Nothing.
Jen was right; it was unlikely he would start talking now, not after all this time. Connie needn’t have worried about a conflict of interest, any ethical dilemma in working with Alice. She’d have to carry on with this meeting regardless though, get what she needed, and then call for Verity to come back and escort her to the psychology office.
‘I’m an independent psychologist, which means I don’t work in the prison, or for the prison service. My role is to work with you, talk to you about your offence, your risk factors, and give recommendations for rehabilitation programmes. I’ll do a written report, which will be provided to the parole board. Okay?’
Connie thought she saw a flicker in Kyle’s eyes. A quick glance in her direction. But still she was faced with the wall of silence. She moved her chair along slightly, lining it up so that she was in his direct line of vision. He lowered his head, purposely avoiding catching her eye. So, he did know she was there. He was well aware of why she was there, she felt sure.
‘Right, well, I’m going to read through some of these notes I have here,’ Connie said as she placed his file on the table and opened it. ‘And you jump in whenever you want. Tell me if there’s anything you want to clarify, or add. Anything you don’t agree with.’
Connie started to read out the description of his offence. Every now and then she paused, looking up to observe his body language, to see if his expression had altered. He remained closed. He’d had a few years to perfect this routine. He was good at it. It was highly improbable Connie would crack him without something new, something to give him cause to wobble – a reason to speak.
During her last visit to the prison, when she’d studied the files of the men she’d be assessing, Connie had reread the police transcript of their interview with Kyle prior to him being charged with murder. He’d been incredibly vague, often giving one-word responses, but had spoken. However, as soon as they charged him, further interviews had been ‘no comment’ ones or he’d simply remained quiet – supposedly at the advice of his solicitor. She’d also read the lengthy transcript of the interview with Kyle’s parents. With Alice, and her husband, Edward. How they’d been so certain their son would not have committed this crime without serious coercion. His mother in particular had been totally convinced he’d been targeted, manipulated and groomed by someone. She’d said he was an easy target because of his behavioural difficulties. She’d said he suffered with mild Asperger’s and had some learning difficulties growing up. None of this could be substantiated in court later – there was simply no hard evidence to back up her claims. No assessments, no input from services, school, or any doctors able to confirm anything Alice Mann had asserted.
As Connie began reading from the notes she’d taken from the transcript, Kyle’s eyes closed, and she noticed his knuckles turning white as he clenched his hands into fists.
Just talking about what his mum had said to the police had touched a nerve.
‘Your mum really believes in you. You know that, don’t you?’
There was a scraping sound as Kyle drew in his legs, tucking them under the chair.
‘You know she doesn’t believe you would be capable of such a crime. Of murder.’ Connie was on a roll. Her passion for forensic psychology was reignited in that moment; she wanted to do a good job, like she always felt she had prior to the Hargreaves incident. Looking at Kyle now, she was suddenly eager to get something from him. A reaction. Even if she couldn’t get him to speak. She picked up a piece of paper containing her scribbled notes and, holding it so she could see it and Kyle’s face easily above the paper, began reading:
‘Kyle wouldn’t purposely hurt anyone. He’s always been a kind, considerate boy, but he was used. People took advantage of him, of his vulnerability. He couldn’t have done this on his own. It’s impossible.’ Connie read the words loudly, leaning in towards Kyle’s face. She was pushing it, she knew – but something made her feel safe; she didn’t sense he was a risk to her.
Kyle’s breathing rate increased; Connie could hear the flow of air as it pushed through his nostrils and was quickly drawn back in again.
This was the most reaction she’d ever known Kyle Mann give. His mum was the key. The way she could get him to speak, she was convinced of that now.
Without much thought of the consequences, Connie played her trump card.
‘I know your mum feels incredible guilt about you being here. She believes she’s let you down, that she could’ve done something to prevent it.’
His eyes were wide now. Focussed on Connie for the first time.
She continued. ‘I know this, Kyle, because she told me. The other day in fact, when she came to see me for my help.’
Kyle lurched forwards. Connie’s pulse banged in her neck.
‘You’re lying,’ he shouted, before slamming his back against his chair, the plastic bouncing with the force.
Connie’s mouth slackened. She’d done it. Made him utter actual words.
She stalled in her shock, but quickly recovered; she had to keep it going now she’d made a breakthrough.
‘I wouldn’t lie to you, Kyle. I think you should know what your mother is going through.’
A pang of guilt struck her. She shouldn’t have told him, she’d really compromised herself now. In her eagerness to get Kyle to speak, she’d broken the code of conduct.
Dammit.
What if Kyle’s stony silence didn’t stretch as far as his mum? He could call Alice, tell her what Connie had said. She’d be in all kinds of trouble. Again. But she’d done what no one else had been able to: she’d made Kyle Mann talk. She may only have this one chance. She had to continue – and deal with the consequences later.
‘She’s not the only one who thinks you didn’t act alone, is she? The police also suspected you were with someone else that day. That another person was as responsible, if not more so than you, for the murder of Sean Taylor.’
‘They’re wrong.’ His voice was a quiet rasp, as though not speaking for all this time had dried his vocal cords and stringing a whole sentence together was challenging.
‘Are they, Kyle? Even your mum?’
‘Especially my mum. I’m not the son she thinks I am.’
Connie sat back, turning over in her mind what Alice had revealed so far about Kyle during her sessions. The aggressive, almost bullying nature she’d described as part of the behaviour she’d endured from Kyle at home, prior to his offence, was not the same picture Alice had painted at the time of his arrest. Didn’t sound like the Kyle she’d spoken of in the transcript Connie had read. Had Alice lied in the interview with the police in an attempt to protect him?
‘I would really like to hear an account of what happened in the lead-up to Sean Taylor’s death. How did the day begin for you, Kyle?’
He snorted and shook his head. ‘I’ve done all this.’
‘Well, actually you haven’t. If your records are correct, you gave “no comment” interviews. Where did you spend the day, Kyle?’ Connie laid her notes down and rested her elbows on the table.
Kyle shrugged his shoulders. Had he verbally communicated all he was willing to? An unexpected sense of disappointment swept through her.
‘Who else did you see that day? Did you meet up with someone?’
He averted his eyes from Connie’s. She was losing him.
‘Who was it? Someone you used to game with online?’ Connie immediately regretted her question. She was using things arising from Alice’s session as a way of forcing Kyle to speak. It was so unethical, she felt her face grow hot with the knowledge of what she was doing.
Kyle’s own face flushed, his eyes growing wider, darker; his pupils dilating.
Connie swallowed hard as he pushed violently up from his chair.
He left the room without saying another word.
Someone else had been involved with Sean’s murder, she felt sure now. The one that got away. And for some reason, Kyle was protecting him.
CHAPTE
R TWENTY-TWO
Tom
The house was even quieter than usual. He knew he must be alone. He was glad. At least he didn’t have to worry about being caught; he was getting fed up of having to deal with endless questions. He could talk online uninterrupted. His sessions had increased again. The time it’d taken to organise the gaming site had taken far more effort; it was time-consuming getting the right people involved. Keeping them on his domain, even more challenging. Everyone thought they were a gamer these days. Most didn’t know the skill it took. Most didn’t realise the thrills would diminish later down the line. When they’d played as long as he had, they’d come to the same conclusion: online slaughter isn’t enough. Once you reach a certain level it’s more difficult to get the adrenaline going, more difficult to feel alive.
When you’re at my level, things have got to get real.
He’d lasted four whole years. He’d tried to recreate the thrills online only. But now the urge was too strong, he needed more.
He’d obviously got away with the last one, so he should be fine.
It was time.
He needed another kill – and he’d found the perfect player.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Deborah
I lie still, watching as Nathan dresses in his charcoal-grey suit. He’s still attractive – he’s aged exceptionally well. He doesn’t even have any visible grey in his hair, and is not receding, or balding like a lot of men his age. He keeps himself trim, weekly visits to the gym, plus running and golf at the weekend. I can see why he gains female attention at work. There seem to be a lot of women employees at the district council offices. When I used to pop in to see Nathan on my lunch breaks, I’d noticed how the reception desk was manned by dolled-up, pretty women. Back when I really cared, it would bother me, how they tripped over themselves to speak to him, almost scrambling to get his attention. Even if I was standing with him, they would openly flirt, as if I wasn’t there.
I wonder who he’s shagging.
‘Come on, lazybones, you’re going to be late for work,’ he says as he bends to plant a kiss on my head.
‘Five more minutes.’ I stretch and make out I’m still tired. I am tired, as it happens. I lay awake for long periods in the night, thinking. About work. Or lack of it – and how I’m going to fill the endless hours each day. And thinking about Alice. How I might pay her a visit. The newspapers didn’t say much about her at the time of Kyle Mann’s arrest and subsequent trial; her husband, Edward, was the focus. The troubled father-son relationship, often speculative and also told through the subjectivity of neighbours, was what gained column inches; sold papers. It would perhaps be interesting to find out what part Alice herself played in her son’s delinquent behaviour; his ultimate ability to take another’s life.
‘I might be a bit late tonight, sorry. There’s a planning meeting at six, discussing the new project, remember – the expansion of a small industrial estate to incorporate a supermarket?’
He’d not spoken of it since the last meeting he’d had that had run over time. By two hours. ‘Oh yes, right. I’ll cook late then, for eight?’ I push my lips into a smile.
‘Oh, I would just put something back for me. You can never tell how long these meetings are going to take. No doubt Phil will have countless questions to ask right at the end – always does.’ Nathan doesn’t look me in the eye. It’s the first time I really feel it – the disloyalty. I’m not sure whether to be angry or sad, or thankful that at least someone’s giving him what he needs. How can I blame him for grasping any ounce of happiness that comes his way? Life has been such a struggle for us since losing Sean. If I had the inclination, I could probably stop him from straying. But I don’t, not at the moment. Plus, if his attention is elsewhere, I’ll be more likely to get away with my own indiscretion.
I wait until the front door bangs closed, listen to the car wheels noisily spewing small stone chippings as Nathan leaves the driveway, before I swing my legs from the bed. I shower and dress as I would for a normal workday.
Only, today isn’t normal.
Today is the first day of living a lie.
Or is it? Maybe that’s what I’ve already been doing up until today.
A change is as good as a rest, my mum would’ve said. Having no job to go to is certainly a change.
I don’t know where to find Alice. She didn’t say where she lived and I only gleaned a few things from her nervous chatter – like she works, or worked, part-time somewhere – but I can’t remember much, as I wasn’t taking it in. I didn’t ask any questions about her, or her life. I wasn’t interested before now.
I have a strong suspicion I won’t have to find her, though – she’ll come to me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Alice
I haven’t stopped thinking about last Wednesday’s group session. Even now as I watch the TV, and the unfolding drama on Jeremy Kyle, snippets of it pop into my mind. It went so well. I always hoped it would, of course, but it exceeded my expectations. Listening to how the others opened up – spoke without fear of judgement – filled me with such pride.
I’ve done this; I’ve made it happen. I’m helping others.
Bill is an asset, too. I knew he would be. I’m so pleased I managed to convince him to meet with us all in person. For at least half the session the focus was on him, his daughter Isabella, and the situation tearing his family apart. He held the group in the palm of his hand, every one of them enthralled by his words, his emotions laid bare for all to witness, to share. He showed us a photo of Isabella, passed it around the circle, lapping up the group’s comments on how beautiful she is. I saw how his face lit up with love for her, then crumpled as he spoke of his worry about her behaviour. Everyone seemed shocked at how the stunning young woman in the photo could be the cause of so much anxiety, pain. But not me.
I wipe a tear away. Broken families. I can relate to that.
Bill is strong, though. Far stronger than I am. Not only physically – which is plain to see as he’s around six foot and his biceps are well defined – but mentally, too. I noted a fight in his hazel-brown eyes, a steely determination to keep his daughter safe from harm. The love he has for Isabella is unconditional, limitless – her behaviour, her frequent arrests are, as Bill told us, a cry for help. It’s his responsibility to ensure she gets that help, he’d said. His wife, on the other hand, sounds like a wet blanket – unable, or unwilling, to step in or make waves in fear of the repercussions from Isabella. He’s strong. She’s weak. The similarities are not lost on me.
Bill and I would make a strong team; we could face anything.
If I’d had such a man, things might’ve been different.
Jeremy’s condescending voice screams out of the TV, then the programme cuts to a commercial break. The words The Jeremy Kyle Show are displayed momentarily on the screen. Kyle. There’s no escaping the name.
It seems like a huge gap again before the next support meeting. A whole month to ruminate. I do have things I can fill my time with at least – not just mindless television programmes. I may not be needed as much, or in the same way as my group members need me, but I can still be of help to someone. Even if she doesn’t see it herself yet. I’m sure she will see it, once I confide in her. I think I’ll have to share a bit more than I planned though, to gain her trust. She won’t accept the similarities, the fact I can help her, if she doesn’t trust me. And I need that. I have to help her, so in return she can get me closer to my goal of redemption. But I’m not sure I should try her workplace again. After the last failed trip, and almost getting caught out, it would be far easier, and safer, to visit her house.
Of course, at her house she has more control; the upper hand. Can refuse to open the door to me. I need her to invite me in rather than me just turn up out of the blue again. I wonder where she does her shopping? Does she do it daily, weekly? At weekends, evenings? If I could find that out, I might be able to bump into her, get chatting and somehow manipulate the situati
on so she invites me into hers.
A sudden crashing noise stops my thoughts. I quickly jab the remote control to mute the volume of the TV and hold my breath so I can hear properly. Was it outside, or inside?
I hear the hum of the fridge-freezer in the kitchen, the ticking of the wall clock above the mantle.
I hear a squeaking. The door handle?
I shrink down a little, my shoulders slumping.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Connie
The day had stretched once Connie returned to the psychology portacabin following her interview with Kyle Mann. She’d been part thrilled and part scared to tell Jen she’d finally got The Silent One to utter words. She’d dared not mention how she’d accomplished it. The shock of her revelation was clear to see on Jen’s face. The shock, however, was quickly turned back on Connie when Jen told her it would be good if she visited him again, seeing as she’d been the one to break the silence. Getting herself in deeper was not in her game plan. In and out had been the intention. Not making herself desirable to the psychology team and therefore ensuring more days within the prison walls. She’d been vague when Jen asked when she would next be in. Connie needed some time to figure out how to get out of seeing Kyle again.
The relief of finally walking through her front door washed over her. Connie grabbed Amber and snuggled her face into the warm, fluffy white fur. There was no sign of Lindsay and she hadn’t received any texts from her during the day, no communications on her phone when she’d got back to her car and checked it. She resigned herself to another evening meal alone.
Having eaten leftover cottage pie, Connie stood at the window, eyes searching the road for the appearance of Lindsay’s dark blue Volvo. The TV played to itself behind her. She’d watched the six o’clock news, listened as the family of the missing young woman appealed for information. Connie hoped that despite what Lindsay had said the other night, there could still be a positive outcome. She’d left the TV on so there was some sound in the house, a semblance of company.
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