The Lies Within Page 12

  His mind was racing with all the unanswered questions. But right now one question screamed out at him, louder than the others. If they did have a serial attacker on their hands, when was he going to strike next?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The following morning, Jackman glanced around the hospital waiting area. A nurse rushed past, followed by a porter, the wheels of his empty trolley rattling across the floor. He checked his watch. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d sat in hospital waiting areas over the last year. A pungent heat filled his nose from the bodies crowded into the small room, their coats damp from the persistent rain that clattered the windows nearby. A woman walked in, her young son hanging off her hip, fast asleep. Jackman stood and offered her his seat, which she took, nodding at him gratefully.

  The air in the corridor was only marginally fresher. His phone trilled and he moved far enough away to take the call without annoying the nearby patients, but near enough not to miss his name if it was called.

  “Morning, sir,” Wilson said.

  “Morning. What news?”

  “Possible new lead. Leicester CID have been running an operation on auto-crime. Last night they arrested a guy who claims to have been in the car that drove past our victim on the night of the murder.”

  “The stolen BMW?”

  “That’s the one. Reckons he saw the witness on the other side of the road.”

  “Really. Can he give a description?”

  “So he says. But he wants immunity from prosecution for the car thefts.”

  Jackman scoffed. “Get down there and interview him, will you? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Wilson rang off, just as a nurse called Jackman’s name from the end of the corridor.

  Jackman held up his hand. “Dr Wheeler is ready for you now,” she said, and led him through to a small office.

  The doctor looked up as Jackman entered, pushed the glasses further up the bridge of his nose and indicated for Jackman to sit on one of the plastic chairs opposite. He opened a file and leafed through the pages before he spoke. “Mr Jackman, you requested that we carry out a review of your wife’s condition.” He turned another page. “We know that the car accident, just over a year ago, damaged the basilar arteries in her neck, leaving her in a state of total locked-in syndrome.” Jackman’s heart dipped at the medical phrase. It had been rattled off so many times, yet nobody put it in real terms. His wife was like a caged animal, able to think, feel pain, be aware of everything that was going on around her, yet completely unable to move or communicate.

  “An MRI shows up the damage to her brain stems, but no other neurological damage is highlighted, confirming the diagnosis,” the doctor continued. “We’ve assessed Alice, carried out all the usual tests. As you are aware, some patients with this syndrome are able to communicate through eye movements and blinking. Others through sniffing. It is also true that many early signs of recovery start in these areas. But I’m sorry to say that we haven’t noted any progress with Alice’s condition since her last assessment, six months ago.”

  Jackman sat forward. “I don’t understand. The staff at Broom Hills Nursing Home have reported instances of Alice winking, almost to indicate agreement, when they’ve asked questions. That’s what prompted us to request these tests.”

  The doctor nodded. “I’ve read the notes. But they suggest her winking is intermittent, it only happens occasionally. And they cannot get her to repeat the process when prompted. It is possible that it’s coincidental.”

  Jackman sighed. Many a time, over the past twelve months, both him and Celia had seen a blink or an eye movement they’d mistaken for communication. He recalled their initial elation, only to be disappointed when it didn’t happen again. But this time it was different. The staff at Broom Hills were specially trained, not family. “Three different staff have noticed something. Surely that can’t be a coincidence?”

  “It’s common, in cases such as these, for people to mistake what they see. I’m sorry. If Alice had shown any indication of recognition it would have presented in our results and we could have taken it further. But, for the moment, we have to wait. Try not to be despondent. We have had instances of patients showing signs of recovery a year or more after the event. Sometimes all they need is time.”

  “What do you mean you could have taken it further?” Jackman asked.

  “More intensive testing with more stimuli. Recording brain activity. But this kind of testing is expensive and there is nothing to suggest…”

  “I want them done. I’ll pay for it privately if I have to.”

  “That’s your choice, Mr Jackman. We will, of course, send you the details. It’ll take a while to schedule in at any case. But I must caution. Until it is proven through our tests, I cannot record it as a change or significant way forward.”

  Jackman thanked the doctor, made his way out of the office, retrieved his phone and scrolled down until he found Celia’s number. He was about to press dial when something stopped him. Celia wasn’t aware of the Broom Hills’ notes. He’d been hoping to surprise her. But the doctor’s caution caught him. If the further tests found nothing, her hopes for an improvement in her mother’s condition would be dashed. Again. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. No, for the moment, he would keep this news to himself.

  ***

  Grace closed the door behind Chloe and leant back on the cold wood, listening to her footsteps trudge down the path. The house was now screamingly empty. Even Lucky was quiet, curled up in a tight ball in her basket in the kitchen.

  Grace went through the motions of loading the dishwasher and glanced around the kitchen. Thanks to Ged’s visit, every inch of the cooker gleamed in the sunlight that seeped through the window. The ironing basket was empty for the first time in months. She idly chewed the side of her mouth. Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Phil, Hope you’re okay. Call me if you need anything.

  She tossed the phone aside, considered switching on the television and almost instantly changed her mind, instead deciding to take a shower. She moved back upstairs, taking her time under the hot spray, allowing the water to pour down over her.

  Wrapped in a bathrobe, wet hair clumped around her shoulders, Grace padded back down to the kitchen and flicked the switch on the kettle. Lucky raised her head for a brief moment and lowered it again. The rhythmic sound of passing cars hummed outside.

  A thought seized her. She looked across at her computer languishing on the side, the edge of a magazine poking from beneath it. Right now the urge to do something to help Jo, to work towards finally putting her to rest was all consuming.

  She logged on to the local news and immediately faced an article about the council failing to stick to their collection timetable for waste bins. She clicked back. A report on a burglary in Leicester flashed up. She clicked more keys, switched sites. There was nothing more on Jo’s murder since the news report she’d read on Saturday. Surely Jo wasn’t becoming old news already?

  The reality of it winded her. How could the press move on so idly? She needed to do something, anything to put it back in peoples’ minds, to get them to focus.

  Grace flicked back through the pages until she found the news report from Saturday and read the byline: Artie Black, Lead Crime Reporter. She checked the other reports she’d read. Most of them were written by him. She had to do something. But she couldn’t do it alone. She stared at the phone. Maybe it was time to enlist some help.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jackman finished his coffee, lay the empty mug on the side and stroked his wife’s hair. He’d broken his journey back to Leicestershire, compelled to see her after his meeting with the doctor that morning. Alice was settled in an easy chair beside her bed. Blue straps that secured her peeped out from underneath hands that were neatly folded in her lap. Too neatly. He wondered how long they’d sat in that position. Instinctively he untangled her hands, gave them a rub and placed them on her knees.

  He fell into conversa
tion about his week, the investigation, walking her through the streets of Market Harborough. Over the months he’d grown accustomed to Alice’s silence, had learnt to fill in the gaps himself, but today the doctor’s words pressed on him. He narrowed his eyes as he spoke, watching her carefully, trying to gauge some sort of reaction. “Celia phoned yesterday. She’ll be home in December. We could come here, spend Christmas Day with you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  He rambled on, desperately trying to touch a nerve, force a reaction. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t elicit any kind of response. The rise and fall of Bach battled with the hum of the electric bed in the background. Alice was betrayed by a body that wouldn’t obey her commands. The very idea filled him with sadness. Sadness and unrelenting guilt.

  In his mind he could still see her before the accident. The vibrant Dane with the sharp wit and quirky sense of humour, singing as she moved around the house and marched over the fields with the ever-keen Erik. Although that person bore little resemblance to who was sat before him today. She’d lost weight this past year, more than she could afford. Her cardigan hung off her narrow shoulders. The beautiful white-blonde hair that he’d always been able to spot in a crowd was now thin and lank.

  The consultant’s earlier words gnawed at him. Jackman had read all the literature, listened to all the advice. He knew the chances were slim, especially the longer the situation prevailed, but a part of him still clung on to the hope of some kind of recovery for Alice. He couldn’t give up. He wouldn’t. The thought of her sat here, like this, for the rest of her days was unbearable.

  The image of Alice’s head wedged against the roof of their Ford Focus, a single line of blood trickling from her ear, flickered in and out of his mind and served as a constant reminder, exacerbating the guilt that trailed him like a shadow. Alice would never have been on the road that night if it wasn’t for him.

  Christine, one of the day nurses, smiled at Jackman as she entered the room with a vase of roses, the petals delicately in the process of unfurling from their bud. “Look Alice,” she said in her merry Irish accent. “Yellow roses. Your favourite. Aren’t we being spoilt today now?”

  Jackman smiled. Christine was one of his favourite carers at Broom Hills. She built up an affinity with each person, spent time with families to learn about their patient’s likes and dislikes, hobbies and interests. He suspected it was her who’d put on Alice’s beloved Bach for her to listen to in the background.

  Christine shuffled forward and busied herself with adjusting Alice’s cushion, pulling her into a more upright position. “There, that’s better,” she said before turning to Jackman. “Are you staying long today?”

  “Just a flying visit. Got to get back to work.”

  She gave a single nod. Another thing he liked about Christine: She didn’t judge.

  “Ah, well they’re putting Mamma Mia on in the front room later,” she said. “That’ll be nice, won’t it Alice?” She didn’t blink when Alice didn’t answer, instead moving around the room, tidying, smoothing the bedclothes. “Well, I’ll see you in a bit then.” She nodded at Jackman and left the room.

  Jackman gathered his keys, gave his wife a hug and was just about to make a move when he heard someone in the corridor. A Geordie accent. He turned to the entrance as the owner of the accent filled the doorway, a chubby toddler straddled across her waist.

  “Hey! I didn’t know you were coming today,” Annie Davies said. She unfolded her free arm, pulling him into a hug. The toddler squealed as he was squashed between them.

  Jackman grinned as he stepped back and touched the little boy’s sausage finger. “You’ve grown, mister,” he said. The toddler stared back at him, wide eyed. “It’s good to see you, Annie.”

  “You too. Don’t see much of you now that you’re a high flying regional leader.”

  Jackman laughed. After working with DS Annie Davies for almost ten years on the Warwickshire homicide team, he’d grown accustomed to her quick wit. “It’s only temporary.”

  She passed the toddler to him and moved across to Alice. “Just thought we’d come and see you, darling,” she said, bending down and kissing Alice’s forehead. “It’s been ages.”

  The gesture was personal, touching. It was easy to forget how friendly the two women had been before the accident. Flashbacks sparked in his mind. Images of summer BBQs. Sitting on the patio in their garden, the two women giggling, empty glasses of Pimms scattered around them. The memories made him smile. Davies was always great company, and spoke with a raw honesty that he admired.

  “So, how are things at Leicester?” Davies asked.

  “Busy. Working on a homicide.” The boy wriggled in his arms and he placed him down on floor.

  “So I hear. The Super was furious.”

  “Nothing new there then.”

  Davies winked. “It’s only because she knows she’s lost you for a while. What’s your new team like?

  “Seem like a good bunch.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Celeste is their pathologist.”

  “I remember her. Intense. We had a great laugh at a hen night for one of the civvies when she was here. She drank a yard of ale. Always wondered how she fitted all that beer into such a tiny frame.” She gave a false flick of her hair. “Bet your DS isn’t as sassy as her Warwickshire counterpart.”

  Jackman pictured Dee Wilson and rolled his eyes amusingly.

  “So. Come on. Spill the beans. Any top totty at Leicester I should know about?”

  Jackman frowned, looked across at his wife.

  “What? Alice won’t mind. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, she’s thinking the same thing.” Davies gave Alice’s arm a gentle nudge and chuckled.

  Jackman looked down at the toddler. “Is he walking yet?” he said, keen to change the subject.

  “Nope. Lazy devil, aren’t you darling?” She leant across, ruffled his hair. “Just like your daddy.” She met Jackman’s gaze. “John didn’t walk until he was almost two. According to his mother, he’s ran everywhere ever since.”

  They both laughed. John was a triathlete and one of the fittest people Jackman knew.

  “Are you still on cold case?”

  Davies gave a mock yawn. “I must have royally pissed Janus off because she’s put me on a fraud, based at Leamington.”

  “Not holding your interest?”

  “What do you think? It’s like walking through glue ploughing through all that paperwork. Not like working a real inquiry. I can barely remember what that’s like.”

  Jackman checked his watch. “Which reminds me, I’d better get back to it. I’ll give you a shout if I need some help.”

  “Make sure you do that. Don’t be a stranger.”

  Jackman rested his hand on Davies’ shoulder before he kissed his wife’s cheek. As soon as he was out of the door his phone found signal and he called Wilson. She answered on the second ring.

  Jackman didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Any news on the new witness?”

  “Not much. He’s part of an ongoing project concentrating on car crime. Steals cars to order and sells them on. Most of them go abroad. They’ve got him marked for at least four thefts so far, but reckon he’s part of a much bigger investigation. He couldn’t give us any more than we already have, hoody and dark jeans. Wouldn’t give details of anyone else in the car either.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Not completely. He did say it was a woman in the hoody.”

  Jackman stopped in his tracks. “How can he be so sure?”

  “Well, using his words, ‘She had a fair pair of tits on her.’”

  The exchange played on Jackman’s mind as he drove back to Leicestershire later that morning. The woman in the hoody on the other side of the road was potentially the last person to see Jo alive. Why hadn’t she come forward? He made a note to put out another press appeal. They needed to trace her, and fast.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Grace watche
d Artie Black scribble a few more notes on the pad balanced precariously on his knee. It had taken a couple of days for her to muster the courage to call the newspaper. She’d wondered if she should speak to Phil first, but there never seemed to be the right moment.

  Finally, yesterday afternoon, she’d dialled the news desk and was surprised when Artie Black called her back himself within the hour, arranging an appointment for the following day.

  Doubt set in early. She almost cancelled. If it wasn’t for the desperate loyalty to Jo fighting inside her, compelling her to do something to move the case forward, she would have made that call. But as soon as Lydia had left for school, she’d showered and got dressed properly. For the first time in weeks.

  The journalist was a bear of a man, with chunky features and an easy smile. Fresh doubts crept in as she brought the coffee through to the front room to find him standing beside the fireplace, examining their family photos. Perhaps she should have arranged to meet him somewhere neutral. But as soon as they started talking he relieved her fears. He had a pleasant manner about him, a gentle unassuming nature. He explained how he’d reported on the other attacks, the police investigation, reiterated how he felt a personal piece might help to bring in fresh leads. His sense of conviction was heartening and Grace started to rest easier.

  “Could you run through the evening’s events with me again, Mrs Daniels?” he asked.

  Grace nodded and explained the little she knew, finishing up with the last time she saw Jo.

  “And she’d only just come back from Nottingham for the wedding?”

  “Yes, she’d been up in Nottingham about 6 weeks, studying sociology. She’d planned to return at the weekend.”

  “Do you have any contact details at the university? Friends, tutors?”

  Grace held his gaze a moment, suddenly baffled.

  “It’s okay. I just wondered about her associations there. Do you have a photo you’d be happy for us to use, to illustrate the piece?”