Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

  He followed her up the stairs and into her room. Before she took her seat, Connie had a quick look outside. There was no sign of the man.

  ‘Okay, Paul. Take a seat and let’s get started.’

  It took at least half an hour before she settled into the session. Half an hour to relax and stop mistrusting Paul. He’d given her no cause for concern before. And now he’d also got into full swing, he was his usual chatty self. When his hour was up, he thanked her and left. She heard the clunk of the front door lock hitting home and allowed her anxiety to melt away.

  It was four o’clock. She still hadn’t emailed her list of names to Mack as she’d said she would. Connie curled the top corner of the paper, staring at the column of names. Then she flipped it over, placing it face down on the desk. Perhaps she’d make a drink first, then write the email. She knew she was trying to find any reason to stall … prevent this disclosure for as long as possible.

  The post. She should open it. It was already a day old; there might be something important that required dealing with urgently. Pushing the list aside, Connie set about opening the mail.

  She sifted through it. Mostly it was junk. Then her breath caught.

  The large brown envelope was addressed to Connie Moore.

  She hadn’t used that name since leaving the prison service.

  With fumbling fingers, she ripped it open, pulling from it some photographs and a white sheet of paper. The photos were face down, but the typed words glared at her:

  You can’t escape your past by changing your name. It doesn’t work like that.

  Connie stared at the words, her pulse skipping. If she didn’t turn over the pictures, if she threw them in the bin instead, she’d never have to know what they were of. She knew she couldn’t do that, though. She’d never stop thinking about them, wondering what they showed. She slammed her elbows on the desk, and held her head in her cupped hands. What was going on? She wanted to scream, release the tension and anxiety that was building to unbearable levels inside her.

  She sat back, locking her hands behind her head and bounced against the chair.

  ‘God’s sake!’

  Connie flipped the photos over.

  Her stomach flipped too.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  DI Wade

  The search for Eric Hargreaves’ murderer had so far brought complications; twists and turns that even with their investigation management system, HOLMES2, made for a procedural nightmare. Lindsay’s head was full of questions as she left her DCI’s office. Despite the updates and new information, they were still lacking anything solid. The team had been working around the clock for the past ten days, following original leads, new ones, checking numerous CCTV feeds, trawling through statements, interviewing persons of interest.

  But the latest information made Lindsay nervous.

  Her instinct told her that Connie had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The photo of her with ex-prisoner, Trevor Jones, proved nothing on its own. However, her team had disagreed, quickly jumping on the theory that Connie had been involved in getting Hargreaves taken out of the picture – used her past associations with criminals to her advantage, somehow getting them to carry out her act of revenge. Jones had been convicted of aggravated burglary – it wasn’t such a huge leap, especially given his record of violent outbursts while in custody too, to think him capable of doing something on this scale.

  It certainly threw a different light on Connie. And if she was in contact with one criminal, could there be more?

  Mack and DC Clarke had left early to go fetch Jones, bring him in for questioning.

  Lindsay hoped he gave them a plausible reason for him and Connie being together.

  Sitting at her desk, her third coffee in one hand, Lindsay scrolled through her emails. The one with the subject heading ‘POST-MORTEM RESULTS’ stood out. Stephanie and Dylan. It was likely to be cut and dried; given the height from which Stephanie had jumped with Dylan, the cause of death was obviously going to be blunt force trauma.

  The toxicology report would take longer, probably another six or so weeks. But, reading the report, Lindsay didn’t think that would be of huge significance. She might have had drugs in her system – God knows Lindsay would’ve had to in order to even contemplate such an act – but ultimately the fall was what killed Stephanie and Dylan Cousins.

  Goosebumps prickled on Lindsay’s arms. The vision of the bodies lying at the bottom of Haytor was still vivid in her mind, refusing to shift. Such a terrible way to go. Selfish as far as she was concerned. At least Stephanie had had a choice in the matter. Her poor child hadn’t.

  How could someone, a mother, do that?

  The literal ‘how’ also bothered her as much as the emotional. Had Stephanie pushed her son first then jumped herself? Their bodies had been close together, almost touching. Difficult to tell. They probably would never know – no one had come forward to say they’d witnessed the incident despite a huge public appeal. But another team had been tasked to piece together Steph’s last movements; her own job was to continue the Hargreaves investigation. The niggling questions Connie had asked in the car yesterday about Stephanie’s home and what had been found there, whether there’d been a suicide note, were the only things that prevented Lindsay shutting off from the suicide completely. It was strange that no note was found. But, she reminded herself, not all suicide victims left notes.

  The door, swinging back and hitting the wall, jerked her out of her thoughts. Mack stormed through, his face stony.

  ‘Eh up, what’s the matter?’ Lindsay stood and walked towards him.

  ‘No sign of Mr Jones at his registered address.’ He slumped on his chair. ‘Waste of bloody time.’

  ‘Is he still on licence?’

  ‘Yep, tried his probation officer, too. She said she hadn’t seen him for a week as he’s now only on fortnightly sign-ins.’

  ‘Okay, well we’re bound to catch up with him sooner or later. If not before, then we can visit the probation offices next week.’

  ‘A whole week, that’s too long.’

  ‘We’ll be speaking to Connie about the pictures, so we’ll be able to get her side of the matter. He can wait. Come on, Mack – not like you to be so negative.’

  He shrugged, then turned to his monitor, saying nothing more.

  Lindsay chewed the end of her pen while staring at Mack’s turned back. They hadn’t had a proper chat for a while. There was something up with him lately, and it was affecting him at work. She hadn’t noticed anything untoward prior to this case. Prior to meeting Connie Summers.

  What was it about her that brought out the worst in her DS?

  And what was it about Connie Summers that was making Lindsay feel so unsettled?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Connie

  Connie sat down at her desk and tried to get the events straight in her head. So, she’d been given a memory stick with a news article about Luke’s death and a document that suggested her dad knew more than he’d ever let on to her and her mum about the circumstances that led to her brother being killed. She’d received a perturbing email via her consultancy web page, accusing her dad of not having learned the first time, and now she’d been hand-delivered an envelope containing two photos.

  Acid burned Connie’s throat.

  The photos lay side by side on the desk. She regarded them with a mix of anger, fear and confusion.

  The one on the left had been taken at the train station. On the bridge where, moments before this was captured, she’d been confronted by the stranger with the memory stick. In this image, though, the focus was on her and Jonesy. It was when he’d helped her after her legs had weakened and she’d all but collapsed. His hand was on her elbow, steadying her. But that’s not what this looked like. This appeared to be a tender moment – a gentle hand on her arm; almost intimate.

  Jesus. How could a scene be captured so wrongly? She hadn’t even noticed anyone else close by, let alone someone with a ca
mera.

  The other picture perturbed her even more. The picture with Jonesy had been taken in a public place. This other one was not.

  Her hand trembled as she picked it up again to study it.

  How and why did someone take this photo? Connie stared at the two figures silhouetted in what she knew was the bedroom window of the terraced house. The light from the room was enough to enable her to identify herself and the man.

  Remembering the list, Connie pulled it from under the photos and began the email, punching the keys on her laptop so hard the sound echoed in the room.

  As she hit the send button, she sighed. The shit would soon hit the fan. She couldn’t keep the photos to herself, it would be stupid of her not to disclose them. Who knew what the unknown sender was going to do next. The fact that the second photo showed her and one of the men she’d also had to name on the list was going to complicate things even more. She couldn’t even remember the guy’s surname, she’d blocked it from her mind for some reason – she only knew him as Gary. A heat spread across her cheeks. Not even knowing the full name of a man she’d slept with, and become pregnant by, did play on her mind. Her behaviour, particularly in the last year, had been questionable – the stress, the worry, had piled on, and her outlet had been meaningless one-night stands. Now that period of promiscuity was coming back to haunt her – again. As if it hadn’t been a big enough wake-up call to fall pregnant and then be punished by suffering a miscarriage, it appeared she was going to continue to pay for it.

  Was that why the mystery photographer had taken this one in particular? They couldn’t possibly know, could they? Gary had no doubt told someone, though. He’d been very vocal when she’d informed him she was pregnant – even saying that he wanted them to be an item, make a future. She wished she hadn’t bothered telling him at all now – but at the time, it felt the right thing to do. It’d taken a lot to shake him off – a few white lies she wasn’t proud of – and in the end she’d got angry with him, told him to leave her alone. She was too old for him. He could do far better.

  Connie tapped her pen against the edge of the desk, while simultaneously bouncing one leg, staring at the phone. Any minute now. Either Mack or Lindsay would’ve seen her email. They’d be calling. Wanting her to come into the station no doubt. All her nerve endings were jumping, her anxiety levels rising by the second. She could imagine what they were thinking, what they were assuming. She was going to add to the rather unsavoury picture the list painted her in by informing them of the photos. She would skim over the finer details of her and Gary, they didn’t need to know about her pregnancy, and the photo of her and Jonesy could be easily explained. But would they believe her?

  What was taking them so long?

  To take her mind off the impending call, Connie turned to her computer to check her emails. She was behind with all her admin, and she hadn’t listened to her phone messages either – she needed to keep sight of her own goals. Gaining new clients had been high on her list of priorities, and now, given she’d lost Steph, and Paul had completed his therapy, she desperately needed to build it up again. Her breath caught. She’d ‘lost Steph’. She hadn’t lost her, she’d been taken. And one way or another she had to make Lindsay believe there was more to it than suicide.

  An email caught her attention.

  From Miles. She took a deep breath. The bastard. Leaving her to identify the bodies, while he swanned about in Manchester. This better be good. She noted the subject heading:

  PSYCHIATRIC REPORT – Jenna Ellison.

  Right, so not about Brett. She’d given Miles too much credit, it seemed – his trip to Manchester was obviously unrelated to Steph’s case. Connie skim-read the email to double-check he hadn’t mentioned anything about Brett. Nothing. In fact, the only bit of text written by Miles which accompanied the attached file was:

  I’ve had the report that was written on Stephanie (Jenna Ellison) redacted as necessary, but hope it’s of some use – you’ll note that she had a history of lying.

  Miles had made his mind up about her. And he clearly wasn’t interested in digging further. Particularly as now she was no longer his problem. He wouldn’t want the mess that a murder investigation would bring, not so close to his retirement – his unblemished career to date, ruined. No. He’d want to brush all this under the carpet – forget about Stephanie and Dylan. And with the police writing their deaths off as suicide, she was on her own.

  It was going to be down to her to ensure justice was brought for Steph and her son.

  The phone’s shrill ring gave her a start.

  This was it. She’d have to tell them about the photos. Would she be able to convince Lindsay and Mack that her meeting with Jonesy was purely coincidental? How much would they want to know about the list of names she’d sent? This was going to be an uncomfortable conversation.

  She picked up the phone, and with an unsteady hand, put the receiver to her ear.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Then

  I can’t remember how I started the fire, where I set it – but I can guess. And Jenna told me, that night when she screamed at me. I remember that clearly. Her face, white and angry: her eyes popping, her mouth wide – spit hanging in long trails. She looked mad, like a vicious, drooling dog. She also wrote to me and explained how it had happened, how she’d heard me go downstairs after setting the fire outside Mum and Dad’s room.

  I was a freak, she’d said.

  Everyone said that, so it must be true. It’s why I started fires all the time. Because I was weird. The court reckoned I didn’t really mean to kill my dad. I don’t think I meant to either. If anything, it was more likely I was trying to kill her – my wicked stepmother – so I could have my dad to myself again.

  But Polly said I should look through a new lens at my past.

  I didn’t get her at first, thought she was chatting shit. But then she explained better. She told me that I needed to wipe my mind of what I’d been told, and of what I thought I remembered about that night. That I should take this new lens (which wasn’t a real thing, she said it was metaphorical, or something) and look through it – concentrating specifically on that day: start in the morning, and go through until I got to the end. I assumed she meant the end of that night, when I was taken away by the police for murdering my dad.

  So I used the relaxing techniques she’d taught me, and emptied my mind. It was like meditation.

  And it worked.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Connie

  The conversation was terse. Connie had opened her mouth, ready to tell Lindsay about the photos, but she’d jumped in first, and informed her that they’d been in receipt of a package containing photos of her and Jonesy. Her stomach lurched, so much so that she grasped it, holding on to it tightly. Whoever had sent the photos to her had also sent some to the police. What if they’d also gone to the papers – to Kelly Barton? When Lindsay had stopped talking, Connie told her she had photos, too. The call was brought to an abrupt end.

  Connie took the envelope, shoving it roughly into her bag, and left her office.

  She’d been summoned to the police station.

  Her footsteps clacking along the train station platform sounded a tap dance. Why was she rushing? The train wasn’t even there yet, but there was an urgency. She wanted to be on it, safely enclosed in a carriage. Not outside, in the open; vulnerable. The tannoy boomed – the distorted voice telling her the train was due in five minutes. Head lowered, Connie made her way to the waiting room, then, seeing a dark figure of a man sat inside, thought better of it. It was only five minutes; she’d be fine to wait outside. There was nothing to be worried about. She leant up against the building and, retrieving her work mobile from her handbag, scrolled through her texts. The last one was a message informing her she had one new voicemail.

  With the phone pressed to her ear, Connie listened. She squinted in concentration, the line breaking up several times. It was an enquiry, she guessed, a new client wanting
her services. Excellent. Good timing. She saved the message so she could decipher it when she was somewhere quieter and contact him to arrange an initial consultation.

  ‘Hello, Miss.’ The voice came from nowhere, and together with the accompanied tap on her shoulder, caused Connie to leap away from its source.

  Now, this wasn’t good timing. Not in the slightest.

  Connie faced Jonesy, and without a thought, shouted, ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  The man in the waiting room briefly looked in her direction, then returned his attention to his newspaper.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to make you jump.’ Jonesy smiled, exposing a row of blackened teeth.

  ‘Well, you did.’ She craned her head so she could take in the rest of the platform, and checked the bridge, too. No one with a camera that she could see.

  ‘What’s up? You’re jumpy.’ Jonesy followed suit, looking furtively up and down the station. ‘You trying to find someone or avoid them?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry to be rude, but I can’t be seen with you.’ Connie walked purposefully in the opposite direction. Jonesy followed, skipping along beside her. She stopped. ‘Really. Please, you have to leave me alone.’ Jonesy’s face crumpled, and for a horrible moment it looked as though he was going to cry. But then Connie realised it was his ‘confused face’. She recalled it from group sessions. He’d used it when she’d asked him uncomfortable questions in front of the other prisoners.

  ‘I will, Miss. But if I’m honest, you’re freaking me out here. What’s going on? You seem afraid. I could help—’

  ‘No! Well, you can help – by staying away. Please.’

  The screeching of the train pulling into the station was one of the most welcome sounds Connie had heard in a while – besides the popping of cork from a bottle of prosecco. She ran to the platform edge, her toes going beyond the safety line, and as soon as the train stopped and the door released, she jumped on it. The relief oozed from her as she found a seat and sat with her shoulders turned so she couldn’t see out of the window. Couldn’t see Jonesy. Had she dodged him quickly enough, though? The whole encounter must’ve only lasted a minute, but might someone still have had the opportunity to take a photo of them together? How could she avoid him in the future? It was impossible; he just turned up, what could she do about that?