‘It almost worked.’ John tightened his grip on the gas cylinder. ‘It still can.’
A trickle of sweat ran down Amy’s back as she tried to buy some time. ‘You must have known we’d find out you were Hermione’s vet.’ It was only when Amy researched the veterinary practice online that she recognised John’s face.
‘But you said Damien’s in custody, so no one else knows about me yet.’ Twitching, John fixed his mask. Perspiration stained the armpits of his sweatshirt.
Amy had already worked out that Mrs Cotterill had given him a key. With his recent home visits to the old woman’s poorly Yorkshire terrier, it was easy for John to work out Hermione’s routine. Her eyes rested on the scalpel in his hand.
‘I was meant to keep Hemmy for three days and then we’d . . .’ his words trailed away, tired from the effort of speaking through the mask.
The heat was stifling now, and Amy swiped the perspiration from her forehead, leaving a bloodied trail. ‘It’s not too late to turn this around. Hemmy’s a good kid. She doesn’t deserve this.’
‘Neither did my sister.’ John’s breath quickened as Amy stood her ground. ‘Now move it. Throw me your harness or I’ll gas you both.’
Given John’s mask, Amy knew that there was no point in holding onto her CS spray. Hermione was fading and there seemed little chance of talking him around. She had to disarm him, and she had to do it fast.
Bunching her harness in her hands, an idea formed as she felt the weight of the handcuffs from within their pouch. With as much strength she could gather, she launched the shoulder harness at John’s head. Holding the scalpel in his right hand and the canister in the left, something had to give. A loud clang erupted as the gas can fell and rolled away. Amy had to make a decision. Should she run for help or stay and fight? There was no way she was abandoning Hermione now. She had seen the mad glint in John’s eyes. After years of living beneath the shadow of his dead sister, he was hungry for revenge. He may have liked Hermione, but he had left her in a shocking state. Blinded by his own motivations, he was thinking of himself right now. There was only one thing she could do: fight her way out.
Hermione’s chain rattled as she struggled to rise. Amy’s heart broke for the young girl all over again. To see her there, defenceless and chained – she was representative of every girl that Jack and Lillian harmed.
Raising her fists, Amy glared at John, planting her feet steadily on the ground. Go ahead, she thought, as she heard his mocking sneer. Underestimate me.
A foot taller, John needed to be brought down to size. Drawing back her foot Amy didn’t hold back as she kicked him hard between the legs.
‘Ooof!’ he gasped. Struggling for breath beneath his mask, he dropped to his knees onto the cement floor.
Drawing back her right fist, Amy pumped all her frustration into a right hook, catching him squarely on the jaw. Pounding her fist against the latex, she ducked and dived against his flailing gloved hands as he tried to gain control of her wrists. Quickly she stepped back, her left hand slippery with blood as she grasped for the rucksack lying on its side on the floor. She had heard the jangle of keys as he dropped it. She had to get Hermione free. But as John lunged towards her, the next punch was misguided. Blinding pain seared through her knuckles as she shattered the glass eyepiece of the mask with her fist. They cried out simultaneously, Amy shaking her fist furiously to recover some feeling in her fingers, John falling back onto his knees clutching his face.
‘Hemmy,’ Amy said, rummaging through the rucksack. ‘I’m the police, but I’m on my own. Can you get to your feet?’ But her words were met with a listless moan. Gasping with relief Amy wrapped her fingers around a hard metal key ring. If she could loosen Hermione’s chains, then she might have some chance of breaking free. But hope was short lived as John got to his feet, throwing his mask across the floor.
‘You bitch,’ he screamed, clutching his left eye. A viscous substance oozed from the gouged socket, his face slick with blood. Roaring in anger he advanced upon her, a fire of fury on his face.
Slipping in her own blood, Amy staggered to her feet. The effort of getting to her feet and her painful injuries evoked a cluster of white stars that flashed before her eyes. ‘Drop the blade!’ she demanded, with more confidence than she felt. From her peripheral vision, she saw Hermione’s fingers curl around the keys on the floor. Hope flared. If she could undo the lock and get to her feet they might still stand a chance. But could Amy fend off their attacker for that long? Clenching her fists, she prepared to fight.
As John lunged towards her, Amy drew upwards with her left fist, wincing as her knuckles made contact with his chin. But her punch was not sent with its earlier force, her injury weakening the blow.
There was no time to recover as John barrelled on top of her. Falling backwards, another flash of stars danced in her vision as her skull rebounded against the ground.
With his full weight upon her, she was barely able to breathe, and walls of pain pushed in from every side. Heaving for breath, Amy bucked beneath his weight. I’m going to cut your throat,’ John snarled, flecks of blood and spit raining down on Amy’s face. His left eye socket was a gaping wound, but he seemed oblivious to the pain. Helpless, she kicked out, praying Hermione was still conscious. Another rattle of chains told her she was moving, but would she get out in time? ‘Get off me!’ Amy screamed. ‘Kill me and you’re going to jail!’
But reasoning was beyond him. Grasping for the blade, John positioned it above Amy’s face. ‘The thing about being a vet,’ he sneered, spitting blood onto the floor, ‘is that I know exactly where to cut.’
But the thing about being a police officer was that Amy was trained in the art of self-defence. Clasping his wrists, she drew them together, until he bore down with all his might. As the scalpel trembled in his grip, it hung above her like a guillotine waiting to seal her fate. One wrong move could bring it slicing through her throat. Dropping her right arm, she wrapped her legs around his body and rolled them both to the side. Unbalanced by the sudden momentum, John found himself thrown to the ground.
Clambering on top, Amy fought for control, punching him hard in the face. Having lost his scalpel in the tussle, John wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed.
Panic set in as Amy felt the sudden shock of her breath locking in her throat. She clawed for her life, digging her nails into his wrists. But her lungs burned in her chest, void of the oxygen she desperately needed to carry on. A flash of recollection took her: Lillian, choking the life out of Viv as they lay on the living room floor. Would John be pleased when he found out who Amy was? The irony taunted her. Her eyes bulged, her sight tinted red as the driving pressure made her blood vessels burst. Tighter, John squeezed, gritting his teeth against the pain.
Amy did not see Hermione creep up behind her until John’s eye rolled upwards from where he lay on the ground. Without mercy, Hermione slammed the rusted screw into his good eye. John’s grip fell away from Amy’s throat, his savage outcry filling the air.
Clambering to one side, Amy heaved in a lungful of warm breath.
On her knees, Hermione blinked from behind sweat-laced hair, splatters of blood dappling her school shirt. ‘On my back,’ Amy rasped. ‘Let’s go.’
‘My eyes!’ John screamed. ‘I’m blind, I’m blind!’ Clawing at his face, he rolled around on the floor.
Gently, Amy lifted Hermione, shocked at how little she weighed. Piggyback was a game Sally-Ann used to play with her as a child. Wearily, she made her way down the corridor and followed the beam of light coming from the door.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Pushing her hair from her face, Amy stared at the words engraved on the lime-eaten tombstone. Judging by the weeds creeping up around its base, she was its only visitor.
Three days had passed since she found Hermione. Enough time for the girl to begin to heal. Her physical injuries would fade in time, but the mental scarring would prove harder to escape. As for John . . . doctors fea
red he would lose the sight in one eye. Sympathy did not come as easily for the man who had almost ended her life and Amy hated the fact that, in that moment, one of her last thoughts had been of Lillian and the awful things she had done.
She knelt to lay down the bunch of white roses she had purchased on the way. It was an acknowledgement of her sister, buried beneath the ground. ‘The winter is past, flowers appear on the earth, the rain is over and gone.’ The tribute on the tombstone lingered on her lips as she read the inscription aloud. A memory played in her mind, a horrendous vivid re-enactment she could not escape.
Sally-Ann, her legs crumbling beneath her as she was struck on the back of the head. Lillian’s face when she discovered what Jack had done. How could they be so heartless? They cared more about the strangers coming to their house than their own flesh and blood, the same blood that ran through her veins.
Amy had always felt different, but she could barely comprehend being a part of something as horrific as this. Now her thoughts were filled with blame and regret. If she hadn’t entered the basement that night, Sally-Ann would still be alive. Kissing her fingers, she pressed them against the cold concrete headstone.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. Lillian had almost broken her, and now she barely knew who she was. But her sister would want her to carry on. Her chest tightened as Sally-Ann’s last moments replayed once more. It would have been better if they had killed her instead. At least then she would not have to undergo the pain of . . .
‘Amy?’ A soft voice spoke from behind, breaking into her thoughts. Amy straightened, annoyance wrinkling her brow. Couldn’t she have five minutes alone? Gathering her composure, she squinted against the sunlight breaking through the clouds as she turned around.
‘Elaine?’ She recognised the woman from a blurry photograph that Paddy had shown her on his phone. He had been out of his mind with worry since her disappearance and lodged a missing person’s report. But there was something about this woman’s features, something that made Amy’s heart clamber up her throat. It was her mind playing tricks on her, her thoughts so full of Sally-Ann that she believed she saw something of her sister in her. Her kindly face, her blue-grey eyes . . . but instead of long chestnut hair, Elaine’s was blonde and cut into a bob. The woman touched her forearm as if checking she was real. Amy flinched from the contact.
‘I’m not Elaine,’ she said, delivering a kindly smile.
‘You’re not P . . . Paddy’s Elaine?’ Amy flushed. Just what was wrong with her? Horrified, she swallowed back the stammer she thought she had conquered.
‘I’m more than that,’ the woman said. ‘Look again.’
Amy blinked. Those warm eyes, the gentle smile and the patient voice – it couldn’t be. It was only when Elaine smiled and her dimples became apparent that she knew for sure.
‘It’s me. I’m your sister. I’m Sally-Ann.’
‘Are you a ghost?’ Amy gaped, long repressed tears finally making a path down her face.
‘Sweetheart, I didn’t die,’ Elaine chuckled, placing a warm arm around her. ‘I ran away. But I’m never leaving you again.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Two Weeks Later
‘Don’t look so nervous.’ DI Amy Winter glanced at Paddy over the roof of the car. ‘Anyone would think you were going before the firing squad.’ She peered at his navy tie which was dotted with small gold legal scales.
Smoothing it over, Paddy threw her an appealing gaze. ‘Shouldn’t you fill me in? I don’t like going in unprepared.’ Playing things by ear had never bothered DS Patrick Byrne in the past. An ex firearms officer, he was used to responding at a moment’s notice, strengthened by the adrenaline pumping through his veins. But this afternoon was different. It was their day off for one thing, and Paddy seemed more frightened by what lay ahead than anything he had faced in his career.
‘I’ll leave the explaining to Elaine,’ she said with a smile. They were standing outside Amy’s usual haunt, The Ladbroke Arms.
Being involved in their domestics was the last thing Amy wanted, but given that Paddy had chosen her sister over his wife, she had little choice. Ever since Elaine had come forward, her head had been full of conflicted thoughts. The fact she was adopted and Elaine was her sister was as much as she had been able to share with Paddy until now.
‘She’s leaving me, isn’t she?’ His face was solemn as they both approached the pub. ‘Properly, I mean.’
Amy glared up at him, wondering how she could politely tell him to grow some balls. ‘Saved by the bell,’ she said, reaching into her coat pocket to answer the insistent ring of her phone. ‘Yes, we’re outside.’ She nodded. ‘See you in a minute.’
She tilted her head back upwards to look him squarely in the eyes. ‘Just keep an open mind – whatever she says.’
‘It’s a big enough shock to hear you’re related.’ Paddy’s hands were deep in his pockets, his right leg jigging. The disparity of his behaviour was strange to see. With a gun in his hand, he was cool, focused and under control.
Amy rolled her eyes. ‘Listen. You can fix this. She wants you to stay together. She’s here to put things right.’
‘Really?’ Paddy said, hope lighting up his face. He had lost weight since Elaine had left him, but it had not done him any harm. The belly that once hung over his work trousers had shrunk, the double chin all but disappeared. His face was weather worn and a few grey hairs had crept in, but all in all, he was not a bad-looking man. ‘A face full of character’, was how DC Molly Baxter had once described him. God knows he had had enough turmoil in his life to shape it.
Amy forced a smile as she realised Paddy was waiting for reassurance. ‘But . . . and this is a big but . . . you’ve got to listen to what she has to say and don’t make any big decisions until it’s sunk in.’
Taking a quick puff of his electronic cigarette, Paddy blew a ribbon of tobacco-scented vapour into the air.
‘After you,’ she said, opening the door.
As they entered the pub, Amy raised an eyebrow to see a bottle of Prosecco in an ice bucket. Elaine was sitting near the window behind a long, wooden table, with padded seats against the inner wall. Amy still felt a pang of disbelief at being in the presence of her biological sister.
Awkwardly, Paddy stood, the love clearly evident in his face. He hesitated for only seconds before stepping forward and taking Elaine in his arms. Holding her close, he kissed the crown of her head. As he pulled back, his eyes were moist with tears, his voice gravelly with emotion. ‘I’ve missed you.’
Amy swallowed, feeling a swell of affection for them both. Having her sister in her life made the world feel like a warmer place. Perhaps it was why Elaine had been drawn to Paddy. She was adept at saving souls.
‘I’m sorry I left. I thought you were better off without me,’ Elaine said, her face haunted with remorse. Her generous figure made her all the more motherly, and Amy thought it was a shame that she had never had children of her own.
Amy’s eyes flicked from Elaine to Paddy as she waited for the bombshell to drop. How was he going to take the news? She hoped her sister’s purchase of Prosecco had not been a premature one.
Paddy shifted in his seat. ‘You have something to tell me?’
Elaine took a deep breath, her face flushed. ‘Well, Amy’s told you that we’re sisters?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but I’ve a feeling there’s something more.’
‘There is,’ Elaine said, steeling herself. ‘Our birth parents were Jack and Lillian Grimes.’ She looked at him for understanding, then carried on when there was none. ‘As in the serial killers.’
Paddy stared, unblinking as he absorbed the double blow. ‘This is a wind-up, right?’
Elaine shook her head. ‘My birth name is Sally-Ann Grimes.’
‘But you’re . . .’ He paused, looking from Elaine to Amy. ‘She’s dead. Sally-Ann was murdered.’
Tentatively, Elaine reached across the table. Her words were soft as she cupped Paddy’s ha
nd. ‘I didn’t die, I ran away.’
‘It’s true,’ Amy said, feeling a frisson of worry as another facet of her past was laid bare. She crossed her legs, her fingers tightening as she laced them together over her knee of her jeans. She missed the reassurance of her starched work suit and leather boots, hated the focus being on her personal life instead of her latest job. But if she was going to have a brother-in-law one day, she could not ask for a better one than Paddy Byrne. Amy glanced at her sister, who was struggling to find the right words. Who would want to admit to such a parentage? That the ‘Beasts of Brentwood’ had produced them both. Up until now, the world had thought that Sally-Ann was another of their victims. Their own daughter – killed when she was barely a teen. Amy took a breath to speak. ‘That night, I thought Jack killed Sally-Ann. But instead, she woke up dumped under some tarpaulin in our freezing cold shed. She’d been saving to run away for ages and had hidden her suitcase behind some boxes at the back. We had relatives in London who kept her safe – and kept her secret too.’
‘But they must have noticed you were gone.’ Paddy turned to Elaine for answers.
Elaine nodded, finally finding her voice. ‘Killing had become a routine for them. Lillian must have thought that Jack buried me, and he thought the same of her. They both stayed quiet about it because they knew it was wrong to kill one of their own.’
‘Who was buried behind the fireplace if it wasn’t you?’ Paddy’s questions were identical to those Amy had asked her sister when she first discovered the truth.
‘A young runaway,’ Elaine replied. ‘Our home was like a halfway house at times, so many of them came and went. Jack burnt her body. We were the same height, the same age. She had stolen my necklace. She was wearing it when she died.’
‘But we earmarked her body as yours. Why didn’t Jack say it was her?’
Truth and Lies (A DI Amy Winter Thriller Book 1) Page 29
