Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

  Miles mumbled something she didn’t catch and then said he would contact the YOIs in Manchester and the surrounding area. The call ended with his promise that he’d get back to her as soon as he had any further information.

  In the next session with Steph, Connie was going to blow this whole thing wide open – tell Steph she believed her story and ask her to tell her everything she remembered about the threats Brett had made. If her Protected Persons Constable couldn’t offer enough protection, she’d have to help Steph get to the bottom of this, and if it came to it, make sure Miles relocated her again to a place of safety. The last thing Connie needed was another person’s blood on her hands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  DI Wade

  Friday 9 June

  From the second-storey corridor window, Lindsay Wade stood and watched. She followed Connie Summers’ unhurried entrance into the police building with interest and slight trepidation. She hoped involving her in the investigation as an expert advisor was the right call. It wasn’t like she was independent of the case – it could backfire spectacularly. And the fallout of a screw-up wasn’t one she wished to consider. She took her hands out of her trouser pockets and made her way down the stairs to the reception.

  As Lindsay walked towards Connie, she did a quick appraisal of her. She looked younger than her thirty-seven years, with no visible wrinkles around the eyes, which were a pretty shade of green. She had a bright complexion – a far cry from the grey tone Lindsay’s skin had taken on recently. Her trousers strained slightly on the thighs, accentuating her larger frame, but her face was slim – no sign of a double chin. Lindsay wondered if the weight gain was recent – a side-effect of her experience with Hargreaves and the prison last year. She’d mentioned time off sick. Lindsay would bet it had been stress-related – possibly an episode of depression.

  ‘Thanks for coming in, Connie.’ Lindsay offered her right hand and gripped Connie’s. The shake was firm. Lindsay took it as a sign that Connie wanted to come across as assured and confident. Perhaps she was. Connie smiled, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes: they told a different story – uncertain, flitting nervously around the reception area, not quite making contact with hers. Lindsay reached up and placed her hand on Connie’s shoulder – she was a good three inches taller than Lindsay – and gently guided her towards the main incident room. The team had been prepped for Connie’s arrival and were waiting for her professional insight.

  Thankfully as they entered the room everyone was busy, so Connie’s presence went largely unnoticed. Better than everyone stopping to stare at her. It would help put her at ease if she could slip in and join the briefing without too much fuss. Lindsay took her to her desk and pulled up a spare chair. Connie sat, scanning the room. The whiteboard held the photos of Hargreaves’ post-mortem, the photos of the tattoos. And a photo of Connie. Lindsay noticed the flinch in her face as she clocked it. Her mouth twitched, but she said nothing.

  ‘So, Mack tells me that he showed you the pictures of the tattoos yesterday.’ Not much of an opening, but the best she could do to get the conversation going. She’d yet to consume her obligatory third coffee – her senses didn’t fully come alive until that magic number.

  ‘Yes, but they weren’t the clearest, I’d like to see the originals.’ Connie’s gaze travelled back to the whiteboard.

  ‘Sure, go ahead,’ Lindsay said, indicating towards the back wall. ‘Take your time. I’ll give you a shout when the briefing is due to begin.’

  Lindsay watched Connie walk up and down in front of the pictures for a few minutes, then turned her attention to her briefing sheet. Out the corner of her eye she spotted Mack approach Connie’s side. It was hard not to openly stare; she kept her focus on the paper in her hands, periodically looking up. There was something weird about the way Mack acted around Connie. She’d mocked him and hinted at there being a history – but it was becoming less of a joke. Perhaps there really had been something. Mack was single. Kind of. Had been separated for so long from his wife that everyone classed him as single, even though they’d never even contemplated divorce. From the little Mack had told her, they’d married too young, had their kids too quickly, but were still the best of friends. Connie was single – by all accounts. Despite the disparity in age, perhaps their paths had crossed – it wasn’t out of the realms of possibility, even if Lindsay did doubt it was Mack’s style. If they had, though, Mack was doing a good job of keeping it to himself.

  The sun streamed through the windows of the second incident room, the one they used for official briefings. The heat was already evident even though it was only 10 a.m. Lindsay hung her suit jacket over the chair and stood behind it, leaning forwards, placing both hands on the back. She waited for everyone to file in and take a seat. Connie was last inside the room.

  ‘Morning, everyone. Forensic psychologist Connie Summers is joining us today. She’ll be here to give any insight she has on Hargreaves.’ The team – twelve officers of varying rank – mumbled their greetings and then settled. ‘If you could perch here, Connie.’ Lindsay pointed to the chair next to hers. ‘Okay, so where are we up to, Mack?’

  ‘Right. Firstly, Oscar Manning, ex-con who knew Hargreaves while inside. We found him, interviewed him – and found no evidence of him being in contact with Hargreaves once he was released. His probation officer said he’d kept all appointments and is working part-time in a garden centre six miles out of town. He doesn’t have his own transport and relies on a co-worker for lifts to and from work. So, not looking hopeful as the person who helped Hargreaves escape. He wasn’t forthcoming with any further info and, as we had nothing, we could only ask that he contact us if he thought of anything else.’

  Lindsay stood straight, crossed her arms and began pacing. ‘That’s disappointing. What about the tattoos?’

  ‘Clarke and I spoke to a number of the prison officers at HMP Baymead and not one of them believed any to be related to a particular gang – not well-known ones anyway. The prison governor is helping with enquiries and cooperating with the team by checking all rosters and working out who was on shifts on Hargreaves’ wing the most, then cross-referencing with wing records. He should be able to see what contact certain officers had with Hargreaves in the lead-up to his escape – looking specifically at the two officers who escorted Hargreaves at the funeral, but not ruling anyone out at this stage.’

  ‘That’s good, and we’ve been given access to all Hargreaves’ offending behaviour work carried out with Connie Summers.’ Lindsay turned towards Connie. ‘It would be good if you could also go through them – with a fresh pair of eyes – and look for anything relevant that could give us a clue as to why your name found its way on to his hand.’ Lindsay noted a visible flinch on Connie’s face, but continued. ‘It can’t be in relation to an upcoming appointment or anything of that nature, since Connie left the service a year ago.’ The team murmured, and heads nodded in agreement.

  ‘So, are we definitely ruling out Hargreaves writing this himself?’ DC Anika Patel asked.

  Connie leant forward and gave a small cough. ‘He was left-handed, so it would be difficult for him to have written on his left hand …’ She looked around at all the faces turned to hers. ‘But, if you look closely at the way my name is written, there’s a uniformity about it, don’t you think? It’s printed, in capitals. Almost like a stencil. In which case, there is a possibility he did it himself. Personally though, I feel it’s more likely to have been done by the perpetrator.’

  The officers looked thoughtful, and for a moment the room was quiet. Lindsay allowed the lull. She wanted her officers to process the information, come up with questions without her jumping in.

  Anika leant across the table and directed her question at Connie. ‘Why would it be a stencil, why not just write it?’

  ‘It needed to be clear, no room for misreading?’ Connie said, her voice lilting. ‘Stencilling would ensure it could be read. Perhaps the person who wrote it had awful handwriting?’r />
  ‘But if that was the case, why were the tattoos done freehand instead of using a stencil?’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t want those to be clear. Wanted ambiguity – to screw with us,’ Mack offered.

  ‘That’s certainly a possibility,’ Connie said.

  ‘It was important. He needed to make sure we could read the name, no mistake.’

  Lindsay noticed Connie shift in her chair.

  ‘Connie. We’ve had some thoughts as to why your name. You must have too?’

  ‘My first thought, and, well, the one that horrified me, was that I was somehow the next target.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I wondered if the person doing this was related to Hargreaves’ last victim. Perhaps someone seeking revenge for it. And if that was the case, then perhaps he wanted me to pay too – seeing as I was the one who was instrumental in Hargreaves’ release. Although, I wasn’t actually instrumental as such.’ Connie’s voice was now firm; confident. ‘The parole board had various evidence at their disposal to make the final decision to release him. But the way it was reported at the time – you’d think it was all me, that I was the one who allowed Hargreaves to walk out and attack another woman.’

  Lindsay caught the sharp turn of Mack’s head in her direction; his eyes narrowed. ‘This was something we’d considered briefly. Mack, perhaps you could follow this line of enquiry – check the boyfriend and family members of …’

  ‘Katie Watson,’ Connie added.

  ‘Yes, Katie Watson, and see if all have solid alibis for the time of the funeral and the time of the body dump.’ Lindsay paused, watching the scribble of notes; the look of indignation on Mack’s face. He was annoyed with her. He’d been concerned Connie was a target and she’d been dismissive. She still had a gut feeling Connie was not ‘next’ but she should have ruled it out officially straight away. Not four days later. She brought her focus back to Connie. ‘Any other ideas?’

  ‘Once the initial shock wore off, I thought it was more likely that the person who wrote my name merely wanted you guys to know I had a link with either them, or the victim.’ Connie paused, her eyebrows raised. ‘Although, Kelly Barton made the link without the knowledge of my name on the dead man’s hand.’

  ‘A leak from within the prison? Someone keen to drag your name through the mud again?’

  ‘Yes, something like that,’ Connie said.

  ‘We keep coming back to the why? Why was it so important to get us to notice your name?’ Lindsay paced the room again, hands on her hips – the movement creating a welcome shift of air.

  ‘I still like my theory, Boss.’

  ‘Go on, Clarke.’ Lindsay was glad of Clarke’s interruption.

  ‘You know – the secret admirer, or perhaps not so secret, who thought he was doing Connie a favour, getting even on her behalf. Getting rid of the scum who ruined her career.’

  Connie’s skin blanched.

  Lindsay tapped her index finger on her lips, thinking. ‘We could do with a list of people you have had relationships with, gone out with, or have had, or do have dealings with, or even that have shown an interest in you.’

  ‘Really? How far back?’ Connie’s voice had raised an octave; her eyes were wide. Lindsay felt sorry for her – not the easiest thing to have to do, no doubt. Opening yourself up to a whole team, spilling how many relationships you’d had. It might have been better to have asked her privately. Too late now.

  ‘I’d go back a year prior to your dealings with Hargreaves. To start with.’

  Lindsay looked to Mack, his head was lowered.

  She wondered if his name would appear on that list.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Connie

  The day had been long. Connie’d been at the police station for eight hours – yet at the same time it had come as a shock when Lindsay had told her it was six o’clock and she should go home. Being with people other than clients had given her an energy she hadn’t experienced for a while. Her blood had pumped harder; her mind had been sharper. She hated to admit it, but she’d enjoyed being part of the team, even if it had only been for a day.

  Now Connie sat back on the sofa, Amber flopped on her lap, and pressed the phone to her ear. Her mum’s voice was quiet – she sounded as though she were far away instead of a few miles.

  ‘Mum, really, you shouldn’t worry so much. I’m fine.’

  ‘You always say that. I’m fine. Said it for as long as I can remember, especially when it wasn’t true.’

  Connie gave an exasperated sigh. Her mother wasn’t going to let up. ‘Okay, I’ll come over and see you at the weekend.’

  ‘Good, good. Tomorrow or Sunday? Or you can have your old room, it’s still got your bed – and you can spend the whole weekend. Let me cook you some decent meals, look after you.’

  Decent meals? Could her mother see the discarded plastic microwave meal containers, the empty pizza boxes in her bin? Her conscience tugged. Despite her mum living just ten miles away, she hadn’t seen her for months, had only called sporadically. But, with the content of the memory stick so insistently on her mind, how would she stop herself from dragging up Luke’s death if she spent the entire weekend in her mum’s company? Her mum would be distraught if she pulled her back into the trauma of losing her son. They still spoke of Luke on important occasions, how bright he’d been, what a clever, talented seventeen-year-old – a young soul plucked from this earth way too early. But not the actual incident. That had never been discussed. Not since that dark day in 1995. She shouldn’t really broach the subject, it was her dad she should talk to. If the content of the memory stick was to be believed, then he was the one in the know. But her mum was concerned – she’d just have to keep her questions about Luke to herself.

  After agreeing to stay the whole weekend, Connie hung up, then texted Niall. She’d told herself she should. She’d contemplated asking him to meet her in town, at a bar – but actually, she couldn’t be bothered going out now. Anyway, it was probably too late for him to come over tonight – it was unlikely he’d be around. But she tapped out a message nonetheless. Said she was free now, and if he came back with a ‘no’ – well, at least she’d tried.

  The ping came within seconds of her sending the text. He’d be over in half an hour. Wow. Keen. I wonder why? A niggle inside of her. A warning voice. His sudden interest in her again could be to see what information she had about Hargreaves.

  She was sounding paranoid, even to herself.

  He wanted company, she needed company. Simple as that. Don’t read anything into it that’s not there. Connie gently pushed Amber off her on to the sofa cushion and headed for the shower.

  She picked out a pair of linen trousers and a blue short-sleeved silky top. Nothing fancy. She didn’t want to look like she was trying to impress him. A smatter of light make-up, to make her appear brighter than she felt.

  The doorbell rang.

  Why had her heart rate picked up?

  She took a deep breath and answered the door with a smile.

  ‘Hey, Niall. Long time no see.’ She broke eye contact quickly, tucked her hair behind one ear and then stood aside to let him in.

  Niall, dressed casually in a white T-shirt and jeans, stepped inside and bent to kiss her on the cheek. She caught the scent of Boss aftershave. He hadn’t changed. Still the same aftershave, the same haircut – a grade two all over, which she knew was to disguise his balding at the crown – and still the same style of clothes. Looking at him now, it was hard to believe there’d been a year’s gap since seeing him last.

  ‘You look great.’ His gaze lingered on her as he hovered in the hallway.

  ‘Thanks.’ Connie doubted he meant that. She looked down at herself self-consciously, knowing full well the last time he’d seen her she’d been a fit, slim size 12. ‘Go on in, then.’ She ushered him into the lounge. The awkwardness was palpable. She was beginning to regret her invitation; it wasn’t as though they could just pick up where they’d left off; sh
e held on to too much animosity for that. Why did she want him here? ‘Tea, coffee?’

  ‘Oh. Nothing stronger?’

  ‘I assume you drove here?’

  ‘No, actually – got a lift from a mate. So, you know—’

  ‘So you could stay over?’ she blurted.

  ‘Er … nooo, so I could have a drink was what I was going to say.’ He raised his eyebrows.

  Connie made a face. ‘Oh, right.’ She gave an apologetic smile. ‘Um, well, I have wine or lager then, in that case. And when’s your mate picking you back up?’

  ‘Lager, please. And when I text to say I’m ready.’ He grabbed the TV remote, sat down heavily on the sofa, causing Amber to flee, then settled back and stretched his legs out. Connie bristled. Make yourself at home.

  In the kitchen, Connie fiddled with the wine bottle. Should she have any alcohol? She’d let her guard down too easily if her defences were weakened through drinking. That was her usual behaviour. The reason she’d had one-night stands in the past. Her mind flipped to the idea of ‘the list’ and her stomach dropped. She didn’t even know, or couldn’t remember, all of the surnames of the men she’d been with during the past year. How would that look to the police? Niall, however, wasn’t in that category. She knew all about him, and he was in the category labelled ‘traitor’. And if she allowed something to happen between them she’d be really disappointed with herself in the morning. He’d let her down. Dumped her when she’d needed him most. She shouldn’t even be giving him the time of day.

  Yet, here he was.

  She’d thought it a good idea to have company. Someone she knew, someone who knew her past.

  Someone who could have easily spoken to a reporter and linked my name to Hargreaves.

  ‘Where’ve you gone for the drink – Sainsbury’s?’ Niall’s voice erupted from the other room.

  Connie jolted out of her thoughts. She replaced the wine bottle in the fridge, took two cans of lager and returned to the lounge.