Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

  ‘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

  Connie

  ‘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

  DI Wade

  ‘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

  Connie

  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

  Connie

  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.