blood spatter and crime scene investigation were called and dispensed with, sometimes with undue haste. Sheldon was setting the crime scene, creating a vivid image in the minds of those present.

  Grace had heard all this before, been privy to these details during the long conferences with her legal team in prison. Judge Browning had his head down and was tapping the keys of his computer. Every now and then he’d raise his head, peer over his glasses, before returning to his keyboard. Earlier she’d been surprised by the patience and generosity he’d displayed with the jury, how he’d been at pains to explain the nature of the case along with their du
ties, almost as if their jury service was doing him a personal favour.

  She tried to get a better view of the public gallery that ran down the right-hand side of the courtroom, directly opposite the jury and separated by the barristers and the legal teams in the middle. Her family were on the back row, closest to her. In front of them were a group of strangers. She wondered what their interest was in the case. Detective Wilson sat on the front row, beside two women. As she looked on, the older of the two women gave a supportive sideways glance to the other. Her mother maybe? There was something familiar about the younger woman. Grace scrunched her eyes to focus, just as the woman looked around at the press seating behind. It was Eugenie Trentwood. The brown corkscrew curls, so similar to Jo’s, were tied back. She looked small, a shadow of her former self. Grace’s heart ached. She wasn’t quite sure why she was there today, but her heart tore in two when she considered how much that girl had been through. And now her case seemed to have been pushed aside to make room for the events that followed.

  The rise and fall of Sheldon’s voice filled the courtroom. He was clearly a man who enjoyed an audience. He paused at intervals to look at the jury. He wasn’t handsome, but there was something welcoming about his manner. She could imagine him sitting around a table, hosting a dinner party, his guests chuckling at his anecdotes.

  Eleanor, her defence barrister, had been conspicuous in her silence all morning. Apart from a few whispers with the junior beside her, a man with dark features who didn’t look long out of law school, and her solicitor behind, no cross examination followed. The defence weren’t contesting the crime scene or Grace’s presence in Faye’s flat because she had visited earlier that afternoon. ‘No point in arguing with the evidence,’ Eleanor had said. ‘Every word counts. Better to concentrate the jury’s minds on the areas that matter.’