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

by Caroline Mitchell

  Lillian had smiled as she greeted her, her eyes sparkling with an amusement she had since kept contained. She was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, and her hair seemed different today, the scraggly endings trimmed in neat layers that framed her face. All traces of grey were gone, and it had returned to its youthful mahogany brown. Amy wondered if she’d had it styled in the prison hairdressers for the occasion. There was even a hint of blusher gracing the curved cheekbones that had been so attractive in her youth. Had she expected the press? Wanted a newer, up-to-date photo of herself? Consuming the outside view, Lillian stared through the car window, trying to connect with a world she had lost decades ago.

  Is this what prison does to you? Disconnects you from humanity? After what she did, it’s the least she deserves. Amy inhaled deeply, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Prisoners weren’t allowed perfume, but today Amy instantly recognised the sweet tang of a deodorant that invoked the past. Impulse. A new memory infiltrated her mind: Jack joking that their male visitors were attracted by Lillian’s heady scent. Amy had not understood then, but a sick feeling grew in the pit of her stomach now. All at once, she knew the deodorant had been a special purchase, something to mess with her mind.

  Once inside the car, Amy had undone their cuffs. Like an umbilical cord, it had tethered them. It was enough to make her scream.

  ‘Turn left,’ Lillian said, imparting directions to Molly. As they drove into Essex, Amy caught sight of Lillian in her peripheral vision. Silently, the woman took in Amy’s features, watching for a change of expression, or perhaps the slightest sign of distress. Amy sat motionlessly, her breath shallow. She would not give her the pleasure; her thoughts were her own.

  The minutes passed in silence, the sign for Brentwood coming into view. Amy didn’t recognise it, but then Flora and Robert had not been to Essex since they left. Most of their family were based in London so there had been no reason to return. She recalled a school trip to Clacton-on-Sea once, and how on edge her parents had been when she came home. She couldn’t have known that they were terrified she would bump into someone from her past. What would her father say if he could see her now?

  ‘There, take Woodman Road,’ Lillian said, her voice calm and controlled.

  Amy tried to stem her annoyance at the woman’s upper hand. She could have told them where the body was buried, or at least provided the address before they left, but instead she had exercised control, giving directions minutes in advance. Where was she bringing them? Woodman Road was not an address Amy recognised from the case files. She had hated poring over them. She could not shake off the feeling that there was another secret waiting to be revealed. Amy cleared her throat, fighting the rising sense of dread.

  ‘Turn in here, in the cemetery.’ Lillian glanced at Amy with a satisfied smile.

  ‘The graveyard?’ Amy replied, her forehead creased in confusion. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  Lillian regarded her daughter with a look of mild amusement. ‘You want to know where she’s buried, don’t you? It’s not far from here, if my memory serves me right.’

  Amy stared in disbelief, jolted in her seat as Molly sharply applied the brakes.

  ‘Sorry ma’am,’ she said sheepishly. ‘It’s just had new brake pads.’

  ‘Ma’aaam.’ Lillian drew out the word, her eyes narrowing as she delivered a sardonic smile.

  Amy took another breath, another inhalation of Lillian’s sickly sweet smell. She knew what she was thinking. How this scrap of a girl from the Grimes household had fooled the world.

  It was a tiny victory as Lillian’s fingers curled over the door handle and Amy barked at her to stay put. With the child-proof locks activated, she was not going anywhere yet.

  ‘Mind if I have a quick ciggy, boss?’ Molly said, stretching her limbs as they both got out of the car. The journey had been long, with traffic slowing their pace.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Amy replied. ‘We can’t take her out until the local units turn up, anyway.’ Amy rested her hand on the roof of the car as she watched the occupant inside. The marked vehicle accompanying them drew up nearby; the uniformed officers from Essex Police were yet to attend. On her own, Lillian was manageable, but there was nothing to say she had not prearranged for a welcoming party at the location she had kept so close to her chest. It was not beyond the realms of possibility that a woman of such notoriety had contacts on the outside.

  Changing the channel on her police airwave radio, Amy communicated with the Essex Police control room. Officers updated control that they were almost there, and within minutes, their police car had pulled up by her side.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting an armed response.’ Amy said, as a man in a grey suit climbed out of the back. He had a confident stance befitting his authority, and his lightly stubbled face was sombre as he approached. Flanked by two armed officers, he held out his hand.

  ‘DI Winter.’ Amy’s grey eyes regarded him coolly as she extended her hand in return.

  ‘DI Donovan,’ he replied, in a deep but well-spoken voice. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and was about half a foot taller than her. ‘It’s not a problem, is it?’ he signalled to the officers flanking him. Dressed in black, they silently scouted the area.

  She smiled politely in response. ‘No, no problem at all.’ She leaned forward, speaking conspiratorially, grateful she didn’t have to crane her neck too far. ‘I just hope this isn’t a waste of time. The cemetery was the last place I expected to be brought today.’

  Briefly, Donovan glanced through the window of Amy’s car. ‘You never can pre-empt a serial killer – although given your reputation, I’ve heard you’ve come close.’

  His voice was warm, almost comforting, and Amy forced a smile. Once, she would have taken it as a compliment, but today it served to remind her of the tainted blood running through her veins. Patiently, Lillian waited in the car.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ Amy said, squinting against the sun.

  Lillian blinked as she exited the car, remaining mute as Amy took her forearm and clasped the handcuff over her wrist. The presence of another unit was welcome, and Amy felt strength in their numbers, reminding herself whose side she was on.

  ‘Which way?’ she said, drawing Lillian’s attention from the armed officers. The woman had paled slightly. The warm early autumn afternoon seemed at odds with the grim reality of what they were about to do.

  ‘Over there,’ Lillian said, forcing Amy to raise her left hand as Lillian pointed with her right. It was a pretty graveyard, with a gravel path overlooked by trees on either side. The gentle rustle of leaves made it a peaceful place, but despite the outlook, it seemed grey and cold. Following Lillian’s lead, Amy hoped she was not being taken for a ride.

  ‘Why are we here?’ Amy said, after spending ten minutes walking around the many headstones jutting out from the soil. ‘Because if you’re wasting my time, I’d rather know now.’

  Lillian’s features creased as she took in the names engraved on each one. ‘She’s here somewhere.’

  A fresh spark of anger ignited as Amy heard her speak so casually.

  ‘What specifically are you looking for?’ Amy said, stilling her movements as she tugged on the cuffs.

  Lillian straightened, groaning as she laid a hand on the small of her back. ‘Barbara Price, of course. The first of the three bodies you’re after. She’s buried beneath one of these graves.’

  Officers exchanged glances as her words floated in the air.

  ‘Your fath—’ Lillian quickly corrected herself. ‘Jack used to earn cash in hand digging graves. Once, when he was drunk, he told me where he put her. Under the grave of a Patricia Golding . . .’ She frowned. ‘No, Spalding, that was it. I came here once, just to check for myself, and that’s when I saw the grave.’

  It was not what Jack Grimes had said when he was first interviewed by police. According to him, Lillian had orchestrated the lot. ‘We’ve been all around the cemetery,’ Amy said. ‘Are you sure—’

 
‘There it is,’ Lillian interrupted. ‘Under that tree, I remember now.’ She smiled as if she had won a fairground prize. Tugging on the handcuffs, she dragged Amy towards the grave. ‘Jack said he dug down an extra foot. Then he buried the body before it was covered by the coffin the next day.’ She parted her lips, panting lightly as she found the grave. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Are Wendy Thompson and Viv Holden buried here, too?’ Amy said.

  Lillian shook her head, swiping the hair from her eyes with her free hand. ‘No. But Barbara is. I told you I’d show you to where she was. The rest is up to you.’

  ‘But the others . . .’ Amy said. ‘Wendy’s mother . . . She doesn’t have much time.’ The second the words left her mouth she regretted them. She had vowed not to plead with this heartless soul.

  Lillian tilted her head to one side, enjoying the power she held. ‘I’ll tell you about the next one soon enough, but Wendy Thompson’s mother can wait until last.’

  Amy met DI Donovan’s glance and saw the glimmer of hope in his eyes. The weight of responsibility was on her shoulders, and she had yet to inform the families involved. It was not just the victim’s family that would be affected. They would have to get permission to exhume the grave so they could dig a foot beneath. There was no other way around it; she could only hope that the family of the deceased would understand.

  Lillian glanced at her surroundings, shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘It’s so pretty out here, the kind of thing you take for granted unless you spend your life behind bars. My eyesight’s bad, you know, from years of living in a dim cell.’ Closing her eyes, she inhaled a deep breath. ‘Can you smell it? The trees and the flowers. Feel the sunshine on your skin?’

  ‘Have you anything else to tell us before we go back?’ Amy said, ignoring her joy of the great outdoors. Barbara Price would never feel the sun on her skin again.

  ‘Just remember this.’ Lillian leaned in closer, a macabre smile lighting up her face. ‘I’ve kept my word. You owe me.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Having returned Lillian to prison, Amy sat at the head of the briefing table, back in the bosom of her team. Her liaison with DI Donovan had been fruitful, and she was grateful for his assistance in arranging the excavation: for now, she had done what she set out to do. Lillian had used her knowledge as leverage to see her in person, but her biological mother was not the maternal type. Her eye was on a much bigger prize. The question was, what?

  Lillian never remembered her children’s birthdays or made them a cake. On the rare occasion they were afforded a home-cooked meal, they were offered the minimum amount. Most days, they were reared on a diet of sugary breakfast cereals, which they ate morning, noon and night. Details like these had a ring of truth to them when Amy had read through the case files. She thought back to Lillian’s comments in the graveyard, about keeping her side of the bargain. She had an uneasy feeling. Being in Lillian’s presence made Amy want to scrub her skin clean, but the luxury of a pit stop was something she could not afford.

  As officers assembled for afternoon briefing, Amy was keen to fill her mind with something other than Lillian Grimes. She watched Paddy lead, providing updates on the kidnapping case. Despite having discarded his suit jacket, his scarf was still draped around his neck. She hoped he was not coming down with something. The team could not afford to be without him for very long.

  Whirring into life, the overhead projector brought the latest CCTV images to the screen. Paddy turned to point at the picture, speaking loudly so everyone could hear. ‘This is the petrol station where the suspect is believed to have filled up.’ He paused to ensure he had their attention. ‘The van was stolen, but luckily for us, almost out of fuel. This suggests that the kidnapper is an amateur, which goes in our favour.’ With the handheld clicker, he brought the next image into view. Amy peered at the snapshot of a blurred figure putting diesel into the side of the van. A black cap masked their features, padded jacket and baggy jeans making it difficult to decipher their form. After pumping diesel, they sped off.

  ‘I can’t believe they nicked a van with no fuel,’ Molly piped up. Like Amy, she had wasted no time in getting up to speed with the case. ‘What about the payment card used? Any trace on that?’

  ‘It was pickpocketed that morning,’ Paddy said. ‘Watch.’ He clicked to activate the CCTV, and the image of the figure fumbling before the pump payment machine came into view.

  ‘Looks like they used contactless,’ Amy said, watching as they fanned one card then another before the machine. ‘They probably have a plethora of stolen cards.’

  ‘Which makes them little more than a common thief,’ Paddy said. ‘And a tenner’s worth of diesel proves they’ve not gone far.’

  Amy nodded. ‘Unless they swapped modes of transport later on. I’m doubtful though. Judging by their MO, they look like someone who’s got in over their head. Abducting a schoolgirl in broad daylight doesn’t strike me as a professional job.’

  Amy paused to flick through her notes. ‘I see we’ve had a witness come forward. How’s that panning out?’

  Pausing to fix his scarf, Paddy met her gaze. ‘One of the neighbours said she heard screaming through her window, and saw a window cleaner’s van driving past when she looked outside. She scribbled down the name on the side and reported it today.’

  ‘Why wait until now?’ Amy frowned as she flicked through a copy of the report. The early hours of any investigation were the most important of all.

  ‘It was her bedroom window.’ Paddy threw her a wry smile, a ripple of laughter spreading around the room. ‘She was meant to be at work. Popped back home for some afternoon delight with her gardener.’

  It sounded like something out of DCI Pike’s romance novels. Amy nodded in response, her expression blank. She failed to see the humour when a young girl’s life could be at stake.

  Paddy clicked on the next slide, and a map of London appeared. ‘We’ve picked up the van travelling through the streets listed here, but then it seems to disappear.’

  ‘Where are we with family members?’ Amy asked, looking pointedly at DC Steve Moss, who had been nominated to work with the intelligence team to see what they could dig up. In his early forties, he was six months into his post as a DI when he was found having sex with a probationer on shift. DCI Pike had wasted no time in demoting him. A lot of negotiating had brought him to this team, and Amy hoped his wisdom as a senior officer would make up for his poor judgement when it came to relationships. A frequent marathon runner, his sandy blonde hair and athletic build frequently caught his female co-workers’ eyes, but not this team. They were too focused on their caseloads to be playing around.

  ‘Her mum’s a widow,’ Steve said, referring to Hermione. ‘Her dad was a soldier.’

  ‘He died a couple of years back, didn’t he?’ Amy said, remembering the broadcast on television.

  ‘In Afghanistan.’ Steve nodded in response. ‘So there’s no absent father to worry about. She gets on with her family. It’s just the two of them living in the house.’

  ‘But it’s not just the two of them, is it?’ Amy said, turning her attention to the inventory of items seized from her home. ‘Not while she had access to the internet.’ It worried Amy that many parents thought their children were safe in the space they called home. Her fingers tightened around her paperwork as she came to the image of Hermione’s face. A blonde girl with blue eyes, she had a broad smile, with braces lacing her teeth. Yet there was something disconcerting about her. It was with sadness that she realised she was thinking of Sally-Ann, who had been the same age as Hermione when she died.

  ‘Have you talked to her teachers yet?’ Amy said, remaining stoic despite the turmoil she felt inside.

  Steve nodded, his face grave. ‘We’ve spoken to everyone she came into contact with forty-eight hours before her disappearance. Her mother may be on the telly, but she’s not what you call rolling in it. If it were a ransom, we would have heard something by now. We’ve nothing con
crete to go on at this stage.’

  ‘Well, it’s our job to find something,’ Amy replied. ‘A press release might trigger someone’s memory. I don’t see what other choice we have.’ In an enquiry as serious as this, Amy had more than her own team’s resources to hand. Such resources were split into management, intelligence, investigative and support teams. It was not rare for over two hundred officers to be involved in major enquiries, but many were brought in to carry out specific tasks. Once completed, they were released to their normal duties and back to their existing workload. It was up to Amy to ensure everything was handled smoothly while overtime budgets were kept in check.

  The tannoy alerted her to a call on her office phone. Having wrapped up the briefing, she prayed for a breakthrough, because each day Hermione was missing reduced the chances of finding her alive. Was this what it was like for the families of Lillian’s victims? Despite the passing of time, she had no doubt that their pain was every bit as sharp as before. She picked up her phone and called the front counter.

  ‘I’ve got your mother on the line,’ Leyla said, her words interspersed with chewing noises as she worked through the wad of gum on her back molars. ‘I asked if you could call her back, but she said it was urgent and it couldn’t wait.’

  ‘Put her through,’ Amy said, a frisson of worry rising from within. The last call she had received from her mother was to say that her father had been taken ill. Flora never rang her at work. Something was wrong.

  ‘Mum?’ Amy said. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’ But it was not Flora, it was the low creeping voice of Lillian Grimes.

  Amy felt her blood turn cold as Lillian’s words crawled down the phone line.

  ‘It’s so nice to hear you call me mum again.’

  ‘I thought you were Flora,’ Amy said, her jaw tightening in response. ‘What are you playing at, calling me at work?’