Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

  ‘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

  Connie

  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

  Then

  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

  Connie

  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, than
ks. 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

  Connie

  Wednesday 7 June

  Having been sleep-deprived for the second night in a row, the journey to her office was slow, her legs leaden. Connie was 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.’