‘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
Connie
‘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
Then
Blue lights reflected in the puddles of wat
er 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?
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