Truth and Lies (A DI Amy Winter Thriller Book 1)
PRAISE FOR CAROLINE MITCHELL
‘It is no secret that I love anything this lady writes. I find that her style carries me along beautifully. From the very first moment I felt Rebecca’s tension I did not breathe properly until I read the very last word. As ever I was entranced by the sharp characterisations that convinced me I knew these people personally. This book was thrilling, tense, exciting, dark and twisted in the best possible way. It is only now, the following day, that I am able to breathe normally again.’
—Angela Marsons
‘Silent Victim is fast-paced, twisty, and it chilled me to the bone . . . I loved every minute of it!’
—Robert Bryndza
‘The very definition of a page-turner. Unreliable narrators mean you never quite know where you stand until it all builds to a richly satisfying climax. A fantastic psychological thriller.’
—John Marrs
‘A dark yet compelling domestic drama that had me hooked straight off. The tension built up and up, the fear and sense of dread layered throughout, and the ending had me breathless. I devoured every page.’
—Mel Sherratt
ALSO BY CAROLINE MITCHELL
The DC Jennifer Knight Series
Don’t Turn Around
Time to Die
The Silent Twin
The Ruby Preston Series
Death Note
Sleep Tight
Murder Game
Individual Works
Paranormal Intruder
Witness
Silent Victim
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Caroline Mitchell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503903142
ISBN-10: 1503903141
Cover design by Tom Sanderson
For Jessica,
Because short people rock. x
CONTENTS
START READING
29 October 1987
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
‘One lie spoils a thousand truths.’
–African proverb
29 October 1987
Beasts of Brentwood killer receives life sentence
Lillian Grimes, one half of the deadly duo nicknamed the ‘Beasts of Brentwood’, has been sentenced to life imprisonment at Chelmsford Crown Court for the murder of nine young women. Justice Michael Devine told the prolific serial killer, who denied all involvement, that she was a danger to the public and should never be released. Bodies of six young women, aged from thirteen to twenty-three, were found on the grounds of 13 Newbold Street in Brentwood, home to Lillian and husband Jack Grimes from 1972. They included the remains of their daughter, Sally-Ann Grimes, which were discovered behind a boarded-up fireplace.
The 34-year-old mother of four repeatedly voiced her innocence as she was convicted, despite overwhelming evidence against her. Evidence that, according to her solicitor, was manipulated by police to obtain a successful charge. She will be appealing the verdict.
Lillian’s husband Jack, 39, was found dead in his cell two months before trial, when he was reportedly preparing to disclose the whereabouts of three of the victims. According to officials, his death was caused by an undiagnosed heart condition.
Jack and Lillian Grimes were arrested following a social care visit to their home in connection with the disappearance of fifteen-year-old Sally-Ann Grimes. The couple’s remaining three children have been taken into care.
A jury of five men and six women were subjected to sickening evidence in court, including details of how the couple had lured eight of the nine victims to their house before subjecting them to horrific sexual violence. They were then brutally murdered and buried in the garden, inside the wall cavities and beneath the floorboards of their home. Lillian Grimes maintained that Sally-Ann’s death was an accident, yet forensic evidence revealed she received a severe blow to the head. Jurors rejected Grimes’s claims of innocence when questioned about the deaths, and after eleven hours of deliberation found her guilty.
The investigating officer, Detective Chief Inspector Robert Winter of Essex Police, has stated that further investigations are underway with regards to the whereabouts of the three victims whose bodies have yet to be found.
CHAPTER ONE
1986
It was the scratching noise that brought Poppy down to the place where she wasn’t allowed to go. She wrinkled her nose as her bare feet touched the steps, wishing she could blot out the stinky smell. She did not want to think about the spider that had produced the giant cobwebs hanging from the basement rafters. Glancing around the room, she took in the flaked paint and cardboard boxes piled high against the walls. ‘Hammy,’ she whispered
, her heart fluttering like a butterfly in her chest. She had poured away her special bedtime drink, because she didn’t want the nightmares that it brought. Lying in bed unable to sleep, she had not been able to stop thinking about her pet, lost and alone in the dark. ‘Hammy,’ she whispered a second time, the basement floor cold beneath her soles.
Peering in the dim light, she tiptoed past the old single mattress on the floor. She didn’t know why her father kept a bed in the room where he worked, but the presence of red stains made her scared. Glancing back up the basement steps, she wondered if her hamster could have made it all the way down here on his own. Scratch . . . scratch . . . scratch . . . The noise crept from a large wooden chest in the corner of the room, but it seemed very loud for a hamster. Poppy stiffened. If it wasn’t Hammy making that noise, then what was it?
‘What are you doing down here?’ Sally-Ann rasped from the top of the steps, making Poppy jump. Her older sister was more like a mother to her, seeing to her needs when Mummy and Daddy were away. But today, Sally-Ann’s eyes seemed as big as saucers, and the colour had left her face.
Poppy bit the corner of her lip. She had broken the rules. She was in big trouble now. ‘Hammy got out,’ she whispered, pointing to the corner of the room. ‘He’s over there.’ But the scratching had stopped and been replaced with a low moan. Poppy wound the sleeves of her My Little Pony nightdress over her hands, her fingers withdrawing as she bunched her fists inside. She was desperate to put her thumb in her mouth, but that would bring another telling-off, and she was in enough trouble as it was.
Sally-Ann’s feet barely touched the steps as she joined her. ‘That’s not Hammy,’ she whispered, glancing up to the shaft of light at the top of the steps, then back to Poppy’s face. ‘And you shouldn’t be here.’ Her voice turned into a squeak as a door slammed upstairs. ‘It’s Dad. Gawd, if he catches us, we’re done for.’ Grabbing Poppy by the arm, she dragged her back to flee the way they had come. But it was too late. Heavy footsteps grew louder as they echoed down the hall.
Poppy’s fingernails bit into the palms of her hands as her fists tightened in response. If Daddy caught them down here, he would beat them with his belt.
‘Quick, hide,’ Sally-Ann whispered, her fingers pinching Poppy’s skin as she pulled her away.
‘You’re hurting me,’ Poppy squeaked, tears rising. What she wanted to say was that she was scared: more scared than she had been in all her life. The look of fear in her sister’s eyes told her there was more than a beating at risk. She knew that Sally-Ann had seen things, secret things she could not share. The footsteps were getting closer now. Her father was just seconds away. ‘Hide in here,’ Sally-Ann gasped, plunging her hands beneath Poppy’s armpits as she lifted her into the air. ‘Don’t cry. Don’t make a sound, no matter what happens. Do you hear? No matter what, or you’ll be done for, too!’
Poppy found herself being plunged into a washing basket half-filled with dirty sheets. The stains were the same colour as the ones on the mattress: burgundy red. Her heart hammered as she squashed herself into the narrow space. In a thought too horrific for her four-year-old brain, she realised that the dried crusted substance was blood. She choked back a whimper as Sally-Ann covered her with a sheet and placed the lid back on. Blinking back her tears, she broke through the material tangled around her. A gap in the wicker allowed her a narrow glimpse of her father as he swaggered down the stairs. Tall and broad, he seemed like a giant of a man as he took a swig from the bottle in his hand. His features twisted as he glanced around the room, and Poppy prayed that her sister had found a hiding place in time. She couldn’t allow herself to think about the blood on the sheets and why her father was dragging the chest from the corner of the room. A smile curled on his face, but it was a bad smile. Her chin trembled as she sucked in a silent breath, wishing she were back in bed.
When her father heaved the naked and bloodied body from the chest, Poppy clamped one hand, and then two, across her mouth to stem her scream. But Sally-Ann was not as instinctive when it came to taking her own advice, and Poppy winced as she heard her sister’s sudden intake of breath. Her father’s reaction was swift. He strode behind the boxes and pulled Sally-Ann out by her plaits, picking up the bottle he had left on the ground. Bellowing with rage, he tugged hard on her hair, while raising the bottle in the air.
Closing her eyes tightly, Poppy stuck her fingers in her ears to blot out the noise. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. Warm urine trickled between her thighs, accompanying the clawing sensation of fear. Poppy knew it was all too real. Involuntarily, her eyes blinked open, and she caught sight of her mother descending the stairs.
‘What have you done?’ Lillian gasped with obvious horror, taking in the scene.
Swallowing back her tears, Poppy followed her mother’s gaze to see Sally-Ann, crumpled and lifeless on the basement floor.
CHAPTER TWO
September 2018
The pitter-patter of rain drummed like fingernails on black umbrellas, failing to drown out the mourners’ sobs. Envying their tears, Amy bowed her head as a mark of respect. Her dad’s Met colleagues, who were also hers, had done him proud. Leaning forward, she picked up a handful of damp earth and threw it on the coffin. A scattering of roses followed it, and Amy took comfort from the wall of rain-speckled police uniforms as they gathered to pay their last respects.
She failed to stop herself from stiffening as her brother, Craig, placed his arm around her shoulder. Giving her a quick squeeze, he immediately withdrew, and she responded with an apologetic half-smile. What kind of a freak was she? Unable to cry at her father’s funeral, and now incapable of accepting an affectionate hug. Pulling off her gloves, she stuffed them in her coat pocket, touching the hard edges of the 007 key ring her father had given her six months before. She cleared her throat, feeling it constrict as she pushed her grief down. Who would watch Bond movies with her now?
Just twenty-four hours after the funeral, Amy found herself parked on a leather armchair in Dougie Griffiths’s bungalow. It was the exact spot where her father had sat when visiting his ex-partner once a week for the last eight years.
Amy’s grey eyes danced across the photos gracing the fireplace, Dougie’s whole life story on display: a blurry photo of his parents, having emigrated from Jamaica in the hope of a better life, the East London flat Dougie grew up in, and a picture of his first day at school. The next photo brought a smile as Amy saw a fresh-faced Dougie’s first day in police uniform, his afro crammed under his helmet, his chest swollen with pride. Having met Amy’s father in Essex Police, they had transferred at the same time to the Met. But their working relationship was cut short when Dougie received an injury that rendered him permanently wheelchair-bound. Amy’s eyes fell on the last picture, of Dougie and her father, glasses raised in the pub, celebrating their latest collar. It was beyond her how a heart that had beat so fiercely for justice could stop without warning, depriving them of the opportunity to say goodbye. Amy sighed. A spirit as strong as his could not just fizzle out. There had to be a part of him somewhere, willing her to carry on.
‘I’d tell you to go home, but I suppose I’d be wasting my breath.’ Dougie’s East London accent broke her free from her thoughts.
‘Ta,’ Amy said, taking a sip of the hot, sweet beverage, and giving him a knowing smile. ‘You know how Dad loved his traditions. I’m not going to break this one now.’
Dougie manoeuvred his wheelchair beside her, spilling not a drop of tea on the tray balanced on his lap. These minor victories had been a long time coming, and her father had been instrumental in each one. Dougie’s voice was soft now, a depth of sympathy in his honeyed brown eyes.
‘Sweetheart, your father’s just died. You’re entitled to some time to grieve. Don’t feel you’re obliged to carry things on.’
‘I’m afraid you’re stuck with me,’ Amy said, her eyes twinkling as she kept her tears at bay. ‘And don’t think it’s out of obligation. Nobody makes a cuppa like you.�
�
Dougie chuckled. ‘In that case, my door is open anytime.’ He paused to sip his tea. ‘How are you settling in with your new team? Taken command of any big cases yet?’
Amy relaxed into the chair, the subject of work a welcome one. ‘I’m getting on well with my DS. Do you know him? Patrick Byrne? He used to be my tutor. Worked in firearms for a few years before transferring to serious crime. Dark hair, forty-five-ish . . . ’ It was not unusual for officers to occupy different roles during their career in the police.
‘Paddy Byrne? Yeah, I know the chap. You’ll do just fine with him as your anchor man.’
Amy nodded. Patrick ‘Paddy’ Byrne was her most trusted colleague, although when out and about they made an unusual coupling. At ten years older and a whole foot taller, he dwarfed her five-foot-two-inch frame; but what Amy lacked in height she made up for in spirit, and in the face of criminality, they were a formidable pair. ‘The rest of the team seem happy to have me at the helm, although that’s more to do with Dad’s reputation than anything else.’
‘You’ll prove yourself in time.’ Dougie gave her a knowing look. ‘How’s Craig? I didn’t get to talk to him at the funeral.’
Like her, Amy’s brother had joined the police on his eighteenth birthday. But given that Craig was five years her senior, he’d had a good head start. Their competitiveness was a source of friction between them, and he had only recently been promoted to Detective Inspector of CID. ‘He left early,’ she said, not wishing to go into detail. She loved him and would not gossip behind his back.
Seeming to sense her discomfort, Dougie changed the subject. ‘I’m going to miss your dad. It won’t be the same without him.’
Amy drained the last of her tea. She could imagine Dougie and her dad replaying old war stories as they swung the lamp. A shadow crossed her face at the prospect of never seeing him again. She turned to Dougie, her eyes locking onto his. ‘I’m going to make him proud. I won’t let him down.’
‘He was always proud. Look at all of the things you’ve overcome.’ He shook his head. ‘You didn’t have the easiest start in life, that’s for sure.’