‘Look, Kelly. I know you think there’s some fabulous story here, one which will catapult you into stardom, or some such shit. But you’re toying with people’s lives. Using them. Does that feel good? Knowing you’re trampling on others to get up the rungs to the top of the ladder?’
‘That’s not what I’m doing. I’m simply seeking the truth. I’ve always endeavoured to find the real news, the nitty-gritty. Not some chocolate-covered candy version.’
‘You just want to dig in the dirt. You’re nothing but a pig, hunting for truffles.’
Connie was surprised to hear a laugh.
‘Very good, Connie. I didn’t know you were funny. Humorous is not one of the words I’ve heard others use to describe you.’
She was goading her again. Wanting her to ask who had said what in relation to her character. She wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.
‘Was there something you wanted to discuss, Kelly, or are you merely wanting to wind me up?’
Kelly sniffed, and readjusted her large shoulder bag. ‘I guess what I really wanted to know was why you have been seen fraternising with ex-convicts?’
‘Fraternising?’ Connie shouted, instantly losing her cool. ‘What on earth are you implying?’
Kelly reached into her bag and retrieved a camera.
Connie’s chest tightened. She picked her bags up and pushed past Kelly. ‘Fuck off, you horrible, irritating woman.’ Her face was on fire. She hated this woman.
‘What better way to get revenge on the man who ruined your career without having to get your own hands dirty – get a known criminal to do it for you. A bit lax of you, though, being seen in a public place together. I gave you more credit than that.’
Connie swung a bag around, hard, catching Kelly’s knee.
‘Ow!’ She lifted the camera, clicking away as Connie turned away from her and walked towards the gap in the hedge. ‘That’s assault, that is,’ Kelly shouted after her. ‘Hit a nerve, did I? He was right about you.’
Connie wanted to stop and ask who? Who was right about her? What did she mean? But, having already shown anger, she daren’t hang around for another battle.
Once she was safe behind her closed door, Connie allowed the hot tears to course unheeded down her cheeks. Her breath escaped in shallow pants. Her limbs ached with the weight of the bags. Her headache was back.
The only person Kelly could have been referring to when she said ‘He was right about you’ was Niall. Niall must have given Connie’s name to the reporter. Niall had something to do with those photos and had leaked the information about them to Kelly.
Niall was a back-stabbing, untrustworthy creep.
Maybe he was also a murderer.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Connie
What should she do about Niall? She’d confided in Lindsay, so she was aware of the bird tattoo, and Lindsay had said that they were delving further into his story, his alibi. So, apart from avoiding any contact with him for the moment, she supposed there wasn’t much else she could do.
Usually on a Saturday, Connie would relax, watch a movie, stuff her face with calorie-laden delights, read a book. But today her mind couldn’t settle; it drifted as she watched TV. Whatever was on didn’t stop her thoughts coming back to Steph. Rather than fight it, she got her laptop and loaded her client files. She always backed them up so they were on her work computer and her personal laptop – she didn’t trust technology and certainly didn’t want to lose all her valuable data.
Now, Amber draped beside her, Connie read through Steph’s file, focusing on the redacted psychological report Miles had sent her. She’d already read it but it felt important to keep returning to it. Sometimes details could be missed in the first read. The more she read, the more she became unsettled by what was within the sentences, and what remained unsaid between the lines. Steph and her mum’s relationship seemed to have been good prior to the fire. No real issues. But, afterwards, Steph’s apparent feeling of abandonment went deeper than would have been expected of the situation. Something in the way the psychiatrist had worded the report niggled Connie. She seemed to be pointing to the fact that Steph – Jenna back then – held a grudge towards her mum. What stood out for Connie was the scribbled handwritten note in the margin: Consider BPD due to amount of rage that Jenna demonstrates.
Rage? The report showed evidence that Steph was angry at her mother, yes – but rage seemed a strong supposition. But then Connie only had access to the one report, and a redacted one at that. She could understand Steph’s hurt at being left to cope with the aftermath of the fire, such a traumatic experience to go through alone. However, Connie herself had seen no evidence of rage during their sessions. Anger, yes. Naturally.
Connie’s back tingled. The sensation prickled her skin, aggravating her nerve endings – like an itch deep inside her body. Unreachable. Something was off. She was missing something important. And it was to do with Steph’s mum. How could she find out what it was? Maybe there was a clue to this somewhere in Steph’s house. Connie slammed the laptop lid shut. Miles Prescott also knew more than he was willing to let on to Connie. That she was sure of. His sudden departure to Manchester the day Steph and Dylan were found, after Connie had relayed her concerns about Brett to him, was very suspect. He was avoiding talking to her, too. As yet, he’d been unable to give a satisfactory explanation about anything relating to Steph and the fire; her family. Brett. The whole thing felt wrong.
What was Miles covering up?
There was no way he’d respond to Connie on a weekend, so getting any answers from him would have to wait. But Connie might be able to get something from Steph’s house. The police wouldn’t have done a thorough search because as far as they were concerned it was a suicide. Any clues to what had been happening in the lead-up to Steph’s death might be there somewhere, waiting to be unearthed.
And she would find it. Tonight, under the cover of darkness, Connie would get into Steph’s house and conduct her own search.
She decided to catch the 6.20 p.m. train into Totnes, wait in her office until dark, then get a taxi to the end of Steph’s road. She wasn’t sure how she’d gain access to the property, it wasn’t like she’d done this sort of thing before. Now would be the perfect time to ‘fraternise’ with ex-cons – like Jonesy. His expertise would come in handy. Her heart rate shot up. She was planning on breaking and entering. What was she thinking? What if she got caught, how would that look? She was in enough bother without purposely putting herself in a stupid position.
She had no choice. She had to see if there was something that would clear Steph’s name. And prove Brett Ellison and Lindsay Wade and her team wrong.
After leaving the warmth of the taxi, Connie began to walk the length of Steph’s road. She casually glanced at Steph’s house as she approached it on her left, then swept her eyes around the estate, which contained roughly twelve houses: some terraced, some semi-detached. It had been ten o’clock when she hailed the taxi, and she supposed it’d taken about five minutes to reach the road she’d been dropped in. Lights shone in every house but Steph’s. Connie’s pulse jolted. A sadness swept over her.
Empty. The occupants dead. A void left behind.
What else had Steph left behind?
Nearing the pathway running to Steph’s house, Connie’s pace slowed. Then stopped altogether. Now she was close, she could see more clearly. Tears stung her eyes, a lump forming in her throat. Hundreds of tributes obscured the front wall of the house and littered the small, square garden. Damp, bedraggled teddy bears, candles, deflated silver helium balloons, bouquets of wilted flowers. Tributes – now as dead as those who once occupied the house.
Broken police tape, still partly attached to the metal railings and drainpipe, flapped gently in the breeze.
Maybe they did do a thorough search of the house, then. She should leave, be confident they did their job. There was a chance, though, that their search had been limited to finding something odd, out of place. What if th
e detail was ordinary, something easily missed by someone who didn’t know Steph?
She had to go in.
Connie forced her legs to move. She checked around her to see if anyone had noticed her standing there. She couldn’t see anyone. It seemed everyone was in their houses. If they’d seen her, they weren’t bothered. They’d probably become accustomed to spectators over the last week and now ignored anyone hanging around. Connie moved on, turning the corner at the end of the row of houses. She walked back on herself, on the road that would take her past the rear of Steph’s property.
She hesitated outside the large wooden gate at the back of Steph’s house. Once she breached the perimeter, she’d be committed to carrying out her sweep of the house. No going back. She took a deep breath and lifted the gate latch. It creaked, loudly.
Christ.
After one last check around her, Connie stepped inside, closing the gate behind her. She crept up to the back of the house, searching for the best place to enter. It was secure. No open windows. What had she expected? Taking her backpack off, Connie rummaged inside it for the torch. Keeping it low, she scanned the back garden for a stone large enough to break the glass. Connie took off her jumper and wrapped it around her arm, the one holding the stone, and with a quick, sharp jab hit the middle panel of glass in the back door. The tinkling of shattering glass filled the quiet night air. She released her breath, then cautiously reached inside and opened the door.
She was in.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Brett
She was going to take some convincing. He didn’t know what he’d expected; had he really thought that she’d immediately agree with him, take him at his word? She’d been seeing Jenna for months, listening to her side. And Jenna really was convincing. She’d spent eight years telling herself the same story. Even she believed it. As he had done. Once.
Connie wasn’t like he’d imagined her. She seemed younger, her skin pale and flawless, her eyes green like emeralds.
Green for envy.
He knew all about that.
Connie Summers was the only other person who might allow his story to be heard; acknowledged. The only person he could convince. Somehow it had become his focus. It felt important that someone in this world took his side.
He’d need something particularly good to persuade Connie he was right. That Jenna was a liar. And there was something that might do it.
Now, he just had to find it.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Connie
Connie edged her way through the dark kitchen, her right hand outstretched, aiming the torch forwards. The yellow-tinged hue gave the place an eerie feeling; the beam wobbled with the shake in her hand. Moving through a doorway, she found herself in a long room. Obviously, this was used as both lounge and dining room; a square table with two chairs acted as a separator. At the far end, Connie could make out a sofa and coffee table. A large toy box stood underneath the front window. She kept the beam of light low, hoping no one would see it from outside.
A chill settled on her insides. Abandoned toys lay scattered around the open toy box, exactly how Dylan had left them. Gooseflesh prickled her skin. She was inside the house of a dead woman and child. The horror hit her hard, bile rising in her throat. She felt along the wall until she reached the sofa, and she sat, her breaths escaping her in ragged bursts.
What on earth was she thinking, coming here alone at night?
After a few moments to compose herself, Connie got up and began to search the room. There was a dresser in the alcove to the side of the fireplace, an old-fashioned-looking one, the kind Connie remembered had been in her own house when she was a child. It was as good a place as any to begin the search. If there had been letters from Brett, that’s where Steph might’ve kept them. Holding the torch under her chin, she used both hands to riffle through the drawers. Mostly, they were full of utility bills, pictures Dylan had drawn and pre-school letters. Nothing that looked useful to poor Steph now. She swallowed down the urge to cry.
Apart from the letters from Brett that Steph had told Connie she’d received, what else was she hoping to find? The room was in disarray, and Connie wasn’t sure if it was because that’s how Steph had left it, or it was how the police had, following their ‘search’.
The shadows created from the torchlight cast long patches of darkness across the walls. Each time one moved due to her directing the beam elsewhere, her heart leapt. This was ridiculous. When she was a teenager, she and Luke, along with a few of their older friends, had gone into a derelict house as a dare. They’d heard many stories of the house being haunted by The White Lady, and being only thirteen and fifteen were easily pumped and primed before they’d even entered. It had been exciting to start with, all fun and giggles. Until footsteps were heard overhead and a scraping noise filtered through the floorboards. They’d all screamed and ran, each pushing the other to be the first one outside, back to safety. That fear had stayed with her for months afterwards, causing many a nightmare, plus a lifetime avoidance of scary movies. Now, the memory of it flooded back. There were no friends to egg her on, no friends’ reactions to feed off. But her mind was conjuring enough terrifying thoughts to make up for the lack of others’ panic.
Connie couldn’t see any other cupboards, or anywhere Steph might’ve kept any valuables or keepsakes. She’d have to venture upstairs. A ball of anxiety swelled inside her gut. An impulse to leave tugged at her. She gritted her teeth. She was here now – had come this far, it would be silly not to see it through. If she didn’t try to find something that would convince the police that she was right, she’d always regret it and kick herself for failing.
Standing at the foot of the stairs looking up, the dark seemed even more chilling; malevolent – like something bad was up there, hiding, waiting for her. The tiny hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood erect. Every muscle in her body, every sense, screamed at her to turn back, leave the house. Connie shut her mind to the warnings, and placed one foot on the first stair. One by one she climbed them, a creak sounding on each step, remarkably loud in the otherwise silent house. The first room she came to was a bathroom. The next had a double bed. Steph’s room. She swept the torch around.
A figure caught in the circle of illumination.
Connie yelped, dropping the torch. She scrambled on the floor, hands patting all around her. Her fingers found the hard object and she picked it up, quickly directing it where she’d seen the figure. She let out a large breath. A mirror. She’d seen her own reflection.
Her hands trembled, her legs shaking as she stood again.
A nervous giggle erupted from her as she checked her reflection again, making sure it really was her own. A tiny shiver tracked down her back as she saw the green of her irises highlighted in the beam of light. Luke’s eyes. ‘Stupid woman, scaring yourself half to death,’ she whispered. Even as a whisper, her words seemed loud. She shook her shoulders to loosen her rigid muscles. Regaining her composure, Connie looked around the room. A chest of drawers and a wardrobe were the only items of furniture apart from the bed. She’d try the wardrobe first. She stood on the bed, unsteady on the soft mattress, and shone the light at the top. Nothing. Opening both doors, she swept the hangers from right to left, the squeal of metal on the rail sounding like tiny screams. A cold shiver ran the length of her back, her unease heightened. One side of the wardrobe had a shelf, on it a few boxes: bought ones, patterned, pretty. Connie dragged them down one by one, placing them on the bed. She knelt on the floor beside them, not wanting to sit on Steph’s bed. The second box contained letters.
‘Bingo.’
A surge of adrenaline shot through her veins as she emptied out the box. These would prove that Steph hadn’t been lying about Brett, might even prove that he was after her, and that her suicide was in fact murder. She fumbled with the envelopes, her fingers clumsy – she rested the torch on the duvet so she could pull out the folded paper from the envelopes.
She took the
torch again, shining it on to the pages. Her heart dipped.
The letters were not from Brett.
They were not from anyone.
Connie flipped the envelope over, then frantically checked the others. All unsent – each addressed to the same person. She sank back, sitting on the floor. The letters slid from the bed, scattering around her. She wanted to scream. These were no use. She sighed, but took one of them anyway, curiosity getting the better of her, and began to read. With each word, her hopes for finding supporting evidence to clear Steph’s name evaporated. She skim-read another. They were filled with anger, hurt. All of it directed at one person.
A tinkling of glass.
Connie froze. Below, a scraping. She strained her ears.
Footsteps.
Someone was in the house.
Move, Connie, move.
The person shifted through the house, their footsteps soft, yet audible, even above the whooshing noise of the pounding pulse in her ears. She must get up; hide.
Quickly gathering the letters and shoving them in her backpack, Connie cast her eyes around for a hiding place. The wardrobe was too small and too crammed with clothes. She lifted the duvet and cursed. It was a divan, no gap underneath.
Shit.
She snatched the torch and on shaky legs made her way out on to the landing. A beam of light caught her eye, on the wall at the bottom of the stairs.
They were coming upstairs.
Connie crept as quietly as she could into the next bedroom, closing the door slowly behind her, but leaving it slightly ajar so as not to make more noise. Scanning the room, she was relieved to see that the single bed was at least a wooden one, with space underneath. Dylan’s bed. She had no time to ponder on that now. Sliding her rucksack under first, Connie lay down, wriggling her body into the small space.
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