I will keep my son safe.
I will ensure no others come to harm.
‘Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs,’ I mutter to myself as I close the basement door, shutting my son away again.
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
Deborah
My heart clatters against my ribs as I take each step up the stairs. The woman who must be Connie Summers is standing at the top, waiting for me. I’ve no idea what this is all about, why she was talking to Marcie, why she implied I was her client. But a deep, aching knot inside me tells me it’s something to do with Alice Mann. I don’t know how I know this, but the way everything has played out – the things that have happened – have all been because of her, or her son, so surely this must be too.
I had no time to check my hair, my face, before entering – and now seeing her towering above me at the top of the stairs, there’s no opportunity to quickly titivate. I can imagine that Connie Summers has already made an assessment of me based on what she’s found out from my boss though, so my appearance is unlikely to change it.
Anyway, what you see isn’t always what you get. Her presumptions will be wrong, I can bet on that.
‘Come on in,’ she says as I get to the top and she stands aside, her left arm outstretched indicating an open door.
The room isn’t big, but it’s light and airy and smells of jasmine – sweet and aromatic. Connie takes a seat behind a melamine desk and leans her elbows on it, steepling her fingers. Interesting. She seems more nervous than me. What is going on here? I take the comfy chair opposite her and settle as best I can before getting straight to the point.
‘Why did you tell my boss I was your client?’
Connie Summers purses her lips and takes a long breath in through her nose; I watch as her chest rises, then slowly falls again. I maintain eye contact with her while I wait for her response. For a moment, I wonder if what she’s going to say will be a lie. But then I see it in her eyes. Whatever she’s about to say is the truth – she’s merely weighing it up in her mind first, thinking about her choice of words rather than spewing out the first thing that comes to her. She is measured. Intelligent. I wait patiently.
‘I’m sorry I gave that impression to your boss. It wasn’t entirely my intention. However, I was trying to get information about you. I wanted to find you, to talk something over. Something important.’
She pauses now, and I’m not sure I want her to continue. I feel a surge of panic. Was Alice seeing Connie? Had she told her about coming to chat with me? Maybe Connie saw me that day, outside Alice’s house. I take a deep breath myself now. I must stay calm, not jump to conclusions. I swallow and then readjust myself in the chair before speaking.
‘What exactly is so important?’ I hear the hint of arrogance in my voice. I’m trying to sound hoity and I don’t really know why. My defence mechanism kicking in?
‘Do you know Alice Mann?’
Shit. So this is about her. I was right.
I frown, make as though I’m thinking about it. Who am I kidding?
‘Yes.’ A sigh involuntarily leaves my mouth. ‘I do. Why?’
‘She was the reason I was trying to find you. I wanted to …’ Connie looks away, her gaze appears to be on the window, to the world outside, then she lurches forwards slamming her elbows back on the desk. ‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t have done it, I’m sorry.’ Her initial controlled demeanour slips away. Now she rubs her face and gives me a defeated smile.
‘I have no idea what’s going on right now,’ I say. ‘I think you need to start at the beginning, Miss Summers.’
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
Tom
She’d cooked him a decent meal; they were even sitting together and eating at the table in the lounge. That was the first time in about ten years. The TV was on quietly in the background creating a comforting atmosphere. Normal. Almost. Tom devoured the chicken pie, his stomach gurgling with the pleasure of proper food, not just crisps and snacks. He could feel her eyes on him while he ate. She only picked at her food.
‘Not enjoying it?’ he said.
His mother smiled. ‘It’s fine, but I’m not very hungry. It’s good to see you wolfing yours down though.’
‘It’s lovely,’ he said, his mouth full.
Tom knew she was itching to have a deep, meaningful mother–son conversation – it was why she’d cooked him his favourite meal. Why else were they sitting together at the table, pretending to be just like any other family? He’d allow it, once he’d cleared his plate.
He sat back, rubbing his stomach. ‘That’s better. Thanks, Mum.’ He really wanted to go back to his room now, back to his gaming. His mind was alert, so he should make use of it. But instead he waited. She seemed calm, which bothered him a bit. Like she knew something he didn’t. Was that a smug look on her face? What did she have to be smug about? He knew how to wipe that look off. He leant forwards, locking his gaze on hers.
‘Why didn’t you stop him?’ he said. He noted his mother taking a deep breath, and then she averted her eyes. She wasn’t going to get off that easily – she was the one who wanted a deep and meaningful. ‘Were you afraid he’d hurt you, too?’
Finally, she settled her eyes back on him. ‘I was frightened of him, yes. But him hurting me wasn’t what prevented me from stepping in. It was fear he’d take it out on you even more. Harsher punishments, longer ones. If I kept out of it, the beatings weren’t as violent; his anger was intense but quickly blew over. The few times when I’d shouted, physically pulled him from you, his rage doubled and it made the whole situation worse. For you. By not getting in the way, I thought I was protecting you from something even worse.’
‘Protecting me?’ His nostrils flared as he breathed in sharply. ‘Protecting me would’ve been you taking me away from him, being just the two of us.’
‘Yes, I see that now,’ she said, her voice quiet but steady. ‘I did what I thought was right at the time. I know I made so many excuses for why I stayed, why I put up with him.’
‘You should’ve been braver.’
‘I’m not sure it was anything to do with bravery, or lack of it, Tom. I’ve spent many years believing I was weak, that I allowed things to happen to me – to you. And maybe it is weakness, I don’t know. All I know is that I let you down back then. I won’t again. I’m not going to be weak now. I’m not going to let bad things happen anymore.’
Tom wasn’t sure if he should feel comforted by these words, or afraid of their intensity. If he wanted her to protect him, keep his secrets, then her being braver and stronger was key. Yet that same strength might well be a problem. It could mean he’d lose his control over her.
Tom excused himself from the table and hurried down the basement steps into the security of his room. Locking himself in, he went straight on his computer. But instead of logging onto his gaming site, he opened the search engine. Once he’d found a suitable company that did same-day deliveries, he clicked on their homepage placing an order using one of his alternative accounts.
Now, more than ever, he had to ensure there were no other loose ends.
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
Connie
The fact that Deborah Taylor had found her, rather than Connie being the one to seek her out, had thrown her at first. Watching as the well-dressed woman ascended the stairs, Connie had felt a twinge of nerves. She’d have to explain why she’d allowed the woman’s boss to believe she was Deborah’s psychologist, why she was asking questions about her. Basically, why she was sticking her nose into Deborah’s business.
Her being here saved time, though. Connie had assumed she wouldn’t be able to find Deborah on her own – and, as it now appeared Lindsay and Mack were shutting her out of the investigation because they’d got enough information from her and no longer needed her, she’d have been unlikely to get Deborah’s address from them.
Having Deborah turn up in her office was a positive, Connie decided, and it meant she might be a step closer
to finding Alice. Now, after Deborah’s opening question, Connie began from the beginning.
‘The woman I believed to be Alice Mann came to see me for the first time back in February. She wanted counselling regarding her son’s conviction for …’ Connie hesitated for a second. ‘For murder. She had, has, huge guilt issues.’
‘Sorry, who you believed to be Alice?’
‘Yes. Turns out she wasn’t who she said she was. I found out when the real Alice was attacked.’
‘Why would someone purport to be another person?’ Her eyes narrowed.
‘My question exactly. During one of our sessions, she talked about you.’ Connie noted Deborah flinch slightly but carried on. ‘She told me she was planning to go and visit you, have tea.’
‘She did. Have tea with me, I mean,’ Deborah said.
‘Really? You had tea with fake Alice Mann?’
‘Sorry, I mean the real one, not the one you’re talking about. She kept hanging around; I’d catch a glimpse of her outside my house every now and then. One day she rang the doorbell, practically invited herself in. I was too stunned at the time to even stop her. It was weird. It angered me, really. A bit.’ She shrugged.
‘What a coincidence that the real Alice was clearly doing the same, or similar, to what the fake Alice wanted to do. Tea at yours could’ve got very complicated.’ Connie smiled awkwardly. Joking wasn’t perhaps the best thing to do under the circumstances, but this new information stunned her.
Connie relaxed back in the chair. How would that have played out – if both the mothers of the killers turned up at Deborah’s house at the same time? The anger would’ve been immense, surely.
‘Exactly how angry were you, Deborah?’
‘My anger subsided. Once I realised it had taken a lot of bravery for her to approach me, I calmed down.’ Something in Deborah’s tone was at odds with her words. Connie didn’t think she had calmed down. In fact, she had the distinct feeling the opposite was more likely to be true.
‘I’m sure it must’ve taken some courage, to face you knowing her son had destroyed your son’s life. Your life.’
Deborah stared defiantly into Connie’s eyes, as if she knew where Connie was going with this conversation.
‘You didn’t tell me why you were snooping around asking my boss questions,’ Deborah said, her chin tilted up – the change of topic intended to direct attention away from herself.
‘Like I said, the Alice who came to see me talked about meeting you, she said she wanted you to know she was suffering too, that she could understand your loss, because she too had lost her son, albeit in a different way. I told her it was a bad idea. After my Alice didn’t show up for her appointment, and I heard about the vicious attack on Alice Mann, I obviously assumed they were one and the same person. Then when it became clear I was wrong, I wanted to find Alice’s imposter – because I really feel she needs help, and fast. The only thing I had to go on was the link with you. So I tried to find you. I got hold of your work, but they said you were on leave. My only other option was going to your office and finding someone there who’d tell me where you lived.’
‘Marcie didn’t tell you, though.’
‘No. But in chatting with her I accidentally gave her the impression I was your psychologist. I’m sorry about that. I only wanted to know where I could find Alice. I thought you were my best shot.’
‘And now you realise I’m not?’ Deborah uncrossed then recrossed her legs.
‘Oh, I still think you are, Deborah. I think you’ve more to tell, and together we can figure out who this Alice really is – and what, or who, she’s hiding.’
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
Connie
Connie’s pulse had raced for a good hour after Deborah had left – after telling her some of what she knew, or what she believed to be true: that fake Alice was protecting her own son. Having been taken in by the lies of the woman pretending to be Alice though, Connie was overanalysing now. She half-believed the things Deborah had told her, but not enough to dispel her suspicions entirely. She, too, was clearly holding onto things – guilt, half-truths and secrets. She was guarded and, Connie sensed, afraid. Her boss had hinted at there being ongoing issues with Deborah, saying she was still grieving for her son. But would that grief have found an outlet?
Mack had told her they’d spoken to Deborah – in fact, that day. Was Deborah riled by that conversation? Is that why she’d chosen to seek out Connie now?
As usual, there were more questions than answers. The biggest questions remained.
Who was fake Alice?
And where was she?
Connie’s walk home from Coleton train station was impeded by the weather. A sheet of rain, blowing horizontally by gusts of wind, had met her as she stepped off the train. Now, literally two minutes after beginning the ten-minute walk, Connie was soaked. She pulled her hood up and held onto it to stop the wind blowing it back down, her hand going numb with the cold. Damn the British weather.
Her mood did not improve as she finally reached her house and lifted her head.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Connie stopped at the foot of the steps. Obscuring the bottom half of the door, again, sat a huge bouquet of flowers. Why would he do this after the pub scene? It could be an apology, she guessed. But still – he should let it go. Couldn’t he take the hint?
Connie leant over to unlock the door, then bent to retrieve the dripping flowers. With a sigh, she plonked them on the kitchen worktop, droplets of water flying upwards, then scattering all over the place. She tutted. What a complete loser. Yanking the soggy card from the cellophane, she roughly opened it.
Stop looking. Check your phone.
Connie flipped the card over. Nothing else was on the reverse. She read the words aloud, frowning. Had Scott sent more texts? She peeled off her coat, leaving it hanging over the top of the door, and grabbing a towel, dried her face and hands. Then she rummaged in her bag for her phone and scrolled through her messages. A missed call from her mum. Jesus, she’d not responded to her poor mother for ages – she must call her in a minute before she forgot again. There were no new messages from Scott though. What did he mean then? He was so infuriating. She stabbed out a text, short and to the point:
Why the hell are you sending me more flowers?
Connie slung the phone on the side and filled the kettle. A large cup of coffee was required. It hadn’t even boiled before a ping sounded.
That was quick. Connie snatched the phone up and opened the message:
Wasn’t me. You must have another admirer ;) Scott xx
Really? The reply puzzled her – she could tell he was still keen from the almost immediate response, but she believed he hadn’t sent them. So, if he hadn’t sent this latest bouquet, then who had? And what did the message on the card mean?
Her heart gave a sudden jolt.
Running to the lounge, Connie swept her hand beneath the sofa cushion.
With shaking fingers, she jabbed at the power button. It seemed to take forever to vibrate into life. Her breathing shallowed. One new message.
Stop looking. People will get hurt if you don’t stop. Do you want more blood on your hands?
Connie paced the room, the phone gripped in her hand. The tone of the message didn’t sound like Kyle’s. She’d worried the phone had fallen into another’s hands – she’d even considered the possibility of Tom having it. Whether it was Tom or Kyle though, the fact was, those flowers were not from Scott.
Tom or Kyle knew her home address.
The memory of being held captive, beaten here in her house the year before, flooded her mind. Once again, she felt unsafe within her own property; her home. Her sanctuary. Anger fizzed through her veins.
She’d waited too long to tell her, but now Connie rushed back to the kitchen and grabbed her mobile. She had to speak to Lindsay.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
Deborah
‘It’s definite, Nathan. There were two of them.’
&nbs
p; I’ve had several glasses of wine, and I think I might be slurring my words slightly. The conversation with Connie Summers has played over in my head since I left her office. I had to call Nathan. I needed to talk this over with him. I know it’s not like I hadn’t thought there was another killer, and the police had informed me when they rang again of their suspicion that the latest murder of that girl, Isabella Bond, is linked to Sean’s – but now the reality’s hit me. A murderer is free – has not been punished. He can, and probably will, strike again. Alice – the one who had been seeing Connie – is hiding him. Protecting him. That’s what Connie implied, anyway.
We have to find her; find him. He has to pay.
‘How do you know?’ Nathan’s voice is strained.
‘The police told me, for one. Although it’s a psychologist who filled me in.’
‘I don’t understand. You’re going to have to explain properly, Deborah. Are you drunk?’
He’s caught on, heard the drawl of my words. I can’t be bothered to lie.
‘I’ve had a few. It’s been a stressful day.’
‘My God, it’s only six o’clock! I’m coming over. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
He cuts me off.
I wander into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I’ll make some tea, try to appear more stable for when he gets here. I don’t want him judging me. How much shall I tell him? Should I admit to what I’ve done? He’d understand, wouldn’t he? I was angry. I didn’t mean to do what I did.
I’m more alert by the time I hear the key in the lock.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks as soon as he sees me, concern fixed on his face. I must look awful.
‘I’m struggling with it all, Nathan. I thought I was coping. I’m not, though, am I?’
It isn’t a question that requires answering.
‘Tell me what’s going on. What’s happened?’ He leans against the kitchen worktop, crossing his arms, and stares at me. I can’t read his expression; he has an odd look on his face. His manner seems off.
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