The Secret Child (DI Amy Winter #2)(18)

‘I saw the appeal on the telly,’ Flora said, cautiously eyeing her. ‘It was good. You didn’t look half as nervous as you used to.’

‘I’m getting plenty of practice.’ Amy drained her glass. She reached for the bottle of Gordon’s, a slight sway in her hand. Good. It meant she would get some sleep. ‘You know what really upset me?’ She gave her mother a knowing look as she topped her gin up with tonic. ‘Work, I can cope with – it’s my personal life that drives me to drink. Ever since that woman got in touch, memories of my childhood have come flooding back.’ Amy wasn’t talking about the comfortable time she had spent with her adoptive parents in their upmarket London home. Nor was she talking about the private education she had been granted or the numerous after-school clubs and trips out with friends. She was referring to a dark and seedy past. Violence that a four-year-old child should never witness, much less be able to comprehend. The scars were embedded deep in her psyche, along with the actions of Jack and Lillian Grimes.

It was when Amy had been scrutinising Dr Curtis that she realised why she was so proficient in recognising the signs of fear. It was not from the hundreds of victims she had dealt with during her time in the police. It was from faces in her past, flashbacks of the victims dragged back to Jack and Lillian’s lair.

She looked at Flora, her eyes glistening with emotion. ‘I can’t keep her out of my head. It’s got to the point where I hate going to bed at night.’

‘Oh.’ Flora’s voice was small as she cradled her glass. She didn’t need to ask Amy who she was referring to. ‘I’m sure things will improve with time.’

An alcohol-induced smile played on Amy’s lips. Being both tipsy and annoyed was a novel emotion and she gave it free rein. ‘But it won’t. The more time passes, the more I remember. It sickens me to think I was there when . . . when . . .’ She hung her head as another flashback played on a loop. She was four-year-old Poppy Grimes, the palms of her hands sticky against the black leather seats of her father’s car. The radio playing ‘Living Doll’ on a scratchy frequency. Lillian emitting high-pitched laughter as the lyrics referred to locking someone up in a trunk. Amy could almost taste the boiled sweets her daddy had bought her for being a good girl and keeping quiet. She was their bait. A projection of innocence for lost souls wandering the streets.

She could feel the judder of the car as it came to a halt by the kerb, hear the creak of the rusted car door as an unsuspecting young girl slid inside. A runaway, lured by the promise of a babysitting job and a roof over her head. The girl was hesitant, her hand still on the inside door handle as the car picked up speed. Then came the look Poppy had seen many times before. Eyes that burned with the need for reassurance. It’s going to be OK, isn’t it? But no reassurance was forthcoming. Poppy’s lips stayed tightly shut as she rolled her sweet over her tongue.

Reaching across the table, Flora squeezed Amy’s hand, making her jerk away in response. ‘Maybe you should see a counsellor. You’ve been through so much. You can’t expect to deal with it on your own.’

‘And relive it all over again? No thanks.’ She gave her mother a watery smile, feeling guilty for snatching back her hand. No one else knew the gory details occupying her mind, and she was going to keep it that way. ‘I’m fine, it’s just the gin talking. It’s been a long day.’

‘You could talk to me . . .’ Flora looked at her dolefully. They both knew that she would not be able to deal with the horrors of Amy’s past. She bit her lip. ‘Or Adam. He came for a visit today.’

‘Adam? Ugh. And you let him in?’

‘What else could I do? I could hardly close the door in his face.’

Flora had received many visitors since her husband’s passing, but this was one friendship that did not need cultivating. What was Adam up to now?

‘If Charles Manson called, would you let him in for a little chat?’ But Amy’s joke fell flat as she recalled her heritage. How could Flora bear to have the daughter of serial-killer parents beneath her roof at night?

‘He’s a sweet boy who made a mistake,’ Flora replied. ‘He still loves you, you know. He’d do anything to get you back.’

‘You call sleeping with someone else the night before our wedding a mistake?’ Curled up at her feet, Amy’s pug snored, having joined their conversation halfway through. Dotty would have been far more comfortable on her bed, but her beloved pet didn’t like to leave her side when she was at home. Amy took comfort in her presence, the warmth of her fur tickling her toes. Who needed a man with devotion like that?

Flora toyed with her glass, having barely touched its contents. ‘He misses you. He wanted to check that you were all right.’

‘Proper little comrades-in-arms, aren’t you?’ Amy sighed as the visit played out in her mind: Adam wrapping Flora around his little finger as he tried to worm his way back in.

‘I’m sorry, love.’ Flora sighed. ‘All I want is for someone to look after you.’

‘I’m well able to look after myself.’ Knocking back the last of her gin and tonic, Amy rose unsteadily to her feet. But her words had been sharp and she caught the hurt expression on her mother’s face. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve got you, haven’t I?’ she said softly.