by Jane Isaac
By the time the home office pathologist took to the stand, her French accent echoing through the court as she answered her questions, it was late afternoon. Celeste was describing the knife wound as a ‘deliberate violent blow to the neck which pierced the right external carotid artery’. Faye would have lost consciousness almost immediately, bled out in less than a minute.
Grace shut the words out of her mind, focused on the crest on the wall behind the judge. The court wasn’t at all what she’d expected. On television dramas they were high ceilinged, wood panelling cladding the walls. This was modern, perfunctory almost, with the magnolia walls and blue carpet, but there was still an air of austerity about it.
Eleanor rose slowly, taking her time to survey the pathologist before she started her questioning. The heads of the jury turned, riveted at this new addition to their stage.
Eleanor’s ginger hair was fastened securely into a hair net, just visible beneath her wig. “Can you confirm how many knife wounds Ms Campbell suffered from?” she asked.
“One.”
“And what happened to the knife?”
“It was still in situ.”
“Have you had any other cases of fatal knife wounds where the victim dies of one wound, the knife still in situ?”
“No, but every case is different. And every case is considered on its own merit.” The pathologist returned her hard stare.
“Quite.” A single glance at the jury. “Is it not possible that Ms Campbell inflicted the wound on herself?”
Celeste paused before she answered. “The angle of the wound makes it unlikely.”
“Unlikely. I see.” Eleanor looked towards the judge. “No further questions, Your Honour.”
Grace watched her sit down and turn a page in her book. The show was over before it started. Her intention was clear: to cast some doubt over who was responsible for the death. But the manner in which the jury shifted in their seats and checked their watches showed that they weren’t convinced.
Disappointment clutched at her.
She could still remember the official letter she’d received at Holloway during her third week on remand. The guard had passed it to her while they were on recreation. It of course had already been opened and checked, but he’d had the decency to fold it over, keeping the contents private from curious fellow inmates nearby. Grace had pocketed it, waited until she was safely tucked away in her cell before she opened it. As soon as her eyes skimmed the words, shock pulsed through her body. She’d been turned down for legal aid.
Grace was stunned. This was England. She’d assumed everybody was entitled to legal representation here. But the law said otherwise. A combination of their joint salaries and savings pushed them over the threshold.
They’d used the balance of their savings to pay for Grace’s representation. Phil was resolved, insisting it was a short-term problem and that when she was acquitted the money would be refunded. But what would happen if she wasn’t? Her family would not only have to bear the public humiliation, but also the financial impact.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
It was with increasing trepidation that Grace entered the dock after lunch on the second day. It was a strange experience, sitting behind that glass screen, on show like a prize exhibit in a zoo. People glared, pointed at times, scrutinised her every move and yet she wasn’t permitted to respond. Not yet.
She turned away, stifled a yawn. The remand wing at Peterborough was noisier than she had been accustomed to at Holloway. Prisoners shouted, thumped the metal doors to attract attention, called out to each other. It made for a turbulent night and, as she lay on her thin mattress, the bony hand of loneliness rested on her shoulder. These were holding cells, kept aside especially for short term visitors, prisoners attending court. Her letters and photographs had been taken, locked away in the prison property store, and without them she was bereft.
Sheldon had completed the forensics before they’d adjourned and a stream of witnesses would now move through the witness stand. Everyone rose for the judge to enter. His wig was slightly lopsided, as if he’d put it on in a hurry, but he seemed oblivious as he took his position at the front of the room.
The sound of a walking stick creaking with every step hushed the courtroom. Heads turned towards the entrance, fixed faces filling Grace with a renewed sense of fear. The woman that appeared walked slowly, resting her free arm on an usher who guided her to the witness stand. Her scalp was visible through thinning hair and her hands shook, but something about her countenance was hard, resolved. She read her oath clearly and loudly. She’d been there before.
“Would you please confirm your name for the court?” Sheldon asked.
“Meredith Elizabeth Atkinson.”
“Could you tell us your connection to the deceased, Faye Campbell?”
“I was the social worker, assigned to her case when her mother died.”
Grace sat forward.
“How old was Faye Campbell when she was taken into care?”
“Four years old.”
“And can you explain to the court the circumstances around her parents’ death?”
“Her mother died of a heroin overdose. As far as I’m aware, she never knew her father.”
A paper rustled in the public gallery.
“I see you have made a statement to the police. Why is there no public record of your responsibility in this case?”
“The offices I worked at on Welford Road, Leicester, had a fire in October 1992. We were just in the process of transferring paper records to computer. Faye’s records were destroyed, along with lots of others at that time.”
“So, it would it be fair to say you took over Faye’s case about thirty-six years ago?”
“Yes. About that.”
“Did you have a big caseload?”
She nodded. “Reasonable for the time.”
“And may I ask, Ms Atkinson, do you remember intimate details of other cases?”
“Not all of them, no. But Faye’s case was remarkable.”
“In what respect?”
“She was passed through four foster homes in the first three years she was under my remit. Nobody could cope with her.”
“And why was that?”
“She lied, ran away, seemed to delight in upsetting people.”
“Upsetting people. Can you elaborate on that?”
“I distinctly remember one family reporting she’d drowned their own child’s hamster. They said that she’d dropped it into an aquarium and watched as it struggled for its life. Faye must have been around five at the time. Even from a young age, she didn’t express any remorse.”
Grace gripped the rail in front and fought to keep her face impassive.
“What happened to Faye?” Sheldon continued.
“She was later diagnosed with conduct disorder. Spent some time in a children’s home where she was offered therapy. When she was sixteen she became responsible for her own care.”
Sheldon looked down at his notes. “Can you give the court an account of what happened during the summer of 1987?”
“The children’s home where she was living was being renovated. We had to place all the children in alternative care until the house was finished. I arranged for her to be placed with a family, just a short-term measure, although it turned out to be much shorter than I’d anticipated.”
“Was that a wise decision, considering her history?”
“Her mental state was assessed. She appeared to be responding to the therapy.”
Grace tensed as Meredith went on to describe the time Faye spent with Grace’s family when she was young. She looked across at Lydia. The stretch of neck visible between Lydia’s hairline and her collar turned red and blotchy as the social worker’s account progressed. Through conferences with her legal team, Grace had discovered Faye’s early association with her family, her infatuation with Jamie, how she had stolen things, tried to set fire to his room. She’d had no idea at the time and, bizarrely, Jamie had
never mentioned it. But now, she’d had time to process it, adjust. She’d written to Lydia, tried to relay the details and remove the shock of the revelation in court. But Jamie was Lydia’s father. And hearing the sordid details in an open courtroom made them all the more real.
Sheldon explained to the jury how Jamie Lamborne was Grace’s first husband. At that moment Meredith looked directly at Grace, the first time since she’d entered the courtroom. Her face was devoid of emotion, but there was something in her eyes. Some kind of compassion there.
This was a woman who’d been close to Faye in her younger years, watched her grow up, develop into the monster she became.
Eleanor stood briefly. “No questions, Your Honour.”
Faye’s background wasn’t an issue, but it still left Grace uncomfortable.
She’d been told the courtroom wasn’t about emotions, it was about fact. Proving the truth. But they were wrong. It was a game. And Sheldon had taken an early lead.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Jackman lowered his statement and scanned the courtroom. His eyes briefly met Wilson’s in the public gallery, washed over Grace’s family, resting on the defendant sat in the dock at the rear. It had been almost eight months since he’d left Leicestershire, numerous Warwickshire files taking his attention in the interim, yet Grace Daniels’ case had wriggled its way back into his mind during quiet moments. For some reason, he couldn’t let it lie. The expression on her face that day in the interview room still bothered him and the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced she hadn’t known it was Faye that killed her daughter until he’d told her. If it had been a Warwickshire case he’d have trudged down to the exhibits store to take another look, gone over the evidence again as the file was put together for the Crown Prosecution Service. But it wasn’t a home fixture and Carmela had made it quite clear that his work at the Leicestershire Serious Crime Unit was finished.
He raised his gaze to meet the prosecution barrister, answered the inevitable questions about what action was taken and why during the early stages of the investigation. Court didn’t make Jackman nervous. He’d attended enough hearings over the years to watch out for the snide little questions the barristers snuck in, and took his time to respond, giving measured answers backed up by the evidence gathered. Even the most ruthless killer was entitled to legal representation.
The barrister paused to look down at his notes and Jackman glanced at the public gallery. Dee Wilson had kept him updated as the trial approached, but the scarcity of her texts made it obvious that she’d been moved elsewhere too. As far as Leicestershire were concerned, this case was closed.
“Thank you, Inspector. May I draw your attention to the statement from a Detective Constable Parsons in which she states that Grace was given an informal warning about her conduct in Jo Lamborne’s case.” Jackman was handed a copy of the statement, despite being already quite familiar with the contents. “Can you tell me more about that?’
“We interviewed a friend of Jo Lamborne’s from Nottingham, an Anthony Kendall, in the early stages of the investigation and eliminated him from our enquiries,” Jackman said. “Grace and Faye also went to visit him and he later complained of harassment.”
“May I ask what gave Mr Kendall cause for complaint?”
“He said they were asking lots of searching questions about Jo. He felt he was being treated like a suspect.”
“So they were carrying out their own little investigation?”
“I couldn’t say. I’m just aware that they visited him, and of what he said.”
“And what made you aware of their visit?”
“He made an informal complaint.”
“Informal?”
“He acknowledged that Mrs Daniels was going through a difficult time, didn’t want to take any formal action. Just asked that he be left alone to grieve.”
“And how was this informal complaint dealt with?”
“I instructed the family liaison officer, DC Parsons, to have a quiet word with the family.”
Sheldon paused. “Is this a normal course of action in such a case?”
Jackman knew Sheldon was telling a story, building up to his crescendo. Motive was his biggest ally right now and he wanted to show how the women had become close enough to share confidences, support each other.
“Grace had recently lost her daughter so I would say that yes, it seemed the most appropriate course of action under the circumstances.”
“Have there been any further complaints made about either of these two women?”
“Not Grace, no.” Jackman proceeded to explain the historic complaints of harassment the police had received about Faye.
“Thank you. I’m showing Inspector exhibits BRO125A and 130A. Can you please explain to the court what the items are in this box?”
Jackman tensed as the television screens on each side of the courtroom mirrored each other, showing pictures of the evidence they’d found in the box beneath the floorboards of Faye’s bedroom. He could see Grace’s youngest daughter’s flushed face in the public gallery and shifted uncomfortably. This evidence had been discussed at the coroner’s hearing, when it was established that Faye was in fact responsible for Jo’s death, but seeing it displayed here in open court was clearly shattering for the family. Sheldon was pushing the point. By the time they’d worked through the exercise book with the array of photos of both Eugenie and Jo, taken from a variety of angles, a stony silence filled the room.
He went on to explain how a small spot of blood on the earring found at the scene matched with Faye’s DNA, how her phone showed an association with Jo.
“Thank you. It is a matter of public record, is it not Inspector Jackman, that on the 19th of May 2016 Leicester City Coroner’s Court determined that Jo Lamborne had been unlawfully killed by Faye Campbell?”
“That’s correct, yes.”
“Did you ever interview Faye in the course of the murder investigation?”
“No.”
“Did you ever meet Faye Campbell?”
“She was at Grace’s house when I visited once. We were briefly introduced.”
“And when was this?”
“Tuesday the 29th of December.”
“And how did Grace introduce Faye to you on that day?”
“Grace referred to Faye as a close family friend.”
“A close family friend that sought out her daughter, murdered her in cold blood.” Sheldon paused a moment. “Did Grace ever make you aware of any concerns about Faye, that their relationship had changed perhaps?”
***
Grace listened as Sheldon moved on to explore her complaint about the injuries to Lucky, the phone calls, but the words petered into the distance. There was a shift in the atmosphere. The jurors turned to Grace, some with pity on their face, others with sadness. They were seeing her as a girl, mother, wife. Someone like them who’d been wronged in the worst possible manner. Their faces relaxed, their minds posing the question: What would they do in those circumstances?
At that moment, Grace broke all the rules. ‘Don’t react, don’t engage, don’t show emotion.’ All the advice she’d been given fell foul as she closed her eyes, dropped her head and blocked out the courtroom. Sheldon had just presented evidence that gave her the strongest possible motive for murder.
***
After lunch it was time for the cross-examination. “I understand that forensics examined the knife that killed Faye Campbell?” Eleanor asked Jackman.
“Yes.”
“And on behalf of the police, can you tell me how many sets of fingerprints they found on that knife?”
“One,” Jackman replied.
“You are absolutely sure?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell the court who those fingerprints belonged to?”
“Faye Campbell.”
Grace sighed inwardly. They’d already established the knife had been removed from Faye’s own collection that were situated in a knife block on
the kitchen side. Of course her prints would have been present. And wouldn’t the killer have worn gloves? The frustration was beginning to eat away at her.
“I understand your enquiries into Faye identified a number of previous allegations where, as a consequence of her actions, several complaints were made about her behaviour?”
“That’s correct.”
“Would you say you’ve had extensive dealings with Grace during the course of this enquiry?”
“I would.”
“And has her behaviour to yourself or your fellow officers ever been aggressive or violent?”
“No, never. Grace was always polite, courteous and pleasant to deal with. We have no previous record of any dealings with her in the past either.”
“Did she ever express vengeful intent towards her daughter’s killer?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Thank you. We’ve heard how a complaint was made about her by Mr Anthony Kendall. Did he make any allegations about violent, aggressive or threatening behaviour?”
“Not at all. He was merely concerned that he’d been asked uncomfortable questions.”
Eleanor let his answer hang in the air a moment. “Inspector, may I ask why you were brought to Leicestershire?”
“I was brought in as a regional lead on adult sexual offences, tasked with reviewing old cases and looking at working practises with a view to streamlining them.”
“A lead? So you have some expertise in this area?”
“I’ve worked homicide and major crime for almost eighteen years. I suppose that gives me some level of expertise.”
“May I ask, how many fatal knife injuries have you attended over the course of your career?”
He paused for a moment. “I couldn’t say exactly.”
“An estimation then? Would you say it’s more than twenty?”
“Yes, I’d estimate that.”
“Thank you. Was there anything about this particular injury that struck you as different from the others?”
Sheldon rose. “Objection. Your Honour, the method of killing isn’t in question here.”
