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

by Caroline Mitchell

  Paddy turned off for the road where they lived. Geraldine’s rejection that day had hurt more than the knife wound, which he had managed to patch up on his own. Yet every time he packed his bags, she insisted that he stay. She needed him: to pay the bills, clean the house, do the gardening and buy food. Being with Elaine had taught him that a loving relationship was born of mutual love and respect. It was time for Geraldine to stand on her own two feet.

  His trip home wasn’t planned, but he could not wait to sort things out. It was why he had brought a handful of support leaflets he’d been squirrelling away in his office drawer. Tonight would be about getting Geraldine help. Only then could he face leaving for good. She must have felt something for him. Why else would she be so paranoid and jealous all the time?

  Heaving a deep sigh, he shoved the leaflets into his coat pocket before ambling up their overgrown drive. The sight of it was another depressing reminder of how he had let things go. Sometimes it was easier to live a fantasy than face up to how bad things had got. Fumbling for his lighter, he gave in to his craving and quickly lit a cigarette to calm his nerves. The circular orange glow of his cigarette tip reminded him of an injury Geraldine had dealt to the back of his hand. The pock-marked burn was faded now; a result of her catching him smoking after they’d had a row.

  They could sell the house, split the proceeds and set Geraldine up in a nice little flat. Maybe get her a pet. As long as it wasn’t a cat: she hated them. It was hard to believe she was once a London property developer. It was some small relief that they owned their own home. A sergeant’s wage would only stretch so far, but if she downsized to a smaller property it should help until she found her feet. If only he hadn’t spent his inheritance on buying a new Jag. It was a temporary plaster over the pain of his father’s death – typical of his impulsive nature, another thing that drove Geraldine mad. Stubbing out his cigarette, he checked the time: it was almost eleven. She never went to bed before twelve. So why was the house cloaked in darkness as he entered through the door?

  ‘Geraldine?’ he called out, his face tilted towards the stairs. ‘It’s me, I’m home.’ But no response came. His shoulders inched higher at the bite of the cold and he clicked on the heating timer. Behind the door lay today’s post. Next to that was a pair of Geraldine’s boots, the soles edged with fresh mud. When had she been outside? Silence laid claim to the house, broken by the trickle of heating pipes filling inside the walls. ‘Geraldine?’ he called a second time, his pulse quickening as his fears grew. What if she had hurt herself? He had spoken to her this morning, and all had seemed well. Slowly, he trudged towards the kitchen, feeling as if his shoes were made of lead. The guilt of his daughter’s death had all but consumed him; he could not bear to lose Geraldine too.

  Switching on the light, he found the kitchen empty. A day’s worth of dirty plates were piled in the sink and the smell of decaying food emanated from an overflowing bin. Resting his palm against the electric kettle, Paddy found it was cold. He rattled the key in the back door. Locked.

  After checking the bathroom and living room, he forced himself up the stairs. Was she lying on the bed with an empty pill bottle in her hand? Perhaps she had left a note, told the world it was all his fault. It was no more than he deserved.

  Inhaling deeply, he stood on the landing, grateful to smell nothing more than the scent of damp clothes. Geraldine was too frightened to go outside and use the washing line, but why wouldn’t she turn on the heat? Paddy was continually puzzled by her seeming desire to live in such dark and miserable conditions. As always, the bedroom curtains were closed. Still filled with dread, he searched each room, unable to bring himself to enter hers until last. Slowly, he twisted the doorknob. The flicker of a desktop computer glowed from a desk in the corner of the room. Paddy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Hello?’ he called out. With some relief, he found her bed unmade but bare.

  ‘Geraldine, love, it’s me, Paddy.’ It seemed ridiculous introducing himself, but what if she thought he was a burglar? With that thought in mind, he switched on the light. He hated to admit it, but he was scared of his wife.

  Groaning, he rubbed his back as he straightened from checking beneath the bed. She was gone. Falling into police mode, he scouted the room for further clues.

  His eyes crept over the make-up on the dresser table that he had not seen before. As for the desktop computer, she had always claimed that technology was beyond her. Had she been lying to him all these years? Shaking the mouse, he brought the screen to life. ‘What have you been up to?’ he murmured under his breath.

  Within seconds, he had her browsing history up. What he saw made him gasp. After all these years, he thought he knew her. Paddy shook his head. He was wrong.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  After her chat with Dougie, Amy experienced the best night’s sleep she’d had all week. She felt like a physical weight had lifted off her shoulders. She was strong. She could deal with this. None of it was her fault. Regardless of her internal pep talk, she still found herself hovering outside her office door. Having opened it an inch, she was too scared to go in.

  It was with relief and surprise that she found Paddy at his desk. She knew he was trying to make up for his recent tardiness, but it was six am.

  ‘Who kicked you out of bed?’ Her smile faded as she took in his crumpled features. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, and he was wearing yesterday’s clothes.

  He plucked his tie – a black design with an image of a penguin on the front – from his jacket pocket and began to slide it on. ‘I’m just in. I was about to put the kettle on. Fancy a cuppa?’

  ‘In a minute. I need you to do me a favour first.’ She grimaced, mortified at what she was about to say.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Paddy said, a smile rising to his lips. He knew her well enough to guess what the request entailed.

  ‘A spider.’ Amy’s words were followed by a sharp exhalation. ‘There’s a spider in my office. Freakishly huge. Monstrous, in fact. Can you get rid of it?’

  ‘You only had to ask.’ Paddy smirked, grabbing a glass and a piece of card from his desk drawer. Within a couple of minutes, the intruder had been humanely sent on his travels through her office window.

  Amy slammed the window shut in case he decided to pay her a second visit. She had managed to keep her fear of spiders a secret from everyone but Paddy, who was more than happy to kick them out when the need arose. ‘If you tell anyone . . .’ her words trailed behind her as she followed him back to his computer.

  ‘You’ll kill me. Yeah, I know. I didn’t blab when you were a probationer, I’m hardly going to now you’re my DI.’

  Amy threw him a wry smile. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you alone. Now seems as good a time as any.’

  He nodded towards his screen as he tightened the knot on his tie. ‘I’m bringing up the outstanding tasks now,’ he said seriously. ‘I’ll be able to update you when I’ve had a chance to read through them.’

  ‘It’s not about work.’ Pulling up a swivel chair, Amy took a seat beside him. ‘Who’s been sitting on this?’ She fumbled for the fittings as her feet dangled from the chair. A soft hiss escaped the mechanism as she pulled the lever to lower the seat. Satisfied, she placed her feet flat on the floor.

  ‘Is this about Steve?’ Paddy said. ‘I’ve had a word. He said the whole thing with Molly was a misunderstanding. Promises to keep his distance from now on.’

  ‘Huh. You’ve got more confidence in him than me.’ Amy had spoken to his previous colleagues and did not like what she had heard. ‘Do you know what they called him in his last department? Mr Tickle. If he crosses the line . . . in fact, if he approaches the line, he’ll be transferred to prisoner processing so fast his feet won’t hit the ground.’

  It was not a hollow threat. The prisoner processing department dealt with petty crimes. Usually a stomping ground for probationers, it would be the last thing Steve would want. ‘Anyway,’ Amy said, ‘that wasn’t what I
wanted to talk you about, at least, not yet.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’ Minimising his computer program, Paddy turned to face her.

  ‘I’m not one to stick my nose in, but I get the feeling you’ve got problems at home.’

  ‘You’re not far wrong there.’ Paddy rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘But I’m sorting it. You’ve got enough to get through, without taking on my worries.’

  ‘You’re my right-hand man. Whatever it is, you can talk to me.’ She arched an eyebrow in an it’s now or never manner. Seconds passed before Paddy delivered a defeated exhalation.

  ‘You know Geraldine has agoraphobia.’ He paused as Amy nodded in understanding. ‘Well, last night I went home, and she was gone.’

  ‘I see,’ Amy replied, remembering that Paddy had mentioned her condition in the past. Things had been tough for them, but until lately, she thought they were muddling through. ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘She’s fine. But she said she’s not been outside in years. She’s been lying to me.’ He glanced around the empty office before continuing. On the floor above them, a hoover whirred as the cleaning ladies got on with their work. ‘Promise me this won’t go any further, not until I know more.’

  ‘Go on,’ Amy said.

  ‘We sleep in separate rooms. I didn’t know she had a computer until I searched her bedroom last night.’ He exhaled a deep sigh. ‘I checked her browser history. I couldn’t bloody well believe what I found.’

  ‘What people do in the privacy of their own homes . . .’ Amy offered him a shrug. ‘Women look at porn, too.’

  ‘But it wasn’t porn,’ Paddy replied, mumbling something about a zero sex drive. ‘It was all Facebook groups and conspiracy sites. She’s a troll.’

  Of all the things Amy had expected Paddy to say, this was last on her list. The point of this conversation was to bring up the topic of domestic abuse. She knew his excuses about car problems were fabricated, much like the explanations he manufactured for the bruises and injuries to his skin. This had not factored at all. ‘I don’t understand,’ she found herself saying, as she waited for him to explain.

  ‘She’s nasty. Vile. Part of all these online groups. They target certain causes and post tweets and Facebook comments. Then there are the conspiracy theorists, all UFOs and Elvis lives. She’s lost the plot.’

  ‘Wait,’ Amy interrupted. ‘Is she part of The Keepers of Truth? Has she tweeted with the “Find Hermione” hashtag?’

  ‘Amongst others. She’s got this notebook in her drawer listing hundreds of sites. No wonder she never gets anything done. She’s on there day and night.’

  ‘Have you said anything?’

  Paddy shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Where was she?’ Amy replied. ‘You said she was missing when you came home.’

  Paddy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I parked my car around the corner and waited until she came back. I followed her in after a few minutes, and she said nothing about being out.’

  ‘Keep me updated,’ Amy said, wondering how scared Paddy must have been to take such measures. It was on her lips to ask him about his injuries when her office phone rang.

  ‘I’d better get that,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you make us both a coffee and we can carry on with our chat?’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ Paddy smiled as they both rose. ‘But I’ve pretty much covered it all.’

  As she answered the phone, Amy scribbled a note to speak to Paddy later. She took comfort in her note taking, even though she wasn’t likely to forget.

  The call was from the front counter. Amy waited for the unwelcome sound of Lillian’s voice.

  ‘Ah, good morning. I didn’t know if you’d be in.’

  The caller did not come from prison as Amy had predicted.

  ‘My name’s Michelle Baldwin, and I’m calling from Paws Animal Shelter.’

  ‘Good morning, what can I do for you?’ Amy replied before holding her breath. Dare she hope for news?

  ‘I’ve got a white Persian cat here that matches the description of the one you called about. Well, when I say white . . . She’s been through the wars, bless her. Dehydrated and undernourished, but she’ll pull through.’

  ‘Where did you find her?’ Amy said, on high alert. Could this be Hemmy’s cat?

  ‘She was handed in by a member of the public who said they found her wandering around Canary Wharf. I found an address on her collar, but then I remembered your enquiry and thought I’d call you direct.’

  ‘I’m so glad you did.’ Amy smiled. ‘The address . . . it’s the one I gave you?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Do you tell the owner, or will I?’

  ‘I will, thanks. Are you OK to provide a statement if I send an officer round? And . . . can you not wash her yet? I know it sounds odd, but I’d like to get my scenes of crime officer to pay you a visit, too.’

  ‘Of course, anything to help,’ Michelle replied.

  ‘Oh, and if you could keep it to yourself, I’d really appreciate it.’ Amy’s smile widened. ‘I’m so glad Purdy’s OK.’

  Michelle assured her she was happy to oblige. As she hung up the phone, Amy silently punched the air. Purdy was alive, and what’s more, she had escaped her confinement. It may only be a small lead, but Amy had a good feeling about it. Sometimes, the smallest of seeds bore the biggest fruit. Taking out her phone, she looked up the mobile number of a colleague for whom she held an immense amount of respect. If anyone could find a fresh lead from a tired cat, it was CSI Malcolm Webber.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  As the Senior Investigating Officer, Pike dictated Amy’s movements and insisted she visit Lillian in prison one more time. ‘You never know, she might have another confession,’ she had said, her eyes bright as buttons as they trained in the gym that morning.

  Pre-empting Amy’s reluctance, Lillian had phoned DCI Pike, hinting she had more to tell. Usually, Pike left Amy to her own devices, but this week she was feeling like a puppet on the end of a string. ‘Keep the visit informal,’ Pike told her as they pounded their treadmills. ‘She wants it just like before.’

  Amy’s face soured, thinking back to Pike’s words. Since when did Lillian Grimes call the shots?

  Her earlier optimism had faded after more tweets appeared with the Find Hermione hashtag from the Keepers of Truth. As well as their usual spiel, it came with a new set of hashtags, #ThreeDays #TickTock. #TickTock was especially worrying, something they had used in the past. It suggested that if their demands were not met within a certain time, there would be hell to pay. But all attempts to communicate with them had proved fruitless. Just what the hell did they want? Molly and the team were doing everything they could but the media had gone crazy with reports. It felt like the eyes of the world were upon them. But Amy could not feel pressured – this was exactly what her team were there for.

  Now, her glance swept across the children in the prison visitation room. Did Lillian look upon them with sick fascination as she had with Wendy Thompson? Did she think about them in bed at night? Repulsion forced the thought away. As she approached her, she was taken aback to see the man sitting in the next seat. It was Damien, wearing jeans and a scuffed leather biker jacket that had seen better days. Unlike Lillian, her sibling was free, and his unpredictability made her stomach bubble up with nerves. She had yet to question him about Hermione, but was waiting for the results of his background checks. She knew she could trust Molly to be discreet and had tasked her with speaking to the divisional intelligence unit earlier in the day. Taking a deep breath, she sank into the foamy blue chair, her back rigid as she smoothed the crease in her suit skirt. As always, she was perfectly poised. Her hair had grown long enough to tie back, kept in place with an antique clip, anything to differentiate herself from the woman before her. Seeing Lillian and Damien together made the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

  ‘Nice of you to join us at last,’ Lillian said. She seemed pleased with herself, which was cause for concern. A light application of rouge coloured
her cheekbones, a coating of lip gloss disguising the paleness of her mouth.

  Amy checked her watch. The search had delayed her by four minutes on the way in. It felt like a bad omen for what was to come. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said to Damien, as he regarded her, stony-faced.

  ‘It’s not a crime to visit your mum, is it? Unlike you, I only have the one.’

  ‘Well, in that case, I’ll leave you to it,’ Amy replied tersely, the memory of their last meeting still fresh in her mind. ‘I only came to say goodbye. We’ve identified the body at the farm as Wendy Thompson. Thank you for your cooperation.’ Robotically, Amy tried to keep every ounce of emotion out of her voice.

  ‘Now the investigation is complete, I won’t need to see you again.’ Yet Damien’s previous comment about finding the truth hung like a loose thread.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Lillian said, her eyes like two black pearls.

  ‘I am unless you have something else to tell me,’ Amy said, refusing to back down. From her peripheral vision, she could see Damien observing her. An undercurrent of aggression emanated from him, an expression of disgust evident on his face.

  ‘Tell me,’ Lillian replied, folding her arms. ‘How do you feel about people being framed for murder? Have you ever done that? Set someone up?’

  Amy’s lips thinned. She was about to cross her arms but not wanting to mirror Lillian, she folded her hands in her lap. ‘You had your trial. You were found guilty.’

  ‘Only because your so-called father set me up.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘Oh, I think you’ll find that’s down to you.’ Lillian looked from Damien to Amy, a smug smile playing on her lips.

  Pulling back her shirtsleeve, Amy checked the time. Turning to Lillian, she made a conscious effort to instil professionalism into her words. ‘If you have a problem then hire a solicitor, take your concerns to them.’