Truth and Lies (A DI Amy Winter Thriller Book 1)

by Caroline Mitchell

‘I often wonder how things would have turned out if your sister hadn’t chased you down into the basement. She would still be alive, for starters . . .’ A smile haunted Lillian’s lips, though her eyes were cold. ‘I’d arranged for us to stay at a refuge, you know. I was planning to break free from your brute of a father so we could start again. We’re not that unalike, Poppy . . .’

  ‘Enough,’ Amy said firmly, realising Lillian was mirroring her pose. It was an action developed to lure her in. ‘This is the last time I’m going to ask you. Tell me where they are or I leave.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll give you the first address and we’ll see how we get on after that.’ Lillian rested her hands on her lap, just as Amy had done. ‘But there are rules.’

  ‘Rules?’ Amy raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Why so surprised? I’ve had lots of time to work this out. Firstly, I need to show you in person. And it’s got to be you. I won’t tell anybody else. Secondly, I want you to tell the victim’s family when the body is found.’

  Amy’s thoughts raced forward, creating a mental to-do list. ‘I’ll need to organise a driver, and if you’re on release from prison, uniformed officers will have to accompany us, too.’

  ‘You can bring a brass band for all I care. And don’t worry, mum’s the word, I won’t let anyone in on our little secret unless you want me to.’ She finished her sentence with a wink. ‘Get it? Mum’s the word?’

  The thought of sharing anything with Lillian Grimes made Amy cringe. But she was right about one thing – their relationship was a secret she was not ready to share with anyone else. She exhaled, her armpits damp with perspiration beneath her suit jacket. Covering the recorder with her hand, she switched it off before sliding it back into her pocket. She would dissect the conversation later in private, making notes before deleting it.

  ‘Fine. I’ll arrange it. Someone will be in touch.’

  ‘Make sure it’s you,’ Lillian said as Amy stood to leave.

  Amy did not look back as she left the room, holding her head high. She had done it, survived her first meeting with the murderer who claimed to be her flesh and blood. Survived an early memory that would bring most people to their knees. She felt lighter from the minor victory, but Lillian had orchestrated things so that she could not work on her own. She was going to have to confide in DCI Pike in order to progress the visit. How would she react to this? Amy would have her answer soon enough. It was time to return to work.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘Hey babe, was your body made in McDonald’s . . . ? ’Cause I’m loving it!’

  Hemmy Parker bit back her smile, embarrassed by the braces lining her teeth. The mild amusement gained from the joke was overshadowed by her discomfort at being called out on the street. The schoolboys weren’t much older than her, but a flush crept up her cheeks just the same.

  ‘Losers!’ Paige Taylor retorted, hooking her arm through her friend’s.

  ‘Ignore them,’ Hemmy muttered, yanking up the shoulder strap of her schoolbag. There were four badges on display. From declaring her allegiance to feminism to her love for Sherlock Holmes, they expressed an individuality frowned upon by her exclusive north-west London school. At fifteen, Hemmy was still getting used to male attention and had mixed feelings about it all. Striding up the footpath, her blonde ponytail bobbed as she walked with more confidence than she felt.

  ‘I saw Mike eyeing you up again today,’ Paige said, a tinge of envy in her voice. Long-limbed and lean, Paige did not yet appreciate the lithe grace in her step.

  ‘He was not.’ A fiery pink bloomed in Hemmy’s cheeks at the mention of the sixth former’s name. ‘Anyway, he’s waaay older than me.’

  ‘But you like him, don’t you?’ Page giggled. ‘What’s your mum going to say when she finds out?’

  ‘There’s nothing to find out,’ Hemmy said, brushing a wisp of hair from her face. ‘And don’t you go spreading rumours.’

  ‘Oh, come on, I know you’re dying to get a ride on his bike. Amongst other things.’

  ‘Eww!’ Hemmy laughed in disgust as she pushed her friend away. She bit her bottom lip, giving her a furtive glance. ‘He is nice though, isn’t he?’

  ‘Totally,’ Paige replied. ‘Well, this is me. See you tomorrow!’ She waved her friend off as she turned to cross the road.

  Hemmy climbed the steps to the terraced house she shared with her mum. Like her, Paige hadn’t even kissed a boy yet, never mind anything else. She was still smiling when she walked inside. She loved their pretty tree-lined street, which came without the constant churn of traffic of their previous house. It was nearer for Mum’s work, too. Hemmy had got used to their routine, and found herself enjoying the hour alone before her mum returned home from work. If she was lucky, they would have takeaway pizza tonight, a reward for her recent exam results. Dumping her schoolbag on the floor, she closed the door behind her and waited for her cat to greet her in the hall. A Persian cross, Purdy was named after her unnaturally loud purr. Hemmy kicked off her shoes, wriggling her toes where the leather had pinched. Shrugging off her blazer, she threw it over the bannister, her frown deepening in the absence of her cat. ‘Purdy,’ she called, padding towards the kitchen in her stockinged feet. ‘Puuuurdy, where are you, girl?’ Her eyes fell on the cat flap built into their kitchen door. Purdy hated being outside and was never gone for very long. The sharp ring of the house phone infiltrated her thoughts, making her jump on the spot. She hated answering, but worry about Purdy brought her tiptoeing to the hall. Tentatively, she picked up the handset, wishing her mum was home.

  ‘You have a text message,’ a robotic voice announced. Hemmy frowned as she listened. She didn’t know you could text a landline. The words that followed rooted her to the spot. ‘Can you come collect your cat? I found her on the road. I think she’s been hit by a car. Mrs Cotterill.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Hemmy’s hand flew to her mouth as the message came to an end. Mrs Cotterill lived two doors down. She was in her early seventies and sometimes got confused. Mum had popped in to see her recently. Had she sent the text by mistake? Surely it was easier to leave a normal message? Hemmy picked up the receiver to request the number to ring back, but the thought of Purdy made her pause. Her pet was hurt. She needed her. Why was she still faffing about with the phone? Absent-mindedly, Hemmy deleted the text and slammed down the handset.

  Drawing back the security chain, Hemmy pulled her front door open, her eyes blurred with tears. ‘Poor Purdy,’ she cried, a sob building in the back of her throat. She would bring her home and call the vet. He was a nice man. He would come straight away. He would know what to do.

  Her pulse pounding, Hemmy braced herself as she trotted up her neighbour’s steps. The terrace was just like hers, with a solid black door and a brass knocker that creaked when lifted. Hemmy had broken one of her mother’s rules, leaving her own door unlocked. But she reasoned that she would be back in seconds: bring Purdy inside, wrap her up warm, call her mother and ring the vet. She swiped away her tears. Purdy would be all right. She had to be. But why wasn’t Mrs Cotterill answering? As she lifted the knocker a second time, the door creaked open an inch, and Hemmy realised that her neighbour had left it off the latch.

  ‘Mrs Cotterill?’ she called, poking her head inside. ‘It’s Hem—’ she paused, ‘Hermione Parker. You rang. I’m here to pick up my cat.’ An angry meow echoed from the end of the hall, making Hemmy’s heart flutter in her chest. It was true, something had happened. But she was very vocal. Did this mean she was going to be OK?

  ‘Hello?’ Hemmy said, stepping inside. The dampness of the streets had soaked into the soles of her socks. She realised that she had come out without her shoes. Peering into the gloom, she became aware of her heavy breathing as she crept down the length of the hall. Why was it so dark? She tried to flick on the light, but the bulb had been removed and all the doors in the hall were closed. Gingerly, she followed the sound of meows, pushing open the door to the right.

  ‘Purdy,’ Hemmy gasped, pe
eping inside the darkened room. Why were the curtains closed? And why was her cat in a cage on the floor? Flattening her ears, Purdy rasped a warning hiss, and with terrifying clarity, Hemmy realised her cat was perfectly well. Only now were alarm bells ringing, telling her everything about this situation was wrong. ‘Mrs Cotterill?’ Hemmy called, her voice shaky. Only then did she remember why her mother had called upon her neighbour: because she was going away. So who had left the message on her phone? The presence of a rasping breath told Hemmy she was not alone. She tensed, knowing what she had to do. Grab her cat and run. She stepped forward, a rush of adrenaline flooding her veins as she caught sight of a shadow from behind.

  ‘Who’s there—’ Hemmy’s sentence was cut short as a pair of arms grappled her from behind. Unleashing a powerful scream, she inhaled a mouthful of gas from the rubber mask being pressed against her face. Her eyes flashing in the darkness, Hemmy kicked the shins of the stranger behind her. A muffled grunt followed, and they temporarily loosened their grip. But it was too late to get away. Her senses became woozy and her eyelids grew heavy. With a thump, her head made contact with the cold tiled floor.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sliding the newspaper from under her arm, Amy placed it flat on her office desk and scanned the page.

  Final Plea of Grief-Stricken Mother

  By Adam Rossi

  Reduced to tears, terminally ill Gladys Thompson told us of her final wish before she dies – to find the location of her murdered twelve-year-old daughter so they can be buried in the same grave. But the only person who knows the truth is Lillian Grimes, surviving member of the serial killer couple nicknamed the Beasts of Brentwood. After a fifteen-year reign of terror, the couple were arrested in 1987. The bodies of six young women aged between twelve and twenty-three were found buried on the grounds of their home. Having confessed to a further three murders, Jack Grimes died of natural causes prior to disclosing their burial sites.

  Despite numerous pleas from the families, Lillian Grimes has refused to reveal the locations of the victims, Barbara Price, Vivian Holden and Wendy Thompson. The case was brought back into the spotlight last week when Superintendent Robert Winter suddenly passed away. After tirelessly working on the case for many years, he was unable to fulfil his promise of finding the location of the three graves. His daughter, Detective Inspector Amy Winter, has refused to comment on the case.

  ‘Of all the scheming . . .’ Amy said, feeling her hackles rise. Turning the page, she was met with a recent photo of Gladys Thompson lying in a hospital bed. She looked pale and haunted, with deep furrows of grief etching her face and a small tube protruding from her nose. Holding her hand was her son, John Thompson, and beneath the photo, his quote: All I want is justice for my sister and mother. It’s time to bring Wendy home. In contrast, a ghoulish image of Jack and Lillian Grimes featured below. The custody picture was one Amy recognised, and she could see why the press loved to use it. The badly developed photo drove deep shadows into Lillian’s eye sockets, making her dead-eyed stare bore into your very soul. Lillian had since gained a few extra wrinkles, and her severe haircut had been replaced by a shoulder-length bob. Her despicable acts were no longer exemplified by her appearance, but the public did not want to see a picture of a woman who looked just like everybody else. Regardless of her changed physical appearance, Amy knew precisely what Lillian Grimes was.

  Rereading Adam’s report, another flare of anger surged within. Where was the tribute he had promised? Why make her father sound like a failure when he had helped bring them to justice in the first place? And why mention her by name? Saying she had refused to comment implied she was not interested in the case. Chewing her lip, Amy tried to keep her temper in check. Adam was goading her. She would not give him the satisfaction of raging at him over the phone. The best form of revenge would be finding the burial sites and giving the story to a journalist who knew the meaning of respect. She spared a thought for her biological siblings. Would they be reading this too? She strained to remember them, accessing a back catalogue of memories mingled with crime and press reports. Damien and Amanda? No, Mandy. That was it. Both were older than her, and she lacked the sense of closeness she got when she thought about Sally-Ann. Since speaking to Lillian in prison, the lid had been lifted from her collection of repressed memories, and she felt the grief and loss of her sister all over again. Had she not led her down there into the basement . . . would she be still alive today?

  ‘Oh, hello.’ Craig seemed surprised to see her as he interrupted her thoughts. ‘I thought you weren’t due back until tomorrow.’ Amy raised her head from the paper, noticing her brother’s auburn hair had been cropped short. Smartly dressed in a black suit and tie, he looked more than capable of his new promotion as the head of CID.

  ‘I’m not,’ she said, folding up the newspaper and depositing it in the bin. ‘But I came in early to sort out our workload. Those jobs you’ve been doling out – they’re not in our remit.’ She did not take any pleasure from being stern, but this was her team, and she had fought hard to establish it. While covering for her, DI Gladwell had accepted jobs from CID in an effort to ease their workload. This in itself would not be a problem, were Amy’s team not being so closely monitored by her commanding officers. A lot of money had been pumped into the high priority unit, and it had to be run as intended, or not at all.

  Craig’s face darkened as Amy told him as much. ‘We’re all feeling the pressure,’ he said. ‘Gladwell was just helping us out.’

  ‘But we’re not here as an overflow,’ Amy replied. ‘The command team expect big things of us. If we don’t deliver, they’ll shut us down.’

  Craig thrust his hands into his trouser pockets as he delivered a condescending smile. ‘We’re all one big family, Amy. There’s no room for lone rangers here.’

  Speaking of family, Amy wanted to ask why he hadn’t called their mother since the funeral, much less popped around, but they had made a vow to keep their personal lives separate, and she turned her attention back to work. ‘Tell me,’ she said, her face taut. ‘Why do you think this team was set up?’

  Craig shrugged. ‘The same reason they waste the budget on every other so-called specialist team. Because of a knee-jerk reaction to bad publicity.’

  Amy raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t approve?’ She already knew the answer, but needed to hear him say it aloud.

  ‘It’s nothing personal, Sis, but I don’t think it’s fair that our budget is ploughed into specialist teams just to make us look good in the press.’

  ‘It’s about much more than that,’ Amy said, knowing he was still feeling bitter after being turned down for the role himself. ‘Our results speak for themselves. Remember Stephen Port? He used an app to lure his victims in. He didn’t even have to leave his house. Social media has changed the face of our investigations. We owe it to the victims to be up to speed.’

  ‘Killers are all the same at heart,’ Craig said, shaking his head.

  Amy’s spirit burned with conviction for her team. ‘But how they’re working has changed.’

  Craig checked his watch. ‘I don’t have time to argue the toss. Briefing’s in five, and we’ve got lots of jobs on the go.’

  ‘You’ve got more now,’ Amy said. ‘I came in early and sent a good half of them back.’

  Craig stiffened. ‘You did what?’

  Amy frowned. She would not be spoken down to by anyone – not even her older brother. ‘You heard me. This is my team, and I’ll run it the way it was intended. If you’ve a problem with that, then speak to DCI Pike.’

  ‘I won’t waste my time.’ Craig’s lips thinned. Unlike Amy, he did not befriend work colleagues and his relationship with Pike was purely professional. He raised the paperwork in his right hand. ‘You won’t be interested in this high-profile kidnapping then, if you’re sending everything back.’

  ‘What kidnapping? Where are you going?’ Amy said, rising from her seat.

  ‘Back to my team. Looks like we’ve
got some extra work on.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Amy paused to compose herself, inhaling the aroma of freshly percolating coffee drifting through the crack in DCI Hazel Pike’s office door. Her stomach grumbled in complaint, but since reading Lillian’s letter, she could not face eating or drinking very much. Getting sick on the street, she thought, as yesterday’s walk with Dotty replayed in her mind. What the hell was that about? She had faced some horrendous things, but nothing had ever affected her to the point of throwing up. But then this was not just about her career; it was about her identity: who she really was. Amy gently rapped her knuckles against the door before pushing it open. Light and airy, with newly laid carpet tiles, her DCI’s office was twice the size of hers. She envied her view of the streets below and the generous bookcase that housed policing manuals and law journals. Only Amy knew she had a secret stash of romance novels with the spines facing inwards on the bottom shelf. Not that she had time to read them. These days, downtime was a thing of the past.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Pike said, signalling at Amy to close the door behind her. Ensconced behind her desk, she wore light make-up, her short hair neatly styled. A cup of steaming black coffee sat at her right hand and a scattering of well-thumbed paperwork at her left. They had yet to go fully paperless, and Pike preferred things the old-fashioned way. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ She removed her reading glasses, rubbing the imprint they left on the bridge of her nose.

  ‘No thanks, I’m fine,’ Amy replied, although in truth she was still feeling the after-effects of her minor tiff with Craig. Sliding her hand on the back of the black swivel chair, she summoned her courage for the conversation ahead. She hated being at odds with him. She could see where he was coming from, but he had caught her at a bad time. What would he think if he knew the truth about who she really was? Would he even consider himself her brother anymore?

  ‘Take a seat.’ Raising her mug, Pike took a tentative sip. ‘That’s better,’ she said, before giving Amy a sympathetic smile. ‘Do you need more leave? I was looking through your personnel file, and you’ve hardly taken any this year.’