Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

  ‘What happened, who was it, did you see?’

  ‘Blimey, Lindsay, is that how you question all your witnesses?’

  Connie’s call to the station had been vague – an intruder had pushed her to the ground and could Lindsay visit. She’d decided to take Clarke along, rather than Mack, and they’d rushed there, blue lights and all.

  ‘Is there any CCTV covering your building?’ Clarke asked, his notebook open ready to jot down the details.

  ‘No. I didn’t see the need for that as well as the buzzer system for the door. It is only Totnes. Meant to have one of the lowest crime rates in Britain, apparently.’

  Lindsay gently shook her head. ‘Lowest. Not non-existent. You should still take precautions.’ She left Connie’s side and asked Clarke to stay with her. She was going to do a sweep of the building. Although the intruder had gone – Connie said she’d heard him leave – she needed to make sure, check the perimeter, ensure he wasn’t still hanging around outside. She’d also check around to see if he’d left any evidence behind.

  ‘Where were they hiding, do you reckon?’

  ‘Downstairs toilet. Could’ve sworn I heard noises in there when I was standing at the top of the stairwell. But he – I’m pretty certain from the force it was a man – came at me from my left, as I was facing the toilet, so he must’ve been hiding around that wall, leading to the kitchenette.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll have a look. You sure you don’t need medical attention?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Connie smiled up at her. She looked so vulnerable, yet she had a tough quality about her, too. She confused Lindsay a bit. Or perhaps she was merely confused by how Connie made her feel: one minute she wanted to chastise her, the next, protect her. Lindsay returned her smile, then headed to the lower floor.

  The intruder had left no sign of forced entry; she’d checked all access points. It looked as though Connie had been right. It was Brett, and he’d stayed inside after their session. Waited.

  But why?

  If he’d wanted to attack her he could’ve done it immediately, there was no reason to wait. No one else had been in the building at the time.

  Lindsay paced up and down, a thumbnail jammed between her teeth, biting down on it rhythmically. Connie said he’d come at her from her left, shoved her to the ground. Then run off without doing anything else? It was as if he hadn’t wanted to hurt her; that hadn’t been his goal. So what was? She walked back to the toilet door and cast her eyes inside. It was a tiny room, toilet and small handbasin. As she tucked her head around the door, she saw it.

  A round mirror above the basin.

  Now she was inside she could see it properly. Writing. She pulled the light cord and the word was displayed clearly.

  ‘Connie!’ Lindsay shouted up the stairs. ‘Come look at this.’

  She pushed her hands into her trouser pockets and stood back from the room.

  ‘In there, on the mirror,’ Lindsay motioned with her head.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’ She heard Connie say from inside.

  ‘I hoped you’d know.’

  ‘No. Ah, hang on. Have you got a mirror, Lindsay?’

  Lindsay scoffed, ‘Er, no.’ Did she look the type to carry a handbag with a compact inside? ‘But it’s on a mirror, Connie.’

  Connie nudged past them and ran up the stairs, her heavy footsteps pounding on the staircase. Lindsay shrugged her shoulders in a return gesture to Clarke’s raised eyebrows. What was Connie doing?

  ‘The word looks weird because I think it’s backwards,’ Connie said as she came back down, out of breath. With a compact mirror in hand, Connie went back into the toilet and held it up against the wall mirror.

  ‘Yep. There you are.’

  ‘What? What does it say?’

  ‘This is personal.’ Connie’s hushed tones filtered from the toilet.

  ‘I’m pretty sure what is written isn’t that long,’ Lindsay said.

  ‘Oh, haha. No, Lindsay. One word meant as two. Personal to me.’

  Lindsay shuffled inside. Connie’s eyes had reddened, her nose turned pink. She was going to cry. She laid a hand on her arm.

  ‘It’s FORLUKE backwards.’

  Lindsay frowned.

  ‘It’s a message to me. For Luke.’

  ‘Your brother? The one who died twenty-two years ago?’ Lindsay couldn’t contain her surprise. She watched as Connie slowly nodded, her eyes set on the mirror.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Connie

  Tuesday 20 June

  She hadn’t felt much like talking after the discovery of the writing on the mirror. Lindsay and DC Clarke had been really supportive and, although they’d asked questions, they hadn’t pushed her for the details of Luke’s death. They’d been keener to run through the timings – when Brett had left, to when she’d heard the noise, and who else had had access to the building that day. As Lindsay had pointed out, it would be difficult to prove it was Brett with no CCTV – it would be their word against his.

  What was ‘for Luke’, exactly? Yesterday, in her shock that Luke’s name had been brought up again, she’d been unable to process it. Now, after tossing theories around her head overnight, she’d come to the conclusion that it could be interpreted in a few ways: maybe it was to do with an act of revenge that had happened, or possibly was going to happen. Or it was a relatively harmless message intended to taunt her, to ensure she’d taken the documents on the memory stick seriously by reinforcing it. Either way, the fact that Brett seemed the likely author of the message appalled and puzzled her. What did he have to do with Luke, with her and her family? Nothing, as far as she could see.

  Determined to keep to her plan of visiting Manchester, despite feeling afraid and unsettled, Connie carried on with the arrangements. The taxi was calling in at her mum’s so she could drop Amber off, then it was taking her on to the train station. She’d be in Manchester by 3 p.m. According to his second-in-command, her dad had been ‘unreachable’ at the time she called, in a ‘very important meeting’, so she took it as read that it’d be fine to stay with him. Hopefully she’d give him the surprise of his life, turning up, bag in hand, informing him she was staying with him for the night. It would be nothing to the other surprise she had for him though. She tucked the memory stick inside her laptop case and put it with her overnight bag.

  It was time she faced the past. Time to make her dad face it, too.

  Long train journeys were always the perfect conduit for thinking. Strangely though, Connie spent most of the time sleeping. Not heavily, but fitfully – dropping in and out. The last few weeks had drained her. Emotionally and physically. That, coupled with the steady noise of the train on the tracks, made her eyelids heavy and her head woozy. Lindsay’s face popped into her mind as she drifted. When Connie had told her she was taking a quick trip to Manchester, Lindsay had thought it a good idea. Said that having some breathing space after what happened would be beneficial. Funny how people came into your life, the way they enter it and why. Who’d have thought Hargreaves would’ve brought her a friend. He’d brought a whole heap of unwanted things too, though. His murder had opened a Pandora’s box.

  Nerves fluttered inside her like patters of tiny feet dancing against her stomach wall. Confronting her dad had seemed a great idea back in Devon. Now, standing on his doorstep with no clear idea of what she was going to say to him, how she was going to approach the matter of the memory stick, the message on the mirror, Connie wanted to turn back. A hotel would have been better anyway. She could have had a relaxing few hours before heading to the nursing home, no need to see her dad and get involved in what was likely to be a wasted one-sided conversation. She turned on her heel and began to walk back out down the gravel driveway, her shoes crunching and slipping on the chippings as she went.

  ‘Darling! This is a surprise,’ her dad’s voice bellowed behind her.

  She took a moment to put a smile on her face, then turned to greet him.

  There was no going b
ack now.

  His expression – blank eyes, mouth slack, his jowls hanging still – had frozen. It didn’t seem to be one of shock, horror, or anything emotional. It was neutral. Gave nothing away. Even the air was still. Quiet. Connie heard herself swallow, the spittle catching in her throat. He hadn’t said a thing since she showed him the content of the memory stick. She was afraid to prompt him. She waited, her stomach clenched, for him to respond.

  ‘And you don’t have any idea who gave you this?’ Finally, he spoke – although his face stayed the same, facing forwards, not looking at Connie.

  ‘No. I was shocked at the time, too afraid to look directly at him, so I didn’t take his features in.’

  ‘Not at all? Nothing? Not hair colour, eye colour, anything?’ His expression broke, his voice urgent.

  Connie shook her head. ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ Suddenly he got up and strode out of the room. Connie followed him.

  ‘You could start by telling me why whoever made this memory stick is under the impression you are withholding information from me. From Mum.’

  ‘I honestly have no idea, darling. Like I said before, it’ll be someone I’ve inadvertently crossed in business who has an axe to grind, I expect. It’ll blow over.’

  ‘Dad. That’s your answer to everything. It won’t blow over. The man who left the message in my building, knocked me to the ground – he hurt me, and could’ve done worse. This isn’t harmless. Someone wants to get to me.’ Connie paused for breath. And then added, ‘Or you.’

  ‘If they wanted to get to me, they could. I don’t know why they would want to play games, go all around the houses by frightening you first. That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘No, no it doesn’t.’ Connie had to agree. ‘So, it’s for Luke then. Like they said.’

  ‘You think it has something to do with the stabbing at the football ground, all those years ago? Why now?’

  ‘I can’t figure that out either, Dad. Who else would feel the need to get revenge for Luke?’

  ‘I can’t imagine anyone would. It was an accident – the coroner’s inquest said as much.’

  ‘Really, Dad? He returned an open verdict, actually. And that was because he was unable to come to a clear picture of the events that led to his death. Are you sticking with this story even now I’ve shown you the memory stick? Is it because you’ve told yourself that for so long you’ve come to believe it yourself?’

  ‘I can’t do this now.’ Her dad checked his watch. ‘I’m late for a meeting. There’s plenty of food in the fridge, help yourself. Wine is in the garage.’

  And he walked out.

  Connie was no further forward. She rushed to the front window and watched him get in his car. He didn’t drive off, though, he stayed in the driveway, mobile phone to his ear. Connie squinted, and with a finger, edged one of the vertical blinds to the side to get a clearer view. He seemed to be shouting – his actions were animated, his face red. Someone was getting an earful.

  I wonder who?

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  Connie

  After a snoop around the house, Connie concluded there was nothing that would offer any clues to what had really happened with Luke that night. Her dad wasn’t going to be stupid enough to leave something incriminating in the house. She stopped short. Incriminating? What was it she thought she’d find anyway? Did she honestly believe that her dad had something to do with Luke’s death, that somehow, he was responsible? Had that been the intent of whoever had given her the memory stick – to drive a wedge even further between her and her dad? She had to admit, it was working. Maybe it was all a ruse.

  As he so often did when there was any discontent, any hint of being put in a difficult situation, her father had walked away rather than face awkward questions. He was an expert. She might visit his offices later; he couldn’t run from her forever. For now, she had another person to visit – someone else she suspected was in retreat from the truth.

  The nursing home was basic. No unnecessary flourishes, no home comforts. Enough to fulfil the requirements; adequate but nothing more. Connie’s heart sank as she walked through the corridors, catching sight of the building’s occupants. Some of them looked like they’d had all their happy memories taken from them via horrific means – Connie was immediately reminded of Harry Potter, and the hideous Dementors who sucked the very souls from people’s mouths. These poor people resembled empty shells; dummies.

  What a depressing place to end your days. Connie slowed her breathing, trying not to take in the aroma of stale urine and that unique ‘old-people’ musty smell. Her hope for gaining answers from Mrs Ellison diminished as she progressed through the home. Finally, the care assistant who she’d been following slowed.

  ‘She’s in ’ere. But she won’t speak to you, you know that, right?’

  Connie smiled thinly. ‘Yes, I understand. I just want to sit with her, talk to her.’ She wanted to add, ‘Because it doesn’t look like she’s had any human interaction for years,’ but refrained. The emaciated woman, dressed in a flimsy nightie, sat in a Parker Knoll chair, hands limp in her lap, staring dead ahead – presumably out of the window. Connie followed her gaze. A high red-brick wall was her only view. She turned to the care assistant to give her a nod in the hope she’d leave them alone, but she’d already gone, the door swinging shut and banging in its frame. Connie shook her head.

  She looked around the room. There was a single plastic chair in the corner, so she took it and positioned it next to the woman. Now she was beside her, Connie saw the pallor to her skin, the deep wrinkles at her eyes, her mouth creased and dry. She hadn’t responded at all to Connie’s entrance. Not a flicker of acknowledgement. Connie took the crocheted shawl that hung over the arm of the chair and gently moved Rosie Ellison forwards, draping it around her bony shoulders. Still nothing.

  Connie resigned herself to the fact she wasn’t going to find out anything about the fire. She wasn’t going to find out anything about anything. Instead, she decided to just chat to her, talk about Steph – Jenna – and Dylan. Would she even know who Dylan was though? She’d probably never met him, heard his name even.

  After Connie had been talking for what felt like an hour, her mouth dry from her constant one-way conversation, a head popped around the door to the room.

  ‘How’s it going, love?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’ Connie gave a shrug.

  The nurse came in, and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘She’s a bit of an enigma, our Rosie.’ She reached across and gave the woman’s arm a gentle rub.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She’s been here years, ever since I started working here. And that’s far too long for anyone.’ She laughed. Her face was kind, and she seemed as though she was actually interested in Rosie. ‘And sometimes I catch her,’ she whispered.

  ‘Catch her?’

  ‘Talking to herself. But not in a random way, muttering like I’ve known her to do in front of us. No, sometimes, when her eyes are focused and intense, rather than vacant, she says things that make more sense. As if she’s having a proper conversation with an unseen person.’

  ‘Does she ever have visitors – her son, for example?’

  ‘She only has a daughter listed, but as far as I’m aware she hasn’t visited for years, not since Rosie’s first year here. And there’s Brett, but he’s not her son. He’d lived with them before the fire, as his dad was Rosie’s husband. Second husband, I believe. Very sad.’

  ‘What was sad?’ Connie played dumb about her knowledge of the fire, of Steph.

  ‘The fire. That’s why Rosie’s here.’ She spoke quietly again, as if her words might upset Rosie. ‘The husband died when Brett set the fire. On a bad day, Rosie mutters about it, not in a coherent way – the words are jumbled and she repeats certain words and phrases, but I have been able to piece stuff together, sometimes.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, like how it’s all his fault, she shou
ldn’t have trusted him. How she’s a stupid woman, he’d always let her down. Why would this time be different, that sort of stuff. I might be wrong, though, like I say – it’s my interpretation of her muddled snippets of sentences.’

  ‘But you also said she says different things, when she doesn’t realise you’re there?’

  ‘Yeah, she has more lucid moments. That’s when she seems to be saying the opposite, where she talks about how it all went wrong. She didn’t like him, but it wasn’t meant to have happened like that.’

  Connie’s blood cooled in her veins. That was weird. Was Rosie telling one story to others and another to herself?

  ‘Thanks for taking the time to talk with me, it’s been really helpful. I won’t stay for much longer. I’ll just finish chatting to Rosie then I’ll be off. Don’t let me keep you from your work.’ Connie wanted to have another moment alone with Rosie, so she needed to get the nurse out of the room.

  To someone who didn’t know what Connie knew about the event, Rosie’s words might not mean much; it was hard to connect it all and make sense of it. But, for Connie, it was beginning to make a little sense. She waited for the door to close, then went to Rosie. She pulled her chair around, away from the window, turning it to face her. She sat right opposite Rosie and got level with her eyes. What she was about to do was cruel, went against everything her training had ever taught her – but she didn’t have much time. Or much choice. And if Rosie really had dementia, hopefully her actions wouldn’t have an effect.

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘Rosie. Look at me. I’m Connie. I’ve come here to ask you some questions. About the fire.’

  Nothing.

  God forgive me for this.

  ‘Rosie. Your daughter, Jenna, is dead. Brett killed her.’ The words came out clearly, despite the shakiness of her voice.

  Rosie’s eyes widened. Her pupils – dark, big – moved and focused on Connie.