One Little Lie

by Sam Carrington

  A woman in scrubs walks towards us. The man I’m with turns to the left – he obviously knows where he’s going. I hesitate. Should I follow him? I put an arm on the gentleman’s elbow and lean in as if to speak to him. The woman smiles at me before disappearing behind some curtains. I hear my own breath rush out. ‘I hope your visit goes well,’ I say to the man, and I stand for a moment watching him hobble up to his wife’s bedside.

  The beds are widely spaced, probably because there are so many bleeping machines attached to the occupants that the large surrounding areas are a requirement. It doesn’t make finding Alice any easier, though. Some beds have the curtains pulled around them, so I can’t tell if one of those is her.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder and jump.

  ‘Sorry, are you all right? Who are you looking for?’

  I immediately blurt, ‘Alice Mann,’ then regret it. I should’ve said I was looking for the toilet or something, bought myself some time.

  ‘Bed four, over by the window,’ the man who I assume to be a doctor says, pointing.

  ‘Thank you,’ I manage to say, my mouth as dry as sandpaper.

  My heart races as I walk towards Alice, my leaden feet making the short journey difficult. Each step closer allows me to see more – the yellowing bruises, the tube protruding from her mouth. The damage is obvious; my guilt will be too. The nurse at the end of her bed turns his attention to me.

  ‘Here you go.’ He positions a chair as close to Alice’s head as the machinery allows. ‘I’m glad someone’s able to visit today, Edward was concerned she’d be on her own. Did he ring you?’

  ‘Er … yes. Yes,’ I say, ‘although I was planning on coming in today anyway.’ I give a smile. I know it has come across as unsure, because that’s exactly how I feel right now.

  ‘I haven’t seen you before,’ the nurse says.

  ‘No. I hadn’t plucked up the courage until now.’ That, at least, is the truth.

  ‘It can be a shock, seeing a loved one in this condition. Don’t feel bad about it, you’re here now. I’m Graham, by the way – Alice’s named nurse. I’m always about. I’ll be popping over regularly to look after Alice’s needs, but I’ll give you some time now with her. The bell is there,’ he points to the table beside the bed, ‘but as you can see, we’re all just a holler away if you’re concerned, or need anything.’

  Graham gives me a reassuring smile, replaces a clipboard on the unit at the end of Alice’s bed, and leaves.

  My muscles, tense from the anxiety of getting in here, now loosen. I’ve done it. I’m left alone with Alice. I don’t know what to do. As usual, in situations where I feel awkward, I begin to talk. And before I’m really aware of it, I’ve told Alice everything.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Connie

  Finally, after what felt like months of eating alone, Lindsay was sitting opposite Connie at the dining table. As they tucked into a Chinese takeaway, Connie relayed her conversation with Kyle between mouthfuls.

  ‘It’s not much to go on, though. Tom.’ Lindsay shrugged. ‘But thank you. It’s a start, and more than we were getting from him. Although now I think we have a way in – I’ll get Mack to talk to him again officially, see if a threat of a longer sentence might make him drop his bizarre sense of loyalty to this low life.’

  ‘Also, if fake Alice was telling the truth in her initial session with me about moving to Totnes, we know he lives locally. There’s the footage from my security camera too – I’d forgotten about that.’ Connie got up from the table and retrieved the SD memory card from the drawer of the coffee table. ‘I was meant to watch it, see if it was possible to get a good still from it.’

  ‘Good, yes. We’ll take a look in a minute.’ Lindsay popped the last of the chicken balls in her mouth.

  ‘Do you think this Tom could be Isabella Bond’s killer too?’

  ‘There are similarities – the locality, age of victim, the use of a bladed weapon, together with what Kyle told you,’ Lindsay said, shrugging. ‘I’d say it was a strong possibility, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Certainly seems to fit the profile – the links can’t just be coincidental.’

  ‘The links are good, but at this point only circumstantial,’ Lindsay said. ‘Solid evidence might be harder to come by.’

  ‘Didn’t the murder scene give you much?’

  She shook her head. ‘No murder weapon. There were a few fibres, but nothing identifiable at this point, the heavy rain showers the day she was found didn’t help matters, and only the victim’s blood was at the scene. It seems like a straightforward slit-of-the-throat-with-gloved-hands job. The blood spurt from the wound might’ve splashed him, but I suspect he burned his clothes after the attack.’

  ‘So, he could get away with it? Again.’ Connie slumped back down into her chair and pushed her rice around the plate.

  ‘If we can link him to Isabella it would be a start.’

  ‘Kyle said he met Tom through online gaming. Didn’t you say there was something on Isabella’s laptop, a gaming site she’d been on? Conversations outside of the game with someone called “The Boss”? Have your techies come up with any leads from that?’

  ‘Not as yet. But if we get more info from Kyle, they might have a better idea where to look, what to concentrate on.’

  ‘And if you can’t get anything else from Kyle?’

  ‘We have a place to focus on, and if we can find Alice … fake Alice … then that would be a bloody fantastic start. Fancy her going to see you, pretending she was Kyle’s mother. I can’t get over that.’

  ‘I think she has many unresolved issues, not least a huge guilt complex.’

  ‘So she bloody should, Connie! Jesus, if we’re right about all this, her son has murdered two people, maybe more.’ Lindsay’s eyes widened.

  ‘I know, but I suppose she was trying to …’ Connie faltered. Trying to what? Cover up her son’s crimes? Protect him from prison? ‘Trying to be a good mother.’

  ‘I think your thoughts on being a good mother and mine are vastly different.’

  ‘Like I said – she came to me for help, and although she lied about who she was, I think the majority of what she told me was actually true. She’s the mother of a murderer and she feels guilty about not realising sooner that his behaviour was becoming more deviant. I’m assuming the part she told me about her husband being abusive and then leaving is also true. That was her life. So, she’s been dealing with a lot – with no outside help from social services – for some years. How else could she talk about what was happening to her without giving her son away? By setting up a self-help support group she was trying to redress the balance; make things right.’

  ‘How can you possibly make murder right?’

  ‘In her mind, she was undoing some of the wrong her son had done. Picking up the pieces of his mess. She didn’t think she’d been a good mother; she allowed abuse to happen right under her nose, and she felt responsible for the way he turned out. Trust me, Lindsay, fake Alice is a psychologist’s dream. There’s so much going on in her head to untangle.’

  Connie and Lindsay lapsed into silence, both lost in thought while they finished off the Chinese.

  ‘Right,’ Lindsay said as she pushed back from the table. ‘Let’s watch your CCTV footage, shall we?’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Connie

  Lindsay had invited her to the pub after she finished work, saying she was going to The White Hart with her colleagues for a swift one and that Connie was welcome to join them. As it might be the only time Connie would have a chance to catch up with Lindsay this weekend, she’d quickly agreed.

  Nursing a half-pint, Connie’s eyes searched the bar for a familiar face. No one from the station. Must be running late. Nothing new there. This wasn’t one of the pubs on her list of regulars; Connie tended to head towards the town centre when she was out on her own. Lindsay often mentioned this pub though – it was close to the station, so convenient for the team.


  Connie turned to the sound of the door opening. Shit. How could her luck be that bad? Scott immediately looked in her direction as he walked in with the group of men Connie had first seen him with at The Farmer. It was too late to pretend she hadn’t seen him, too obvious to choose this moment to go to the bathroom. She’d have to face him. How embarrassing – she had completely ignored all his texts, and not even thanked him for the flowers. This was going to be awkward.

  She smiled as he approached her.

  ‘Well, you didn’t strike me as the hard-to-get type?’ His opening line was slurred. Drunk already? He pulled out a dark-wood Admiral chair and sat himself next to her.

  Connie bristled. Yes, she should’ve answered his messages, even if only to tell him she didn’t want to see him again, but the sarky ‘hard-to-get-type’ line was uncalled for. Any hope this guy might’ve had of pulling it back with her evaporated.

  ‘And you didn’t strike me as the stalker-type,’ she said, her smile of greeting dying on her lips.

  Scott’s upper body straightened and jolted back, as if the force of her words had impacted him.

  ‘Wow, Connie. Perhaps we should start this conversation over? Maybe we have our wires crossed.’

  Connie pursed her lips, shaking her head gently from side to side. ‘You know, I think not. Our lines seem pretty straight to me.’

  He took a breath. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m a little worse for wear, and me coming over to you like this and starting off on the wrong foot wasn’t on. I guess I was a bit hurt – all my approaches being spurned and all that – I gave you my full arsenal of witty texts and romantic gestures, you know …’

  Connie wasn’t quite sure how to respond. If that was his best, there wasn’t much to look forwards to. A shame, really – the sex had been great, and he was extremely good-looking. But sex and good looks did not make a relationship. There was only one option. Scott had to be marked up as just another one-night stand.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, smiling again now to soften her next words. ‘But I’m afraid I’m not ready for a relationship.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, his composure momentarily faltering before twisting his mouth into an unattractive smirk. ‘Really? Not ready? Aren’t you, like, forty?’ His eyebrows met in the middle as he delivered what he must’ve thought was another witty line.

  ‘No, actually. But age aside, I don’t want to get into anything right now.’

  ‘Right. I get it. I see now. You’re a lezzi really, you and that copper you live with.’

  ‘Just because I’ve turned you down, I must be a lesbian? Get over yourself, Scott.’ Connie pushed her chair back and put both hands on the table to get up.

  Scott pressed his hands down over hers, stopping her from leaving. ‘Me get over myself? You think you’re something special, don’t you? Leading men on, then ignoring them. Make you feel good, does it, keeping guys hanging?’ The pressure of his hands on hers was uncomfortable. She hadn’t expected things to turn nasty. Clearly too much alcohol had a bad effect on this man. She hadn’t been privy to that the other night. She was glad she hadn’t taken the relationship further now.

  ‘Get. Off. Me,’ Connie said steadily. ‘Unless you want me to make a scene.’

  A memory flashed through her mind – hands on her, holding her down. Her body, weakened from too much alcohol, unable to fight against them. Her head fuzzy; a voice screaming: Get off me. Hers. The weight of one body, then another pressing down on hers. Connie blinked the images of that night away. The image of the hospital room, her mother holding her hand as Connie waited to be called in for the termination two months later, was harder to disregard.

  ‘All right, mate. Come on, take your hands off her and walk away.’

  Mack’s voice brought her back to her current situation. He towered over Scott as he leant across and prised Scott’s hand off Connie’s. Scott looked as though he was about to argue, then thought better of it and did as he was told. He glared at Connie for a few seconds before turning and storming out of the pub.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Connie snapped.

  ‘Er … because the guy was hassling you. Or did I misinterpret his grip on your hand and the heated words as him being friendly?’

  ‘I was handling it,’ Connie said, rubbing the back of her right hand with her left. ‘I’m not a teenager needing to be saved by her dad.’ She moved to the bar and ordered another lager. Mack followed her.

  ‘Pardon? Your what?’

  ‘You were acting just like my dad would’ve, Mack – stepping in as if I wasn’t capable of dealing with the situation myself.’ Her feelings of being a helpless drunk teenager had rushed back. She had wanted someone – her dad – to save her back then. But no one had. Is that why she got herself into these situations? To prove she could save herself if needed? Or was she really after someone else to step in, to be her knight in shining armour? Being a psychologist enabled her to help others, analyse their behaviour, come up with theories as to how and why their lives were affected by their past. Why then was it so difficult to untangle the reasons for her own behaviour?

  ‘I wasn’t coming to save you, and I certainly don’t see myself as your father figure, Connie.’

  Connie’s stomach dipped when she looked at Mack. His eyes were soft; his expression had taken on a hurt look. Even his height seemed diminished. She didn’t know what to say. She walked back to the table and waited for Mack to sit next to her.

  ‘Where’s Lindsay?’ She needed a change of subject.

  ‘She had to take a call, told us to come on ahead. Just as well, isn’t it? I mean, not that you needed any assistance, but …’

  ‘Thank you, Mack. I’m sorry I was ungrateful, he rubbed me up the wrong way.’

  ‘Clearly a dickhead.’

  ‘Yup,’ Connie gave him a wry smile, ‘it seems he turned out that way.’

  ‘Why are men these days such immature idiots? Going around picking women up in bars without knowing how to treat them …’ Mack’s neck flushed red. He took a sip from his pint and turned his attention to the rest of the team as they piled in.

  ‘So I should go for more mature men?’ Connie said. Even though she meant it in a jokey way, she too felt a flash of heat burning her cheeks.

  Before Mack could answer, Lindsay walked in and headed straight for them.

  ‘You’ll never believe it,’ Lindsay said in her harsh monotone. ‘They’ve only gone and ghosted Kyle Mann.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  Tom

  He’d managed to get into Wendy’s head all right. He’d calculated the common factor of the bunch of people who attended his mother’s group was weakness. That’s why their kids had become problematic – even criminal in some cases. It was the bloody parents. Their fault. If only they’d been stronger, not pathetically standing by and allowing things to happen. How were their children meant to grow up to be balanced and accepted in society when they were the ones with the most issues? Some people should never be allowed to reproduce.

  We didn’t stand a chance.

  I didn’t stand a chance.

  Tom pushed back from his computer desk and unlocked his door. He needed to check on his mum, make sure she was complying. As he reached the top of the basement stairs he could hear the rhythmic bubbling of water bouncing on the inside of the kettle. Her back was to him as he walked silently into the kitchen.

  She’d aged rapidly over the past few years. Her spine was showing signs of curvature; her shoulders constantly slumped. There was a frailty, despite her only being in her fifties. It made him sad, really. What kind of life had she had? He blamed her for a lot of what had happened, but then she’d been getting it from all angles. He couldn’t help but wonder how things would’ve been different, had she sent his father packing as soon as the abuse began. He’d never know now, so there was no point in dwelling.

  An anger bubbled away inside him, like the kettle – except his was always on the brink of boiling point. He had to control it. S
ometimes he was more successful than others. Now, here in the kitchen, watching his mother make tea, he managed to flick the switch off. He must be careful not to upset her right now. He needed her on his side. It would take more this time; more effort from him to keep her happy. What could he do to seal the deal – to ensure she wouldn’t go to the police, make sure she continued to protect him? He had to give her something so she believed she was doing the right thing not handing him in.

  He’d tell her his plan to seek help. He knew she was concerned about him going to professionals, bearing in mind they’d need to know what exactly he’d done in order to treat him. But he could tell her he’d go online – anonymously – like she had done. That would be a start and would keep her sweet for a while. To make it really authentic, he could join a group for real – maybe to help with an addiction. He knew his gaming was addictive – he could pretend to get help for that part at least. He would tell her he wanted to change. If he cried, it would add in another layer. He’d make a big thing of it – remind her of the times his father had hurt him. That would have a big impact. He’d lay it on thick, talk about how his dad had made him who he was today. That would keep her feeling guilty enough not to let him down again.

  He walked up to where she was standing, stopping inches away from her turned back. ‘Morning, Ma,’ he said.