The Lies Within Page 3

  Grace didn’t answer, switching her gaze from one to the other. “Has something happened?”

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Wilson and this is Acting Detective Chief Inspector Jackman. Are you Mrs Grace Daniels?” Grace nodded slowly, taking in the plain clothes and ID badges in their hands. “May we come in?”

  An icy chill slid down Grace’s back, rooting her to the spot.

  “Grace?” Phil touched the edge of her elbow.

  “Sorry.” She moved aside.

  They made a play of wiping their feet as they entered. Lucky gave a few excited barks as Phil guided them into the front room and invited them to sit.

  “Mrs Daniels, would you join us?” the female detective called back.

  Grace was still standing in the hall, slowly closing the door. Spurred on to move by the detective’s request she followed them in, moved across to the other sofa and sat down.

  “Is your daughter Jo Lamborne?” Wilson asked.

  Grace gave a single nod.

  “Can you tell me where she is right now?”

  “What?” Grace replied, barely able to trust her own hearing.

  “A body has been discovered. I’m sorry to say, we believe it is possibly your daughter, Jo.”

  Grace’s throat constricted. “No, she’s upstairs. In her bedroom. Asleep, no doubt.” She glanced at Phil. “We were at my niece’s wedding reception last night. She came home after us.”

  “Have you seen her this morning?”

  Silence saturated the room. Grace looked from one detective to another, jumped up and ran towards the stairs, ignoring the voices calling out after her. The short journey to Jo’s room was laboured, like wading through water. Finally she reached the door, pushed it open. And then gasped. The curtains were undrawn, the bed made.

  Grace opened the wardrobe, leaving the doors to bang shut as she ducked to look underneath the bed. Desperation wrenched every ounce of energy from her limbs. She was so sure Jo had come in late. After they’d all gone to bed.

  She collapsed on the edge of the bed as Phil joined her, covering her face. The shrill pitch that escaped her pierced the air.

  Phil rushed to her side and enveloped her in his arms.

  The sound of a door snapping open followed. Lydia appeared, her fair hair messy and unkempt. A sleep crease ran the length of her cheek. She blinked wide. “What’s happened? Mum?”

  Phil stood, reached out a protective arm, but she shrugged it away. “What’s going on?”

  “Something’s happened to Jo,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Grace raised her eyes, opened her mouth to speak and closed it again.

  Another face at the doorway. Detective Wilson. “I’m sorry but I need to ask you all to come downstairs.”

  Lydia looked from one to another, confounded, but said nothing.

  Grace’s world blurred as she descended the stairs. Family photos traced her route. The girls when they were young on the beach, bridesmaids in blue silk dresses at her friend’s wedding, with Lucky as a puppy. The images swirled in front of her eyes, merging together. Jo. Her Jo.

  Before Grace realised it she was back in the front room, sandwiched between Phil and Lydia. Lucky gave a bark from the kitchen. The nausea waned, but her head was swimming. Now it was Detective Jackman that sat forward and folded his hands, empathy etched on his face.

  Phil turned to him. “Can you tell us what’s happened?”

  “We still have to establish that,” Jackman said gently. “But we are treating her death as suspicious.”

  “You mean murder?” Lydia’s voice splintered. Her hand flew to her face. Grace reached out, pulled her close, animal instincts taking over as she protected her young.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Grace pressed her eyes together, for the first time aware of the salty tears stinging her cheeks. “Where?”

  “A body was found in Leicester Lane, just before midnight. By a man cycling home from work.”

  A gasp from Lydia. It subsided into sobs. She buried her head in her mother’s shoulder.

  Grace sat very still, uncomfortably aware of the detective’s eyes darting about, taking in the photos of her daughters at various stages of growth that littered the walls; the framed picture of her parents above the dining room table at the far end; the toddler photos of their granddaughter on the mantel above the wood burner.

  “When did you last see Jo?” he asked eventually.

  “Last night,” Phil said. “We were at our…” he hesitated, looked across at Grace. She wasn’t their niece, she was Grace’s. Grace’s niece from her first marriage, just like the girls. But that didn’t seem important now. “… niece’s wedding reception at The Three Swans on the High Street. We left just before half ten, came home. Jo stayed on, planned to make a night of it in town.”

  “Was she with anyone when you left?” Jackman said.

  “Chloe.” Grace’s voice whispered the ailing words out. “Phil’s daughter from his first marriage.”

  “And you’re sure of the time?”

  She nodded. “Lydia wanted to go with them, but she’s only fifteen.”

  “Have you spoken with Chloe since?”

  Phil sat forward. “She texted me this morning. Her daughter, Meggy, was up early.”

  “So she’s home?”

  He nodded.

  Wilson returned, carrying a tray of mugs. Grace watched as her assured movement passed them around. She had gone into her kitchen. Found mugs, coffee, sugar. Hushed her dog. How many times had she done this in other people’s homes? The voices continued around her. She was aware of the inspector asking more questions, “Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt Jo? Has she upset anyone recently?” Phil kept shaking his head.

  Grace could feel herself trembling, unable to control the shaking. She lifted her head. The clock on the mantel stared back at her. Almost a quarter past seven. She felt a pull to get up, move the clock hand back, wipe away events of the last twenty minutes as if it had never happened.

  Lydia’s breathing regulated. She lifted her head, cut through the detective’s words. “How did she die?”

  He paused for a second, his eyes mournful. “We believe she was strangled.”

  Lydia slumped as she began to cry again. Grace clung to her, aware that the questions continued, yet they sounded a long way off. The pain was suffocating, pressing down on her chest, crushing out the air.

  Then, out of the depths of the hearing well, she picked out a line: “We will need somebody to formally identify the body.”

  And there it was, a lifeline. Maybe it wasn’t Jo. Maybe they’d made a mistake. But Wilson was gazing at a photograph in the alcove of Jo at her school prom, in the black gothic dress she’d insisted on wearing. As Grace met her eyes, she guessed her thoughts. “Your daughter’s student card was found at the scene. I’m very sorry.”

  Desperation bubbled beneath Grace’s skin. She wanted to scream, shout, accuse them of making a mistake; ask if they had a family, children, if they had any idea of how she felt. Instead, a single thought rushed into her head. She stood.

  “Grace?” It was Phil. His skin was like paper, tinged with grey. He’d held it together, answered the detective’s questions, yet his face had aged years in the last half an hour.

  “I have to go to her room.” She was almost at the door when a hand shot out and caught her forearm.

  “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to ask you not to go in there.” Wilson let go almost immediately. “Not for a while.”

  “W-what?”

  “We have to get it searched, forensically. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t understand,” Grace replied.

  “We’ll need to look at everything, to piece together what happened.”

  The words were light, shallow. They didn’t penetrate the surface. Her daughter was dead, yet she couldn’t go to the one place where she would feel close to her, breathe in her sweet aroma, look at the everyday objects th
at captured so many memories.

  “We’ll need a list of her friends, family, people who were at the reception last night,” Jackman said. His voice softened. “Is there someone we can call? To help you.”

  Grace turned to Phil. “We should call Chloe.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll need to speak with her first,” Jackman said. Grace glared at the detective. “She was the last person seen with Jo,” he added. “We will need to be there when you tell her. We can take you with us?”

  “I’ll go,” Phil said.

  “No.”

  “Please, Grace. Stay here. With Lydia.”

  Minutes later, Grace stood at the window and watched the car pull off the drive. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Lydia in the armchair beside her, still dressed in her tartan brush-cotton pyjamas, eyes entranced in space. Mugs clunked together as Wilson carried them into the kitchen. A bitter chill rushed through her. Jo was gone. Her baby. The anguish was too unbearable to contemplate.

  “We’ll need her mobile phone number.”

  Grace raised her eyes to face the detective. She hadn’t heard her come back in from the kitchen. For a moment her voice was mute.

  “She did have a mobile phone?”

  Chapter Four

  Jackman stood next to Phil as he rapped on the front door of the modern semi-detached home. Daylight was creeping in on the horizon, the sun’s rays promising a bright winter’s day to melt the covering of light frost that veiled the surroundings.

  A child shrieked with laughter in the distance. Phil knocked again, harder this time.

  The door was pulled open by a pale-faced young woman in jeans and a black jumper. Messy dark hair rested on her shoulders. Her smile fell as soon as she caught their sombre faces. She eyed Jackman suspiciously, turned to Phil. “Dad. What’s happened?”

  At that moment a toddler pushed through her legs. “Pap!” She flung herself at Phil’s knees.

  “Hello, Pumpkin,” Phil said, hoisting her onto his hip. His face slackened as he looked up. “Can we come in, Chloe?”

  She stood aside for them to enter.

  “Meggy, would you go and wake Daddy?” Chloe said. “Ask him to put the kettle on for our guests?” She was fighting to keep her voice even. “I’m sure Pap and his friend would like a drink.”

  Meggy wriggled to get down and raced off towards the back of the bungalow. Chloe guided them into the front room and closed the door. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Jackman flashed his badge and introduced himself. “Would you mind sitting down?”

  She looked across at Phil. “Is it Grace?”

  Phil shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s Jo. Something has happened. They think she’s been killed.”

  Chloe pressed her hand to her chest and tumbled back onto the edge of the sofa.

  Phil moved to sit next to her, grabbing hold of her free hand.

  “I don’t understand. When, where?”

  Phil looked across at Jackman. “A body was found in Leicester Lane early this morning,” Jackman said. “We have reason to believe it was Jo. We are treating her death as suspicious.”

  Chloe gasped. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “How?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “How did she die?”

  “We believe she’d been strangled.”

  Chloe covered her face with her hands, shook her head, almost to dismiss the bad thoughts, and wept.

  “I’m so very sorry,” Jackman said. The words were empty, inadequate, and he knew that. He gave her a moment before he continued. “Do you feel up to answering some questions? It would really help us.”

  The door burst open. A short man with a matt of dark hair and a beard entered carrying a tray, followed by Meggy who was walking very slowly and carrying a bowl of sugar lumps in her hands. The man opened his mouth to speak, but as soon as he saw Chloe he planted down the tray next to the bowl and retreated, pulling the toddler out with him. The last thing they heard was her sharp wail. “Want to see Paps…” It sliced through the room, although Chloe appeared oblivious.

  Jackman heaped two teaspoons of sugar into a mug and passed it Chloe. “Drink this. It’ll help with the shock.”

  Jackman glanced at the photo on the hearth. It was the toddler, a larger version of the one he’d seen at the Daniels’ home earlier. Phil had been helpful in the car on the way over, giving him a brief outline of their family, sharing that both Grace and he were widows who’d remarried just under four years ago. He was ten years older than Grace, Chloe was his daughter by his first marriage, and Lydia and Jo were Grace’s. But they were all treated the same. ‘One big happy family,’ he’d said, his voice cracking as he’d choked the words out.

  “Can you confirm where you were last night?” Jackman asked when she’d had a chance to drink some of the tea and calmed slightly.

  She looked at him blankly. “At my cousin’s wedding reception at The Three Swans.”

  “When did you last see Jo?”

  She dabbed her eyes and swallowed before she answered. “Around twenty to eleven. Matt had taken Meggy home. Jo and I were going to head down to The Angel for last orders.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  Chloe nodded. “But as soon as I hit the air, I didn’t feel well. I’d overdone the wine. She waited with me outside the hotel until a taxi arrived. Waved me off. That was the last time I saw her.” Her bottom lip quivered. Phil put his arm around her shoulders, handed her a folded tissue from his pocket.

  “Did you come straight home?”

  Chloe nodded. “Matt was still watching the end of Match of the Day when I arrived back.”

  “Do you know where Jo was planning to go after you left her?”

  “Still down to The Angel, I think. She said she’d meet up with some friends.”

  “Did she say who?”

  She closed her eyes, shook her head. “I shouldn’t have gone. I should have stayed with her.”

  “It’s not your fault, love,” Phil said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jackman said. “I know this is difficult, but do you know of anyone who might want to hurt Jo?”

  “No.”

  “Would you be able to give me a list of her friends, a boyfriend, family, work colleagues?” he asked gently. “I’ve asked Grace too, but the more people we speak to, the more chance we have of finding out what happened. I’ll also need her mobile number.”

  She nodded, turned to her dad. “How’s Grace? And Lydia?”

  Phil hesitated. “They’re as well as can be expected, love.”

  “What was Jo wearing last night?” Jackman asked.

  She looked up at him, puzzled. “Her lilac bridesmaid dress. Same as me and Lydia.”

  “Did she have any earrings in?”

  “Yes, just plain gold studs. We all wore the same.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t get it?” Her face contorted. “If it was her, you’d have known that…”

  “We just have to check the details.”

  She buried herself in her father’s chest, muffling the wails that followed.

  Jackman looked away unobtrusively, gathering his thoughts. The earring wasn’t weathered enough to have been in the hedgerow long. If it didn’t belong to Jo, who did it belong to? His mind raced. Why strip the victim naked, yet leave her details nearby? It was almost as if the killer wanted them to know who she was.

  Chapter Five

  Jackman tapped his pen twice against the picture on the board. The hollow sound reverberated around the room. “Jo Lamborne. Nineteen. Undergraduate studying sociology at The University of Nottingham. Came home earlier this week to attend her cousin’s wedding at The Three Swans Hotel in Market Harborough yesterday.”

  The room fell silent as twelve pairs of eyes focused on the photos of the young woman before them.

  “Anything from the press appeal yet?” Jackman asked.

  “Plenty of calls coming through,” Wilson said. “Nothing significant
yet. We’re prioritising at the moment to anyone who actually knew her or saw her yesterday.”

  Jackman nodded his thanks and turned to the room. “Let’s get the hotel rota for Thursday and work through it,” he said. “A guest list is on its way from the family. It was a small wedding, around thirty people attending, so we’ll start with those. We also need to follow Jo’s movements last night from when she left the hotel. Who was the last person to see her? How was her mood? She told her sister that she was going to The Angel to meet friends. Check with the pub, see if anyone remembers her arriving. Who did she meet? Was she seen talking to anyone on the way?”

  “Surely someone must have seen her in Market Harborough,” Wilson said, “especially in a lilac bridesmaid dress?”

  “You’d think so. We’ve asked the press to focus on the dress and the matching shoes. It’s possible they may have been dumped somewhere. Let’s check the town cameras to see if she features there. Check for vehicles coming through too, see if anyone picked her up. I want another team focused on victimology,” he continued. “What company does she keep? Who has she spent time with recently? Let’s look at her life in Nottingham and try to build up a picture of her movements during the past few weeks. Emma Parsons will be spending time with the family, obtaining an account of their movements so that we can cross reference for consistency, feeding back information as and when she gleans it. We haven’t located the victim’s phone, but we have her mobile number so we can apply for her call records.”

  His eyes scanned the room and rested on McDonald. “See if you can get the techies to pull her social media records. We know she was on Facebook, so we’ll need to appeal for witnesses there. What about Twitter, or Instagram? Let’s see if there are any new followers or abnormal activity.” McDonald nodded and made some notes on his pad. “Wilson and I will get down to the morgue and see what the pathologist says.”

  Jackman thanked them all and returned to his office. By the time he had shut down his computer and collected his jacket, Wilson was at the back door of the station, waiting for him. A thought occurred to him as she battled with her overcoat. “See if you can get hold of your friend in the press office, will you?” he said. “I’d like to do a live appeal this evening.”