Blood Sisters: The #1 bestselling thriller from the author of My Husband's Wife

by Jane Corry

  ‘You’ve killed before?’ I gasp.

  His eyes glint. ‘Merely mutilated. I wanted him to live so he had to look at himself in the mirror every morning.’

  I am too shocked to feel fear. All I can do is stare in horror at Stefan’s throat as the blood continues to gush, spattering my trousers. Can anyone survive that?

  Then there’s another sound. The click of a key. The door opening. The rush of feet. A fierce, don’t mess with me voice from the prison officer who is running up to us.

  ‘Let go of her. Now.’

  49

  August 2001

  Ali

  They brought my sister out of her coma. This was it, I told myself. This was when Kitty was going to tell everyone exactly what happened.

  Her eyes were open. They looked at Mum first. Then me. Then David.

  We were all waiting. Holding our breath. Praying. Desperate.

  Kitty’s mouth opened. I went cold. And then hot. My mouth was bone dry and my legs started to shake. My sister was trying to talk. But the only thing that was coming out was a gurgle. A mish-mash of incomprehensible sounds and rolling eyes.

  How often had I wished that Kitty would get her comeuppance for all those cruel barbs over the years. And now she had.

  Brain damage. Substantial.

  Full recovery unlikely. Any improvement would probably take place in the next twelve months. But don’t hold your breath.

  Future: uncertain.

  Someone called a Patient Coordinator then sat us down in a small office and outlined the next set of practical steps.

  Spinal ward.

  Possible brain operation.

  Rehab.

  Likelihood of seizures due to brain injury.

  Physio.

  Assessment.

  Occupational therapy.

  Speech and language therapy. Many patients with head injuries come out with rude things even if they never used to swear. They might say it as it is, without the social niceties that the rest of us observe. For example, if they see a fat woman, they might declare something like ‘She’s had too many pies’.

  The Patient Coordinator said this as if we were meant to laugh. We didn’t.

  Some people with severe head injuries become sexually promiscuous.

  Many undergo complete personality changes.

  Taste buds can change. She might like food she didn’t care for before.

  Twenty-four-hour care.

  Excessive giggling or aggression or both.

  Extreme difficulty in retaining information.

  Or in recalling past events.

  Then there were the phases that we, as Kitty’s loved ones, would go through. In fact, we’d already started.

  Shock.

  Denial.

  Deep distress.

  Guilt even though the accident hadn’t been their fault. (I tried to ignore that one.)

  Frustration.

  Depression.

  Desperation (clutching at straws, hoping for a miracle cure).

  Integration (trying to work out a way of living with this strange new Kitty who couldn’t talk or walk).

  But all this paled into insignificance in comparison with the trial. When I would have to lie. On oath.

  Squeaky-clean school shoes.

  Shoulder bags bobbing.

  Blonde plaits flapping.

  Two pairs of feet. One slightly larger.

  ‘Come on. We’re going to be late.’

  Nearly there. Almost safe.

  Pavement edge.

  Another pair of feet.

  No!

  A scream.

  Silence.

  Blood seeping on the ground.

  Spreading and spreading.

  All because of a secret which I had to tell in order to protect another.

  Some of it is coming back now.

  But there’s more.

  I can feel it.

  50

  May 2017

  Alison

  The last time I saw blood like this was when Vanessa had risen into the air like a swan.

  There is a gurgle. As if Stefan is trying to say something to me. Now, released from Martin’s grasp, I crouch down by his side again. His eyes lock on mine. He gurgles again. It sounds like ‘Ali’. And then his lids flicker and close.

  ‘Get the cuffs on the bastard,’ yells an officer.

  For a minute, I think he’s referring to Stefan, but then I take in Martin, who is pushing against two guards attempting to restrain him.

  ‘It’s all her fault,’ he says, jerking his head at me.

  Somehow I find my voice. ‘I don’t know what he’s talking about.’

  ‘Don’t believe a word that bitch says. She’s the reason I’m locked up in the first place.’

  I don’t care any more. Suddenly, all I want is for Stefan to live, if that’s still possible. Too late I realize I should have made my mother talk about his claims earlier. To be truthful, I’d delayed it not just because of everything going on with Kitty, but because I was scared in case it was actually true. Then again, it couldn’t be, could it? The birthdays didn’t match up. Yet maybe there’s some other connection between him and Mum.

  Now, if Stefan dies, I might never know.

  A team of people rush in. I recognize the nurse from canteen chats. She gasps at the slashed throat, takes Stefan’s wrist and shakes her head.

  ‘Gone,’ she says.

  There’s a silence. The officer doesn’t even swear. I’d like to say that the shock means I cannot think clearly. But I can. All too well.

  ‘This isn’t the first person she’s killed,’ spits Martin. ‘Is it, Ali?’

  Everyone stares at us. There is, I realize, nowhere to hide any more.

  ‘If you hadn’t …’

  I have to stop him. Before he says those words which will seal my fate.

  So I scream. A scream of self-loathing which has been building up inside me for years. And which, finally, I am allowing myself to release.

  When someone dies in prison, there’s immediate ‘lockdown’. This means everyone has to stay in their place and all the doors are locked. No one can go in or out of the jail. They have to wait where they are until everyone is accounted for, in case someone has used this opportunity to escape.

  Then each person – be it inmate or staff – has to give a statement to the police. This can take hours.

  That’s what I am doing now. The nurse has found me clean clothes – ‘I always keep a spare set, dear, in case someone pukes on me.’ I’ve been given a cup of tea. It’s very sweet. I don’t usually take sugar but I gulp it down gratefully. Then I feel sick.

  I am still feeling nauseous as the policewoman asks me what happened. So I tell her that only Martin turned up that morning. No, I say truthfully, he didn’t seem to be acting oddly. Or dangerously. And no, I’ve no idea how Stefan got into the Education hut. I’d locked the main door behind me, just as I was meant to. And I thought I’d locked the door to my workshop too. I wasn’t sure how Stefan could just walk in.

  ‘You’re not sure?’

  I nod, aware it doesn’t sound good.

  ‘Why do you think Stefan tried to defend you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he was passing by. Heard the noise.’ Another sob escapes me.

  ‘Maybe they’d fallen out about something,’ I add quickly. ‘Men do in prisons. The smallest things take on big proportions.’

  Then I harden my voice. Attack is the best form of defence in arguments. Hadn’t my sister taught me that over the years?

  ‘Just as well that he did,’ I say firmly. ‘None of the officers were around. All I have to defend myself is this whistle – and Martin told me that I’d be dead if I blew it.’

  The police officer is writing all this down. ‘How did Stefan get hold of a piece of glass?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The lie sullies my mouth but what else can I say?

  ‘Did you know Stefan before you came to work here?’

&
nbsp; ‘Absolutely not.’

  At least I can say that in all honesty.

  ‘And did you know Martin Wright before you came here?’

  Only as Crispin. So perhaps my ‘no’ isn’t quite a lie.

  The police officer puts down her pen. ‘Are you sure, Alison?’

  I nod, my fists clenched under the table.

  ‘Because here’s the thing.’ She’s watching me very carefully. ‘Martin Wright – or Crispin, as he is officially called – has already given a statement. He says that you were present at the time of his offence. We’ve checked it out. And he’s right. You were there. He was in the car that knocked over your sister, Kitty, and killed her friend Vanessa in front of your very eyes. Not to mention his mother.’

  I can get out of this if I choose my words well.

  ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right man?’ I demand. ‘He looks nothing like Crispin Wright. At least, I don’t think he does, although I haven’t seen him for over fifteen years.’

  The policewoman makes an unconvinced face before starting to write again. I’m aware that, as her colleague explained at the beginning, this is all being recorded.

  ‘You are presumably familiar with prison rules.’ The voice has a warning edge. ‘Any member of staff encountering a prisoner who is known to them must report it immediately to the governor.’

  ‘I know.’ My voice comes out as a whisper.

  ‘Here’s the other thing, Alison. Martin says that during the class you just held, he made you write down everything that happened at the time of the crash. He says you admitted it was your fault.’

  ‘How could it have been? He was the one who was driving.’

  ‘So you did recognize him?’

  Careful. I have to cover myself.

  ‘Look,’ I say, holding out my hands in a despairing gesture, ‘I just thought he was some madman who knew about the accident somehow. He made me write down things that weren’t true and threatened to kill me if I didn’t. I thought it was safer to go along with it.’

  The policewoman’s face is blank. Does she believe me? There’s no proof. I made sure of that.

  After Stefan had been knifed, I’d somehow had the presence of mind to shove my confession into my pocket. Then, when I went to change into the nurse’s clothes, I’d ripped it up, stuffed it into a sanitary-towel bag and put in the Ladies pedal bin. The ease of my own deception had shocked me.

  ‘Martin says that the deceased claimed you were his daughter.’

  I manage a half-laugh. ‘First I’m accused of pretending not to recognize the man who killed a girl and brain-damaged my sister. And now I’m accused of having a father in the same prison. Doesn’t that sound like a rather improbable coincidence to you?’

  The policewoman is still writing but I can see that my words have hit the mark.

  ‘Stefan was an old man,’ I continue, more boldly now. ‘An eccentric. The officers will tell you that. I can’t be held responsible for his crazy ramblings.’

  I feel myself getting angrier as I continue. ‘This is a prison full of psychopaths. Some of my students hear voices. Who knows who is telling the truth in this place? Now can I go, please? I need to visit my sister. The one who can’t walk or talk, thanks to Crispin Wright, or whatever he calls himself now.’

  There’s a flash of compassion on the policewoman’s face. ‘Would you check and sign your statement here, please.’ Her voice is softer now. But her next words fill me with foreboding. ‘Keep your phone switched on. We may need to ask you more questions.’

  On the way out I am summoned to see the governor. He comes straight to the point. I am suspended.

  ‘As you know, staff cannot work alongside prisoners with whom there is a personal connection, either in the past or present. So we cannot allow you to work here any more until Mr Wright’s claims are investigated. This could take some time.’

  ‘I didn’t recognize him,’ I blurt out. ‘I didn’t mean to deceive anyone.’

  The governor shakes his head. ‘Most people here didn’t set out with that intention, Alison. But all it takes is one false step.’ He looks out of the window. Two men are walking side by side. They are in orange, which suggests they are part of the garden team. They could be here for a so-called white-collar offence. Or they might be rapists or paedophiles or murderers at the end of their sentences.

  ‘Stefan,’ I say suddenly. ‘What was his offence?’

  The governor’s voice is crisp. Clinical. ‘Murder.’

  So, Stefan had been telling the truth. ‘Self-defence?’ I ask. There’s a hopeful tone in my voice. Just in case – and I mean just in case – he really was my father, I want there to be some excuse.

  The governor’s eyes narrow. ‘He might have seen it that way. But the victims would say different.’

  Victims? In the plural?

  ‘He said … at the end … that he didn’t have much time left anyway.’

  The governor sighed. It occurs to me that a man in his position has to hide a lot of emotion but that, every now and then, it must come out. ‘His cancer treatment had failed. There wasn’t much more they could do.’

  So he was terminally ill. Why is it so hard to tell the truth from the lies?

  ‘Can’t you give me one more chance? You got it wrong about the stationery cupboard.’

  That hard look is back. ‘This is far more serious, although I should point out that you have made other mistakes too, such as failing to turn up for your classes between Christmas and New Year.’

  ‘But I had flu. I was too ill to call in.’

  The governor shakes his head. ‘There’s always an excuse, isn’t there? Trust me, I’ve heard them all in this place.’

  ‘Just one thing,’ I say. ‘What will happen to Crispin now?’

  ‘Been shipped out. His sentence will likely be extended after what he did to Stefan.’

  ‘And me,’ I butt in. ‘He tried to strangle me.’

  He bends his head in acknowledgement. ‘It will certainly be a long time before he’s let out. Goodbye, Alison. I wish you luck.’

  Stunned by the speed with which things have happened, I stumble through the gates after signing out and handing over my keys. I am carrying a cardboard box of my personal possessions. Prison officers walking past stare at me. So do prisoners on their way to tea. It strikes me that Angela must have felt like this when she was asked to leave. Once more, I marvel at how prison can distort your emotions and perspective; how it can make you root for someone who has done wrong.

  I ring my mother. She is at home. ‘I need to see you,’ I say.

  ‘Has something happened?’ she asks.

  ‘Tell you when I’m there.’

  And then I begin to drive. I don’t turn on the radio. Because there’s a tune that’s singing loudly in my head. I don’t know where the music came from. But the words are as clear as any well-known lyric.

  Bad blood will out.

  Like father, like daughter? Who knows.

  Stefan didn’t get away with his crimes.

  But will I get away with mine?

  51

  August 2001

  Ali

  I’d never been inside a court before. It was bigger than the assembly hall at school. When I was called to the witness box, I could almost pretend I was walking up to the platform to get another prize from the headmistress.

  Except that, this time, I needed to give the performance of my life.

  ‘In your own words, Miss James, please tell us exactly what happened,’ said the barrister.

  I’d already given a statement to the police at the hospital after the accident. But the story was getting clearer now in my mind. I’d had time to work it out more thoroughly. Or so I hoped.

  ‘We were late.’ I told the hushed court. ‘Kitty was being … difficult because she was nervous about playing in the school concert. She and her friend Vanessa had had an argument about something. I’m not sure what. Vanessa had been walking ahead of us. But then she came
back and was all friendly again.’

  I managed a half-smile. ‘Best friends can be like that. Mum says it’s a girl thing.’

  Some of the women on the jury nodded in understanding.

  The air was electric. It was like that bit in a book or film where the dialogue seemed friendly but you just knew that someone was going to deliver a bombshell.

  One of the jury smiled at me. Encouraged, I continued.

  ‘Then, suddenly Kitty decided to cross the road at a different place from usual. I tried to hold her hand but she shook it off. Her action made me stumble into her and we lost our balance for a minute.’

  I took a deep breath. It was as close to the truth as I dared go.

  ‘She kept telling me to “get off” and that she wasn’t a baby.’

  I glanced at Mum. She was nodding her head solemnly as if this made perfect sense. David looked as though he believed me too. Kitty wasn’t easy. A mind of her own. Which was far harder to read now than it had been before.

  Another deep breath. ‘Then this car appeared. It was going fast. It had an L plate on the front. I recognized the registration. It belonged to the Wright family. I knew them, but not very well. I’d gone to one of their parties recently. Then … then.’

  I could only whisper the next bit.

  ‘It headed straight for us.’

  There was a high-pitched moaning when I got to this point. Vanessa’s mother.

  My sister’s friend was always boasting about how her mum used to be a model. She certainly looked amazing. ‘That woman never has a hair out of place,’ my mother would sometimes say with a touch of envy. But now she looked like a different woman. Those high cheekbones appeared to have sunk with grief. Her hair was scraped back. Her shoulders were slumped and she was hanging on to her husband’s arm as if she would otherwise fall to the ground.

  ‘My daughter was the most important person in the world to me,’ she cried out. ‘And you took her away from me.’

  Her husband winced as she spoke. I wondered what he’d thought about taking second place.