Bad Sister: ‘Tense, convincing… kept me guessing’ Caz Frear, bestselling author of Sweet Little Lies

Bad Sister: ‘Tense, convincing… kept me guessing’ Caz Frear, bestselling author of Sweet Little Lies Sam Carrington Sisters. Allies. Liars.The gripping new thriller from the author of Saving Sophie.Stephanie is scared for her life. Her psychologist, Connie Summers, wants to help her face her fears, but Connie will never really understand her. Stephanie’s past has been wiped away for her own protection. Stephanie isn’t even her real name. But then, Dr Summers isn’t Connie’s real name either.And that’s not all the women have in common. As Stephanie opens up about her troubled relationship with her brother, Connie is forced to confront her own dark family secrets.When a mutilated body is dumped in plain sight, it will have devastating consequences for both women.Who is the victim?Who is to blame?Who is next?Gripping, tense and impossible to put down, Bad Sister will have fans of Sue Fortin, B A Paris and Linda Green hooked till the final page.Praise for Saving Sophie‘This book is not only gripping, but it explores the mother/daughter relationship perfectly, and ends with a gasp-out-loud twist’ Closer‘I DEVOURED THIS STORY IN ONE SITTING’ Louise Jensen, author of The Sister Copyright (#u274549df-7baf-5866-ae0d-092b934425c4) Published by Avon an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017 Copyright © Sam Carrington 2017 Cover photographs © Shutterstock (http://Shutterstock.com) Cover design © Stuart Bache, Books Covered Ltd 2017 Sam Carrington asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008200213 Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008200206 Version 2017-09-13 Dedication (#u274549df-7baf-5866-ae0d-092b934425c4) For my sister, Celia – who is not bad at all. Table of Contents Cover (#u7157394c-7e81-517c-8d20-1abd6ed7698f) Title Page (#ucaa2eef6-efb0-5e13-867f-86577fffbb89) Copyright (#u4832e869-b4ad-57ed-9aa6-aef7623d6a9d) Dedication (#uf4117811-b71d-5145-9868-ff29a828709a) Prologue: Then (#u73eb3cdd-e77d-5359-ade0-64308cc69cf3) Chapter One: Connie (#u716745ff-00d5-5a80-8e73-2c1a11c572a9) Chapter Two: Di Wade (#u990be457-0a92-5780-a710-89e617272080) Chapter Three: Connie (#ua90184f4-00d9-5fc3-84dc-12a494bf6948) Chapter Four: Connie (#ue2082eee-2483-52b5-9a0a-5aa2696e0249) Chapter Five: Then (#u4aea060a-fd28-594a-b3a6-f24c973cf649) Chapter Six: Connie (#u7f7edb5f-3c22-5753-b331-d2da7db12b5b) Chapter Seven: Di Wade (#u06a08ad8-9df7-533b-8805-9b4fe383cd0e) Chapter Eight: Connie (#u63441621-3ac9-5aa4-8294-ccd12f421b61) Chapter Nine: Connie (#ue7fc835f-6e3f-5c3b-812e-c124868cb53d) Chapter Ten: Then (#uac4953fa-b08f-5cd7-866d-b34b63bccea6) Chapter Eleven: Connie (#u209ee188-1eeb-540a-8caf-cb5131b41372) Chapter Twelve: Di Wade (#u00a5a9ea-e4f6-55df-adfa-070618d64833) Chapter Thirteen: Connie (#u79e87cae-52d8-596a-8d72-7e3dab1f1c96) Chapter Fourteen: Then (#uca0de39e-13d0-55f4-ad9b-2c27a34e1bc2) Chapter Fifteen: Connie (#ud0aa3c56-4ec0-5dd7-84dc-b15e148fe134) Chapter Sixteen: Connie (#u5b232917-0784-5b90-88af-082e68369c7e) Chapter Seventeen: Di Wade (#u8743709b-5449-5ba6-bf0e-1af65fcfe00a) Chapter Eighteen: Connie (#u63480d7c-409a-5915-bca2-fac8fe8e230b) Chapter Nineteen: Then (#u9063379a-9406-5b69-95f0-26f8a48907bb) Chapter Twenty: Connie (#u88d6e012-d777-57ff-9eab-02a1af1da09a) Chapter Twenty-One: Connie (#ubd5f29b7-7bfe-5ea5-bb46-d5d440326ec9) Chapter Twenty-Two: Di Wade (#u8de4c187-b42d-5330-9bed-703be4161a7b) Chapter Twenty-Three: Connie (#u138f19c4-beb1-5143-a5c8-4d4f4a19506b) Chapter Twenty-Four: Then (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven: Di Wade (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine: Then (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-One: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Two: Di Wade (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Four: Then (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Five: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Six: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Seven: Di Wade (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Eight: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Nine: Then (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Two: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Three: Di Wade (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Five: Then (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Six: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Seven: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Eight: Di Wade (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-One: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Two: Di Wade (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Four: Then (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Five: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Six: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Seven: Di Wade (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Nine: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-One: Di Wade (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Two: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Three: Brett (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Five: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Six: Then (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Seven: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Eight: Di Wade (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Nine: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy-One: Brett (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy-Two: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy-Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy-Five: Di Wade (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy-Six: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy-Seven: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy-Eight: Di Wade (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy-Nine: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighty: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighty-Two: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighty-Three: Di Wade (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighty-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighty-Five: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighty-Six: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighty-Seven: Then (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighty-Eight: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighty-Nine: Di Wade (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ninety: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ninety-One: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ninety-Two: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ninety-Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) PROLOGUE (#u274549df-7baf-5866-ae0d-092b934425c4) Then (#u274549df-7baf-5866-ae0d-092b934425c4) The heat pressed against her face. On it. In it. Her cheeks felt like they were burning inside as well as out. The little boy stood motionless beside her, his scorched pyjama bottoms trailing the pavement. His dark unblinking eyes stared up at the leaping flames erupting from the upper floor, then his attention turned to the bedroom window. At the man screaming there. She watched too, unable to drag her gaze away. The man’s face seemed oddly distorted; like the famous painting she’d seen once: The Scream, wasn’t it? He banged against the windowpane, his mouth opening in a large O shape. The howl coming from the dark hole didn’t sound human. His hands were either side of his dripping face. Was it melting? He disappeared from view. The boy’s small hand slipped into hers. She snatched it away, and finally turned from the burning scene to look down at him. ‘What have you done?’ CHAPTER ONE (#u274549df-7baf-5866-ae0d-092b934425c4) Connie (#u274549df-7baf-5866-ae0d-092b934425c4) Monday 5 June ‘All right, Miss. Didn’t think I’d bump into you on the outside.’ Connie froze, the voice behind her instantly cooling the blood in her veins, despite the morning’s warmth. Her head dropped involuntarily, her bobbed, black hair falling forwards, creating a curtain on either side of her blanched face. She could pretend she hadn’t heard, carry on walking, but if she ignored him he might follow her. Slowly, she turned to face him. The man – wiry, thin from heroin addiction – leant against the wall adjacent to the train station entrance, cigarette in mouth, his eyes squinting through a cloud of smoke. A thin wisp of air expelled from Connie’s lungs and pushed its way through her pursed lips. Her shoulders relaxed a little. It was only Jonesy. She could cope with him. ‘Oh, hello, Jonesy. How are you doing?’ Connie instantly regretted the open question. She gave an exaggerated look at her watch, then smiled, hoping he’d get the message that she was in a rush. ‘Well, you know how it is, Miss. It ain’t easy, they got me on a short leash, like – but it’s better than being in that shithole I s’pose.’ Connie raised her eyebrows. She was inclined to agree with the last part. ‘What you doing with yourself now you’ve left, Miss?’ She hadn’t expected that question. How did he know? ‘Oh, well … I’ve gone for a change in direction.’ She turned away from him, her attention shifting to the small group of people heading into Coleton station, the low hum of their early morning conversation drifting on the air. She wished she could slide in step with them, get away from Jonesy quickly. She didn’t want to give him any details about her new job, or get into an awkward conversation. He might have done his time, but someone who’d been convicted of aggravated burglary wasn’t a person she particularly wished to converse with right now. She checked her watch again. ‘I’ve got to go; I’m going to miss the train. Sorry.’ ‘Ah. Okay.’ He shrugged, his voice clipped. ‘Another time, then.’ Connie hoped not. ‘Good luck, though.’ She turned and walked towards the entrance. ‘They were wrong, you know,’ Jonesy said, his voice carrying after her. ‘To treat you like that. It wasn’t just your fault.’ Her steps ceased for a few seconds, then, without turning back, she ascended the stairs to the platform, her heels clicking rapidly on the metal. Her heartbeat matched her footsteps. CHAPTER TWO (#u274549df-7baf-5866-ae0d-092b934425c4) DI Wade (#u274549df-7baf-5866-ae0d-092b934425c4) As murder locations went, this was up there with the ones categorised as ‘unusual’. Detective Inspector Lindsay Wade had seen bodies dumped in all manner of places, and wasn’t easily rattled. This case didn’t have the shock factor in terms of it being off the wall, or weird – it was that the body was clearly meant to be found. Already this had put a bad taste in her mouth, and a cramp in her stomach. The killer wanted people to know, wanted the press coverage, the limelight. Murders like this were usually thought out, planned. And they also didn’t tend to be one-offs. These were the alarm bells ringing in Lindsay’s mind as she and Detective Sergeant Mack turned off the road in the dark blue Volvo Estate and on to the driveway leading to HMP Baymead, the local prison four miles outside of the market town of Coleton. ‘How long ago did uniforms get here, Mack?’ Fifty-two-year-old Charlie Mack had always been known simply as ‘Mack’ even at school. No one used his forename, bar his mum. Humming an unrecognisable tune, he flicked through his black pocket notebook. ‘The first got here at 7.35. Call came in from the Operational Support Grade in charge of the front gate at 7.20. Said he’d heard the screeching of tyres, saw a white, unmarked transit van drive at speed back up the road leading out of the prison. Thought it was just some idiot messing around; with the driveway being accessible to anyone, he said they often get vehicles that aren’t official – not relating to employees – coming in and out. There’s also a public footpath that runs along the top of the grounds, popular with dog walkers apparently.’ ‘Christ, you’d think it’d be more difficult to get to, more secure.’ ‘Yeah, but it’s a cat C prison, out in the sticks. The fencing is high enough, and it’s not like you’re going to get some nutter trying to scale it, in or out, not with that roll of wire on the top.’ DS Mack motioned out the car window at the perimeter fencing as they drove by. The red-brick walls of the prison buildings could be seen beyond the fence. The site had been used as an army camp in the run-up to World War Two. The buildings were now a mix of old and new, with a new larger cell block being more visible than the older ‘H-style’ living blocks that housed the majority of the inmates. ‘So, who found the body?’ ‘A Carol Manning, prison officer. First one of the morning shift to arrive at approximately 7.10. She had to walk past the victim to get to the entrance. She raised the alarm with the OSG.’ ‘Why did he wait for another ten minutes before he called it in?’ ‘They were pretty shaken, you know, the way the man’d been killed … and the fact they knew him.’ ‘I guess. Did uniform ask them whether they’d touched anything, messed with the scene during that time?’ ‘Yep, and if they did, they didn’t own up to it. And apparently more employees arrived for work before uniform got here too.’ ‘Great. So it’s a possibility then.’ Lindsay parked alongside the other police vehicles, sighed and pulled her long, red hair back into a ponytail, deftly looping and securing it into an elastic band before she got out of the car. As she usually did, Lindsay stood and took in the surrounding area, her hands firmly in her trouser pockets. Mack hung back, waiting for her to complete her routine scan. Lindsay’s eyes settled on the tape cordoning off the area, then shifted to the white tent erected over the body. A pale-looking PC stood at the entrance to the scene, clipboard in hand. She breathed in deeply, the mugginess of another humid day already saturating the air, then exhaled forcefully. ‘Right.’ She turned back to the boot of the car, lifting it to reveal the items they’d require. ‘Let’s get in there and see what we’ve been left.’ CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_ad04648f-7786-5ebb-9220-d3b9b497e7ca) Connie (#ulink_ad04648f-7786-5ebb-9220-d3b9b497e7ca) It took Connie ten minutes of winding through side streets and a brisk walk halfway up the main road of the historic town of Totnes to reach her building. She wiped the sheen of perspiration from her forehead – it was the reason she liked to get the early train, to prevent this kind of exertion first thing in the morning. The hill was a killer at the best of times and didn’t suit her size- 16 frame – a consequence of months of late-night snacking on salt and vinegar crisps, and her consumption of takeaway and convenience microwave meals for one. She much preferred to amble up it. Still, she’d made good time, despite her unexpected encounter with Jonesy. She stopped and looked at the shiny gold-plated plaque which adorned the wall to the left of the entrance: MISS C SUMMERS CPsychol FBPsS, like she’d done every morning for the past five months. She’d probably tire of it at some point, but for now, seeing the plaque flooded her stomach with a warm sensation; she was proud of her efforts in setting the practice up, of gaining a client base. She’d considered getting a consulting room with one of the counselling psychologists she’d met when she trained seven years ago – to keep the financial outlay down. Melissa had a successful practice in Coleton – she’d gone straight into her counselling role, whereas Connie had made the choice to do a post-graduate qualification in forensic psychology. It would’ve been more convenient for Connie to take a room in Melissa’s building. But having the autonomy and freedom of being on her own outweighed the pluses of sharing workspace and costs. Her new place of work was tucked in between a jewellery shop and an estate agency. It was a narrow two-storey building: a small room on the ground floor with a kitchenette and toilet off it, and another upstairs which she used as her office and consulting room. It was compact, but sufficient for her needs; a far cry from the vastness of the prison environment. A shudder passed through her. She disregarded it; the feeling would go in time. She had a lot to look forward to now: she had a new name – she’d changed it from Moore and taken her mother’s maiden name instead; her own consultancy; only herself to answer to, and she was no longer bound to working with criminals. Connie really had changed direction. It was time to concentrate on helping the victims of crime, not the perpetrators. As Connie stepped through the blue wooden door into the room she’d designated as a client waiting area, a voice – high-pitched and shrill – assaulted her ears from behind. ‘Hey. You’re late. I’ve been hanging round here for ten minutes, people watchin’ an starin’ at me, like I’m some weirdo nut-job.’ Connie gave a tight smile and stepped aside to let the young woman and her four-year-old child through. ‘I’m sorry, Steph.’ She didn’t point out that Steph’s appointment was at 9.15 a.m. and actually she was early. ‘Well, you’re here now. Let’s get on wi’ it.’ Steph roughly tucked some long strands of wispy hair behind her right ear, then pulled at the boy’s arm, half dragging him towards the stairs. ‘Um … If you could give me a few minutes, please. Time to fire up the computer, sort the room …’ Connie indicated for Steph to sit in the floral-print tub chair. Steph stopped, glared at her for a few seconds, then huffed and pulled the boy away from the stairs. She sat down heavily on the chair, lifting the child on to her lap. ‘It’s tight time-wise today. As you can see, I got Dylan.’ She looked down at the boy, ruffled his mass of curly blond hair and then glared once more at Connie. ‘I got no one to ’ave him, his pre-school won’t take him ’cos he’s got a rash.’ Connie wondered if Steph had noticed her eyebrows suddenly lifting, because she quickly added, ‘It’s not contagious. He gets bouts of infected eczema, I’ve told ’em that, but they don’t listen.’ ‘Perhaps a note from your GP might help.’ ‘You know what I’m like with them. Don’t trust ’em.’ Connie would bet that Steph didn’t really trust her either. She seemed to put little faith in anyone. Connie ascended the stairs and turned right at the top, swinging her consulting room door open. The smell of freshly cut grass wafted to greet her. She’d strategically placed the room diffuser so that her clients would feel relaxed by its refreshing fragrance. Everyone loved the smell of cut grass. It didn’t usually have the desired effect on Steph, though. It would take far more than fresh cut grass to relax her. This was Steph’s third session. The other two had begun in a similar way and had ended the same – but in the middle, it seemed anything could happen. It was a surprise, like opening a box of chocolates and realising the menu was missing, so having to pop one in your mouth and hope that by the time the chocolate’s centre revealed itself it didn’t turn out to be Turkish delight. Today’s centre, Connie thought, was very likely to be Turkish delight. Apart from anything else, how was she going to carry out her session with Dylan in the room? Once her computer was on, suit jacket hung up, comfy chairs arranged, and paper and pens placed on the floor under the window for Dylan, Connie called for Steph to make her way upstairs. She didn’t take notes during the sessions, worrying that doing so would give the impression it was some kind of test, or that a report was being written about the client. Connie preferred to let them talk, have a proper conversation, full eye contact throughout. It made for a more relaxing atmosphere, showed them she was genuinely interested in their problems. Following the hour-long session, Connie wrote up the main points straight on to the computer: any developments, issues for further consideration – and a plan of action structured to the individual for their progression. Steph’s needs were complex; Connie had yet to penetrate the tough outer shell she’d constructed over the years, in order to expose the source of her current fears. Perhaps today might bring a breakthrough. But, as Dylan sauntered, head bowed, into the room and slumped to the floor beside the pens and paper, she realised it was unlikely. He seemed small for a four-year-old – not undernourished, but delicate, like a strong hug might break his bones. As much as Steph’s exterior was hard, and to the outside world she might appear to be an overly authoritarian parent, Steph was fiercely protective of her son, which meant she’d be guarded, hesitant to open up in front of him for fear of causing him worry. ‘Please, sit down, Steph.’ ‘What we gonna talk about today then?’ Steph jutted her square chin forwards. ‘How coming to this place was a bad idea? How that copper assigned to help me integrate – or whatever posh word he called it – has basically given me the brush-off? How last night I was scared to sleep ’cos the dreams have got so bad I can’t bear to shut my eyes, just in case I see him again? Up to you, Connie. You choose.’ Steph threw herself back in the chair; head tilted upwards, a deep ragged breath escaping her open mouth. Connie’s stomach tightened. Today was different. Steph seemed agitated from the off; no slow build-up. Where should she start? How could she approach her needs in this one-hour session? She decided to give the control back to Steph; clearly the lack of it in her own life made up a large part of her anger. ‘Which of those issues do you think is the main one troubling you at the moment?’ ‘They all are. And them are just what’ve immediately sprung to mind right this second. Trust me, there’s a load more to add to that collection.’ ‘It’s a case of untangling them, Steph – one by one. At the moment they’re all bunched together and it can be difficult to separate those that are founded, that are actually worthy of concern, and those that can easily be dispelled by just a few moments thinking them through. Seeing if they’re logical; real.’ ‘They’re all fuckin’ real.’ Steph turned quickly towards Dylan. He was deeply engrossed in drawing a picture; she sighed and returned her attention to Connie. ‘Okay. I’m dead angry at Miles. He’s dumped me in this town, so bloody far away from my home, and expects me to just get on wi’ it. I know I had no support in Manchester, not really, but I knew people. Knew the places. Knew the dangers. Here, in this weird hippy-Totnes town, I know nothin’.’ Steph waved her arms around, supposedly mocking the town’s residents. ‘Okay. It’s good that you recognise where your anger is directed. We’ll start there.’ Connie relaxed a little. As a starting point, this was actually a good one. Steph had been relocated under the protected persons scheme two months ago. Her assigned constable was Miles Prescott, an old-school police officer – and one who was nearing retirement. Connie had met him a few times; she’d taken on two of his relocates: Steph and Tommy. Those in the scheme were always given access to a psychologist – often they had issues of trust, but mainly they were afraid. And having been taken from their family and friends it meant them starting over again, completely, with different identities, new names. From what she’d learnt of Steph, her sense of identity had already been on rocky ground. She was unsure who she was any more, and the only constants were Dylan, Connie and Miles. Connie’s input was ten sessions, with an option of monthly catch-ups after – so, soon enough, one of Steph’s three supports was going to go. If she felt Miles wasn’t being as supportive as she’d been led to believe, then she’d feel alone – just her and Dylan. Connie had to try and encourage her to make friends in Totnes, help her to ‘become’ Stephanie Cousins. Put her old name and identity in a separate compartment. Not that anyone could forget who they were; where they came from. And nor should they – but if she was to succeed in integrating Steph here, Connie would have to help her build a new life. ‘So, what is the current situation with Miles?’ ‘I think he’s fed up wi’ seeing me. Got better things to do wi’ his time. He told me he can’t babysit me and Dylan all the time, said I gotta be the one to make positive changes and embrace this new life.’ She whispered the next bit: ‘That fucker – I put my life at risk to help ’em out. I went to that court and helped put a lowlife drug dealer away. He won’t rest until he’s made me pay for that. He’d have killed me then an’ there, I could see that in his eyes. They still could, if they find out where we are … Miles is meant to protect me, ain’t he? Not abandon me when it suits him. When I’ve outlived my usefulness.’ ‘Is that what you think he’s done? Abandoned you?’ ‘What would you call it?’ Connie leant her elbow on the arm of the chair and rested her chin in her cupped hand, contemplating the question. ‘Well, abandonment is a strong word. I wonder if what he’s actually trying to do is reduce his support in an effort to encourage you to go out of your comfort zone—’ ‘Er … I think you’ll find coming to this poxy town was already out my comfort zone. Dropping my boyfriend in it, testifying against one of the most powerful gangs in Manchester – that was out my comfort zone. But it’s not just that. What I want now is …’ Steph turned away. Connie saw dots of blood appear on her bottom lip, her teeth clamping down hard and grinding the thin skin. ‘Yes, go on. What is it that you want now?’ Steph wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, and then looked directly at Connie, the light from the window highlighting the unusual amber shade of her eyes. ‘I want someone to protect me. Make me safe. Stop him getting to me.’ ‘Okay, that’s part of the reason you’ve been relocated – to prevent your boyfriend, or any of the gang members, from harming you. Miles has ensured—’ ‘No. Not them. And Miles has ensured nothin’, apart from his stupid conviction. He might think he’s protected me by setting me and Dylan up here. But if he leaves me to it now, leaves me to fend for myself, then he ain’t gonna stop him from getting me.’ Steph’s face darkened, her expression fearful, frozen in time. Another time? Some other place? ‘Steph. If you aren’t talking about your ex-boyfriend, or the gang members, then who?’ Connie leaned forwards. ‘Steph.’ She placed her hand on Steph’s knee. Nothing. Steph remained stuck, transported, as if she was in a trance. ‘Stephanie.’ Connie spoke more firmly. Steph’s eyes returned to Connie’s. ‘Sorry. I was gone then.’ ‘Where? Where were you, Steph?’ ‘Back.’ She shivered, drawing her unzipped hoody tighter across her chest. Her voice lowered, her tone hard. ‘Wi’ him.’ ‘Who? Who are you with?’ ‘Brett.’ She spoke the name as if it hurt her to say it. The silence following the mention of this name stretched. Connie waited for her to elaborate. But she seemed to have gone into a daze again, her eyes penetrating the walls and beyond. Without warning, Steph bolted up and out of the chair, striding towards Dylan. She scooped him up. He thrashed briefly in her arms, trying to reach down for the paper scattered on the floor before she shouted at him to be still. Then she headed for the door. ‘Steph, we still have half an hour of the session. It might be good to carry on, don’t leave now,’ Connie shouted after her as she got up and followed Steph out. She watched as Steph descended the stairs, Dylan bobbing up and down with each step. As she reached the bottom she turned. Her eyes were wet with tears. ‘He will come for me. He’ll finish what he started. I know it.’ ‘How do you know it, Steph?’ ‘Forget it, Connie.’ Her voice was flat. ‘You can’t help me.’ Connie was still on the top step as the front door of the building banged hard in its frame. She ran down, and outside. Steph was already disappearing into the crowd in the market square opposite. What was that all about? She’d assumed Steph’s fear of being found was related to the gang that her ex-boyfriend had been a part of. But now she’d thrown something new into the pot. She’d have to write it down while it was fresh in her mind. There was no mention of a Brett in Steph’s case file, the one Miles had given her, she was sure of it. Connie had read the file thoroughly; it hadn’t taken long. It detailed her ex-boyfriend and the known gang members, and family-wise it said that her mother was in a nursing home, her father’s whereabouts were unknown and she had no siblings. As Connie returned to the consulting room to note down her questions, the security buzzer for the front door sounded. She exhaled and stretched across her desk, pressing the button to release the lock without asking who it was. It’d be Steph, hopefully, coming back to finish her session. But the noise on the stairs suggested more than one adult. Connie marched across the room. She let out an involuntary yelp as she flung the door open to find two people standing on the other side. CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_30e11567-6303-58af-8202-6c7ccba6d5eb) Connie (#ulink_30e11567-6303-58af-8202-6c7ccba6d5eb) ‘Morning, sorry to arrive unannounced.’ The petite red-haired woman, who looked to be in her mid-thirties, didn’t seem at all sorry and squared up to Connie as she thrust a badge in front of her face. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Wade. This,’ she threw a thumb in the air, indicating back over her shoulder, ‘is Detective Sergeant Mack.’ Connie raised her gaze from the short female detective to the tall man standing directly behind her. The disparity in their heights was almost comical. ‘Right, um … okay. Come on in.’ Connie, flustered due to Steph’s shock exit and now the sudden arrival of the detectives, allowed them in and shut the door behind them. She’d met DS Mack before, she was sure – couldn’t place where right now, though. She was used to dealings with the police, but they were usually planned meetings. This was unexpected. It was likely to be something relating to being an expert witness, or profiling. Occasionally in the past she’d consulted independently on cases that required profiling criminals. She hadn’t done this kind of work since leaving the prison service. Somehow, though, this felt different. She’d always got a call first. ‘What can I do for you both?’ Connie sat in the office chair behind her desk as if having that barrier gave her an element of control. DS Mack had taken a seat, the one Steph had occupied moments before, his long legs reaching the desk. But DI Wade paced the room, her hands in her suit trouser pockets. She settled in front of the array of framed certificates hanging on the wall adjacent to the window. ‘You used to work at HMP Baymead,’ DS Mack said as he flipped through his notebook. ‘As the Head of Psychology.’ ‘Yes, that’s correct. I officially left at the beginning of this year.’ Connie shuffled in her seat. ‘Can you tell me the reason for your departure from your position there?’ Really? She was going to have to go through that? ‘Personal reasons, Detective Sergeant. I’d been on long-term sick for six months and the job no longer held the …’ she looked up and to her right, trying to think of the right word to use, ‘attraction that it once did.’ ‘I can’t imagine that working with criminals could ever be classed as attractive, Miss Summers.’ ‘Well, you work with them, DS Mack.’ Her eyes penetrated his. She wasn’t having her career choice, or the reasons for it, coming under fire. ‘Ah, well I don’t work with them; I work to put them away. And I’ve never thought it’s an attractive job. I’d like to think it’s more to do with my duty to the community.’ Of course, Connie thought, it was the standard answer many police officers gave. She’d put money on it not being entirely true for DS Mack. ‘Are we going to debate who has the best reason for working with criminals,’ Connie said overly sweetly, ‘or are you going to get to the point of why you’re here?’ A snigger came from the other side of the room. DI Wade turned her attention from the certificates and drew the remaining comfy chair across the beige carpet to sit next to DS Mack. She smiled at Connie before asking, ‘Your reason for leaving the prison service, or rather, an instigating factor I believe, was to do with an Eric Hargreaves, known to most as Ricky. Is that right?’ Connie gripped the arms of her chair almost as tightly as the anxiety gripped her insides. What had he done now? More to the point, what else was she going to feel responsible for – another offence? An attack, or worse, a death? Connie’s breathing accelerated; the wave of panic threatened to spill over. Relax. Breathe. Her grip loosened, her heart rate steadied. She was overreacting; her thoughts weren’t based on any actual evidence. They were unfounded. He was still in prison. Wasn’t he? Connie attempted to work out how long he’d got left to serve, but her mind scrambled around, unable to do the maths. Both detectives were staring at her, waiting for her to speak. To tell them about an experience she was trying so hard to forget. Ricky. That name unlocked so many painful memories. ‘The circumstances surrounding Ricky’s case certainly had an impact, yes. It’s not exactly ideal, is it? To recommend a prisoner’s release only for him to rape a woman days later.’ She averted her eyes. Didn’t want to think about it, much less talk about it. What that poor woman went through, how she must’ve felt when she found out her attacker had only just been released. How much she must hate those who allowed him back into the community – hate Connie for reporting to the parole board that he was safe … Connie rubbed at her wrist absently, a raised red mark appearing. ‘No, Miss Summers, it’s not,’ DS Mack said gently. Although to Connie, there was a hint of distaste in his words. He probably blamed her too. ‘Please, call me Connie.’ Him saying ‘Miss Summers’ was beginning to grate on her nerves. ‘The reason we’re here,’ DI Wade’s blunt, monotone voice cut through, ‘is because we have a murder scene—’ ‘Oh, no, no. How? How has he committed a murder?’ Connie put her head in her hands. ‘Sorry, you don’t understand. He hasn’t committed it.’ DI Wade narrowed her eyes and moved forward in her chair. ‘He’s the victim.’ CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_b138e4a6-f8e9-56e1-bfa7-caf380e3e605) Then (#ulink_b138e4a6-f8e9-56e1-bfa7-caf380e3e605) Blue lights reflected in the puddles of water that had formed on the pavement, spilling into the gutter and down the drain, taking with it lumps of black debris. The show was over; the flames extinguished. Life as she knew it extinguished as well. The door of one of the ambulances banged. The girl jumped – she’d been so focused on the scene. A hand touched her shoulder, a paramedic spoke to her as he guided her to another waiting ambulance. The sounds were muffled, as if she was underwater. She snapped her head left and right, trying to clear it. He’d disappeared from her side. Where was he? Had he already been taken? ‘Where’s my brother?’ The man looked down at her, his eyebrows drawn together until they touched in the middle. ‘What does he look like?’ ‘About this high.’ With a shaky hand, she indicated up to her shoulder. ‘Black hair. He had blue pyjamas on. He’s ten.’ She swung around, eyes flitting over the scene, darting between the many figures that scattered the area. ‘Where is he? He was with me.’ The pitch of her voice elevated. The paramedic shouted to his colleague, asking if a boy had been taken to the hospital. She saw the shake of his head, the rising of his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Don’t worry,’ the man said, ‘I’m sure he’s safe. It’s scary for a ten-year-old, perhaps he’s got out of the way. I’ll ask the police to look for him.’ He made a move to bundle her into the ambulance, but she forced her body weight back against him, stopping his attempt. ‘Are you all right, love? Come on, you need to be checked over.’ ‘No.’ She turned and glared at him. ‘I need to tell them. I have to find him, and make sure they know.’ She struggled against his grip, pulling away from him, and the blanket he’d placed around her shoulders fell to the ground. ‘Wait, please, you need to be assessed!’ His voice trailed after her as she fled. There were at least four police cars. Why did they need so many? She ran to each one, pushing past bystanders as they lazily watched the scene, checking to see if he was in any of them. Where was he? ‘Hey, hey. Slow up.’ A policewoman gently placed both arms around her shoulders. Why did everyone feel the need to touch her? ‘What are you doing here? You should be on your way to hospital.’ ‘No, no. I need to find my brother.’ She didn’t make eye contact with the woman. ‘Ah, I see. It’s okay, he was frightened, he’s with one of the PCs over there.’ She pointed at an unmarked car, up the road on the right. ‘Did he tell you?’ The girl raised her wide eyes to meet the policewoman’s. ‘Tell us what?’ ‘That it’s his fault. Did the little creep tell you?’ She tore away, and ran towards the car. The policewoman followed. As the girl approached, she saw him in the back seat – with a blanket wrapped loosely around him, as they’d wrapped it round her. He looked small; innocent. The screech came from deep within her, filling the night air. ‘You little shit, you murderer!’ she shouted, banging both fists repeatedly against the window. The boy shrank away from it; from her – moving backwards, scrambling to the other side of the car. The policewoman was with her now, holding her arms; holding her back. ‘He did it. He started the fire. He’s a weirdo, always playing with fire. He killed him.’ Her determination gave her strength to break free. She launched again towards the window. She didn’t bang on it this time, but pressed up against it, squashing her features. It cooled her face. The boy inside cowered. Tears had made clean tracks down his blackened face. He shook his head, his whole body seeming to tremble. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping out of water. Finally, he managed to say, ‘Don’t be angry at me. I’m sorry, sis.’ CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_3af58b4a-474b-5037-bf32-a45541c8aab4) Connie (#ulink_3af58b4a-474b-5037-bf32-a45541c8aab4) ‘I don’t understand.’ Connie released her hands from the arms of the chair, gripping one in the other instead. ‘How?’ Her gaze darted between DI Wade and DS Mack, searching for clues while she waited for a response. ‘Mr Hargreaves was on ROTL – release on temporary licence—’ ‘Yes, I know what ROTL is, Detective Inspector. But, why was he? He’d not long been reconvicted.’ Connie felt heat flushing her face. ‘How had he possibly been assessed as being safe to leave the prison?’ ‘No offence, Miss … sorry … Connie. But hadn’t you assessed him as safe to return to the community?’ DS Mack said. ‘None taken. Because, yes, I recommended his release – along with other professionals, I might add – but at that time he hadn’t committed a further offence. Now he has, and so it would be ridiculous to allow him ROTL now, wouldn’t it?’ ‘Calm down, Connie,’ DI Wade said, as she shot DS Mack what appeared to be a warning look. ‘DS Mack hasn’t really explained it properly. Hargreaves was granted permission by the prison governor to attend his mother’s funeral last Friday. It was meant to be for a few hours, under prison-officer guard. But somehow, following a commotion at the graveside, the full details of which we’ve yet to discover, he made a run for it. It’s assumed he had help on the inside as well as the outside so that he could orchestrate the whole thing to coincide with the funeral.’ Connie sat back, forcing her shoulders down into their natural position. ‘So, now he’s dead?’ ‘Yes, that’s right. Three days following his escape. His body was dumped outside the prison gatehouse this morning.’ ‘Well, that’s unfortunate for him, I guess. So what’s any of this got to do with me? Why are you here?’ ‘Well, that’s the interesting part.’ Nothing about the case so far was in the slightest bit interesting as far as Connie was concerned. She didn’t want to have anything to do with it. Her upper body slumped. What the hell was coming next? ‘Eric Hargreaves’ body has been mutilated, the type and detail is not being disclosed for obvious reasons, but let’s just say it’s been done in a … particular way—’ ‘And you think I can help establish the type of person who would do this, give you some clues as to their motive?’ DI Wade scrunched her face a little and gently shook her head. ‘I’m sure you could help with that, yes, but we’re calling on you for a different reason at present.’ Connie’s stomach dropped. ‘Oh?’ ‘You see …’ DS Mack took over. ‘On closer inspection it was noted he had something written on his hand.’ He paused, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. He was enjoying dragging out the details; making Connie squirm. She rubbed at the raised red mark that was still on her wrist. It was stinging. She closed her eyes to block out DS Mack’s smug face. Although she couldn’t remember where she’d seen him before, she hoped after this that she’d never see his face again. ‘Am I meant to guess?’ Her tone sharp. DS Mack shifted sideways slightly in his seat; his feet kicked the corner of her desk. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a see-through evidence bag containing a photograph. He held it out towards Connie between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. She blinked rapidly a few times, then frowned. She stared at the words: ‘CONNIE MOORE’ written in black on the palm of the bloody, grey-tinged hand. Connie’s face tightened. ‘It’s a conundrum for us, too,’ DI Wade said. ‘But we’re hoping you’ll be able to shed some light on it?’ CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_78320ce1-bc25-5314-9b51-23f85d0cff0f) DI Wade (#ulink_78320ce1-bc25-5314-9b51-23f85d0cff0f) ‘Wow, Mack, what was all that about?’ Lindsay slid into the seat and slammed the driver door in one smooth movement, then stared at him. ‘What?’ He kept his focus forward. She recognised that tone. He knew exactly what she was referring to; it wasn’t as if he could’ve missed her sharp glance when he’d spoken to Connie Summers. ‘Do you know her?’ ‘No,’ he answered quickly. ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘Oh, you know – the weird atmosphere as soon as we walked into her office, the underlying tension, the sarcasm; signs people might show if they’ve got history.’ ‘Wow, you’ve got one hell of an imagination. Don’t you think she’s a bit young for an old codger like me?’ Mack ran a hand through his grey hair. Lindsay stared at him for a moment, taking in the mix of dark and light grey tones. She actually liked his hair; it was still thick, if not a bit unruly – if anything, it was his stubbly beard that aged him, made his face appear more weathered. She smiled. ‘Good point.’ Lindsay turned the ignition. She and Mack had worked together long enough for their working relationship to feel comfortable. Even as his superior, she could be herself, have a laugh. It was important in their line of work, and had become even more so since their last murder case; it’d taken a long while to regain her confidence after that one. To trust her judgements; instincts. Thankfully, the force still believed in her ability and skills as a DI. ‘Oh, cheers, Boss.’ She grinned. She’d get to the bottom of it at some point. She’d never seen him conduct himself that way before. There had to be a reason for it. ‘So, your personal stuff aside, what did you make of Miss Summers?’ Mack shook his head gently, tutting. ‘Not sure, if I’m honest. She was a bit hostile, short.’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘You know, personal stuff aside …’ ‘Hah! Yeah, I thought that too, though. It could just be because she’d been slammed for being instrumental in his release, perhaps she still has guilt issues – and now her name is on Hargreaves’ hand she’s worried the past will rear its ugly head again. I get that.’ ‘Or?’ ‘Or, she has an idea of why her name’s on his hand and is hiding something.’ ‘So, we’re not thinking she’s a target? If the killer wrote her name, you don’t think it’s because she might be the next victim?’ ‘Well.’ Lindsay raised her shoulders in a half shrug. ‘We can’t rule that out. But it didn’t seem threatening, just a name – not you’re next, Connie Moore.’ ‘I can see what you mean, but I’d feel pretty uncomfortable if it was my name on a dead man’s hand. How do you wanna play it then?’ ‘I think get her onside in a professional capacity – as an advisor. She’s worked for the police before, so should be easy enough to cut through the red tape and get her cleared. That way we can keep an eye on her, keep her close, in case we do uncover any evidence that she’s at risk. And we need to get as much info from her on Hargreaves and his associates as we can, see where that leads us. I’ll give her a call later to set it up.’ ‘Okay. Hope she lightens up a bit then if we have to work together.’ ‘If you apologise for the fact you never called her before we arrived, then perhaps she will.’ Lindsay gave him an exaggerated wink. ‘For heaven’s sake. You aren’t going to let it go, are you?’ ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ ‘Just drive.’ CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_723f84b0-0606-504f-81a4-a7ee3b040ef8) Connie (#ulink_723f84b0-0606-504f-81a4-a7ee3b040ef8) Connie had left her office early. The bitter taste left by the detectives’ visit, followed by a phone call asking her to be an ‘advisor’ for the case, meant she hadn’t felt like doing the admin she’d originally planned for the afternoon. Now, with the sun moving behind the house and dulling the interior of her lounge, she snuggled on the two-seater sofa with Amber, her long-haired Ragdoll cat, who was lolled across her lap. She felt herself relaxing as she stroked the cat’s long white fur. Careful not to disturb Amber, Connie reached to the other end of the sofa for the controls and turned on the television. She pitched forwards in shock, unintentionally slumping Amber on to the sofa. The place was uncomfortably familiar. Connie’s neck flushed, the way it did when stress or nerves took over her body, her left hand unconsciously moving to it, touching the heat. She didn’t want to look, but her eyes refused to shift from the TV – the red-brick walls, the high perimeter fence, spread across the screen as if mocking her. Not again. Why was this happening now? The reporter’s voice blended into the background as Connie scanned the picture for clues. A white tent covered the area where Ricky’s body had been, nothing to see there. To the side of the reporter, a small crowd gathered. She recognised a couple as her former colleagues: officers, a woman from admin. The others were probably rubberneckers, the draw of a major crime too great an opportunity to pass up; their morbid curiosity outweighing any sense of moral integrity. ‘Although the victim’s identity hasn’t been officially confirmed, an inside source has spoken to Spotlight and it is believed that the deceased may be the same man released in December 2015 following an assessment by psychologist, Connie Moore.’ Connie’s head snapped back. Did they just say her name? Stabbing at the controls, she rewound the programme and let it play again. The room darkened. Connie’s head felt light, her hands clammy as not just her name was expelled from the TV, but her picture flashed up too. Connie’s jaw slackened. Why link her with this? They didn’t even know the man’s identity for sure. Her full attention now gained, Connie stared at the reporter. Skinny woman, early twenties, pinched expression, a nose too big for her face. She now had ridiculous purple-coloured hair, not the chestnut brown it had once been, and it was shorter – but it was undeniably the same person. Kelly Barton. What a bitch. Her dubious reporting skills had gone a long way to triggering the depression and anxiety that caused Connie to go off sick last year, following the aftermath of the Ricky incident. She’d fixated on Connie’s involvement over and above that of the other people who’d also had a hand in Hargreaves’ release, which made it appear Connie was solely to blame. She hated this woman. How dare she drag her into this. The ringing of her mobile made her jump. She snatched it up from the table beside the sofa, knocking this morning’s coffee mug as she did, the curdling milky dregs splashing out. She shook the droplets from her hand, then rubbed it on her jeans. The mobile display read Unknown caller. Great. Was it starting again? One previous mistake. She’d thought it was over. But clearly others weren’t going to allow it to rest. And what would happen once his identity was confirmed, once they found out the police had come to her for help? When they knew her name had been found on Ricky’s body? A shudder rocked her. She got up from the sofa, paced the room, arms crossed tightly. The ringing stopped. Connie sighed. It was her work mobile, she’d purposely got a new one solely for her new business – she didn’t want to give her personal number out to clients. The unknown caller could be a prospective client responding to her advertisement. The phone gave its sharp ring into the silence. Unknown caller, again. Leave me alone. Connie set it to silent. Hopefully, if they were clients, they’d leave a message and she’d return the calls tomorrow. She watched her hands. The tremor. Please don’t let it start again. She switched the TV off. A low buzzing sounded from her handbag. Her personal mobile. She rummaged in the pocket of the zipped compartment. Her mum. Inhaling deeply, Connie pressed the accept button. ‘Hey, Mum.’ Already tears pricked her eyes. How sad was it that her only ally was her mother? No boyfriend. No friend. She had some friends, but they were mostly linked to the prison. They weren’t close, more like acquaintances. And they certainly weren’t ones she wanted to speak to just yet. ‘Have you had a good day?’ Her mum’s concerned tone exposed her attempt at naivety. She’d definitely seen the news. ‘You saw it then.’ ‘Oh, darling. I’m sure it’ll blow over. Again. They don’t even know it’s the same man.’ The hope was evident. Connie was about to crush that. ‘It is, Mum. It’s him.’ ‘They—’ ‘Mum. The police came to see me. It’s definite.’ Silence. Her poor mum. How could Connie put her through it all again? It had almost destroyed her watching Connie fall deeper into the void of depression. She’d been scared. Scared that Connie might do something ‘stupid’. An image of her brother flashed through her mind. However low she’d sunk, Connie had always kept the knowledge within her sights that she had to come through it, for her mum if not for herself. She couldn’t let her lose another child. ‘It’ll be fine, Mum. Don’t worry. And at least I changed my name, my consultancy won’t be affected …’ A thought crossed her mind. ‘Have you spoken to Dad?’ ‘Er … well, I was really worried when I saw the news …’ Her voice was flustered. So, she had called him. Connie knew they still used each other for support. Years of marriage, a shared tragic loss – their joint histories brought them together during challenging times, despite their separation. But Connie wished he didn’t know of this latest development. He’d see it as a negative; an inability to handle herself – to stay out of ‘trouble’. She’d regularly disappointed him when she was growing up. He’d made it very clear that her brother had been the one who had the shiny, promising future ahead of him. The one he was proudest of. The one who would go into the family business. Nothing she could do would ever compare to the success her brother would’ve had, if he’d been the one who’d lived. ‘And what did he have to say?’ Why was she asking? She didn’t want to know. ‘He said it was probably a flash in a pan. Told me not to worry unduly, that it was just another blip …’ Connie snorted. ‘Just another blip,’ she repeated quietly. She took a deep breath. ‘He’s right, Mum. Honestly, you should listen to him. It’s a murder enquiry. The focus of the police and media will be on the person who did it, not so much on the victim. He was a criminal; no one will be interested in his life – or in me. It’s bigger than that now.’ Her voice held more conviction than she felt. ‘You sure?’ ‘Look, I’m working with the police on this. It’s not my fault and I can’t be blamed for anything this time. I promise.’ The call ended with her mum in a more hopeful place. But Connie shouldn’t have made a promise like that. A nagging, anxious voice crept through her skull. Are you sure it’s not your fault? CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_825577c6-2bee-5ff3-b5c2-1846fbb6fdd7) Connie (#ulink_825577c6-2bee-5ff3-b5c2-1846fbb6fdd7) Tuesday 6 June Connie’s night had been restless; the shock of the situation, the worry of the repercussions sinking in and taking up residence in her tired mind. There’d been no hope of solid sleep. The 6.00 a.m. alarm rang out for the third time. She reached across, smacking it into silence. Connie stretched out, her body at a diagonal on her double bed. She could do that. With no one else to take up the space it was one small joy she could relish. It was one of the few pleasures of being single. A string of short-term encounters, some failed blind dates set up by well-meaning colleagues, and a more recent, and more complicated date that had unexpected results, didn’t add up to any kind of satisfaction in that area of her life. After a hastily taken shower, Connie took a sachet of ready-made porridge and tipped it into a not-so-clean bowl from the side of the kitchen worktop. It’d do. As usual she overcooked it in the microwave, the sludge-like consistency spilling over the top of the bowl. She attempted eating it before it’d cooled sufficiently, and the roof of her mouth bubbled in a painful blister. Get it together, Connie. She’d worked so hard to get to this stage in her life; independent, having her own business, she couldn’t allow a lowlife criminal and an annoying reporter to ruin her success. And then there were the police. She’d told DI Wade that she wouldn’t be of any help – past the fact she’d written a report twenty months ago – but they felt that as she ‘knew’ Eric Hargreaves, he might have disclosed something from his background, associates that could be critical in the investigation. Why couldn’t any of the other psychologists from Baymead help with their enquiries? And there were other employees from the offending behaviour programmes department that’d had dealings with Ricky. They had access to her report, her notes and emails. The police didn’t need her. Not really. Why were they so keen for her to be involved? So they had a scapegoat if things didn’t go their way? She’d been that before; she wasn’t willing to be one again. How much weight were they giving the discovery of her name on Ricky’s hand? Did they think it was related to his murder or just a coincidence? They obviously had to follow any lead, and a name on the body was bound to need investigating, particularly when that name had been instrumental in the prisoner’s previous release. Although they seemed to have found that out very quickly, given she’d changed her name since then. The words from last night’s report spiked her memory. An inside source. DI Wade and DS Mack had known about her past with Ricky before she’d mentioned it, so someone must’ve jumped right in and told them. Did the police think she was involved in Ricky’s murder? Some kind of revenge attack, payback for messing her life up? Surely not. Maybe they were concerned that the murderer had put her name on Ricky’s hand as a warning and that was why they were so keen to pay her a visit. Admittedly, she’d had a flash of panic that it was a sign that she was ‘next’ as soon as she saw the picture of Ricky’s hand, but she’d dismissed that as paranoia. It was too subtle, and by all accounts, the person who killed Hargreaves was far from that. No, it didn’t fit. There had to be a different reason her name had been found on a dead man. These thoughts clouded her mind for the entire journey to Totnes, the weight of them seeming to make her head heavy. When DI Wade had asked her to be an advisor, she’d been reluctant, not wishing to commit. She’d said she’d think about it. Connie’s assertion to her mother that she was working with the police had served to allay her mother’s fears – but for Connie, the thought made her stomach contract. The Hargreaves mess had caused her enough trouble and Connie was doubtful she’d be much help now that he was dead – she probably wouldn’t be able to tell DI Wade anything she didn’t already know. If she didn’t get involved any further, then she could forget all about it. No harm done. No further damage to her career. Or her well-being. The earlier weight lifted as she walked through the side streets. All would be fine, she’d decline the invitation to be an advisor. She finally raised her head as she crossed the road to her office. Steph was sitting on the steps, slumped against the wall. Had she come back to finish yesterday’s session? ‘Sorry, I know I haven’t got an appointment … but I’m worried.’ Steph dipped her head, fiddling with the zip on her hoody. ‘No problem, Steph. I’m free until ten.’ Connie unlocked the door and walked through, waiting for Steph to follow. Pulling herself up from the steps, Steph turned to face Connie, but didn’t make any move to cross the threshold. ‘I think I’m gonna ’ave to change shrinks.’ She stared into Connie’s eyes. ‘Sorry, but you’ve drawn attention to yourself – your face on TV for all to see. You’re too dangerous to me now.’ CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_2886bda0-6ac5-541a-9e43-82e11c92390c) Then (#ulink_2886bda0-6ac5-541a-9e43-82e11c92390c) It took a whole month to rid herself of the smell. The stench of smoke: the taste of it, the memory of dripping, burning flesh clinging to the tiny hairs on the inside of her nostrils. Things had moved on quickly from that night; even before the reality of the situation had time to hit home. Her life had changed completely, snatched from her in an hour of fire and fear. She’d gone from her cosy three-bedroomed terraced family home – to a run-down, hellhole of a flat rented from the council by her good-for-nothing uncle. Or that’s how she remembered her mum talking about him. Good-for-nothing-Jimmy. Layabout. Scrounge. Druggie. Criminal. No one ever asked anything of him unless they were desperate. As she was now. Maybe her mum had got the better deal – even a shitty nursing home was preferable to this. Because she was sixteen, there wasn’t much the social could do about it. And she was not being put under some do-gooder’s care. She could look after herself. And besides, her boyfriend had promised she could move in with him any day now. Things would get better then. At least she wasn’t inside a secure unit. But he’d got what was coming to him, hadn’t he? He had to be punished. He’d be safe inside there; looked after properly, by professionals. They’d sort him. Perhaps even help him. And if he was inside … it meant she was safe too. His face, pale, innocent, looking up at her from inside the police car, appeared every time she closed her eyes for more than a second. His voice – pleading, apologetic – sounded in her ears whenever there was a quiet moment. It snaked its way inside her brain and spread like a disease. Damn him. If you play with fire, you’ll get burnt. CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_2bdfe3ca-c38b-5452-a167-327ea1203f8f) Connie (#ulink_2bdfe3ca-c38b-5452-a167-327ea1203f8f) ‘I can’t afford to be found, you know that.’ Steph remained on the top step. She was alone, she must’ve dropped Dylan off at pre-school today. Connie looked up and down the street; no one was taking particular notice of them, but she felt the need to get inside, have the conversation in privacy. ‘Please come on in, Steph.’ She smiled, hoping to coax her. Steph gave a furtive look around too, and then bolted inside. Connie let out a lungful of air and gently closed the door. ‘This shouldn’t affect you, Steph. It’s something that happened over a year ago, before I began this consultancy. My involvement was reported at the time, then it all went quiet – it wasn’t even really to do with me, it was the justice system. And I changed my name …’ She trailed off. Without going into the whole sorry tale, she wouldn’t be able to make Steph understand. And it was unlikely to ease her concerns anyway. What would, really? She had every right to feel vulnerable. If the press began digging into Connie’s life again, there was a real risk that Steph’s new identity could be compromised. She prayed this would blow over. A few hours and she’d be telling Wade she was out; didn’t want to be involved. Although, the fact her name was written on the dead man’s hand complicated matters. How was she going to safeguard Steph? ‘But you can’t guarantee it, can you?’ Steph’s pupils, wide and accusing, bore right into Connie’s. Her shoulders dropped. ‘You’re right. It is a risk and, even though I think it’s a small one, I’ll contact Miles, let him know the situation and he can refer you to a new psychologist.’ Connie knew it was the sensible option. The safest. But she hated that she needed to do it. Hated that stupid bitch of a reporter. Hated Ricky Hargreaves. Even dead he was causing her problems. ‘So you’re givin’ up on me? Like everyone else? That was quick, Connie.’ Connie’s brow furrowed. She shook her head. She wasn’t expecting that reaction. ‘I don’t understand, you said you needed a new psychologist, that I’m a risk?’ ‘Can we just have another session; I got something in the post this morning. You’re the only one I can talk to about it.’ ‘You shouldn’t be getting post.’ Connie’s hand flew to her chest. ‘Who knows your address? Only utility companies should have it.’ ‘It’s okay. It was forwarded to me at this address by Miles. They go into my Manchester place and pick up stuff now and then. They normally read it, ’specially if it looks suss, or they think it’s from any of the gang, but this was unopened.’ ‘Oh, good.’ Connie released her hand from her chest. ‘But it’s not good. It’s from him.’ Connie’s interest was renewed. Was she going to find out the real reason for Steph’s current anxiety? The immediate situation with Ricky, and Steph’s threat of finding a new psychologist, melted into the background. ‘Let’s go on up, shall we?’ Connie started up the stairs, confident Steph would follow. Steph took her usual chair; Connie pulled her own up close, just in front of Steph. She had to be careful here, let her talk, not jump in with questions. Be patient. ‘Tell me about the letter.’ Steph’s body shuddered, then she took in a deep breath. ‘It’s from Brett.’ Even though Steph was naturally fair-skinned, any hint of colour she’d had drained slowly from her face, like water being let out of a bath. It looked to Connie like she might faint, but she recovered; taking a few rapid breaths, she appeared to compose herself. Connie bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself talking, from pushing Steph into going faster. It had to be in her own time. She had to have the control, not Connie. ‘He used to write all the time. Well, monthly. From the YOI.’ She paused. It stretched. This was going to take a long time. Connie glanced at her watch; her next client was due at ten and she’d hoped to have made progress with Steph by then, but at this rate she’d have to cut her short. She’d have to prompt her. Steph had dropped her head and was twisting her fingers in the bottom of her oversized hoody. ‘So, Brett is in a Young Offenders’ Institution?’ She looked up again and sighed. ‘Yep. Has been for years. Was in a secure home before that.’ ‘Okay, so hadn’t you heard from him in a while then?’ ‘I’d ignored his letters. I guess he gave up trying ’cos I never wrote back. I think it’s been two years since I got one.’ ‘You mentioned Brett the other day. It sounded as though you were afraid of him finding you? Why is that?’ Steph’s eyes widened. Her words rushed out: ‘He’s a murderer.’ She wiped her hands on her thighs, up and down, up and down. Then she looked up. Tears had appeared, bulging at her lower lids; her face had taken on a cold, hard, mask-like quality. ‘And he’s my brother.’ Connie sat back in her chair. Had she heard right, that this ‘Brett’ was her brother? How could that be? The background information she’d been given couldn’t have been wrong, surely? ‘Steph, I’m a bit lost,’ she said tentatively. ‘I didn’t think you had any siblings.’ ‘Well I do. Spent a long time wishin’ I didn’t, but I do have a brother.’ Connie shifted in her seat. She’d have to go over the file, check this out with Miles Prescott. She was Steph’s psychologist; Miles should’ve given her all the relevant information required to carry out her job. Why leave out significant details pertaining to her family. What else had been omitted? Connie suddenly had a dozen questions she wanted to fire off, but held back. Steph obviously wanted to talk, or she wouldn’t have shown up today. She allowed the silence. ‘He was ten when he did it. The fire.’ She screwed up her eyes tight, her lips were drawn in a straight line. One knee bounced as if on a nerve. ‘The little weirdo torched the house while we slept.’ Poor Steph. What a terrible event. ‘How did you escape?’ ‘I hadn’t been asleep long, could hear him padding down the stairs, wondered what he was doin’. After he didn’t come back upstairs, I went down to check what he was up to. He was always messin’ around wi’ matches, lighters and the like. Weird thing wi’ fire. Didn’t trust him. I thought I smelled smoke as I got outside their room. But it didn’t sink in.’ Steph tapped her temple with her forefinger. ‘I assumed he was up to no good downstairs. I’d no idea he’d set the fire in their room. Stupid. If I’d just sussed it then …’ ‘You couldn’t have known. It’s normal for us to think about what we might have done after any situation. It was a traumatic event for you, Steph. Don’t blame yourself.’ ‘I could’ve warned them earlier. Stopped him dying like that.’ ‘Your dad?’ ‘She got out, somehow. Don’t know how, she was badly burned. Has never spoken since. Not a word. I think Dad panicked.’ Her breathing shallowed. ‘He was at … the … window …’ ‘Take some deep breaths, Steph.’ Connie leaned forwards, put her hands on Steph’s, breathing in slowly, out slowly, along with her. ‘I watched. I watched him burn. And that murdering creep watched too.’ ‘I’m so sorry, Steph. To witness your dad dying, it’s a terrible thing to have experienced.’ ‘Well, it wasn’t quite like that, I mean – it’s not as bad as if he’d been—’ A tap at the door stopped her. Connie jumped up, apologising for the interruption, and strode across the office. She hadn’t buzzed anyone in – was the damn thing broken? She poked her head around the door, it was her next client. She told him she’d be five more minutes, asking him to wait downstairs. She’d have to wrap things up with Steph. Unfortunate timing. ‘Sorry, Steph. Look, I’ve got my next client waiting, but I could see you again tomorrow so you can continue?’ Connie raised her eyebrows, but carried straight on without waiting for Steph to answer. ‘Unless you don’t want to risk it. I mean, I understand your position, but you could be a while waiting for another psychologist …’ ‘Um. Well, I don’t know, really.’ She looked lost, her eyes darting about. ‘Yeah, okay. I’ll come tomorrow.’ She got up and headed for the door. Before she left, she turned. ‘But I am gonna need to swap as soon as poss, if you don’t mind.’ Connie nodded. Hopefully she’d be able to get to the bottom of the letter tomorrow. And if the reassignment to another psychologist took as long as she assumed it would, then it might be that she could complete all of the ten sessions anyway, so she’d still have the opportunity to unravel Steph’s story. But she’d be able to continue only if her connection with the Ricky murder didn’t bring any further media coverage to her door. She’d have to do everything she could to make sure it didn’t. CHAPTER TWELVE (#ulink_2c637b5c-22ab-5f76-9f20-4e80839c3f75) DI Wade (#ulink_2c637b5c-22ab-5f76-9f20-4e80839c3f75) Lindsay Wade blew out air slowly from her puffed cheeks. That wasn’t a conversation she’d been planning on having this early in the investigation. Had she convinced her? ‘That sounded heavy.’ Mack wheeled a chair towards her desk, sitting the wrong way on it, leaning his head on his crossed arms over its high back. ‘Yep. Connie Summers. Running scared, I’d say.’ ‘Oh? How come?’ ‘Said this situation and her perceived involvement has already impacted negatively on her practice – one of her current clients is in WP and is freaking out about the publicity her shrink is getting, threatening to change psychs. Miss Summers obviously doesn’t want her client to be put at further risk, so doesn’t want any further involvement.’ ‘But you persuaded her to continue, by the sounds of it?’ ‘Only if we contact her via phone. No more visits to her consultancy.’ ‘Ah well, that’s better than nothing.’ ‘Hmmm. But you can tell so much more by watching body language.’ ‘Skype her then.’ ‘Hey, Mack. That’s quite clever for you.’ ‘Sarcasm is overrated.’ Lindsay checked the time on the laptop. ‘Right, let’s get to the briefing.’ She grabbed the files piled on her desk and pushed up from her chair. It was the second time in as many years that she’d been in Coleton police station, using their rooms as incident rooms. Her base was Middlemoor, in Exeter, but she’d been keen to take the lead on this case. Make up for before. So, back to Coleton it was. ‘The pattern of mutilation is interesting.’ The slides moved across the huge white screen projected on to the back wall of the incident room, gruesome shots like those in the god-awful Saw movie that Lindsay had never been able to sit through. She was surprised that any of the prison staff had even recognised this guy when he landed on their doorstep. She pointed to the next slide. The most horrific. She cast her eyes around the room. Some of the team had turned away. ‘Yeah, not good, is it?’ ‘T’was some angry crackpot who did that,’ a voice from the back declared. ‘Actually, I’m not so sure.’ Lindsay took the pointer stick and placed it over the enlarged picture of Eric Hargreaves’ torso. ‘I know it looks a total mess at first glance. But look at the way the body has been quartered. It’s precise. I don’t think someone with anger issues did this. It’s too controlled. They had planned how they were going to do it. This was carried out carefully.’ ‘So, they had time then, no rush,’ Mack said. ‘Precisely. Must’ve had Hargreaves somewhere they considered safe, somewhere they wouldn’t be disturbed for quite some time.’ ‘What about the writing on his hand – “Connie Moore”? What’s that about?’ DC Sewell asked. Mack turned in his chair to direct his response to her. ‘Well, there are various possibilities, but at this early stage we really can’t be sure about any of them.’ ‘Like what, sir?’ ‘Depends on who wrote it. If Hargreaves did, then we are never going to really know, but we could assume he had an obsession with her, perhaps. People don’t generally write names on themselves, more likely you write something you don’t want to forget – a number, an item you want from the shop.’ ‘Or a name you didn’t already know, so that you remember it’s someone you need to speak to, or something?’ DC Sewell said matter-of-factly. ‘And if it was written by the killer?’ ‘That’s where it becomes tricky,’ Lindsay said. ‘If the killer wrote it, do we assume it was for us? The body was deliberately left outside the prison, a place where it’d be found and police called quickly. So, was the killer leaving it as a clue – ensuring we follow up the lead and interview Connie Summers?’ ‘Or,’ Mack added, ‘was it to make sure she knew? Knew that Hargreaves had been murdered, that he could no longer do harm to others.’ ‘Like some kind of gift to her? The guy that ruined her career, served up cold on a platter?’ ‘It’s a possibility.’ ‘So our killer potentially knows her, wants to do this for her – a revenge killing, but for someone else’s benefit? Weird,’ Sewell summarised. ‘Well, they can’t know her that well. They used Moore, not Summers. They don’t know she changed her name.’ ‘That’s a possibility, Clarke,’ Mack said, ‘unless they used Moore because that would make us believe it was something to do with her past – her role in the prison.’ ‘Going back to revenge,’ Anika, the team’s new DC interjected, ‘Hargreaves raped a woman when he was released. It could be that his victim, or her family, decided to hand out their own justice.’ ‘That’s a line of investigation we’ll be following up, Anika,’ Lindsay said. ‘Could he be in love with Summers?’ ‘Careful, Lloyd. “He”’? We don’t know it’s a he.’ ‘Must be, Guv. Surely. To overpower him, he’s not small. Then inflict that much damage and then move the body. And dump it quick as lightning at the prison gates before anyone can stop him?’ ‘Could be more than one person involved,’ a voice piped up. ‘Could it also be a warning – that Connie Summers is going to be next?’ another DC asked from the back – the whole room was beginning to buzz with questions; possibilities. ‘Hang on, hang on, guys.’ Lindsay stood up, both hands held out in front of her. She looked to Mack, wondering if he’d voiced his earlier concern to any of the team. He didn’t meet her gaze. ‘Let’s keep calm; focused. We don’t want to jump the gun – talk serial killer just yet.’ The room fell silent. Lindsay continued. ‘I want us to concentrate on the most likely first. We won’t rule anything out, but let’s not get carried away either.’ ‘We need that psychologist in here, so we can interview her. Get her to tell us everything she’s ever known about Hargreaves,’ DC Sewell offered. ‘And about any attention – male and female – that she’s had over the last year or two. That could lead to names we can check out, Boss.’ ‘Okay. Yes, that’s more in line with how I wanted to approach things.’ Lindsay rubbed the back of her neck. ‘I was hoping to get her in as an advisor.’ She perched on the edge of the long table and crossed her arms. ‘I feel she’d open up more, talk freely, if we gave her a role rather than treat her as a person of interest.’ ‘She’s worked with the police before,’ Mack said. ‘She’s given independent expert witness evidence, profiled criminals, that sort of thing; I think she’ll be helpful in that capacity. It’s just getting her here. Whatever route we take though, she’s the person who knows the most about the victim at this point, so we need to tread carefully.’ Lindsay was silent for a moment, then she nodded. ‘Agreed. Let’s sort a game plan then, shall we?’ CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#ulink_098e08cc-2613-56ea-841c-7c6be09c501c) Connie (#ulink_098e08cc-2613-56ea-841c-7c6be09c501c) So, she wasn’t as ‘out’ of the investigation as she’d planned. Connie closed her eyes, shutting out the faces of the other passengers. She failed to shut out the voices though. The ones in her mind – warning of danger to come. Her head lolled, until it touched the coolness of the window. It bumped gently against it as the train rumbled along the track towards Coleton. It had become very clear during her conversation with DI Wade that one way or another she wanted her to be involved. Even if she’d point-blank refused, she knew Wade would get around it by bringing her in officially – as a suspect probably. Her name had been implicated – literally. There was a chance Ricky could have written it on himself, but her gut told her otherwise. For whatever reason, the murderer wanted her attention. It was the job of the police to find out why. There was no escaping it, she was already involved whether she liked it or not. It’d been naively optimistic for her to think she could just ‘opt out’. She would have to find another psychologist for Steph. The blur of green and brown fields suddenly changed to buildings – the short journey ending. She couldn’t wait to get home, have a long bath, eat the last remaining chicken and mushroom pizza, then snuggle on the sofa with Amber and watch a DVD. She wasn’t even going to entertain the idea of watching news, or any other normal programme. No. It was Ryan Gosling in Crazy, Stupid, Love all the way tonight. And she’d switch the phone off too. She’d be in her own bubble. The one without Ricky Hargreaves. The one without a murderer who knew her by name. She heaved herself from the seat and nudged past a few people standing in the way of the exit door. Why did people stand there when there were plenty of seats? They weren’t even getting off. She smiled tightly at a man who grunted as she moved in front of him. I just want to get off the train,she wanted to scream at him. She refrained. Her heels clacked up the steps of the bridge to the other side of the station. Reaching the top, she hesitated. A figure stood at the other end of the footbridge, leaning against the side. She looked back over her shoulder. No one else had got off at this station. She continued, more slowly, squinting as she went, trying to make out some features. Man? Woman? Teenager? Trainspotter? As she approached, the figure surged forwards. Connie’s heart quickened. Should she turn and go back? No. She was being ridiculous. It was probably someone waiting to meet a friend, a lover, a family member, off the train. It was a man. Definitely. He wore a trench coat, dark grey. Yet the weather had been hot. No showers. No need for a coat like that. Unless you were hiding something within it. Connie cursed her prison background. It’d made her ultra-cautious. Untrusting. Her imagination didn’t need much stimulation to become hyper-sensitive. Keep walking. Keep walking. It’s nothing. He’s nothing. She lowered her chin, subtly inching her way to the far side of the bridge, farthest from the man. Ten feet. Five feet. He walked towards her. Moved to the same side of the bridge as her. Quick. Phone. Get your mobile out. Too late for that now. It was deep inside her handbag somewhere. He was almost upon her. He reached inside his coat with his left hand. Connie let out a gasp. CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#ulink_158a93bd-0459-5cd9-89b7-ccb181e72d96) Then (#ulink_158a93bd-0459-5cd9-89b7-ccb181e72d96) Barton Moss Secure Care Centre, Manchester Hey sis, Why don’t you come visit? No one comes. I don’t understand what happened, how the fire killed Dad. I don’t remember. Please come see me. I don’t like it here. Brett x Brett, Why aren’t I coming to see you? Are you serious? You set a fire. You killed him. You could’ve killed me as well. You can’t get away with this ‘I don’t remember’ crap. You know full well how it happened. The real question is why. Why did you do it? What did you think would happen to you? Of course you were gonna be sent away, who the hell would want you in their house after that? NO ONE would feel safe. Ever again. You need to stay in that place forever. I can’t forgive you. I can’t come see you ’cos I never want to look at your face again. Jenna. PS Don’t expect any other family to come either. They all feel the same way. CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#ulink_597cd8e3-cbf9-5dca-ad8a-22742b52f7d3) Connie (#ulink_597cd8e3-cbf9-5dca-ad8a-22742b52f7d3) The man propelled his hand forwards. ‘I’ve gotta give you this.’ His voice, gritty, like something was caught in his throat. Connie felt the warmth of his hand as he pressed it against hers, too shocked to move it away as he shoved something hard into her palm before striding off in the direction he’d been walking, across the bridge. She expelled a short, sharp breath – it hurt her lungs, her trachea, as it burst out of her. Her ears rang. She was close to fainting. Her mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out, her vocal cords paralysed with fear. She grasped the handrail. Her upper body folded over, her chest touching her thighs. By the time she’d recovered enough to right herself, the man had disappeared. ‘You all right, Miss?’ the voice in front of her asked. She felt a hand steady her. ‘Yes. Yes, thanks. I’ll be fine.’ She looked up. Jonesy. She removed her arm from his grip. ‘You looked like you were about to pass out. Been drinking, Miss?’ He laughed. Connie feigned laughter, but averted her eyes. She gripped the unknown item the man had given her in her right hand, afraid to open her fingers and reveal its identity with Jonesy there. The shakiness of her legs passed so she moved away from the handrail and carried on down the steps towards the exit. Jonesy followed. She jammed her right hand into her suit-trouser pocket. ‘You sure you’re gonna be okay, I can get you a taxi, if you like?’ She was about to say no, that she was fine to walk. Then a thought sneaked into her head. What if he follows me to my house? ‘I might do that, yes. Don’t worry though, I can manage, they’re right there.’ She pointed with her free hand to the taxis waiting at their rank. ‘Thanks.’ She moved quicker now, making her way to the first car in line. ‘Bye, Jonesy,’ she shouted over her shoulder. She waited until she was safely inside the taxi before giving the driver her destination. Even then she gave the road just down from hers, not her exact address – just in case. Was Jonesy at the station because he was catching a train, or meeting someone coming off one? Twice now he’d been there when she had. Did he know the times of the trains she usually caught? Was it coincidence he appeared just after the mystery man? The object. She wriggled in the back of the taxi, the seat squeaking as she retrieved the object from her trouser pocket. She slowly unfurled her fingers. A small, black memory stick, with the word ‘SanDisk’ in red printed on it. Why the hell had that man given her this? What was on it? Was it a mistake – meant for someone else? He’d shoved it in her hand and said … what was it again? The sheer panic that had washed over her now rendered her memory inadequate. She squeezed her eyes. Come on, come on. ‘I’ve got to give you this’? Was that it? Yes, that was right. She opened her eyes again, stared down at the stick which lay in her clammy palm. I’ve got to give you this. Did that mean he had a burning need to hand it to her? Or that someone else was making him give it to her? Perhaps the answer lay in whatever resided in the memory of the two-inch piece of plastic. The mugginess inside the back of the taxi threatened to suffocate her. She wound down the window, it stopped halfway. With her face turned slightly and angled so she could push it out as far as possible, Connie sucked in the cooler evening air. The taxi driver was talking. She withdrew her head. ‘You all right, love?’ His eyes, reflected in the mirror, found hers. She smiled weakly. ‘I will be. In a minute.’ When I’m home, she thought. ‘You can drop me at the end, just up there by the park. Thanks.’ She rummaged in her bag for her purse. Connie waited for the taxi to drive out of sight before turning the opposite way and walking as fast as she could back down the road they’d driven, then ducked through the alleyway between Park Road and Moorland Street. Her house came into sight. She relaxed. The front door key took a few attempts to find its home, her fingers trembling and preventing the easy action. Once inside she locked and bolted the door and flung her handbag at the banister, the long strap wrapping itself securely around it. She kicked off her shoes and called for Amber, breathless from all the exertion. A white bundle of hair hurried towards her. ‘Hello, baby.’ Connie scooped her up and fussed her, comforted by Amber’s ecstatic purring. The day’s heat had been trapped within the walls of the house, so Connie went to the kitchen, letting Amber scramble down from her arms, and opened the small window. Then she went to the lounge, her feet moving soundlessly over the thick, soft carpet. New. The smell still lingered in the room even though it’d been two weeks ago now. She reached to open the large bay window, but stopped herself. She stood looking out on to her street. The opposite row of houses, all converted to flats, were bathed in a yellow hue from the street lamps. It still wasn’t properly dark – the sun not setting until around nine thirty. The street was quiet, no strange figures hanging around. She yanked the curtains across. What was she going to do with the memory stick? She’d be mad to insert it in her laptop; it could upload a virus. But could she hand it over to the police, even though she didn’t know what it contained? Who had given it to her – and why? She’d have a bath, then something to eat before she decided what to do with it. Wrapped in her fluffy cream dressing gown, Connie shoved her frozen pizza in the oven and retreated into the lounge. Her laptop lay on the rectangular coffee table in front of the TV. She paused, staring at the memory stick which she’d placed on the closed lid, as if it might pounce on her if she got closer. She really should hand it straight over to the police, to DI Wade, and have done with it. But while she’d been relaxing in the bubbles of the bath, Connie’s curiosity had been piqued. She wanted to be prepared, no surprises. She had to look. But not on that laptop. If there was a virus, or spyware, she didn’t want to risk it destroying her new device. She had another laptop – had used it during her degree work. It’d been redundant for some time, due to its age and bulkiness – it wouldn’t matter if she plugged the stick in and it screwed it up. Now, where was it? She’d still got boxes in the second bedroom; the spare room, which she hadn’t got around to sorting yet. She’d moved in two years ago; laziness had prevented her dealing with them. That and becoming too busy with setting up her consultancy. It took half an hour of rummaging through containers filled with junk – an old video box-set of The X-Files she’d been obsessed with when she was a teenager, puzzles she used to do with her mum, old Vogue magazines from a time when she’d cared about fashion, Stephen King novels she hadn’t got around to putting on the bookcase – to find the laptop and charging cable. She carried it downstairs and plugged it in. It still worked. Connie’s stomach contracted. Should she do it? Her hand, the stick clenched in it, hovered over the port. What was she worried about? What could possibly be on it that would cause her to be nervous? Come on, Connie. Just do it! The high-pitched alarm jolted Connie back into the moment, a painful sensation shot through her heart like a knife piercing it. She dropped the stick and jumped up, running to the kitchen. Smoke billowed from the oven. The pizza. She grabbed a tea towel and recovered the blackened circle from the oven, blinking her eyes to rid them of the stinging. She threw it into the sink, hearing a loud hiss as it touched the water. She sighed. It’d have to be baked beans on toast then. After. She’d have to do the deed first otherwise she’d likely burn the toast too. Kneeling on the floor, laptop open, she finally placed the stick in the USB port. Two file names appeared. And both took the breath from her lungs. She stared with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity. She had to open them now. One click and the news article from 1995 filled the screen. And the sadness she’d felt back then returned automatically. A single tear began its journey, surging over her cheek and landing on the keyboard. Who wanted to give this to her? It’s not like she needed a reminder of the incident that had rocked her world. It was part of her. Connie clicked on the other file. She read the document, her curiosity slipping into anger, and she slammed the laptop shut. Why the hell was someone dragging this up now? CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#ulink_3a66bd5d-e749-56ad-a99a-bd7e472fdc31) Connie (#ulink_3a66bd5d-e749-56ad-a99a-bd7e472fdc31) Wednesday 7 June Having been sleep-deprived for the second night in a row, the journey to her office was slow, her legs leaden. Conniewas heavy – with resurfaced grief and anger. She was glad she’d looked at what the memory stick held though, before handing it blindly to the police. It had nothing to do with their investigation. Just her. And her family. But the who and the why were questions she needed answering. Another burden she didn’t need. The fresh cut grass wafted from the room as she opened it, and for the first time the scent made her stomach churn, like the queasiness of early pregnancy. For a moment Connie stood, hand placed over her belly, and thought. No. She couldn’t be. Dates were completely wrong. She let her hand drop and carried on over to her desk. The memory of her unsuccessful pregnancy lingered even once the queasy sensation had disappeared. Last year had been a tough one. She wasn’t sure if she could cope with another like it. She fired up her computer and hung her suit jacket over the back of her chair. Steph should be arriving soon, she wanted to run through all the information she held on her first, find out if any of yesterday’s story checked out – the family history, the names. It didn’t. Very strange. She leant back and stared at the screen, then retrieved the paper file from her desk drawer. She frowned. Both said the same: mother in a home, father’s whereabouts unknown – not dead in a fire, as Steph had described – and no siblings. No brother. No one named Brett. How could it be so wrong? It was likely that Steph had lied. But why? What could she gain from making it up? Attention? Continued input from the services she was so afraid would abandon her? It made some sense. In Steph’s mind, if she came up with a story in which she or her child were in danger, then Miles would offer further protection and Connie would offer more sessions. Could that really be what Steph was trying to do here? The intercom buzzed. Hopefully, she was about to unravel whatever was going on. ‘Morning, Steph.’ Connie opened her door to let Steph in. ‘No Dylan this morning?’ ‘I took him to pre-school, I had to. Needed to see you on my own.’ She looked drawn, a deep line ran from one side of her forehead to the other, her lips were tightly closed and her nostrils flared. ‘He’s out.’ She brushed past Connie and sat heavily in the chair. ‘Brett?’ ‘Yes, Brett!’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘Got this.’ Steph held her hand out, in it a piece of folded paper. ‘Another one. This morning.’ Before Connie got into this, she needed to retrace a step, or twelve. She hadn’t found out what the first letter had contained yet. ‘Okay. Try and keep your breathing steady.’ Connie flinched as Steph shot her an angry glare. ‘Are you for real?’ ‘I just want to understand what’s going on, Steph. And for that to happen, I think being calm would be best.’ Steph snorted. ‘Fine.’ She took a deep, exaggerated breath in, and slowly out. ‘Can you tell me about the first letter?’ Steph sighed, slumping her shoulders. ‘I wasn’t gonna read it, but somethin’ made me. I had this feelin’ that it was gonna be bad. Bad for me and Dylan. ‘It started off the usual – Dear sis. I need to see you. Why didn’t you write or come see me?’ Steph shook her head gently. ‘But then it changed. His letters usually blamed me for some stuff, like abandoning him when he needed me, being a bad sister, that kind of bull. But this one was different. Seemed even more angry than usual.’ ‘Angry in what way?’ ‘Like in that he threatened me and Dylan. Said he’d finish what he started.’ ‘Oh. He said those exact words? Have you brought the letter?’ ‘Oh, right, so you’re questioning me, don’t believe what I’m tellin’ you?’ ‘No, it’s not that, Steph. I thought reading it would help me to interpret his words.’ ‘What’s to interpret? He’ll finish what he started, Connie. He started the fire, he killed his dad, Mum’s as good as dead, and his big sister is the one that got away. It’s pretty simple, eh? He’s wanting to kill me and Dylan now. Finish whatever weird, psycho fantasy he’s got going.’ ‘Sometimes, when we’re scared, things that are meant one way are taken another. We read things into it, and can blow things up, out of proportion—’ ‘I don’t scare easy. I grew up learning how to cope wi’ being afraid, I dealt wi’ it every day just crossing my own estate.’ Steph glared at Connie, and huffed. ‘You wouldn’t know. You got no idea, you and your cosy sheltered life down here …’ ‘Actually, I grew up in Manchester, too,’ Connie snapped. She closed her eyes, pinched her nose with her thumb and forefinger and took a deep breath. ‘I know more than you think.’ She spoke without looking at Steph, not wanting her to see the pain in her eyes. ‘Anyway, go on.’ Connie straightened, was back on track. This was Steph’s session, possibly her last if she didn’t consider it safe to visit any more; she couldn’t let her own past creep into it. ‘Well, perhaps this’ll show you that I’m not making it up.’ Steph thrust the piece of paper into Connie’s hand. She was reminded instantly of DS Mack doing the same on Monday. She hesitated. Once she opened this paper and read its content, she was involved. She opened it. The writing was a scrawl, barely legible: It ends with fire. We should all burn together. I’m coming to see you. For a moment, Connie didn’t know what to say. It seemed pretty cut and dried – if she’d received this, she would’ve taken it as a threat as well. ‘You’re going to hand this to Miles?’ ‘What’s he gonna do about it?’ ‘He can find out where Brett is, if he’s been released. Keep an eye on his movements?’ ‘If he’s been released?’ ‘Well, isn’t it possible that someone else could have posted this to you. For him?’ ‘I guess. But now I think about the way he worded the other letter, he said why didn’t you come see me? Not why aren’t you coming to see me? I think he must’ve been out then. And the older letters from him were all postmarked from the YOI. But not these.’ ‘And you’re sure this is Brett’s handwriting?’ ‘What are you getting at?’ Steph’s brow furrowed. ‘Could it be possible it’s from one of the gang members connected with your ex-boyfriend, not Brett?’ ‘Well, that don’t make any sense, does it? It ends wi’ fire. Only one person who’d say that, Connie.’ She was shouting now, her face reddening. ‘It’s okay.’ Connie reached across and touched Steph’s shoulder reassuringly. ‘When did you get that first letter again?’ ‘Yesterday. But Miles must’ve got it before then, to be able to send it on to me.’ She played with her hands. ‘I’m thinking Brett’s already here.’ ‘I doubt that. He wouldn’t know where to start looking for you.’ For a second or two those words seemed to calm her. But then she shook her head, her eyes wide and glaring. ‘I’m looking for him. At every turn, I’m expecting to come face to face wi’ him. On the street corner, in the local shops. In my house. But I don’t even know what he looks like any more, haven’t seen him for eight years. What if I don’t even recognise him? He could kill us before I even knew it was him!’ Connie inhaled deeply. This was getting difficult; the intensity of Steph’s fears were increasing rapidly. She wasn’t sure how she could reduce her perceived danger without appearing as though she wasn’t taking her concerns seriously. ‘We really need to speak with Miles—’ ‘He won’t believe me.’ Steph got up, heading for the door. She turned, shaking her head. ‘Like you don’t.’ Connie remained in her chair. Chasing after her would be futile; nothing she could say would change Steph’s current anxiety state. Miles was only person who could do that. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#ulink_14e7b659-5163-5e41-a18e-5f705e24d56f) DI Wade (#ulink_14e7b659-5163-5e41-a18e-5f705e24d56f) Lindsay read through the transcripts again. The interviews with prison staff had yielded a list of Hargreaves’ known associates. The security team informed them of the SIRs that had been handed in relating to him; these security information reports mostly detailed the names already given to them, but also contained overheard conversations between Hargreaves and other prisoners – some drug-related, and some from staff members who’d been on the receiving end of a veiled threat or remark, or intimidating behaviour. All relatively normal stuff as far as the staff were concerned. A lot of the prisoners had similar reports. None of the information flagged up any major warning signs, and there was no obvious individual who might have been instrumental in his escape at his mother’s funeral. Lindsay tasked a small team to check out the names on the list. They’d questioned the officer Hargreaves had been handcuffed to when he escaped, and, as yet, he was holding up under pressure, giving nothing but the original story. He’d been dragged to the entrance of the cemetery, where bolt cutters and a knife were hidden, and threatened by Hargreaves to help him release the cuffs. Despite another prison officer coming to his aid quickly, it still appeared that Hargreaves had had time to get away. Somehow that didn’t make sense to Lindsay, but everyone was sticking together and there was no other evidence to the contrary at this point. ‘So, what are we up to today, Boss?’ Mack flashed her a toothy grin. Lindsay considered this for a moment. The pathologist was due to carry out the post-mortem this morning. Although they’d got a lot from the preliminary findings, it would be interesting to discover the not-so-obvious. Hargreaves’ wounds were externally gruesome, in-your-face mutilation obviously meant to shock, but she wondered if there would be any surprises – what might be lying beneath the surface waiting to be found. ‘Fancy a trip to the mortuary? I got us an invite.’ ‘Oh, how could I resist such an invitation?’ Mack drew himself up to his full height. ‘I bet you’re a bundle of fun on a date, aren’t you?’ He grabbed the keys and headed for the door. ‘Come on then, Ms Macabre. Let’s get over there.’ It was Lindsay’s first time in the morgue since Erin Malone. The smell as she entered through the double doors instantly brought back the memory of the murdered teenager. Was this post-mortem going to be any easier to watch because this victim had been a criminal, not an innocent like Erin? He was a person, after all. Like Erin, he had had a family, friends. Had he been a good man once, and then merely taken the wrong path? He’d attacked women. He’d shown no remorse. Was this his punishment? But did anyone deserve to be hacked up, spread open and left on display? ‘You okay, Boss?’ ‘Yep. Fine. Just eager to find something out about our murderer. I’m hoping he’s left us a bit of himself behind.’ ‘Yeah, that would be helpful.’ The pathologist greeted them, all smiles and joviality. He’d been equally jolly on the phone, telling Lindsay that he’d recently taken up the post following his predecessor’s retirement and was eager to be of assistance in the murder case. ‘Welcome DI Wade, DS Mack. I’m Dr Lovell. You can call me Harry.’ He swept up to the metal gurney theatrically. ‘A fine morning for it!’ He waved an arm, indicating around the windowless room. Lindsay cringed. ‘Putting on a bloody show for us, then?’ she whispered to Mack, who looked to be suppressing a giggle behind his hand. Laughing in the morgue wasn’t professional. Still, Harry had lifted the tension; the anticipation of the event was now quashed a little. Eric Hargreaves’ body looked fake; like a dummy someone had made for Halloween, or one carefully crafted by the special effects teams for TV shows like Silent Witness. His skin appeared pale and waxy until you took in the injuries. They had a purple-red tinge to them. The flaps of flesh hung to the sides of his torso like chunks of meat hanging off a slaughtered pig in a butcher’s shop, exposing his bent ribcage – a structure meant to protect his heart – now broken and useless. The whole scene looked surreal. That was the only thing that enabled Lindsay to distance herself – if she didn’t think of this body as a man, a once living, breathing man, she could get through this. As tough as she considered herself to be, no matter how many times she’d been to the morgue, it was one of her least favourite parts of her job. There was something unnerving about silent, still bodies. And her mind always conjured her dear dad, and unwanted visions of him lying on a slab in this very morgue. Lindsay took a deep breath and turned to Mack, his height blocking the strip lighting. ‘Wouldn’t you be better sitting?’ ‘Hah! No, I like to be able to see right inside, can’t take in all its glory if you’re sat.’ ‘As long as you don’t faint. I’m not attempting to catch you if you do.’ ‘I’m good. Thanks.’ Harry conducted an external examination, calling out measurements to the path assistant as he travelled around the body. Lindsay noted that Hargreaves had extensive tattoos but her ears pricked when she heard Harry say a few of them appeared to be new. ‘Oh? How new?’ ‘I’d say, given the colour of the ink and the absence of swelling or scabbing …’ He paused, bending closer to the cadaver. Lindsay felt her upper body move forward, eager for him to carry on. ‘That three of these were acquired post-mortem.’ He looked up, raising his eyebrows in their direction. ‘That’s interesting. So, mutilation through cutting and through tattooing? Why bother with both?’ Lindsay wondered out loud. ‘Can you take pictures of those, please.’ ‘Perhaps that wasn’t part of the mutilation,’ Mack said. ‘Could be a message?’ Lindsay’s blood pulsated loudly in her ears. A tingle of excitement travelled the length of her spine; that familiar feeling of adrenaline coursing through her. ‘A message for who?’ she asked quietly and the question hung, suspended in the room like oil on water. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#ulink_0b31387e-e466-55a6-9bc0-d792eea450f0) Connie (#ulink_0b31387e-e466-55a6-9bc0-d792eea450f0) Connie watched Steph from the window of her office. She was weaving her way through the throngs of people, seemingly the only one moving down the street; Connie could see her small frame being buffeted as she attempted to go against the stream. She looked so slight; vulnerable. She was strong though, Connie felt sure of that. She had fight in her. But was she also full of lies? She pulled her gaze away from the window and sat at her desk. She needed to have a conversation with Miles Prescott. It took a while before she was put through to him. Getting the right department was clearly an art form; pressing the right buttons to be connected to the right people. Finally, Connie heard a deep, gravelly tone – one of a man with a forty-a-day habit – that she recognised as Miles. ‘Miles, it’s Connie Summers, Stephanie Cousins’ psychologist.’ ‘Ah, yes. Been expecting a call from you.’ ‘Oh, really? How come?’ ‘Well, she’s been getting a bit jumpy lately. Coming out with all sorts, so I figured she’d be speaking about it with you. A matter of time before you needed to cross-reference facts with me.’ Connie was taken aback. If he knew this, why hadn’t he contacted her? Perhaps Steph had been right about him, that he wanted to pull back from her, withdraw some support. ‘Right, well now that it’s been established that she’s currently going through an episode of anxiety, perhaps together we can come up with a plan of action.’ ‘To be honest, Connie, there’s not much more I can do. She’s had input from the witness protection team for four months, we’ve given her everything required to make a new life, but she seems to be trying to sabotage her own integration with this latest lot of anxiety attacks—’ ‘No disrespect, but you’ve been the one who has given her reason to be anxious.’ ‘Er … I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ ‘The letters? Forwarding them on to her without even knowing who they were from.’ ‘Oh. I see. Well, I need to put you right there, I’m afraid. I didn’t forward her any letters. Every so often, one of the team will check her old address, and her uncle’s, to see what post, if any, is there. There’s been nothing of note for the entire time she’s been in Devon.’ ‘Well if they haven’t been sent by you, that means someone has got hold of her address; her new identity must’ve been compromised?’ ‘You’re assuming someone has got her address. I think what you should be considering is that no one has written or sent any letters. That this is a figment of Stephanie’s imagination.’ ‘No. You’re wrong.’ The quiver in her voice came as a surprise to her. Having Miles question the reliability of Steph’s claims was somehow causing Connie to waver too; she couldn’t entirely dismiss the possibility. But she’d seen the letter: plain paper, not headed with an official address. Not created in Steph’s mind. Although it was paper anyone could have got hold of. That Steph could have got hold of. Connie tutted, berating herself for doing exactly what Steph accused her of: not believing. ‘Next then you are going to tell me that her own brother is also a figment of her imagination?’ There was an audible silence. Then Connie heard a slow out-breathing of air. ‘Look. I don’t know what’s going on. You’ve seen Stephanie’s file as well as I have. There is no brother.’ ‘How … why would she make up a brother? An entire story about where he is, and why he’s there?’ ‘And is it this brother who is supposedly writing to her?’ ‘Yes. He’s been in a YOI but she thinks he’s been released. She got the first letter on Tuesday.’ ‘You’re going to have to leave this with me, Connie. I’ll go back through her case files, see what I can dig up. If there is a brother, I’ll find him.’ ‘I’d be grateful. And whilst you’re at it could you also find out about the fire, the one that happened when she was sixteen? The mother survived it, but Steph is saying that her dad didn’t.’ Miles sighed loudly. ‘I really think I’m going to be wasting my time. As far as we know, Steph’s dad’s alive but his whereabouts are unknown, I—’ ‘Yes, yes,’ Connie interrupted. ‘I know what the files say, but I want you to check this story out please. If you wouldn’t mind.’ ‘Fine. Fine, I’ll get on to it. I’m busy though, you understand, so it might take a few days.’ It wasn’t the way she’d imagined the conversation going. But at least Miles had agreed to delve further into Steph’s family history. She’d failed to mention that Steph wanted a new psychologist. She would tell him. Perhaps when he’d returned to her with the information. In the meantime, she’d keep a check on the news to see if any further reports on the Hargreaves murder mentioned her name. The police should keep quiet about the writing on his hand, they liked to hold such information back from the press. So as long as she didn’t gain any further media attention, the risk of exposing Steph’s new identity would be minimal. For now, at least, she wanted to continue with Steph as her client. She wanted to get to the bottom of her fears, because whether they were fact or fiction, there was no doubt in her mind they were very real to Steph. CHAPTER NINETEEN (#ulink_8c81d951-3f18-5b99-bc38-5898d832bcfe) Then (#ulink_8c81d951-3f18-5b99-bc38-5898d832bcfe) Uncle Jimmy spent his days lying like a big fat pig on his couch, a beer in one hand, TV remote in the other. Empty cans surrounded the patch of floor in front of him. Her mum had often told her stories of how he’d wasted his life, how he could have been so much more. Instead he’d chosen to be a lazy good-for-nothing and sign on the dole, pissing his giro money up the wall. Or these days, it seemed, into his pants. The stench of stale urine made her retch. She had to get out. A roof over her head was one thing, sharing it with a disgusting pervert was another. Her mum had failed to tell her about his fondness for young girls. Before she’d moved in he’d been unable to do much about his urges. Now though, when he wasn’t passed out, he gave her far too much attention – ogling her, trying to catch her in the bathroom, touching her at every opportunity. She’d had enough of that kind of behaviour; she wasn’t going to accept it from him. It was time to force the move to Vince’s. He’d been keen for her to move in when he found out about the fire, but his eagerness had dwindled recently. Suddenly he had lots on, friends camped round at his, no space for her. But he’d promised. And she wasn’t about to let that go. Promises were promises. You can’t go back on them. She hadn’t. CHAPTER TWENTY (#ulink_7b7562c4-802a-5929-a4cf-53598f316004) Connie (#ulink_7b7562c4-802a-5929-a4cf-53598f316004) Despite attempting to clear her mind, Connie struggled to fully concentrate on her last client of the day – thoughts, questions about Steph’s story periodically pierced through and she found herself lost at times, having to ask Paul to repeat himself. She’d annoyed him, his tutting following each request to ‘say that again’, giving away his irritation. She was relieved when the session was over. It was only four thirty, but she didn’t want to catch her usual train. She’d get the later one, at six. Be unpredictable. Just in case. Connie made herself a cafeti?re of coffee, then, enveloped by the peace of her room, sat and allowed the questions she’d been trying to repress flood her mind. How could Steph’s family – her brother, dead dad – be unknown to the witness protection team? It was their job to know everything, to ensure their witnesses’ safety. How could it be possible that Miles didn’t know about Brett? Had they merely concentrated on the gang and Steph’s boyfriend when carrying out risk assessments? But surely background info was key to covering every base, ensuring no one knew of Steph’s new identity, her new home. There should be no loose ends. Something wasn’t right. Had they screwed up? Perhaps in their eagerness to get Steph to testify, they’d missed vital background checks. Although why Steph hadn’t just told Miles about her brother was strange. Connie let her head drop into her cupped hands. These questions forced her in another direction, and her thoughts drifted to her own brother. To the memory stick she’d been handed. Hadn’t she spent the last twenty-two years burying the memory of Luke’s death? She didn’t talk about him. Her brother dying when she’d only just turned fifteen impacted on her more than any of her family ever realised. More than she’d let on. Even to herself. The only people she ever spoke his name to were her parents. And even then, it was sporadic: his birthday, the anniversary of his death. She didn’t like to bring him up in case she upset her mum. Someone wanted her to remember him though – the article and the document had suddenly thrust his life, his death, in her face. Where she had to take notice of it. She and Steph seemed to have that in common: a lost brother. Very different circumstances, and Brett was still alive physically, but still – they’d both suffered, both experienced the grieving process. They both had unresolved issues about it. But how could Connie guide Steph through her anxiety, her problems, when she’d never got her head around the event that changed her own life? After Luke died, her father had moved them to the other side of Manchester. But not content with upending them all once, her parents had then dragged Connie away from big, bad Manchester to the idyllic coastal town in Devon, peeled her away from her friends, her support network. Just like Steph. The similarities had gone unnoticed until now. Until the memory stick had found its way into Connie’s hands, she’d buried her past. Buried Luke. But, like Steph, the past was now forcing its way into the present. It had been a random attack, they’d said. He’d died quickly, they’d said. Wrong place, wrong time. As simple as that. But then why had someone gone to the trouble of searching her past to bring it all up again now? CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#ulink_30b0a999-3a7b-5d5a-9c3c-93044d16797e) Connie (#ulink_30b0a999-3a7b-5d5a-9c3c-93044d16797e) Getting the later train had been a good call. There were no sightings of Jonesy, and more to the point, no further ‘gifts’ from strangers. Connie’s muscles had begun relaxing once she’d got home, showered, had a lasagne microwave meal and sunk into the sofa with a glass of wine. Her personal mobile jumping into action interrupted her evening. Sighing, she pulled herself up and placed the glass on the coaster. For a moment, she froze. The caller ID showed as Niall. What did he want? Her finger hovered over the accept button, then moved to decline. She hesitated. He’d been a good support during the initial shit-hitting-fan stage of the Hargreaves cock-up. He’d popped over to the psychology block for coffees and chats, been very vocal about how none of it was her fault, how Ricky was an evil manipulator who’d pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. Then he’d taken her out for a meal – to console her, cheer her up. Help her forget the horrible situation. They’d got on so well, and he had made her cry with laughter. He’d been exactly what she’d needed. And then of course there’d been sex. There’d been no communication from him since she’d gone off sick last June. She hadn’t told him about her pregnancy, which had been a relief once she’d realised it wasn’t his. But regardless, she’d obviously become too needy in his eyes. So, the question was, why was he ringing her now? Was he the leak – the person who’d spoken to that sneaky reporter, Kelly? The thought made her cheeks burn. The arsehole. She jabbed the ‘accept’ symbol. ‘Yes?’ ‘Connie. It’s Niall.’ ‘Yep, what can I do for you?’ ‘Uh … well, I was just wondering how you were doing, really.’ His delivery was unsure – a slight stammer evident. Connie assumed it was his guilt showing. Or hoped it was. ‘You haven’t wondered enough to call me in, what – the previous twelve months?’ Her voice was clipped. It wasn’t even intentional, in fact until now she hadn’t realised how annoyed she was about his total abandonment. ‘Of course I’ve wondered. I’ve thought about you a lot, but, you know … men aren’t great at this stuff …’ ‘This stuff being?’ Why did men think if they pulled the ‘we’re not good at this stuff’ routine that women would roll over and accept it and forgive them their inadequacies? ‘Difficult emotions. It was hard for me to know the best thing to do …’ ‘Oh, it was hard for you? I’m so sorry about that, Niall. How selfish of me to have put you through that.’ ‘Okay, I can see this was a bad idea, I’ll leave you to it.’ ‘Oh, you’re not enjoying the conversation? What a shame, I have so much to fill you in on.’ ‘I’m sorry I’ve upset you by calling.’ How did he do that? One sentence, spoken in a quiet whisper oozing sincerity, and already she was regretting her abruptness. ‘No, no.’ Her voice softened. ‘It was brave of you to make the effort, finally.’ ‘Can I pop over for a coffee sometime? Catch up properly?’ His tone was suddenly bright. As much as it irked her to admit it, she would quite like some company. She would also like to do a bit of digging to find out what had gone on in relation to Hargreaves’ escape, and which employee had been responsible for giving her name to the media. To the police too. ‘I’m pretty busy with my consultancy, but I’ll check my diary and give you a text.’ ‘Oh, okay.’ The pause lengthened. ‘You won’t text me though, will you?’ Connie sighed. She didn’t want to make this easy for him, why should she? But she found herself caving in on hearing the disappointment in his voice. Perhaps she was more desperate for company than she’d thought. ‘I will. More likely an evening though, I don’t get back from work until six-ish.’ ‘Great. Thanks, Connie. I know I don’t deserve another chance, really.’ ‘It’s just a drink. Don’t go getting any ideas, it’s not another chance like that.’ ‘Loud and clear. I’ll look forward to your text. Night, love.’ He hung up before she could make further comment. Her moment of relaxation had passed. Her shoulders felt tight, her neck stiff. From one telephone conversation? She rotated her head and massaged her neck. How had this week become so stressful, so quickly? It most definitely wasn’t part of her plan. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#ulink_d96e6a0d-ed52-5580-b7bf-bcd34d1e5912) DI Wade (#ulink_d96e6a0d-ed52-5580-b7bf-bcd34d1e5912) Thursday 8 June Lindsay Wade spread four photos across her desk. Each enlarged image showed a different tattoo. ‘What do you make of these?’ She directed her question at Mack, who, coffee in hand, was staring at the monitor on his desk. He put his mug down and scooted over, the wheels of the chair squealing in protest. He picked up one of the photos. ‘The murderer likes birds?’ ‘Helpful. What kind of bird does it look like to you?’ Mack tilted his head, squinting, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘No idea. I’m guessing it’s not one specific species, more like a mixture – seems muddled. Perhaps our killer is a crap tattooist?’ ‘Quite possibly, as the other three are similar – they’re pretty muddled too.’ Lindsay handed Mack another picture. ‘I thought there were only three new tattoos. Where’s the fourth come from?’ ‘We left a bit too early. When Harry was sewing Hargreaves back up, he found this one on the lower half of the torso. It revealed itself when he lifted the flap of skin that had been sliced and left hanging.’ ‘Nothing else hiding in the flaps?’ Mack sniggered. Lindsay silently raised one eyebrow. He dropped his head and stared at the photo, his features suddenly serious. He gathered up the others. ‘Okay, so we’ve got four tattoos that have been created post-mortem, we’re assuming by the killer—’ ‘Highly likely I’d say.’ ‘He obviously had a clear reason for creating these, took some time over them, even though they’re pretty rough. So, we’ve got a bird – of unknown species. A code of some sort?’ Mack continued to sift through the photos. ‘Then, a word – I think, although I can’t make it out, and finally … lines and crosses, a pattern?’ ‘That’s about as far as I got too.’ Lindsay took the photos from Mack and placed them back on her desk. ‘Do you think they could be prison-related? Or some gang code?’ ‘It’s possible, I guess. Tattoos are more prevalent in the prison community in Russia and USA, though, I’d say.’ ‘Okay then. We still need to look into the possibility, but …’ Lindsay bit on the inside of her cheek, thinking. ‘You suggested in the morgue they could be a message. One that only the person it’s intended for could interpret?’ ‘Yes. I was thinking Connie Summers?’ ‘Well, given that her name is on the dead man’s hand, I suggest we should ask her. It could be that it’s because she’s the one who’ll be able to tell us what they mean?’ ‘Only one way to find out. I’ll give her a call, get her to come on in.’ Mack propelled the chair back to his desk. ‘Actually, Mack – make a copy of these pictures and go see her, will you?’ He replaced the phone, frowning. ‘But she doesn’t want us to turn up at her office, remember?’ ‘Yeah. I remember.’ ‘You playing some kind of mind game here?’ Mack sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. ‘No. Not at all. But I don’t want her in here quite yet. I want her independent from us until she’s given her thoughts on these tattoos. I don’t want anyone else to … contaminate her thoughts.’ ‘I think you want to make her uncomfortable.’ He smiled. ‘Which is your way, I know. But won’t that jeopardise you making sure she doesn’t believe she’s a person of interest?’ ‘My way? Don’t know what you mean. And no, I don’t think it will make her uncomfortable – she’ll be in her own, safe environment. I think it’ll wind her up a bit, but I also think she needs to know who’s in charge. Don’t you?’ ‘Sure. I’m on it, Boss.’ Mack put two fingers to his forehead in a salute and took the photos from her. ‘Good. Make sure you only do one copy of each and bring these back to me before you go, yeah?’ ‘Ah, I was hoping I could make a dozen copies and distribute them to my mates at the local tattoo parlours.’ ‘That’s a good idea, actually. But just the one copy for Summers at the moment. We’ll look into showing others when we have a bit more info.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘And when you get to hers, keep it business, eh, Mack?’ Lindsay winked. ‘Ha. Ha. You’re so funny.’ ‘Seriously, though, don’t act like you did before – we want her to assist us, not clam up because you’re rubbing her up the wrong way.’ ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll be on my best behaviour. Promise.’ He winked back. Lindsay casually looked through the photos of the tattoos, her mind flitting from one thing to the next, the low hum of the computers and buzz of her colleagues’ discussions dissolving into the background. Her thoughts had no structure – they were erratic, not settling on one concrete idea or theory. She needed other people’s input. Raising herself from her desk, she took the pictures to the back of the room and began sticking them to the large whiteboard. Sensing the room quietening, she turned. The team had stopped what they were doing and eager, keen eyes were now trained on the photos. ‘Right, well it looks as though I already have your attention.’ Lindsay moved to the side of the board. ‘Gather round.’ The squeaking of chairs and the shuffling of shoes followed her invitation. The group of officers stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the whiteboard. Lindsay waited for them all to settle and then turned to the board. ‘Four pictures: each depicting a tattoo left on Hargreaves’ body post-mortem,’ she said simply. ‘Thoughts?’ There was mumbling; some hushed interchange between officers. ‘Now, now, don’t be shy. Spit it out, people.’ Lindsay picked up a dry-wipe pen and drew a line downwards at the side of the photos. ‘Brainstorm time.’ She smiled. ‘Let’s have some ideas on photo one. Go.’ As brainstorms went, it had been a productive one; not too many ridiculous ideas, and some solid possibilities as to what they were and what they could mean. None of the ideas correlated with the victim himself, or Connie Summers. Currently, they were random tattoos. ‘Guv.’ DC Clarke raised his hand from behind his desk as he replaced the receiver. ‘Got a hit on one of the names on that list of Hargreaves’ prison associates.’ ‘Go on.’ ‘Oscar Manning. Was released six months ago from HMP Baymead. Had links with Hargreaves on the inside. He’s the only one on the list that’s not still banged up, so could be one of the outside sources. Someone who’d be able to help orchestrate an escape attempt from the funeral.’ ‘Good work. We got an address for him?’ ‘No, not yet.’ ‘He could still be on licence.’ Lindsay rubbed at her temples. ‘Get hold of the local probation, see what they can tell us. We need to get him in for questioning, pronto.’ Lindsay swept past the rows of desks, working her way back to the whiteboard. The amount of time she’d spent staring at the photos of the tattoos meant she’d probably never get them out of her head. It would be far worse if she couldn’t figure out their relevance – they’d forever taunt her. Hopefully, Mack would get something to go on, something that might link the tattoos – either to each other, or to the victim, or Connie herself. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#ulink_15003591-d7d6-510c-93ef-5315f27fff3f) Connie (#ulink_15003591-d7d6-510c-93ef-5315f27fff3f) At some point during Connie’s walk from the train station to her office, drizzle had laid a fine film of damp on her. Once she emerged from her thoughts and realised, she welcomed the coolness and lifted her face to meet the droplets. The forecast hadn’t given rain. The last few weeks had been unremitting heat and a humidity she wasn’t used to in the West Country. Connie paused halfway up the hill, readjusting her shoulder bag and stretching her back. It was aching more frequently these days, she really should get it seen to. She’d add it to the list of things she was unlikely to ever get around to. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sam-carrington/bad-sister-tense-convincing-kept-me-guessing-caz-frear-best/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.