Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

  ‘Here.’ She handed him one of the cans and sat at the other end of the sofa, snapping the ring pull from her own. One lager would be plenty. Enough to relax her, nowhere near enough to make her tipsy. She would stay in control.

  But she had another six cans she could ply Niall with.

  His tongue would loosen after those. She knew now why she’d wanted him to come to her house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Then

  Barton Moss Secure Care Centre, Manchester

  Dear sis,

  How are you? Hope all is good. I’ve been having some kind of therapy sessions. It was scary at first, didn’t want to talk about what happened. Couldn’t even remember that night really. I suppose I’ve blanked it. That’s what Polly said too (she’s my therapist, she’s real nice). She said that my mind has done a good job protecting me. It’s like my brain’s shielding me by stopping my memory from seeing that night. She’s clever, knows stuff. So, I’ve started talking now. I can’t say much ’cos I don’t see it yet. But I’m working on it – actually trying to remember now instead of blocking it.

  So, that’s progress, right? So you can come visit now. I’m sorry, Jenna. I’m so sorry you’re mad at me. Please come see me. I need you.

  Brett x

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Connie

  Saturday 10 June

  To get to her mum’s, Connie had to take the train to Teignmouth then a taxi across the bridge into Shaldon. What had once been their holiday home when they’d lived in Manchester had become their permanent home after Luke died. Back then, Connie hadn’t been able to appreciate the serenity, the beautiful scenery, the idyllic cottage near the river. She’d been taken from her home, her friends – her memories of Luke. Her life had practically ended – she’d hated her parents for dragging her away just before she was due to take her GCSEs and plonking her in a pathetic little village in South Devon. It’d taken a long time before she’d felt thankful for it.

  She watched as the now familiar scenery flashed past the train window, her eyes blurring with the motion. She closed them, and thought about her evening with Niall. Having only the one lager had definitely been the key; she hadn’t succumbed to her usual tendency to get overemotional and ‘cuddly’, which would’ve ultimately led to sex. But, her intention of getting Niall talking freely about the prison, and specifically, Ricky Hargreaves, had hit a setback. When Connie had pushed for details surrounding the day Ricky absconded, Niall had merely sidestepped by saying that it wasn’t good for Connie to talk about the prison. That she shouldn’t revisit past traumatic events. He’d swiftly changed the subject each time she attempted to talk about it. Connie didn’t know whether to get mad at him for it, or appreciate what he was trying to do. So they’d settled into safe-territory subjects.

  The train pulled into the station, stopping any further musings about her evening with Niall.

  When the taxi dropped Connie at the end of her mum’s road, she stood for a while, her overnight bag hung on one shoulder, and stared out across the estuary of the River Teign. The warm weather had brought a horde of tourists – the beachside pub and the sandy stretch opposite were rammed already and it was only ten in the morning. It was something you got used to if you lived there permanently. The quiet winter months were preferable.

  The net curtain twitched as Connie approached the gate, then seconds later the front door flung wide.

  ‘Hello, my darling!’ Her mum rushed out, arms outstretched, and caught her in a bear hug. She had an impressive agility and strength that Connie could only hope for at sixty-five. She was struggling even at thirty-seven.

  ‘Hey, Mum. Good to see you.’ She broke from the hug and kissed her. She smelled sweet – of baked goods. Connie noted her trademark floral pinny tied around her waist. Great. She’d probably cooked cakes and biscuits and apple pie – she could almost feel the pounds pile on her right there and then.

  Connie followed her into the kitchen – the aroma filling the compact space was both familiar and comforting. It took her back to her childhood; the moments spent beating the wooden spatula in the sticky mixture, remembering the texture of the gloopy mess as she swept out the remnants in the bowl and licked it from her fingers. They’d baked a lot together after Luke died too. Connie thought that must’ve been one of her mother’s coping mechanisms. Her dad’s had been spending time at the pub, or ‘gentleman’s club’ as her mum used to call it. They’d each handled Luke’s loss differently. They still did.

  ‘I’ll just finish up, then we can have a nice cup of tea and a warm biscuit.’ Her mum swapped one baking tray for another in the oven.

  ‘They smell delicious. I’ll pop the kettle on.’

  Connie went through to the lounge with the tray of tea, setting it down on the oak coffee table. She walked across to the sideboard and ran her fingertips over the photos in their silver-plated frames. The story of their life lined up in order. Her throat tightened. The toddler sat on the beach, his curly blond hair poking out under a baseball cap; the footballer in his kit, ball under one arm; the infant stood outside the house, proud in his oversized school uniform; the child with an awkward grin in an official school photo, his younger sister squirming beside him; the teenager on his bike with his cheeky grin – the sparkle in his intense green eyes. They had that in common, everyone told her that after he died: you’ve got your brother’s eyes. She’d hated it. Once during a particularly bad bout of grief she’d wanted to get a spoon and gouge her eyes out. Later she’d settled for coloured contact lenses.

  ‘Here we go, love.’ Her mum placed a plateful of warm biscuits next to the tea tray. ‘Come and sit down.’

  ‘Where are the other photos?’ Connie remained standing.

  ‘Oh, you know – here and there. So, how’s your new consultancy going? I want to hear all about it.’ She patted the sofa cushion beside her.

  Avoiding the question. That was usual, she realised. She’d never really addressed the way conversation was swiftly diverted to something else whenever Connie brought up Luke. She’d always assumed it was because it was too painful. She hadn’t considered that it was because her mum and dad wanted to prevent Connie from digging. From finding out something that they’d kept from her. Had they thought she’d been too young to understand; too young to cope with the truth? And then, as the years had passed, decided to maintain things as they were, not alter any memories; her perceptions of what she’d been told. Had her parents lied to her? Were they going to continue to do so?

  Or, as the material on the memory stick seemed to suggest, was it just her dad that knew something he didn’t want her to know?

  Connie’s thoughts, her questions, swamped her brain. Before being given the memory stick, the story she’d grown up with was simple. Luke had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was a tragic accident. It wasn’t meant to be Luke. He’d just got in the way.

  Now someone had gone to the trouble of showing her an alternative explanation, she wasn’t so sure. It had thrown everything she thought she knew into question. How could she have lived this long without querying it?

  ‘Sit down, sweetheart,’ her dad had said. His washed-out face, its serious, rigid expression, towering above her. ‘We’ve got bad news. It’s about Luke.’

  Connie recalled the whimper, the tears from her mum huddled in the corner of the room, Aunt Sylvie’s arms wrapped protectively around her. No one’s arms wrapped around Connie. ‘He, well … there was a fight. After the match. I … I couldn’t—’ His voice had cracked, his face crumpled.

  Connie’s eyes stung with the memories.

  ‘Biscuits. Yes, let’s see if you’ve still got the knack.’ Connie smiled the tears away and took a bite out of the freshly baked ginger biscuit.

  Had Luke’s death been more than a random accident?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Connie

  Monday 12 June

  The weekend had been a mixed bag of emotions and two days in her mum’
s house had been too much. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy her mum’s company, more the fact that she felt suffocated. Restricted. The many attempts at getting her mum to open up about Luke’s death had hit barriers at every turn. She’d managed to get her to find the other photos though. They’d spent a couple of hours poring over them, laughing at remembered stories, crying for the ones that would never be. In each captured moment, Luke’s bright green eyes stared out at her, seemed to penetrate her own. What had really happened to him? But details of that final day were still elusive. Connie had nudged for information; asked about where her dad had been when the fight broke out. He’d got pushed aside in the crush … he couldn’t get to him, she’d said before picking up another photo and talking about that instead.

  Why did the document on the memory stick refer to her dad? Whoever gave her the stick seemed to be pointing to her father keeping details about Luke’s death from others. From her and perhaps even her mum. Whether that was to protect them from the true horror of that day or to hide something was not made clear in the content, but the very fact the memory stick had been given to her must’ve been so she’d question it. At the time of the incident, though, it had been reported as a case of wrong place, wrong time. No one had even been convicted of Luke’s murder because of the lack of evidence; too many people in the crowds outside the football ground meant key people hadn’t been identified, and no one had come forward with information. That’s the story that’d been told for years afterwards, until they’d stopped mentioning it altogether. And that’s what her mum had said at the weekend, when she’d been pushed into speaking about him. Connie had never questioned what she’d been told. Why would she? But having seen the articles with a new perspective – things just weren’t adding up.

  Today she was relieved to be back at work, immersing herself in her clients’ problems rather than thinking about her own. And she was due to see Steph tomorrow, if she kept the pre-booked session, which would definitely keep her from her own thoughts. She’d also returned to a message from DI Wade, asking if she could spare them another day this week. A flutter of excitement broke loose inside her stomach. It was good to get the old adrenaline going again, to be part of something – part of a team. Something to challenge her skill set. The code she’d written down after Mack had left last Thursday had floated around her mind since. Nothing tangible had been grasped yet, but something would come to her, she was sure. She loved puzzles.

  For lunch, Connie decided to walk down to the bottom of town and sit on the grass verge by the River Dart – watch as the riverboat took people out, and relax in the sunshine. She’d made a packed lunch to avoid having to hang around in any bakeries. She didn’t want to risk another ‘accidental’ run-in with Kelly Barton.

  It was surprisingly quiet given the warmness of the day. She checked her watch: 2 p.m. – a later-than-usual lunch. She’d hoped that by taking different lunch hours it would deter the annoying bitch of a reporter.

  Connie’s thoughts drifted; she let them. Although she was looking over the river, she wasn’t really seeing. A squeal drifted across to her and pushed into her consciousness. On the other side, where the riverboat boarded and disembarked its passengers, next to the riverside café, there was a play area. The large wooden pirate ship there was the source of the sudden squeal – a child on the deck, his mother chasing him around. Connie held her hand up to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun to gain a better view. They were a fair distance away, but she knew the figures. Steph and Dylan. How wonderful to see them like this – away from the glare of assessment, from judgement. They were like any other mum and child, playing and enjoying the moment. Steph’s lightness and caring nature warmed Connie. She could tell that Steph was smiling at her son as she picked him up and swung him towards the sky. They laughed again; the happy, high-pitched giggles carrying on the air. Connie smiled. There was a carefree delight in their laughter. No worries. Not in that moment.

  Realising the time, Connie got up to leave. She had to get back for her next client in half an hour and didn’t want to have to rush up the hill. She balled up the empty paper bag which had held her ham and salad sandwich and deposited it into the bin at the water’s edge. She looked up, a parting glance towards Steph and Dylan.

  Her breath caught.

  A man, wearing a baseball cap, black hoody and dark jeans, seemed to be looking in their direction too. But he was on their side of the river, hovering near the café, just feet away from the pirate ship. Was it Connie’s imagination or did Steph’s demeanour change? She watched helplessly as Steph grabbed Dylan, bundling him into her as they began making their way down the ladder of the ship to the ground. Was that panic, fear?

  The man moved forward. Connie was too far away to get to them – she’d need to cross over the bridge and walk through the outskirts of a housing estate, it would take too long.

  ‘Steph!’ The shout left her mouth. But Steph didn’t turn. Connie walked briskly along the raised path running alongside the river’s edge, a good fifteen feet above the river bed, to position herself directly opposite the pirate ship. The man was getting closer to Steph, who’d now jumped down from the ladder and was reaching up to Dylan. She watched as Steph turned her head in his direction. It would be now that she’d notice if his presence was a real problem; she’d tell by Steph’s reaction.

  Steph didn’t miss a beat, she immediately pulled Dylan from the step. Connie’s breaths were coming rapidly; shallow and loud. She rummaged in her bag, trying to maintain the visual of the man as she did so. Her fingers clasped her mobile; she fumbled but managed to press the first nine. She hesitated, looked up. Steph had taken Dylan’s hand and they were now running in the opposite direction to the man, heading down the road that led to the housing estate. Why didn’t she run into the café, raise the alarm? Connie sidestepped along the edge of the river, squinting now at the retreating figures of Steph and Dylan. The man shouted something. Connie couldn’t make it out. What the hell is going on? He stopped. Connie’s grip on her phone loosened. Was it over? The man leant against the pirate ship, but he still seemed to be watching the two figures. Steph and Dylan disappeared out of Connie’s line of sight. They must’ve been out of his sight, too. She breathed out. Her heart felt as though it was hitting against her ribs. Her chest hurt.

  Was that Brett? Had he found her?

  The man stayed propped against the pirate ship, not moving. Connie lifted her phone again to take a picture, but her fingers trembled and she couldn’t seem to press the capture button. It was too far away for a clear image anyway, but it would have been better than nothing. Just in case.

  Just in case what?

  The man suddenly pushed away from the side of the ship. Connie looked away, began to move off, back towards the footpath. She tilted her head slightly towards where he’d been. But he wasn’t there. Connie scanned quickly along the edge, trying to locate him. He couldn’t have gone far.

  A chill consumed her stomach. He was dead opposite her.

  He’d seen her. And now he was watching her, walking quickly, keeping up with her.

  She quickened her steps and progressed diagonally across the grassy area towards the gateway leading back to the road. He couldn’t catch up with her, she knew that, but her skin prickled with fear nonetheless. He didn’t know her; he couldn’t have known she’d been watching. There was nothing to be afraid of.

  Think rationally, Connie.

  But it was surprising how rational thought could leave you when someone was following you.

  Connie’s footsteps turned into a jog. It wasn’t until she was back on the pavement near the busy road that she chanced a look back.

  The man had gone.

  She kept her mobile in her hand as she walked back up the hill, taking a look over her shoulder every few steps. She couldn’t see him. He wasn’t tailing her. She gave another furtive look around before she let herself into her building.

  There was going to be a lot to cover with Step
h in tomorrow’s session.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  DI Wade

  Lindsay Wade reverse-parked the Volvo into the last available on-road parking spot, impressed with herself that she’d squeezed it into such a tight space. She’d been lucky; if she hadn’t been able to park there, it would’ve meant driving around all the narrow side roads with little hope of being able to park close to 34, Fisher Road. Due to its proximity to the town, many people used these roads as free parking rather than the pay and display car parks in the town centre. They really should make it residents’ parking only.

  With DC Sewell by her side, they approached the terraced house. Two women seemed the best approach given the sensitivity of the situation. Going back over the past would be traumatic enough, without adding the complication of asking for alibis from Katie Watson and her family members – which openly hinted that the police were thinking they could be responsible for her attacker’s death. It might be better coming from the two women, rather than Mack or any of the male officers. Lindsay was leaving the interviewing of the males of the family to them; she was happy to take the criticism – the inevitable sexist remarks that would fly her way.

  Lindsay assumed the woman who opened the door and greeted them with a pallid complexion and red-rimmed eyes was Katie.

  ‘Miss Watson?’

  ‘Yes. Come in.’ Her eyes darted around warily. She showed them into the kitchen. Two other women sat at a large, circular pine table. Katie, her small frame swamped by a black baggy T-shirt and jogging bottoms, introduced them as her mother, Anna, and sister-in-law, Jenny, then moved some chairs out and walked to the far side of the table, her movements jittery.

  Lindsay and DC Sewell took the offered chairs. This was going to be difficult to approach. Lindsay wanted to speak to the family members separately, didn’t want them playing off each other. But even suggesting that seemed inappropriate. They’d been through so much already, treating them like suspects now would certainly add to their distress. Part of her was glad the man who’d taken this young woman’s confidence, her trust, was dead. Who wouldn’t be? One less criminal; one less piece of scum on the streets. That’s how the majority of the public saw this. But Lindsay was a detective, upholding the law. And whatever Hargreaves had done, his murder was a crime, and the perpetrator required punishment too. Hargreaves’ killer needed to be brought to justice, and eliminating Katie and her family from enquiries was a step that had to happen.