Possible reasons why he kept showing up jumbled in her mind. Despite varying her schedule, he still appeared, like a bad penny. Connie was aware her breathing was more rapid than it should be, her pulse raised. Her heightened anxiety was too much. He’d asked if she was avoiding someone. But did he already know who, and why? Perhaps she should’ve asked him a few questions. Like, did he know they’d been photographed together? Had he been approached by anyone who’d asked about her?
Or was it Jonesy who was behind all of this? If so, what was it he wanted to achieve?
What did he want from her?
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Connie
The atmosphere was different; the noisy room she’d been in last time she’d assisted the investigation now uncomfortably quiet. Numerous pairs of eyes followed her as she made her way over to Lindsay, who was sitting, her face turned away, talking to Mack. Connie daren’t look towards the whiteboard at the back of the room, the one she’d been fascinated with before. Because she knew the photos would be displayed there. The one of her and Jonesy. And the one with her and Gary. The man with no surname. Connie shivered. If she thought the atmosphere in the room was uncomfortable now, it would be unbearable after they’d grilled her.
Mack jumped up as she approached. Connie noted the paper in his hand. Her list.
‘Sorry. Someone should’ve shown you straight to the interview room, not here.’ He was abrupt, and didn’t make eye contact. Connie’s stomach dipped.
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘Follow me, Connie.’ Mack strutted off, his long strides meaning he was already halfway across the room before Connie had a chance to move. She walked quickly to catch up, checking over her shoulder to see where Lindsay was. She remained at her desk. Why wasn’t she going with them? Please don’t let it just be Mack interviewing me.
Just as she thought she’d lose him if he kept up his pace, Mack stopped, his left arm outstretched. ‘After you.’
Connie hurried to where he was, and entered a small, airless room. She pulled at the collar of her shirt. It was a lightweight cotton one, but suddenly it seemed heavy, restrictive. A layer of heat covered her skin. She sat down where Mack indicated and waited for him to begin. As well as the list, he’d brought a file with him. He shuffled through it now, his head bowed. Silent. Connie fidgeted with the silver wishbone ring on her right fourth finger, rotating it around and around. Still, Mack was quiet. Then he placed two photographs on the table between them. They looked to be the same size as those she had in her bag. Connie kept her eyes on Mack’s face.
‘You have a right to consult a solicitor if you wish,’ he said, finally breaking the silence. Connie swallowed hard.
‘Are you charging me with something? Do I need a solicitor?’
‘You are not under caution, no, this is informal. At this point. But you can still have someone with you, or call a solicitor.’
‘No. I’m good, thanks. I’ve done nothing wrong.’ Connie reached down, taking her handbag, and retrieved her brown envelope. Mack frowned. She had told Lindsay that she’d received photographs, too. But Mack looked puzzled.
‘So, we received two photographs from an unknown source,’ Mack said, his eyes not making contact with hers. He separated the photos, turned them and pushed them towards her. Connie stared. The first one was no surprise; it depicted the same scene as the one she’d been given: her and Jonesy on the steps to the station bridge. She’d fully expected the other to be her and Gary. But it wasn’t. Her shoulders fell.
It was her dad. In the photo, he was in what looked like a bar, shaking another man’s hand. Why had the mystery photographer sent the police a photo of her dad?
‘For the record, can you state who you see in each of these pictures?’ Mack’s voice was steady.
‘Yes,’ Connie attempted to keep the wobble in her voice under control, ‘the one on the left is myself, and a man called Trevor Jones. And on the right is my father, Ian Moore. I don’t know who he’s with.’
Mack snorted. ‘Are you sure about that?’ He leaned forward, his upper body protruding over her side of the table.
She sat back heavily, her superficial composure now totally shaken. ‘Yes, I’m quite sure. I don’t recognise him. Why? Should I?’
Mack didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for the envelope she had placed to the side of her elbow. She resisted the urge to slam her hand on top of it, preventing him from taking it. She had no desire to speak to him about the photo of her and Gary, for him to question her about who he was, what she was doing in his house, or anything else related to him. Her memory of Gary had been blighted by the aftermath of one night of drunken sex. Having to detail it to DS Mack was not something she wished to go through. Particularly as it appeared that he’d got over his one episode of being nice to her that day when he’d visited her at her consultancy, and was now back to his delightfully polite self.
‘Is this the envelope I picked up at your office before we took you to identify the suicide victims?’
‘They have names.’ Connie tutted. ‘Stephanie and Dylan, and yes, it is.’
‘I take it your fingerprints are all over them.’ Mack took a pair of gloves from his trouser pocket and pulled them on.
‘Well, yes. As are yours.’
‘Only on the envelope.’ Mack shot her a warning glance before taking the photos out.
The first was the one of her and Jonesy, which Mack barely looked at, placing it carefully behind the second. He looked at the one of her and Gary, briefly, then his head snapped up and he glared at Connie.
‘What? What is it?’ Connie asked, alarmed at the look on Mack’s face. His skin paled, his lips parted. He went to say something, then pushed his chair back. Holding the photos in his gloved hands, Mack rushed from the room.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
DI Wade
Lindsay flinched as Mack stormed towards her.
‘We need a chat, Boss.’
His momentum carried him forwards, and, not waiting for her response, he headed out of the double glass doors leading to the outside of the station. Lindsay jumped up to follow him. What on earth had just happened in that interview room?
‘What’s going on?’
Mack paced the enclosed courtyard area, the one usually used by the smokers, his head bowed.
‘Well, you wanted the low-down on why things were a bit …’ Mack flapped a hand dismissively, ‘strained, you know, when I first saw Connie Summers.’
‘First saw? Every time, really, Mack.’ Lindsay leant back against the wall, hands in her trouser pockets, waiting for whatever revelation was coming next.
‘Yeah, well.’ He stopped pacing and held out the photo that had been grasped in his gloved hand since leaving the interview room. ‘Don’t touch it, just look.’
‘I do know how to manage potential evidence, thanks.’ Lindsay moved away from the wall and inched her face towards the photo. ‘This was one of the ones sent to Connie, I take it?’
‘Yep.’ Mack’s head was turned away, looking blankly at the wall ahead.
Lindsay regarded the photo. Two figures, one of which she assumed to be Connie, in a top window of a terraced house.
‘Okay … so … who’s that she’s with?’ Lindsay wasn’t sure why Mack was reacting so strangely.
‘Look closely, Boss. At the house.’
It was dark in the picture, but a nearby street light was illuminating the house. Black door. Miniature conifers lining the path.
‘This is your house.’ She looked up sharply. ‘So what the hell is Connie doing in it?’
Mack closed his eyes for what felt like a long time. Lindsay wanted to push him along, get him to hurry up and explain. Had she been right about Mack being involved with Connie? She’d half been joking, teasing him. Mack slid the photo back in the envelope before she had a chance to study the other figure in the window more closely.
‘When we asked Connie to make the list of names of men she’d been involved with,
or had taken an interest in her, I knew what I was likely to see,’ Mack said.
Here we go.
Mack shook his head. ‘Here’s the list. She sent it through earlier.’ He handed it to Lindsay.
Lindsay snatched it, annoyed he hadn’t shown her immediately. She skimmed the names.
‘She didn’t even know the surname.’ Mack’s voice was low, tight. ‘Christ, she’s something else.’
Lindsay saw the name. Gary.
‘Ah, I see.’ Lindsay couldn’t keep the relief from her tone. ‘Connie was involved with your son.’
‘If you could call it involved. She’s ten years older than him, she picked him up in a bar, he brought her home to our house, she used him and left. Left him in bits – I was witness to that, even though he didn’t really speak about it.’
‘Why? Because of a one-night stand? Sorry, Mack, but I’m pretty sure that happens all the time.’
‘Yes. But not all of them end up in a pregnancy.’
‘Connie’s had Gary’s baby?’ She blurted it, loudly, then smacked her hand over her mouth.
‘No, Lindsay.’ Mack swung around, his eyes were wide. ‘The heartless bitch terminated it, without even discussing it with him.’ He brushed past Lindsay and went back inside. She stayed there, her mouth gaping. She hadn’t seen that coming.
What further surprises did Connie Summers have for them?
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
She’d made herself an easy target.
People don’t realise how much information we can find out. Just because we’re locked up, doesn’t mean we’re cut off. I have a good network, both inside and out. And news of her cock-up spread through the wings – one bloke had been transferred here, she’d written a report about him, too. He kicked up an almighty stink, wanting it done again, saying she was incompetent. She’d ruined his life. He was only jumping on the bandwagon, but why not?
I was, too.
It hadn’t taken long to realise who she was. And a few calls confirmed it.
Sometimes the stars align perfectly.
She’ll get hers, along with the others. The opportunity I have now is priceless, so I guess it happened for a reason.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Connie
Mack’s abrupt exit from the room left Connie stunned. She sat, brow creased, mentally running through the last few minutes of the interview. His response when he saw the picture seemed over the top – flying out like that, why?
Elbows on the table, her head in her cupped hands, a sudden jolt of memory hit her.
She had always thought Mack was familiar. But she’d assumed she’d come across him professionally. Now, she remembered. The morning after she’d slept with Gary, she’d crept downstairs, and, about to let herself out of the front door, had heard an exaggerated cough. She’d turned to see a man sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper in front of him, mug in hand – a look of disapproval plastered on his face.
Gary was Mack’s son.
She could see it now – the height, the square jawline, the eyes. Damn. This was awkward. So that was the reason for his animosity towards her? Just because of a one-night stand? Hadn’t he ever had one? And why was it her fault? It took two, after all. She had met Gary on a night out, where he was openly flirting with not just her, but half the bar, too. He was up for it. He hadn’t thought of the consequences either. They were both irresponsible.
Her stomach fluttered. Did Mack know about her pregnancy?
Connie got her phone from her bag and checked the time. She’d already been at the station for an hour, and so far had made zero progress in finding out who the mystery photographer was. Now, sitting alone in the small room, she began to wonder if she’d been cut out of the loop. Maybe they didn’t want her assistance now. They were looking at her through different eyes – she was in photos with an ex-con. That didn’t look good. Yet Mack hadn’t even asked her about it. As for the photo of her dad, well, that was weird. What was the point of that? How was she meant to know who some random guy in a photo with her dad was? He was always having meetings with various people, the man could’ve been anyone. Unless the police believed that the photo was meant as a threat, taken and sent to them as a sign that her dad would be harmed. But why? None of it made sense.
Connie got up and stretched. Was Mack even coming back, or should she leave the room and go and find him? She looked to the door, willing it to open. She’d much rather get this over with – dragging it out like this was torture. But that was probably what Mack was anticipating. He was enjoying making her as uncomfortable as he possibly could.
She thought about Jonesy. As he was in the photos with her, it was obviously not him taking them. But it was odd how he kept popping up, being in the same place she was. There was a possibility he was behind it, getting the photographer to take the photos. Connie mulled over the reasons he might have for doing this. Blackmail sprung to mind. If he’d been keeping up with the news, or had heard about Hargreaves through his contacts, he’d know that the last thing Connie needed was to be associated with ex-cons. He might be planning to ask Connie for money to prevent any further implications. But if that was the point, then surely he wouldn’t have sent the photos to the police. There would be no need for Connie to pay him to keep them to himself if they were already in the hands of the law. As a drug user, perhaps the lengths he’d go to in order to fund his habit were more extreme than she’d imagined. Would he also go as far as killing Hargreaves for money?
If Jonesy was in any way responsible for Hargreaves’ murder, then her being photographed with him was bad news. If Lindsay and Mack suspected that she had arranged for Jonesy to kill him, then these photos were highly incriminating. But they wouldn’t find any further evidence that corroborated that theory. You couldn’t find evidence where there wasn’t any.
Unless that evidence was faked. Or, at the very least, manipulated.
Finally, the door opened. Connie sighed in relief – it wasn’t Mack returning.
Lindsay, her face tired and drawn, entered and took the seat opposite Connie.
‘Things seem to have taken an interesting turn,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure I’d agree with the interesting part.’
‘First question I want answered is why were you with Trevor Jones?’
Connie shifted in her seat. ‘I wasn’t with Jones. When those photos were taken, I was at Coleton train station. I’d got off my usual train following my day at work in Totnes. I was literally halfway over the bridge, the one that goes across the tracks, heading for the exit, and I saw …’ Connie faltered. She hadn’t told them about the memory stick. As far as she was concerned it had nothing to do with them, with the investigation, so why should she? Now, though, in order to give credence to her account, she was going to have to tell Lindsay about the stick, and the man who’d given it to her. More questions would follow and she’d be getting deeper into the shit.
‘Go on, please finish what you were saying.’ Lindsay opened her hands, palms up, inviting her to keep going.
‘I saw a man, standing against the railing of the bridge. For some reason, it scared me. No one else had got off the train and I couldn’t see anyone else around. He was wearing an overcoat, which was odd, because it had been such a warm day … anyway, he seemed to be waiting for me. I suppose I panicked, and I put my head down and continued forward. He moved too, in my direction – and that’s when he bumped right into me. The shock took my breath from me. I was afraid, and I almost collapsed. I was hanging on to the rail when someone put their hand on my other arm and asked if I was okay. That someone was Jonesy.’
‘So he appeared just after the guy bumped into you?’
‘Yes. He helped steady me. That’s what the photo captured.’ Maybe she wouldn’t have to tell Lindsay about the memory stick after all.
‘Right.’ Lindsay sat back, appearing to contemplate this information. ‘That seems plausible …’ she said, almost to herself. ‘But,’ she sat forward again
, ‘what did he give you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘In the photo it looked like you had something in your hand, an item that Jones had given you.’
Damn. Here we go, then.
‘No. It wasn’t Jonesy who gave it to me.’
‘Oh, the man that knocked into you gave it to you. What was it?’
‘I was unaware of what it was at the time – I was hiding it from Jonesy. I don’t even know why. It wasn’t until I was in the taxi that I realised it was a memory stick.’ Connie kept eye contact with Lindsay, and quickly added, ‘It has nothing to do with the Hargreaves murder, though. It was personal.’
‘At this point, everything is to do with the murder case. You were seen with an ex-prisoner. Now, if we find that Jones has links with Hargreaves, then it really doesn’t look good that a previously successful employee in the prison service, whose career was cut short because of our murder victim, is known to be associating with a criminal – revenge is sweet, as they say. And you may have got someone else to enact that revenge.’
‘NO! Absolutely not. Look, I’d got on with my life. Yes, I’d been disgraced, and yes, my career and personal life took a dive. But I would not even consider taking any kind of revenge. Only that of showing him I could survive, that I could rebuild my life despite him. Why the hell would I risk further damage to my reputation, not to mention my health? Jesus, Lindsay, I’d suffered enough.’ Connie’s face burned; her chest tight.
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