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

  Dougie smiled, placing his hand on Amy’s. His skin was warm and comforting to the touch. ‘I knew the truth would come out in the end. I’m glad it’s come from you.’ Reaching forward, he took the box from the coffee table. ‘I’ll hand myself in today. You don’t need to be involved.’

  ‘What if you end up in prison?’ Amy sighed. ‘I can’t let you do that.’

  ‘It’s for the best.’ He looked her in the eye, his expression resolute. ‘I’ll call them after lunch, tell them I’ve had the box all along.’

  ‘After lunch?’ Amy said, wondering why the delay.

  ‘I’ve got a nice steak in the fridge waiting to be cooked. I’m going to have a bath and change into my best suit. When I leave this place, I’ll do it with grace. All I ask is that you promise to keep out of it. Don’t risk your career for me.’

  ‘I can come with you if you like, ease the wheels,’ Amy said, feeling a pang of sadness for her father’s old friend. ‘That’s if you’re sure . . .’

  ‘Promise me,’ Dougie said, his words firm.

  Amy nodded. Was he doing the right thing? She looked at Dougie, helpless in his wheelchair. But Lillian had kept her word so far. Coming forward with the evidence could save Hermione’s life.

  ‘This will be all sorted by this evening. You can call Lillian Grimes and she can get her appeal underway,’ Dougie said.

  Amy opened her mouth to protest, to say none of this was for Lillian Grimes. But he raised his finger to silence her. He already knew.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  ‘I wish you’d told me you were coming,’ Geraldine said, meeting Paddy in the hall. ‘I would have made you breakfast. Have you got time off work? I’ve got eggs. I could make pancakes . . .’

  ‘Stop. Just . . . stop.’ Paddy raised his palms in the air. ‘We need to talk.’ He sniffed the air, inhaling the harsh smell of bleach. It appeared she had been cleaning. She had been lying about her inability to leave the house. Had she sensed he was planning something? Was that what all the cleaning was about?

  ‘We can talk over breakfast,’ Geraldine insisted, tightening her dressing gown as she searched his face. ‘Why are you standing there? What’s wrong?’

  But Paddy shook his head. The kitchen was filled with implements that could easily be used against him – potentially end his life. ‘I’m sorry love. I can’t do this anymore.’ He sighed wearily.

  ‘Do what? Come home to a clean house and have your wife make you breakfast? I’m sorry, am I going to too much trouble for you?’

  And there it was: the acidic tone. She could only be nice for so long before the timer kicked in. He could almost hear it, beneath the surface. Tick, tick, tick . . . an unexploded bomb waiting to detonate. It made what he had to say a whole lot easier. Taking a deep breath, he prepared to voice the words he had rehearsed for so long. ‘I’m leaving you. I want a divorce.’

  Raising her hands to her ears, Geraldine simultaneously shook her head. ‘No. I don’t want to hear it.’ A pause. Abruptly she nodded as if responding to her thoughts. ‘Pancakes, that’s what I’ll make. With maple syrup and blueberries. I have some nice filter coffee and . . .’

  ‘I could have just texted you,’ Paddy interrupted, turning towards the stairs. ‘God knows it would have been safer. I’m in more danger with you than the people I deal with in work.’

  ‘All couples argue . . .’ Geraldine’s slippered feet slapped against the wooden stairs as she followed him up to his bedroom. ‘This is your fault, not mine!’

  ‘My fault?’ Paddy said incredulously. Pulling his suit from the wardrobe, he laid it on the bed. It was the one he wore to Suzy’s funeral – too precious to be chopped into pieces by his angry wife. Reaching onto the top shelf, he slid out the box containing his old ties. They were his last link to his daughter, apart from the memories he had stored away. Beneath the ties was a packet of printed photographs. Geraldine had burned every one she could find after Suzy died. It had been done to provoke him, to inflict as much pain possible. It had worked. He had wanted to hurt her that night. To repay her for every harsh word, every cut and every bruise. His self-control was only kept intact because of the pack of photos kept in a cupboard she had forgotten to search. Such bitter memories rolled over in his brain as he grabbed the last of his belongings. Standing in the doorway, Geraldine watched his every move.

  He had vowed to leave without argument, but his words came, low and rumbling just the same. ‘At first I thought I deserved it. That it was my fault Suzy died. But I loved her . . .’ He swallowed, determined to finish. ‘Loved her more than anything in the world.’ He looked pointedly at his wife. ‘I thought it might work with us seeing less of each other, but it’s actually got worse. It’s like you store it all up for when I come home.’ Grabbing his belongings, he turned towards the door. ‘You’re going to end up killing me if we carry on like this.’

  ‘Boo hoo, poor you,’ Geraldine said, blocking his exit. ‘Dread coming home, do you? You pathetic, feeble excuse for a man.’ Her words were punctuated with spittle that caught Paddy on the face. ‘You can shrug off the blame all you like. It’s your fault Suzy’s dead.’

  Paddy tried not to take the bait. He had already spoken to an IDVA, who was on her way over right now.

  Gesticulating wildly, Geraldine rolled her eyes. ‘If you were a real man . . .’

  ‘I’d what? Hit you back?’ Paddy stepped towards her. ‘Because that’s what you want, isn’t it? To be punished. But I don’t work that way. It’s over. You won’t see me again.’

  ‘You’re not leaving, I won’t let you!’ Turning on her heel, she ran ahead of him down the stairs. Briefly, she disappeared into the kitchen. It set Paddy on guard. But he would not rush out the door. He still had a little pride left.

  ‘There’s a police officer outside. If I’m not out in five minutes, they’ll be knocking on the door.’ Paddy checked his watch as he descended the steps into the hall. He cast an eye on the crooked pictures that Geraldine had once thrown to the floor, the dent in the door from where she had kicked it after he left. But it was the atmosphere in their home that disturbed him most of all. Everything was cold and grey. It was as if the house had withered and died the day Suzy was killed.

  Shuffling into the hall, Geraldine returned, her hands behind her back. Her hair was wild and unkempt, her eyes filled with a hatred that made Paddy stall.

  ‘Given them some sob story, have you? Poor Paddy with his nasty wife, ironing his shirts and cooking him breakfast while he gallivants to his fancy piece during the week.’ She glanced over his shoulder and pointed at the door. ‘I should go out there and make one of those . . . what do you call it? Counter allegations?’

  ‘Except you’re not able to go outside, are you?’ Paddy said. ‘Or at least that’s what you’ve been telling me all these years.’

  For once, Geraldine stood, devoid of words.

  ‘I know you’ve left the house. Bought yourself a computer, too. Why did you lie about having agoraphobia? If you hate me so much, why keep me here?’

  ‘I didn’t lie!’ She blurted the words as Paddy made a move towards the door. ‘My sister . . . she’s been helping me to get out. I was going to surprise you. I was going to . . .’ Tears streamed down her face as she fought for composure. ‘Please, Paddy. I’ll get counselling, I . . . I’ll do whatever you want. Every couple has rows. We can sort this out.’

  Her sister? Paddy frowned. Was she having him on? Did he even care anymore? Her pleading had won him around in the past, but Paddy felt stronger now. It always followed the same cycle: sorrow, regret, blame, and violence. But this morning her moods were changing rapidly to suit the progression of events. He checked his watch. ‘This is as much for your good as it is mine.’

  She revealed the weapon behind her back. The knife was small but sharp, used to peel potatoes, but deadly if she stabbed him in the right place. ‘You’re off to shack up with that Winter tart, aren’t you? That’s what this is about.’

 
; Over the years Paddy had been accused of having an affair with anyone from the postwoman to their next-door neighbour. But Amy Winter . . . She was wide off the mark. ‘You’re wrong,’ Paddy said, although unable to deny having an affair. ‘She’s not interested in an old codger like me.’

  As he approached the door, Geraldine blocked his exit, her hand shaking as she held her weapon aloft. ‘Don’t try and deny it. You think I’m going to let you walk away after everything you’ve done?’ A vein throbbed on the side of her forehead, her knuckles tightening around the knife.

  ‘Put the knife down,’ Paddy said, as they came to a standoff in the hall. It was pride that had made him ask the accompanying officer to wait in the car. That and the fact he didn’t want Geraldine arrested. Even now, he still cared. But moving her aside involved physical contact, and only God knew where that would end.

  She stood, a twisted smile playing on her face. She was goading him. But he was wise to her and could recognise the signs. A sharp knock on the door made her jump, and she pocketed the knife.

  As he pulled the door open, Paddy wore a hesitant smile.

  ‘Everything OK, Sarge?’ the uniformed officer said, casting a concerned eye over them both. At a well-built six foot three, his presence was useful, to say the least.

  ‘What about money? How am I going to manage on my own?’ Geraldine wailed, ignoring the officer standing on the step.

  Grateful for the blast of fresh air, Paddy inhaled a lungful before turning to his wife. ‘I’ll send it as normal until we sort things out.’

  He turned to the officer. ‘It’s time we were off.’ Grasping his belongings under his arm, he followed him down the drive.

  Lunging forward, Geraldine took two steps outside and hissed in Paddy’s ear. ‘I’ll say you assaulted me. I’ll have you locked up.’

  ‘Which is why I’m recording our conversation. Oh, and every bruise, every cut, every injury has been logged. Say one lie about me, and I’ll report the lot.’

  Geraldine withered before his eyes like a deflated balloon. Defeated, she sloped back inside and closed the door. Paddy was lying. He would never have reported her. But at least now things were over. He inhaled another lungful of fresh morning air. It was time to begin again.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  DCI Hazel Pike would have made a terrible poker player. Her failure to conceal her emotions was the same reason she performed badly in suspect interviews when she was a DC. Having said that, her inability to mask her thoughts did have its advantages. It left people in no doubt when she was mad at them. As she entered Amy’s office, her annoyance was clear. Without saying a word, she clicked the door firmly shut.

  Amy rose from her chair. It was a mark of respect that most probationers seemed to forget these days. She knew that Pike was awaiting an update, but she needed time to catch her breath.

  ‘I take it our little matter this morning has been dealt with?’ Pike said, her harsh eyeliner and coffee-coloured lipstick making her skin look drawn and pale.

  Amy wished she would sit down. It felt like a showdown at the OK Corral as they stood across from each other, feet planted wide. Any minute now she would draw her gun and bam, you’re dead.

  ‘Winter? Are you all right?’ Pike’s features softened, one eyebrow raised.

  Amy took a breath as she reined in her thoughts. Lack of sleep had taken its toll, and her office was uncomfortably warm, the window tightly shut.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ she said huskily before clearing her throat. ‘Can you spare five minutes so I can explain?’

  Checking her watch, Pike sighed. ‘I’ll give you four. I’ve got a conference call in ten. Where’s your sergeant by the way? Late again?’

  As Pike took a seat, Amy mirrored her movements. It felt strange to be on the other side of the desk. ‘No, he had a domestic matter to clear up. Something that couldn’t wait. He’s got TOIL, so I authorised him to come in an hour late.’

  Time owed in lieu was easily accumulated when you were working on their team. Pike nodded, seeming satisfied with the explanation, and waited for Amy to speak.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Dougie Griffiths, Dad’s old shift partner.’

  ‘I know who Dougie is,’ Pike replied with authority. ‘What’s he got to do with this?’

  ‘The shoebox was his. He planted the evidence – not Dad.’ Amy paused. Given Pike’s feelings for her father, it was unwise to mention Flora’s knowledge of events. Pike was bound to feel animosity towards her, and her mum had been through enough. ‘Dougie’s going to hand himself in. We might even get Lillian’s cooperation. Hermione’s what matters after all.’

  ‘That’s who I came to speak to you about.’ Pike crossed her legs, picking at an invisible thread, her way of buying time to think. ‘Do you think Lillian is connected to The Keepers of Truth?’

  ‘It’s possible. She’s promised to give me her location if she gets enough evidence for an appeal.’ Amy wondered how much to tell. Too much information and Pike would insist on arrests. Too little and she would steer the investigation the wrong way. Amy wished she had more faith in Pike’s decision making, but the truth was, she didn’t.

  ‘How are you documenting this?’ Pike said.

  ‘Dougie’s asked that I keep out of it. It was his shoebox, and as far as he’s concerned, he’s had it all these years.’ The statement felt bitter on Amy’s tongue. She had wrestled with the prospect of omitting the truth, but it was the only way of keeping her mum safe. Flora would crumble in a police interview and perverting the course of justice was a serious crime. It was not going to happen. Not on her watch.

  ‘In that case, contact Lillian Grimes. Tell her you’ve found evidence which should form the basis for an appeal. As far as you’re concerned, Mr Griffiths has informed you he’s going to hand himself in. Granted, it would have been better if you’d arrested him there and then . . .’ She paused as Amy’s eyebrows rose in response. ‘But you understood there were mobility issues so you’ve left to follow it up with Essex Police.’

  Amy nodded. ‘I’ve already rung the prison. Lillian’s with the doctor – routine check-up. I’m waiting for a call back.’

  ‘Good. I’ll inform the command team in the meantime. Update Lillian, then call Griffiths. Make sure he hands himself in.’

  Amy rose as Pike stood. ‘You’re a good detective, Winter. As long as we agree on things, then I don’t have a problem with your parentage. If anything, it makes me admire Robert even more.’

  Amy baulked at the backhanded compliment. As long as we agree? My parentage? She clenched her jaw, delivering a strained smile.

  It was another half an hour before Lillian called and the heat of Amy’s anger still blazed. ‘I’ve got what you wanted,’ she said begrudgingly. ‘It’s time for you to deliver your side of the bargain.’

  ‘I need more than your word for it,’ Lillian said. ‘Where’s my proof?’ Her words sounded tinny, and crackles interfered on the line.

  Crossing her ankles beneath her chair, Amy leaned forward on her desk. ‘I’ll speak to your solicitor, get the ball rolling. But only if you tell me where Hermione Parker is.’

  ‘Tell me what you’ve got first,’ Lillian replied. She sounded less sure of herself. Amy pressed the phone close to her ear as the arrogance drained from her voice.

  ‘Notes. Plans, drawings,’ Amy recounted. ‘Written evidence as well as items that were taken from your home. By the end of today, a written confession from a witness involved in the case. You’ve got it all. Now tell me where she is.’

  ‘Must be a shock for you, to discover I’ve been telling the truth all along. Makes you wonder what other lies Robert told. Seems he’s not Mr Perfect after all.’ The words were familiar but again, lacked her usual mocking tone. Amy did not have time to correct her. Hermione’s life was on the line.

  ‘You told me to deliver within three days and you would call your fanatics off.’

  ‘No need to panic, she’s still there, safe and sound.’
/>   ‘Tell me where she is, or I’ll bury it,’ Amy lied. Even talking about bending the law made her break out in a cold sweat. But Hermione’s time was running out.

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  Amy’s eyes narrowed, her chair creaking as she leaned forward in her seat. Unlike before, Lillian was not asking for a trip out of prison, or even hinting that she knew the address. ‘Do you even know where she is? Because wasting police time is a criminal offence.’

  A pause.

  ‘Lillian, are you there? Diverting the investigation will add time to your sentence, not take it away.’

  ‘I have to go,’ Lillian said. ‘Someone’s waiting to use the phone.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Um . . . talk to my solicitor, then we’ll see where we go from there.’

  ‘But that makes no sense. Time is running out.’ The call went dead. As she put down the phone, clarity struck. Pike was not the only person who could ill conceal their emotions. The hesitancy in Lillian’s voice came through loud and clear.

  ‘She doesn’t know,’ Amy whispered aloud. ‘She doesn’t have a clue where Hermione is.’

  A sharp knock at the door made her jump.

  A chequered tie hung from Paddy’s neck as he poked his head through. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but we’ve got something.’

  ‘Yes?’ Amy placed the phone back on the receiver.

  ‘The search team. They’re at India Docks. They’ve got a result.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Of all the crime scenes Amy had attended over the years, this was her first visit to a fishing vessel of this kind. No stranger to seedy back alley locations, she had attended public toilets, seen bodies hanging in the woods and once suffered the indignity of her trousers ripping as she climbed into a tiny tree house.

  West India Docks was both historic and modern, with Canary Wharf and its glittering skyscrapers, restaurants and shops. With the trundle of the light railway and the atmospheric docks, it was a blend of centuries old and new. But today the beauty of the area was surpassed by Amy’s sense of urgency as she rushed to the scene.