Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

  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

  Then

  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

  Connie

  ‘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 co
mpose 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

  DI Wade

  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.