Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

  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

  DI Wade

  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 g
ood 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

  Connie

  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 ima
gined 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

  Then

  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.