Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

  ‘What is it that I can help you with, Detective Sergeant Mack?’

  ‘If I’m calling you Connie, I’d feel more comfortable with you calling me Mack. All my colleagues do.’

  She raised her eyebrows. The buddy-buddy approach now, was it? She wanted to point out that she wasn’t his colleague, and wasn’t particularly fussed about making him feel comfortable, but instead she let it ride. She didn’t have time to be dramatic, or awkward. It’d be quicker and more painless if she cooperated fully and got this done so she could carry on with the rest of her day.

  ‘Okay, Mack – I’ll do what I can to help.’

  ‘Thank you.’ His face brightened, transforming his weathered-looking appearance into one that seemed younger than it had before. Connie couldn’t confidently put an age on him – he could be anywhere between forty-five and fifty-five, she presumed. He opened a large envelope and pulled out its contents. ‘These were tattooed on to the victim, Hargreaves, post-mortem.’ Mack placed the pictures on her desk and fanned them out. ‘Obviously we’re looking into these independently, however, I’d like your thoughts on them.’

  Connie sat forward and straightened the A4-sized sheets. She studied them one by one in silence, giving each tattoo about ten seconds of her attention before going back to the first and picking it up.

  ‘Being copies, it’s difficult to be sure, as the detail is lost somewhat.’

  ‘I know, but any ideas are welcome – perhaps you could come into the station soon and see the originals.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Connie gave him a thin smile. ‘Well. They’re quite crude. All of them are roughly done with just dark ink. Although I’d bet this wasn’t standard ink a tattooist would use, more likely an improvised ink.’

  ‘Like that used by prisoners?’

  ‘Certainly I’ve seen many that are similarly etched while I worked in Baymead, yes. And Hargreaves had a number of tattoos that were done in that way. He’d had a few adjudications for having them and giving them to other prisoners. He’d been on basic regime loads of times because of it. He had an obsession with them and didn’t care about punishment, always had stuff confiscated but seemed to get his hands on new gear easily. Are you sure they were done post-mortem?’

  ‘Pathologist confirmed. So, first picture – what would you say it is?’

  Connie looked at Mack and frowned. Was he serious?

  ‘It’s a bird.’

  ‘What type?’

  ‘How should I know. I’m not a twitcher!’

  Mack snorted. ‘Ha-ha. All right, but I want your perspective, your idea of what it might look like. We have our impressions about each of these tattoos but wanted your opinion. And as you worked in a prison, and with the victim, I … we, thought you might have something different to offer?’

  ‘Okay. Fair point, we can perceive things differently so it’s worth gathering other people’s views.’ Connie looked back down at the bird. ‘It’s odd. Not sure if it’s just bad drawing, but the top and bottom of the bird are disparate – like two separate halves of different birds. I haven’t seen anything similar in the prison.’

  ‘We had the same feeling on that one. Can’t say which species they are?’

  ‘Nope. You really do need a twitcher for that. All I can say is they look to me like your common garden variety.’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘Hmm. All I can say is that it appears to be a pattern of lines and crosses. Code? Or perhaps it represents something – a sign or symbol? It does remind me of something … not sure what, though. I feel like I’ve seen it, like on a shop sign, maybe.’

  Mack was writing furiously in his notebook, his brows drawn close and tongue protruding through his lips in concentration. He looked like an overgrown child.

  ‘And this next one I’d say is a code.’

  ‘Can you make out what the letters are?’

  Connie reeled off the letters and numbers: ‘U, 2, X, 5, 1. The five might be an S though, difficult to tell because of the blurring.’

  ‘Sure. Any ideas as to what they could mean?’

  ‘Part of a number plate? That’s all I can come up with off the top of my head. Can I take these?’

  Mack hesitated, seemed to be weighing up the options. ‘Er, no. My DI would string me up.’

  ‘Can’t have that now, can we?’ Connie gave him a wry smile and handed the picture to him, storing the code to memory, to recall when he’d gone.

  ‘Last one, then I’ll get out of your hair.’

  ‘Looks like it should be a word, but it doesn’t look English. I can’t make it out. If anything, I’d say that could be a prison tattoo, one meant to affiliate the person to a specific gang. I can’t say I’ve seen it before though, but there will be prison officers who’ll know if it’s gang-related – they might even be able to tell you which gang.’

  ‘That’s great.’ Mack gathered all the pictures, patting the edges to make a neat pile, then replaced them in the envelope. ‘You’ve been very helpful—’

  ‘I don’t think I have, Mack. I’ve probably not told you anything you didn’t already know.’

  ‘Next time, I’ll ask you to come into the station. In fact, we could do with you as soon as possible. We need to compile a profile of the killer, and your track record is pretty good.’ His face flushed. He’d avoided a direct response to her statement and gone for the ‘we need you’ approach, again.

  ‘Sure. Is tomorrow good enough? I was only going to have an admin day, so I can free myself up.’ Anything was better than police showing up at her door again.

  ‘Great. Yes, I’ll arrange it and give you a bell to confirm,’ he said as he left the room.

  Connie heard his heavy footsteps dash down the staircase. She stood at the window and watched him weave his way across the street; he crossed the market square and disappeared, presumably heading for the car park.

  Grabbing a piece of paper, Connie scribbled down the code. U2X51. By the time she saw Mack tomorrow she wanted to give him something better than ‘number plate’. Despite her initial reluctance to get involved, Connie’s intrigue was drawing her into this case. Besides, it would keep her mind occupied tonight, keep it from straying to Luke. And what resided on the USB stick.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Then

  Her uncle gave her a tenner and a pat on the backside when she left his flat. Said: ‘Be careful, missy. You don’t know this lad from Adam.’ She’d given him a forced smile, muttered her thanks for letting her stay the past couple of months and left without a backward glance. She knew Uncle Jimmy, but that hadn’t been of any comfort – the fact she didn’t know Vince very well was neither here nor there. At least it got her away from Jimmy the letch.

  Vince helped lug her bags up the four sets of concrete steps to his flat. She’d only been there once before, after a party where she’d been drunk out of her skull. Looking at the state of the flat now, she realised her memory of it had clearly been wrong. Either that, or he’d been burgled. He gave her a lopsided grin, cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth.

  ‘Where can I put this lot?’ She indicated her bags.

  ‘Only got one room other than this, so knock yourself out.’ He winked.

  There was nowhere to put them where she stood. It was an L-shaped open-plan room with a battered three-seater sofa, a TV on a crate, a cluttered coffee table, and clothes strewn all over the place. Her eyes travelled over to the tiny kitchen area and to what she assumed were work surfaces, but couldn’t be sure because of the piles of takeaway containers, pizza boxes and dirty plates. She closed her eyelids tightly. What had she let herself in for?

  ‘The other room then, I s’pose.’ She shrugged.

  Vince waved an arm towards the other room. She took small steps, to avoid tripping on discarded items – what exactly she was treading over, she didn’t care to know – in the direction indicated. She pushed the door open with her shoulder. A smell, sweet, sickly, wafted out to greet her. It wasn’t much better than th
e first room. She tried to quash her feelings of disgust; her disappointment. This was a move she’d been looking forward to, one she’d obsessed about and that had got her through the darkest days at Uncle Jimmy’s. The reality of it fell far short of her expectations; her hopes. How could she have gone from a decent three-bed house to this in such a short time? This sucked.

  Her mind conjured Brett’s face. This was all his fault.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Connie

  Tiredness swept over her. She’d only seen two clients since her visit from Mack, but her energy was zapped – the effort of actively listening and responding appropriately to them leaving her weak.

  A brisk walk down the hill to the bakery for a calorie-filled treat would sort her out. She got her purse and keys, planting them in her suit jacket, and headed out. The drizzle had been replaced with sun again – the sporadic clouds light and fluffy now. It was one o’clock so the cafés were full. She glanced at the faces of random people sitting at the tables in the windows as she passed. Busy. Chatty. Social. She made a mental note to text Niall later. She didn’t feel the need for company quite so strongly now, but she knew she should. She might have to force it, but in the longer term it would be better for her. She didn’t need her mum to tell her that; she knew it only too well herself.

  While standing inside the bakery contemplating which pastry to have, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Assuming she was in the way, or had failed to move up sufficiently in the queue, she stepped back and apologised.

  ‘I thought it was you.’

  Connie straightened at the sound of the voice, whipping her head around to face the opposite direction. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Ignore her.

  ‘Connie, isn’t it? We met last year?’ Her voice, every bit as slippery as her nature. The other customers in the queue turned to look at her. Or perhaps that was her imagination. Her neck burned, the prickling heat travelling to her cheeks.

  ‘Interesting developments at the prison, don’t you think?’ she continued, craning her head around Connie’s side to get back in her eye line. Kelly Barton knew what she was doing; she was waiting for a reaction.

  Connie closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Go away. Seeing the woman on the news, listening to her say her name, knowing she was eager to link Connie to Hargreaves’ death, had been bad enough. Meeting her unexpectedly, face to face like this, was enough to cause a wave of anger to pulsate through her tense body.

  ‘It’s been confirmed. It’s Eric Hargreaves. How ironic that he escaped then wound up back at the prison, dead. Bet that wasn’t his plan.’ She laughed; a light, bubbly giggle as if she’d been told a joke.

  This woman needed taking down a peg. Connie’s fists clenched. The weight of people’s stares dragged her shoulders downwards. Let the horrible woman blabber on, she wasn’t going to engage.

  ‘How do you feel about it? You know, seeing as you got him released then he raped that poor girl.’

  Connie heard a gasp from the woman in front of her. Great. Why wasn’t the queue moving? The heat in her cheeks spread. She shivered as a bead of sweat ran down her spine. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

  ‘Yes, you must be so relieved. At least he can’t hurt anyone else now. And you can’t be blamed for anything more. You’re off the hook. Pretty convenient for you really.’

  The woman who’d gasped turned to face Connie full on. ‘I hope you can sleep at night!’ she said before bustling out of the shop.

  Kelly grinned. ‘I’m sure you will now. The person who almost ruined your career has had his comeuppance. Must feel pretty good.’

  That was it. All she could take. She finally whipped round and confronted Kelly Barton, put her face as close to hers as she dared.

  ‘I think you’ll find it was you who ruined my career, you ignorant woman.’ Connie’s words forced themselves through her gritted teeth. No longer feeling like anything to eat, she pushed past Kelly and walked out, leaving the echo of shocked whispers behind her.

  Connie took big strides, getting back up the hill more quickly than she’d ever managed before – adrenaline fuelling her ascent. She didn’t stop until she was securely behind her door. She leant back against it, her breath coming in rapid pants. Her hands and legs shook. Kelly must know where she worked. If Connie remembered correctly, Kelly worked from the news studio in Exeter. Far too local for her liking. And now she seemed to have set her sights on Connie again. How many more times would she ‘bump’ into her from now on? She was after a story, and she wouldn’t stop until she got her teeth into something substantial – something to get her noticed nationally. If that woman dared to cause a major upset in her new career, she’d better be prepared for the consequences. She’d got away with it once but Connie wouldn’t let it happen twice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Connie

  It’d taken the best part of half an hour for the shaking to fully abate. She was able to put the incident to the back of her mind while she saw her afternoon clients; now, though, as she finished typing the notes on her computer, Connie sat back in the chair and allowed it to replay in her head. Where did Kelly get off following her into a shop and harassing her? She should call the news broadcasting house, put in an official complaint. She felt fairly certain that Ms Bloody Barton wasn’t acting on her employers’ request. This was all her. Her attempt at gaining a reputation for herself; a leg-up the journalistic career ladder into the gutter tabloid press. At anyone’s expense.

  The ring of the phone pulled her abruptly from her thoughts. She picked it up, grateful for the distraction.

  ‘Miles Prescott, I’ve got some of the information you requested on Stephanie Cousins,’ the gruff voice stated.

  ‘Hi, Miles. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.’

  ‘I’m not sure what I have is that enlightening, but I’ve done my best.’ His tone hinted at indignation. Like she’d asked for something over and above his duty.

  ‘Okay, well anything more than what I have has got to be useful.’ Connie took a pen and poised her hand over her pad of paper ready to write notes.

  ‘There’s nothing about a brother.’

  Connie’s shoulders slumped. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. I did find out about the fire at her family home, though.’ Connie heard the clicking of computer keys. ‘I’ve got a psychiatric report here from children’s services, dated October 2007. Makes for interesting reading.’

  ‘Can you email it to me?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll have to send you a redacted version though, you understand, for security.’

  Connie sighed. ‘Fine. Anything else that might help me in untangling this story?’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s a help, but her mother was diagnosed with severe dementia shortly after the fire. She has apparently never spoken a single coherent word since.’

  ‘That’s sad. Must’ve been so traumatic for her. And Steph.’

  ‘The report certainly points to Steph never forgiving her mother. Loads of issues are attributed to the mother’s lack of support – feelings of betrayal and abandonment are discussed – following the devastation of losing her home and her father.’

  ‘So it mentions her father? He died in the fire, as Steph said then?’

  ‘Guess so. Don’t understand why this wasn’t known to us. As far as we knew, her dad was merely unreachable – alive, but at an unknown location.’

  ‘The information you have is clearly inaccurate. Begs the question how it could be so wrong. Seriously, Miles, this is basic stuff – background info, family history. How have you done your job effectively if this information was missing, or patchy at best? How safe is Steph if her own witness protection team don’t even know the full picture?’ Her rant extinguished itself. She loosened her grip on the receiver, unaware until she felt the tingling in her fingers that she’d been holding it so tight. Her anger at Kelly and now the incompetence of Miles’ team had come spilling out.

  ‘We’ve done our job
, Miss Summers.’ His voice, curt.

  Connie felt she’d said enough on that point. For now. ‘If there’s no mention of a brother, who did they attribute the blame of setting the fire to?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Says here that it’s unsolved. Fire investigators reckoned the fire’s source was inside the hall, the accelerant was petrol. It was suspected to be a firebomb through the letter box. No one was in the frame for it.’

  ‘That doesn’t fit Steph’s account. She said Brett started the fire outside her parents’ bedroom.’

  ‘As I said before, I’m afraid you can’t rely on her accounts. Post-traumatic stress was suggested in the report. I think she’s fabricated it all, if you want my opinion.’

  She didn’t.

  Why hadn’t this come to light before? If Miles’ team could get his hands on the reports now, why not while they were compiling their file on her? Had they just not bothered, and concentrated on the gang they wanted behind bars rather than the well-being of their informant? The system had let Steph down. Perhaps now Connie knew the extent of their shortcomings, she herself could help Steph properly. She did believe her accounts. Steph had no real reason to lie. Her initial concern that she was fabricating the story to ensure her continued support from Miles was now banished.

  ‘The fact that some of the things Steph has talked to me about have turned out to be true, Miles, means it’s quite possible others are too. I’m prepared to believe Steph is being threatened by her brother, Brett, via letters being sent from the YOI he is, or was, incarcerated in. So I suggest you look into that please. If there’s a Brett Ellison being held, or having been held in the past, the records will prove it. Then you have to take her concerns seriously and up her security level.’