The Shape of Truth: A completely gripping crime suspense, page 1
THE SHAPE OF TRUTH
GILLIAN JACKSON
Copyright © 2023 Gillian Jackson
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The right of Gillian Jackson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books.
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Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8344-7
CONTENTS
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Also by Gillian Jackson
1. Anna
2. Anna
3. Caroline
4. Anna
5. Anna
6. Caroline
7. Anna
8. Caroline
9. Samantha
10. Anna
11. Samantha
12. Samantha
13. Samantha
14. Mark
15. Caroline
16. Anna
17. Jenny
18. Mark
19. Georgia
20. Anna
21. Mark
22. Samantha
23. Samantha
24. Caroline
25. Caroline
26. Anna
27. Jenny
28. Samantha
29. Samantha
30. Paul
31. Georgia
32. Tim
33. Samantha
34. Mark
35. Mark
36. Tim
37. Anna
38. Samantha
39. Arthur
40. Arthur
41. Mark
42. Anna
43. Anna
44. Anna
45. Samantha
46. Georgia
Epilogue
You will also enjoy:
Author’s notes
Acknowledgements
A note from the publisher
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ALSO BY GILLIAN JACKSON
The Pharmacist
The Victim
The Deception
Abduction
Snatched
The Accident
The truth is rarely pure and never simple
– Oscar Wilde
1
ANNA
2015
The polished oak coffin draped with a Union Jack was carried by six of the tallest Royal Marine Cadets from the local corps, youngsters nervous with the responsibility and weight of a man’s body and more comfortable in baseball caps and trainers than their cadet’s ceremonial uniform. It was the end of January, the most depressing month for a funeral, and an icy north wind chafed at the cadets’ faces and whistled around the mourners’ legs.
I walked beside my mother, Caroline Greenwood, who leaned on me for support as we followed the procession into the church, her face pale and eyes red from crying. The vicar led the mourners, reciting the words of Psalm 23.
‘The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not want…’
Reaching for my mother’s hand, her fingers were stiff with cold.
‘He makes me lie down in green pastures…’
The cavernous church echoed with organ music as the vicar raised his voice to be heard.
‘He leads me in the paths of righteousness…’
The solemn undertaker ushered us into the front pew and my mother sighed heavily, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Neither of us actually believing that my father, Ronald Greenwood, was gone, his lifeless body prone in the coffin before us.
At only fifty-six, his death was sudden and entirely unexpected. A massive heart attack claimed the life of a man who we thought to be fit and strong, a man who rarely ailed anything, not even a common cold. I squeezed Mum’s hand gently, my heart heavy for her. She would feel his loss more than anyone. Most of her adult life had been spent at Dad’s side, caring for him and me to exclude any needs or desires of her own.
The church was packed, mainly with Dad’s former colleagues from the Royal Navy, the Royal British Legion members who had arranged the pallbearers and guard of honour. Ronald would be sorely missed at the Legion; he was a popular figure, a stalwart, ever willing to help out when needed. In his time, he’d served as Legion secretary and treasurer, meticulously keeping books and willingly taking on the roles others avoided. So many of those in attendance were strangers to me and I’m not sure Mum knew all of them either, but we would mingle afterwards at the Legion and listen to their memories, some would be familiar, others not.
The eulogy paid fitting tribute to Dad’s service in the Royal Navy, his bravery during the Falklands conflict and unwavering support of the Royal British Legion since. The vicar’s kind words elevated Ronald Greenwood to an exemplary human being and I wondered if everyone attained such high stature after death. Do we all become saints when we’re gone? It appears we do. When the service concluded, we made our way to the crematorium to say our final goodbye, solemnly walking behind the coffin, strangely distant from the proceedings.
The final drawing of the curtain was an emotional moment for Mum. I longed for the ordeal to be over, for her sake as much as mine. Yet a room was booked in the Legion as was expected. There was more to endure before the day would be over.
‘So sorry for your loss, Mrs Greenwood.’
‘Your dad was a wonderful man; he’ll be a great loss, Anna.’
The word loss was repeated in various phrases by strangers and acquaintances – a typically sanitised way to talk about death as if Dad was simply lost in the supermarket and we might find him in the frozen food aisle.
‘Ronald was such a lovely man,’ one well-wisher told me afterwards when we were safely ensconced in a booth at the Legion. ‘Do anything for anyone, would Ronald. He’ll be greatly missed.’ I nodded, smiling my thanks for his kind words, taking on the role of hostess for my mother, who was with us in body but not in spirit, and I invited him to partake of the buffet.
I could hardly reply truthfully to the man – to tell him his opinion of my father was poles apart from my own – that I’d spent the last ten years of my life trying to avoid Ronald Greenwood – and that my feelings for him at times bordered on hatred. Such mean-spirited thoughts were not like me and totally inappropriate for the occasion. Berating myself, I determined to concentrate on Mum for the rest of the day. Her grief, unlike my own, was genuine.
The afternoon dragged on until, eventually, we could leave with our duty done. Dad had been given the send-off he would have wanted and expected.
Sleet accompanied us as we made our way home, falling gently into the silent dark streets, a fitting backdrop for our sombre mood. Unlocking the front door, a palpable sense of emptiness drew us inside but at least the house was warm and I was grateful Mum had the forethought to turn up the central heating before we left.
‘Why don’t you have a lie-down?’ I suggested. Mum’s face revealed signs of tiredness with dark patches below her eyes and lines around her mouth which I’d never noticed before, dragging her lips downwards in a sad grimace.
‘Yes, Anna, I think I will.’ She forced a smile and trudged upstairs to her room – the room she’d shared with Dad for nearly thirty-four years.
I shivered despite the warmth. Being only thirty-two, relatively independent and with no intention of marrying, I could barely comprehend my mother’s emotional state. Her earlier description was of a sense of being brutally and unexpectedly ripped in two and functioning now as one half of a whole.
Dad was away with the Royal Navy for long periods in the early days of their courtship and marriage, and I know Mum missed him terribly. Latterly, since I left home ten years ago, it’s been just the two of them, twenty-four-seven, and they were happy to be together. Mum now faced so many adjustments and I wondered fleetingly if our relationship would change now Dad was gone.
My emotions after we’d laid Dad to rest were somewhat ambiguous. I disliked the man intensely and couldn’t grieve for his passing, but the strength of my animosity towards my own flesh and blood shamed and appalled me – it was a trait I abhorred yet seemed unable to alter. I’d never considered myself a heartless person, but my reaction to Dad’s death made me wonder. Shouldn’t I feel something other than this sense of relief?
From the day I left home, Mum was always the connection and one I had no desire to sever. Maintaining a relationship with her meant that Dad and I would occasionally cross paths. Okay, I must sound like a heartless bitch, but in my defence I could argue that my feelings for my father were matched equally by his for me – it was a mutual dislike and had
Looking around the house where I grew up, my head swam with thoughts and memories – not all of them good. Dad’s winter coat hung in the hall, his slippers on the rack beneath. I wondered how long it would take for Mum to summon enough courage to sort through his belongings.
Moving into the kitchen, I decided to make something to eat for later, although neither of us had much of an appetite. The room had barely changed since I lived there and more memories popped unbidden into my head, triggering a rush of anger and frustration. I turned at a sudden noise – a shiver ran down my spine and I fully expected Dad to be standing behind me, waiting for my next mistake, a reason for yet another snide remark – but it was only the wind.
So many incidents, mostly trivial ones, had been enacted in this room. Then there were the more relentless rows we frequently engaged in, arguments which left me feeling very alone and often afraid of the man who should have been my protector.
As a young child, I don’t think I hated Dad quite so much. I remember occasions of actively seeking his approval, as little girls do. I coloured endless pictures for him and made plasticine figures which I convinced myself he’d love. When Mum was baking, I begged to be allowed to make ‘special’ cakes for Daddy which she encouraged wholeheartedly, but my efforts were met with little more than a grunt or even complete disinterest. Mum made a fuss on his behalf and whispered how much he appreciated my gifts, but I knew otherwise, and as time passed, I stopped trying, taking my lead from him, the very man who should have loved and encouraged me.
Many of my friends didn’t get along with their parents either, particularly during those difficult teenage years. Yet still, I always felt the poor relationship with my father was more than simply the normal growing up parent-child squabbles. His dislike of me was so apparent at times that it felt like something about my very existence displeased him. Dad was even reluctant to be in the same room as me, leaving the distinct impression that I’d done something wrong and the fault was mine.
Why else would a father struggle to be civil to his own child? Perhaps he was jealous of Mum’s love for me and our close bond, but wasn’t he the adult? Shouldn’t he have been above such feelings? It was easy to eventually give up on my father and even begin to dislike him for what amounted to an almost hostile attitude towards me. So much for happy memories – was it any wonder I can’t grieve for the man.
An hour later, Mum came down the stairs looking hardly any better than when she ascended them.
‘Did you get any sleep?’ I asked.
‘Not really, there’s too much to think about and my head’s throbbing.’ She went to the kitchen cupboard to get some aspirin, her movements sluggish.
‘I was just about to boil some pasta. Do you think you could eat something?’
‘Sorry, love, but I don’t think I could manage anything. You have some though.’ Mum tried to smile yet it didn’t cover her sadness.
‘Not for me either. I’m not hungry. We’ll have a cup of tea, shall we?’
We took our tea into the lounge. Mum gazed around the spacious room and sighed. Like the rest of the house, the décor was dated but held the potential to be a comfortable home. Perhaps Mum would fill her time busying herself with new projects to update it. She was always keener than Dad to make changes in the house.
‘You know you could move back home now if you wanted to?’ Mum’s eyes rested on me, a hopeful expression taking me completely by surprise. ‘There’s more than enough room here and it seems silly paying rent on your place when you have other options.’
Entirely taken aback at the sudden suggestion, my mouth opened, yet no words came out. The thought hadn’t occurred to me. Having paid rent since leaving home over a decade ago, Mum was right, it left me with very little money to save for a deposit on a house but it didn’t worry me. Getting away from home and from Dad was worth the exorbitant rent I paid each month, and I was fortunate enough to have a good job which covered my expenses, admittedly with little to spare.
I finally found my voice. ‘It’s rather too soon to be making such huge decisions, Mum.’ Too soon for both of us in reality. ‘Wouldn’t you rather move to a smaller place yourself?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I feel closer to your dad here.’
Living back at home was undoubtedly a reasonable suggestion, but would it work? At thirty-two, did I want to move back in with my mother? I enjoyed my independence and freedom and was comfortable in my little flat. Did I really want to give it up? Yes, the flat was small with only one bedroom, a broom cupboard of a bathroom and an L-shaped lounge with a tiny kitchen area. But it was a ground floor flat with the added luxury of a small square courtyard garden, a sun trap when the weather was fine, and a place to fill with colourful blooms in pots and troughs throughout the summer.
‘It’s a long time since I’ve lived with anyone. I’m probably too set in my ways now.’ It was the best answer I could manage, although probably not the one Mum wanted to hear.
‘Think about it, love. It could be good for both of us, but maybe you’re right – it’s too soon to decide yet.’ Mum smiled, and the subject was closed for the time being. However, the conversation prompted me to suggest that it was time for me to go back home, and to work. I’d spent a week staying with my mother and, as they say, life goes on.
2
ANNA
Being a lab technician in the local hospital pathology department isn’t perhaps everyone’s idea of a dream job, but I love it. Strange though it seems to some, it offers sufficient variety and challenge to capture and maintain my interest with the opportunity of learning new things almost daily. Friends rib me about dealing with blood and other more unsavoury bodily fluids but the samples are minuscule and I’m rarely troubled by such gruesome thoughts. To me, it’s pure science.
In my eight years there, I’ve secured two promotions and am currently one of two supervisors in the lab, heading up a team of six. Five more technicians work alongside the second supervisor, Joel Amos, in the adjoining lab. Although I’ve been at the hospital longer than Joel, he has seniority due to his degree and previous experience elsewhere, yet it’s never been an issue, we work well together. Generally, it’s a great environment and I’m happy to be here. I’m not driven by ambition and have no desire to move on as long as the work interests me.
When Joel first arrived, his Nordic good looks, inherited from a Norwegian mother, created quite a stir amongst the girls. His blond hair is worn just a shade too long, and he frequently flicks it from his face in an unconscious action or runs his fingers through it absent-mindedly. Baby blue eyes and a tall muscular build ensure he gets noticed, yet Joel appears genuinely unaware of the effect his presence has on the opposite sex. Admittedly, he’s good-looking, but I think I’m impervious to such physical charms. To me, he’s simply another colleague.
After a week off on compassionate leave and the stress of Dad’s funeral, it was a relief to return to normality. Yet my mind refused to engage on that first morning back, and my thoughts frequently drifted to topics completely unrelated to work.
