The Shape of Truth

THE SHAPE OF TRUTH GILLIAN JACKSON Copyright © 2023 Gillian Jackson 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. First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books. 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. www.bloodhoundbooks.com Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8344-7 CONTENTS Love best-selling fiction? 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 Love best-selling fiction? LOVE BEST-SELLING FICTION? Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks! Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors? Facebook Twitter Instagram 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