The Secret Child (DI Amy Winter #2)(71)

‘Sleep at night, can ya?’

Venom laced the words, making Amy spin round, ready to assert herself. But her movements stalled as she came face to face with Marian Price. She was the younger sister of sixteen-year-old Barbara Price, who had been murdered by Jack and Lillian Grimes decades ago. Barbara’s brother had thrown the egg outside the station and now Marian had come to say her piece. In seconds, Amy assessed the middle-aged woman’s form. Her black puffa jacket could be hiding weapons, up the sleeves, in the lining or inside the hood. Her jeans were tight but the pockets deep enough to conceal a syringe. As for her ankle boots, they were long enough to house a small blade. Her auburn hair was tied up at the back, thick enough to hide a hairpin. Amy did not get her ideas from James Bond movies – this was real life, and these were just a few of the things she encountered during police searches. Just the same, her temper finally dissipated, her stern expression fading to one of sorrow and regret. ‘I’m sorry . . .’ She hesitated, grasping for the right words. ‘But I’m not the one to blame.’

But the annoyance on Marian’s face told Amy this would be a one-way conversation. ‘You’re sorry? Your parents killed my sister. Did God knows what to her first. And then . . .’ She stabbed the air with her finger, her words trembling with emotion. ‘Then you had the gall to turn up at Mum’s door and act the hero.’ Tears shimmered in her eyes. ‘What kind of sicko are you?’

‘Now hang on a minute,’ Amy replied. ‘I was just a child back then.’

‘So was I,’ Marian continued, her features soured with disgust. ‘But you weren’t a child when you came to update us on the burial sites. It wasn’t that long ago. To think I shook your hand. Thanked you for everything you did. That child they used as bait . . . was it you? Did you see my sister? Remember what they did to her?’

Amy danced around the question. ‘I have nothing but sympathy for your family. It’s why I wanted to help.’

‘You shouldn’t have come to our house. You weren’t welcome there.’

‘I had no choice. Lillian Grimes would only help me on the condition that I told the families in person where their loved ones were buried. She’s the one who’s sick in the head. Surely you remember everything my father did to solve the case? Robert Winter – my real father. I could have told Lillian no. God knows, I felt like walking away. But I had to let those girls rest in peace.’

‘Really? You’re telling me the truth?’

‘Your mum knew my father. She remembered what he did. Do you think he’d raise me to do anything less?’

‘I’ve been waiting hours to see you. The newspaper headlines . . . they’ve been going around and around in my head.’ Slowly, the heat left her words. ‘I shouldn’t have come here. But it was such a shock.’

‘It was for me too,’ Amy replied sadly. ‘I’m still coming to terms with it.’

‘It was bad enough having to bury my sister, but finding out the killer’s daughter had been in our house . . .’

‘I don’t see myself like that. I’d go mad if I did. I’m Amy Winter. I’ll always be a Winter. I hope you can find it in your heart to see things the same way.’

‘My brother . . . Some woman messaged him on Facebook, told him where you’d be. I warned him not to bring those eggs.’

‘He’s upset. We all are. Handling your sister’s case is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I had no choice.’ They walked side by side, Amy’s bike keeping a safe distance between them. They talked about past and present and the pain that would not go away. Her suspicions were confirmed. It was one of Lillian’s online groupies who had set up the heckling incident.

Finally, they parted. Shoulders slumped, Marian returned to her car. Another soul tormented at the hands of Lillian Grimes. What would tomorrow’s headlines bring? The media were still picking the bones of Lillian’s story, and it was a meaty carcass indeed.



Amy was grateful when she got home and discovered her mother had decided on an early night. After quickly checking in on her, she took Dotty for a walk around the block before settling into bed with a cup of Ovaltine. She needed to straighten herself out, and self-medicating with booze was not going to help.

Amy’s bedroom had not changed much over the years. Apart from a new double bed, it was still decorated in the Laura Ashley colours her mother had picked. Amy had never been one for pink. Instead, the decor was soft white and dove grey, the one exception the tiny pink cherry blossoms dotted on the cover of her duvet. Snuggling up against plump cushions, Amy opened her laptop and began to research online. There was no way she could sleep, so she decided she may as well put her time to good use. Typing keywords into the search engine, she started looking up the rubber-band theory Paddy had spoken about.

Stockholm syndrome was also referred to as ‘trauma bonding’ and was defined as the psychological tendency of a captive to bond with their captor. As she read the article she thought of Luka and the things he’d said. The more she spoke to the kidnapper, the more positive she was that Luka Volkov had survived. But what about his possible accomplice? Lillian’s theory was not something she had discussed in great detail with her team. After today’s incident, it was probably just as well. How would they react if they knew she was going to Lillian for advice? The woman who helped her one minute, then organised a brawl outside the police station the next. Something bothered her about their last conversation but she couldn’t put her finger on it.