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

by Caroline Mitchell

  ‘But, Mummy . . .’ Poppy said, her eyes wide as her father walked through the door. His presence stole her words, and she darted to her room. Dressed in his shirt and tie, he did not look like her normal daddy. The last time she saw him like this was when he put his mummy in a hole in the ground. A fun-er-al it was called in the paper, although there had been nothing fun about it at the time.

  ‘Where’s Sally-Ann?’ Poppy said as Mandy tugged her hair into a plait.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Pops, ain’t I told you a thousand times? You’re not to talk about her again. She’s gone. She ain’t coming back. If you want to stick around, you’ll have to learn to shut your trap.’

  ‘Mummy says the so . . . so . . .social’s coming,’ Poppy replied, for want of something to say. Thinking about Sally-Ann gave her a pain in the tummy and made her feel all sick inside.

  ‘That’s right.’ Mandy pulled an elastic band onto the base of her plait. ‘They’re gonna be asking about Sally-Ann.’

  ‘Wha . . . what will I say?’ Poppy said, grateful her sister was too busy to tease her about her stutter.

  ‘Nufink. She upped and ran away.’ Grabbing her by the shoulders, Mandy span her around. ‘And don’t look so bloody scared!’

  But Poppy did not know how to look any different. This was the face she wore all the time. First Hammy, now Sally-Ann; was she next? ‘What about those other pe . . . people?’ Poppy whispered, grateful to have her sister’s attention, if only for today. ‘The ones that come at night? Are they the so . . . so . . . social too?’

  A sharp burst of laughter passed Mandy’s lips. ‘Don’t be stupid! Of course they ain’t. Best you not talk about them, either. Here, make yourself useful and squirt this around the house.’ Mandy thrust a can into Poppy’s hand. It was purple, with a picture of flowers on the front. Poppy squinted, trying to read the words printed on the side.

  ‘It’s air freshener, you twit. Just don’t spray it in your eye.’

  Ten minutes later, the can was roughly snatched from her hand as her mother went to answer the door. Poppy stood stiffly against the wall, staring down at her shoes. She risked a peep upwards as the couple at the door walked inside. The woman had frizzy black hair and wore a brooch on a plum cardigan that did not reach all the way around her waist. The man, who looked younger than her, had a neatly trimmed moustache and was long and thin. He walked with a slight stoop as if he was used to bending down to enter rooms. Poppy stood transfixed in the doorway as they gathered around the kitchen table, and Mummy placed the pie she had bought on the centre of the cloth. Poppy’s mouth watered at the prospect of a bite. She had yet to eat breakfast, having been banished upstairs while Mummy, Daddy and Damien cleaned up the house.

  As much as she wanted to enter the kitchen, the sharp glare from her father put Poppy in her place. Sally-Ann’s name came up, and Daddy smiled as he explained that she had just run away.

  Mummy looked as startled as Poppy when the woman in the purple cardigan asked to speak to Poppy alone. After being led to the sitting room, Poppy perched herself on the edge of the sofa as the woman, who introduced herself as Marjorie, spoke. Poppy liked the soft pink lipstick she wore. It was so unlike the jagged stripe of red that Mummy wore at weekends.

  ‘You’re not in any trouble,’ Marjorie said. ‘I just wanted five minutes with you alone.’ She gestured to her colleague, who delivered a soft smile. ‘This is Thomas; he works with me. We’re here to find out about Sally-Ann, who’s not been coming to school. Do you know where she is?’

  The question invoked a bolt of fear and Poppy shook her head from left to right, her bottom lip sucked under her top. Her hands bunched under her sleeves, she folded her arms, imagining Daddy on the other side of the door.

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’ Marjorie said. ‘Can you remember?’

  Poppy remembered all right, but such things were too horrific for words. She realised she was trembling and closed her eyes as she blocked the probing questions fired in her direction. Again, her worried gaze fell on the door.

  A knowing glance passed between Marjorie and Thomas. ‘I tell you what,’ she said, ‘why don’t we pop outside, have a quick chat in our car?’

  Poppy’s eyes grew wide at the prospect, her face chalky white. Mummy and Daddy told her not to speak to the social. But Mummy and Daddy had done a terrible thing. Sally-Ann had not run away. She was dead.

  Somebody needed to be told.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The numbers on the car dashboard clock glowed a reassuring 9.50 p.m. Being ahead of schedule offered Amy a small crumb of comfort. Mrs Price was expecting her, and it would not do to turn up late. Swiping at the car window, she peered through the fogged pane. After this, she would go off duty and make the hour-long journey home. Since her meeting with Mandy, the pieces of that puzzle had slotted into place. Only now did she remember the visit from social care that her sister had been talking about. She wished she could go back in time and cuddle her four-year-old self, smooth her hair and tell her it was going to be OK. Poppy was beginning to feel like a separate entity to her now, but someone she carried with her just the same.

  Stepping out of her car, she was grateful for the chill kiss of the night air on her skin. Far in the distance, an ambulance siren screamed. Amy had heard enough emergency vehicles to be able to tell them apart. She stared at the three-bedroom brick semi, which looked identical to every other house on this street, though it was doubtful that Mrs Price’s neighbours had experienced the loss encompassed within the walls of number 35 Albert Walk. Seventy-one-year-old Kitty Price still lived in the London house she occupied when her daughter was scooped off the streets by Jack and Lillian Grimes. Like many parents of missing children, she became chained to her home in the hope that someday her loved one would return. Now Amy was here to tell her that her daughter was never coming back.

  The squeak of the black metal gate caused a twitch of curtains as Amy walked down the slug-trailed path. The sleepless snails were in abundance and she watched her step so as not to hear the horrible crack of a broken shell underfoot. Lillian would probably enjoy that, she thought. Her condition that Amy break the news to the victim’s family was a cruel and sadistic demand. A job better placed in the hands of a family liaison officer. She could have called Lillian’s bluff, but she felt connected to the victims in some way. Had she been in the house when it happened? Covered her ears to block out her screams? Barbara Price was a child in Amy’s eyes, just sixteen years old. A bright and bubbly girl with freckles and auburn hair, she had run away from home after a tiff with her mother over a party she was not allowed to attend. Found wandering the streets, she was coaxed into the car and back to Jack and Lillian’s house. Amy had read about their hunt for young runaways and how they lured them in with the promise of a babysitting job and a roof over their heads.

  The exhumation had been swift according to DI Donovan, with the family of the deceased demonstrating sympathy for the woman who was purported to be buried beneath their own. Perhaps it was as much of a case of wanting their loved one to rest in peace as to assist the family of Barbara Price. Whatever the reason, they had requested that the process be quick, and DI Donovan had not wasted any time. The remains had been discovered a foot below the coffin, just as Lillian had said. The remnants of Barbara’s jewellery and a handbag had been buried with her, making her easier to identify. A press release would be made as soon as the next of kin had been made aware, and further testing of the remains was underway.

  Amy sighed at the thought of additional publicity. Lillian Grimes would have her notoriety yet again. She knew she had to stop thinking like this because it was eating her up inside. She took another breath, ready to focus on the news she was about to break. The blue flash of a television light filtered through the curtains, quickly extinguished as Amy approached the door. It was opened almost as soon as she raised her finger to the doorbell.

  ‘Mrs Price?’ Amy said, her fingers curling around her warrant card
as she raised it in the air. ‘I called. I’m DI Amy Winter.’

  ‘Come in.’ Slightly stooped and wide-hipped, Kitty Price was about five foot seven, with ash blonde hair permed in a soft style. Her face bore the creases of mourning, her slippered feet shuffling with the movement of someone suffering with stiffness in their joints. Amy felt a surge of sympathy, wishing she could quieten the voices in her head whispering that she was a part of the family that had caused so much pain.

  Wiping her feet on the mat, she stepped inside. ‘Would you like me to take off my shoes?’ she asked, observing the plush carpet beneath her feet.

  ‘No need,’ Kitty said, her voice frail as she leaned on her walking stick. ‘Come into the living room. All the family are here.’

  Amy knew the Price family was large but had not expected all seven of her grown-up children to be present. With their strawberry-blonde hair and freckled skin, there was no denying their lineage. Those who could not fit on the three-piece suite sat perched on its arms, their eyes trained on Amy from the moment she entered the room. Amy acknowledged them with a nod, her gaze falling on a painting of Barbara that was scarily lifelike. It hung above the fireplace, the lamps either side casting her likeness in a soft orange glow. Barbara’s eyes held a question. Amy felt them boring into her soul. How could you? How could you stand by and let them do those things to me?

  ‘Have they found her?’ Mrs Price said, breaking into Amy’s thoughts.

  A middle-aged woman rose to place a hand on her frail shoulders, a much older version of the girl painted on the wall. ‘Give the lady a chance, Mum; here, come and sit down.’ She turned her attention to Amy, her expression strained. ‘I’m Marian, Barbara’s sister. I was only six when she disappeared. Mum’s been waiting a very long time. Please tell me you’ve found her.’

  Amy responded with a grateful smile, instilling professionalism into every word. They needed to know this case was in capable hands. She stood before Barbara’s picture, a fitting spot to deliver the news. ‘As you know, we received information from Lillian Grimes with regards to Barbara’s burial place. We acted upon that information. We’ve recovered what we believe to be Barbara’s remains.’

  A sense of sadness settled in the room as Barbara’s siblings absorbed the news. ‘Thank you,’ Mrs Price whispered. Gazing up at Amy, her eyes filled with tears. ‘When can we bring her home?’

  Amy had her answer ready. ‘We’re working on getting her returned to you as soon as we can.’

  Mrs Price nodded, her hands trembling as she accepted a tissue from her daughter. ‘Will I be able to see her?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mum,’ a bearded man said. His voice was gentle as he gazed into his mother’s eyes. ‘It’s been years. There won’t be much left . . .’

  ‘Please,’ she said, returning her gaze to Amy. ‘I don’t care if it’s just bones. I need to touch her one more time. I don’t care how bad it is. Please let me have that.’

  Amy drew breath as she tried to comprehend how this woman must be feeling. So desperate to see her daughter that she would sacrifice the inevitable nightmares to come. ‘Take some time to think about it,’ Amy said. ‘We’ll do our best to accommodate your wishes, but bear in mind that sometimes it’s best to preserve your last memory of your loved ones.’

  Mrs Price’s fingers unfurled around the tissue in her hand. ‘I will.’ Her voice was a whisper as two fat droplets fell on her plaid skirt. ‘I’ll never understand how those monsters could hurt my little girl. Did you know they brought one of their own children to lure them in? She would never have got into that car if it wasn’t for her.’

  A child? Amy had not read that far into the case notes. Her stomach clenched. What child was she referring to? Had they used her to commit their crimes? She clasped her hands tightly together, pressing her nails into her palms. All eyes were on her and she could not lose her composure now. ‘It’s best not to dwell. I know it’s of little consolation, but at least you’ll be able to have a proper funeral, say your goodbyes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mrs Price said, her sadness heavy as it filled the room. ‘That means more than you know. Thank you for not giving up on my daughter.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to speak to a family liaison officer? I can arrange for them to attend.’ Amy knew they had dismissed their earlier offer, and to be fair, Mrs Price was not short of support.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Mrs Price said, rising to see her out. ‘It’s over. It’s finally over.’

  Amy nodded. ‘A press release will be issued, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t speak to the papers. There are other victims involved. It’s a delicate situation which still causes a lot of pain.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Price said, dabbing her tears, her tissue twisted in her hand. It was only then that Amy realised some of her children were crying too. She swallowed hard, her emotions closing in.

  Barbara’s sister Marian spoke. ‘There are two more aren’t there? Viv Holden and Wendy Thompson. Do you think that monster will tell you their burial sites too?’

  Amy sighed. ‘Well, we’ve come this far so we’re hoping she will.’

  ‘I remember your father,’ Mrs Price said. ‘Such a decent man. He promised me he’d find her, and he’s kept that promise through you.’ She clasped Amy’s hands, her fingers cool to the touch. ‘Thank you,’ she said, swallowing back her tears. ‘He’d be very proud of what you’ve done.’

  ‘You’re w-welcome,’ Amy said, blushing slightly as the stutter tripped off her tongue. She took a sudden breath as panic drove its way inside her. She had not stuttered since she was a little girl. Straightening her posture, she glanced at the door.

  Amy nodded, unable to trust herself to speak any further. It was with great relief that she let herself out, shaking the hands of grateful family members who stood to relay their thanks. She turned to the bracing air, her legs weak beneath the weight of her emotions. Her instinct had been right. Coming here was a bad idea.

  Sitting in her car, Amy took a deep breath as she tried to shove the past back into the box from which it came. Although a box wasn’t the right image – at the forefront of her mind was a bloodstained chest, jagged nails scratching for release from within. Was it the chest that harboured Barbara Price? Had she witnessed her abduction? Ignored her pleas for help? ‘Enough!’ Amy cried, bringing her hands either side of her temples. ‘Leave me b-b-be!’ Leaning forward, she tipped her forehead against the steering wheel, closing her eyes as she forced another calming breath. She had to get a grip before this case broke her. Straightening in her seat, she turned on the ignition, dust blasting from the interior fan as she tried to clear her view. Robotically, she checked the time, bringing herself back to ground by replaying tomorrow’s schedule in her head. It was time to go home. Soon this would all be over, and she could get back to being who she was . . . couldn’t she?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Intuition made Amy pause when she pressed her hand on the living room door. On her journey home, she had focused on Mandy, her visit to the Price’s home too painful to think about. Not that their meeting had been much better. Mandy was simply fuelled by the need for some extra cash. Then again, Amy may have felt the same way, had she been in her shoes. But Amy’s career had been littered with people like Mandy who refused to take responsibility for their actions. It was one of the classic psychopathic traits. Had Mandy really cared about Sally-Ann, or was she just trying to get her on side? Amy’s recent flash of memory had recalled a harsh and cruel sibling – but perhaps Mandy had only been taking her mother’s lead. She pushed away thoughts of her sister. The sound of Flora in heated conversation made her pause at the living room door. Slowly, she pressed down on the handle, the urgent tone of her mother’s voice a cause for concern.

  ‘It’s only a matter of time until she finds out . . . she’s been through enough.’

  Amy frowned. Was she talking about her? Who else could it be?

  ‘I have every reason to pa
nic,’ Flora insisted to her mystery caller as she paced the floor. ‘But what do I do? Just leave it there? What if she finds it?’ Silence followed as her caller responded.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one with . . .’

  A sudden excited bark brought a break in conversation as Dotty caught sight of Amy through the crack in the door. Amy sighed. She had little energy for snooping anyway. She was running on empty. Facing Lillian, seeing Mandy again, not to mention the family of the victims whose screams haunted her dreams . . . Perhaps Flora was right. There were some things you were better off not knowing. She embraced the warmth of their living room, shrugging off her jacket and folding it over the back of the sofa. Scooping Dotty in her arms, she accepted her slobbery kisses before planting the wiggling dog back on the floor. Tonight, her pug would sleep on her bed, providing comfort when she woke.