She hadn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Connie
Despite attempting to clear her mind, Connie struggled to fully concentrate on her last client of the day – thoughts, questions about Steph’s story periodically pierced through and she found herself lost at times, having to ask Paul to repeat himself. She’d annoyed him, his tutting following each request to ‘say that again’, giving away his irritation.
She was relieved when the session was over. It was only four thirty, but she didn’t want to catch her usual train. She’d get the later one, at six. Be unpredictable. Just in case. Connie made herself a cafetière of coffee, then, enveloped by the peace of her room, sat and allowed the questions she’d been trying to repress flood her mind. How could Steph’s family – her brother, dead dad – be unknown to the witness protection team? It was their job to know everything, to ensure their witnesses’ safety. How could it be possible that Miles didn’t know about Brett? Had they merely concentrated on the gang and Steph’s boyfriend when carrying out risk assessments? But surely background info was key to covering every base, ensuring no one knew of Steph’s new identity, her new home. There should be no loose ends.
Something wasn’t right. Had they screwed up? Perhaps in their eagerness to get Steph to testify, they’d missed vital background checks. Although why Steph hadn’t just told Miles about her brother was strange.
Connie let her head drop into her cupped hands. These questions forced her in another direction, and her thoughts drifted to her own brother. To the memory stick she’d been handed. Hadn’t she spent the last twenty-two years burying the memory of Luke’s death? She didn’t talk about him. Her brother dying when she’d only just turned fifteen impacted on her more than any of her family ever realised. More than she’d let on. Even to herself. The only people she ever spoke his name to were her parents. And even then, it was sporadic: his birthday, the anniversary of his death. She didn’t like to bring him up in case she upset her mum.
Someone wanted her to remember him though – the article and the document had suddenly thrust his life, his death, in her face. Where she had to take notice of it. She and Steph seemed to have that in common: a lost brother. Very different circumstances, and Brett was still alive physically, but still – they’d both suffered, both experienced the grieving process. They both had unresolved issues about it.
But how could Connie guide Steph through her anxiety, her problems, when she’d never got her head around the event that changed her own life? After Luke died, her father had moved them to the other side of Manchester. But not content with upending them all once, her parents had then dragged Connie away from big, bad Manchester to the idyllic coastal town in Devon, peeled her away from her friends, her support network. Just like Steph. The similarities had gone unnoticed until now. Until the memory stick had found its way into Connie’s hands, she’d buried her past. Buried Luke. But, like Steph, the past was now forcing its way into the present.
It had been a random attack, they’d said. He’d died quickly, they’d said. Wrong place, wrong time. As simple as that.
But then why had someone gone to the trouble of searching her past to bring it all up again now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Connie
Getting the later train had been a good call. There were no sightings of Jonesy, and more to the point, no further ‘gifts’ from strangers. Connie’s muscles had begun relaxing once she’d got home, showered, had a lasagne microwave meal and sunk into the sofa with a glass of wine.
Her personal mobile jumping into action interrupted her evening. Sighing, she pulled herself up and placed the glass on the coaster. For a moment, she froze. The caller ID showed as Niall. What did he want? Her finger hovered over the accept button, then moved to decline. She hesitated. He’d been a good support during the initial shit-hitting-fan stage of the Hargreaves cock-up. He’d popped over to the psychology block for coffees and chats, been very vocal about how none of it was her fault, how Ricky was an evil manipulator who’d pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. Then he’d taken her out for a meal – to console her, cheer her up. Help her forget the horrible situation. They’d got on so well, and he had made her cry with laughter. He’d been exactly what she’d needed. And then of course there’d been sex.
There’d been no communication from him since she’d gone off sick last June. She hadn’t told him about her pregnancy, which had been a relief once she’d realised it wasn’t his. But regardless, she’d obviously become too needy in his eyes. So, the question was, why was he ringing her now? Was he the leak – the person who’d spoken to that sneaky reporter, Kelly? The thought made her cheeks burn. The arsehole. She jabbed the ‘accept’ symbol.
‘Yes?’
‘Connie. It’s Niall.’
‘Yep, what can I do for you?’
‘Uh … well, I was just wondering how you were doing, really.’ His delivery was unsure – a slight stammer evident. Connie assumed it was his guilt showing. Or hoped it was.
‘You haven’t wondered enough to call me in, what – the previous twelve months?’ Her voice was clipped. It wasn’t even intentional, in fact until now she hadn’t realised how annoyed she was about his total abandonment.
‘Of course I’ve wondered. I’ve thought about you a lot, but, you know … men aren’t great at this stuff …’
‘This stuff being?’ Why did men think if they pulled the ‘we’re not good at this stuff’ routine that women would roll over and accept it and forgive them their inadequacies?
‘Difficult emotions. It was hard for me to know the best thing to do …’
‘Oh, it was hard for you? I’m so sorry about that, Niall. How selfish of me to have put you through that.’
‘Okay, I can see this was a bad idea, I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Oh, you’re not enjoying the conversation? What a shame, I have so much to fill you in on.’
‘I’m sorry I’ve upset you by calling.’
How did he do that? One sentence, spoken in a quiet whisper oozing sincerity, and already she was regretting her abruptness.
‘No, no.’ Her voice softened. ‘It was brave of you to make the effort, finally.’
‘Can I pop over for a coffee sometime? Catch up properly?’ His tone was suddenly bright.
As much as it irked her to admit it, she would quite like some company. She would also like to do a bit of digging to find out what had gone on in relation to Hargreaves’ escape, and which employee had been responsible for giving her name to the media. To the police too.
‘I’m pretty busy with my consultancy, but I’ll check my diary and give you a text.’
‘Oh, okay.’ The pause lengthened. ‘You won’t text me though, will you?’
Connie sighed. She didn’t want to make this easy for him, why should she? But she found herself caving in on hearing the disappointment in his voice. Perhaps she was more desperate for company than she’d thought.
‘I will. More likely an evening though, I don’t get back from work until six-ish.’
‘Great. Thanks, Connie. I know I don’t deserve another chance, really.’
‘It’s just a drink. Don’t go getting any ideas, it’s not another chance like that.’
‘Loud and clear. I’ll look forward to your text. Night, love.’
He hung up before she could make further comment.
Her moment of relaxation had passed. Her shoulders felt tight, her neck stiff. From one telephone conversation? She rotated her head and massaged her neck. How had this week become so stressful, so quickly? It most definitely wasn’t part of her plan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DI Wade
Thursday 8 June
Lindsay Wade spread four photos across her desk. Each enlarged image showed a different tattoo.
‘What do you make of these?’ She directed her question at Mack, who, coffee in hand, was staring at the monitor on his desk. He put his mug down and scooted over, the wheels of
the chair squealing in protest. He picked up one of the photos.
‘The murderer likes birds?’
‘Helpful. What kind of bird does it look like to you?’
Mack tilted his head, squinting, then shrugged his shoulders.
‘No idea. I’m guessing it’s not one specific species, more like a mixture – seems muddled. Perhaps our killer is a crap tattooist?’
‘Quite possibly, as the other three are similar – they’re pretty muddled too.’ Lindsay handed Mack another picture.
‘I thought there were only three new tattoos. Where’s the fourth come from?’
‘We left a bit too early. When Harry was sewing Hargreaves back up, he found this one on the lower half of the torso. It revealed itself when he lifted the flap of skin that had been sliced and left hanging.’
‘Nothing else hiding in the flaps?’ Mack sniggered. Lindsay silently raised one eyebrow. He dropped his head and stared at the photo, his features suddenly serious. He gathered up the others. ‘Okay, so we’ve got four tattoos that have been created post-mortem, we’re assuming by the killer—’
‘Highly likely I’d say.’
‘He obviously had a clear reason for creating these, took some time over them, even though they’re pretty rough. So, we’ve got a bird – of unknown species. A code of some sort?’ Mack continued to sift through the photos. ‘Then, a word – I think, although I can’t make it out, and finally … lines and crosses, a pattern?’
‘That’s about as far as I got too.’ Lindsay took the photos from Mack and placed them back on her desk. ‘Do you think they could be prison-related? Or some gang code?’
‘It’s possible, I guess. Tattoos are more prevalent in the prison community in Russia and USA, though, I’d say.’
‘Okay then. We still need to look into the possibility, but …’ Lindsay bit on the inside of her cheek, thinking. ‘You suggested in the morgue they could be a message. One that only the person it’s intended for could interpret?’
‘Yes. I was thinking Connie Summers?’
‘Well, given that her name is on the dead man’s hand, I suggest we should ask her. It could be that it’s because she’s the one who’ll be able to tell us what they mean?’
‘Only one way to find out. I’ll give her a call, get her to come on in.’ Mack propelled the chair back to his desk.
‘Actually, Mack – make a copy of these pictures and go see her, will you?’
He replaced the phone, frowning. ‘But she doesn’t want us to turn up at her office, remember?’
‘Yeah. I remember.’
‘You playing some kind of mind game here?’ Mack sat back in his chair, crossing his arms.
‘No. Not at all. But I don’t want her in here quite yet. I want her independent from us until she’s given her thoughts on these tattoos. I don’t want anyone else to … contaminate her thoughts.’
‘I think you want to make her uncomfortable.’ He smiled. ‘Which is your way, I know. But won’t that jeopardise you making sure she doesn’t believe she’s a person of interest?’
‘My way? Don’t know what you mean. And no, I don’t think it will make her uncomfortable – she’ll be in her own, safe environment. I think it’ll wind her up a bit, but I also think she needs to know who’s in charge. Don’t you?’
‘Sure. I’m on it, Boss.’ Mack put two fingers to his forehead in a salute and took the photos from her.
‘Good. Make sure you only do one copy of each and bring these back to me before you go, yeah?’
‘Ah, I was hoping I could make a dozen copies and distribute them to my mates at the local tattoo parlours.’
‘That’s a good idea, actually. But just the one copy for Summers at the moment. We’ll look into showing others when we have a bit more info.’
‘Okay.’
‘And when you get to hers, keep it business, eh, Mack?’ Lindsay winked.
‘Ha. Ha. You’re so funny.’
‘Seriously, though, don’t act like you did before – we want her to assist us, not clam up because you’re rubbing her up the wrong way.’
‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll be on my best behaviour. Promise.’ He winked back.
Lindsay casually looked through the photos of the tattoos, her mind flitting from one thing to the next, the low hum of the computers and buzz of her colleagues’ discussions dissolving into the background. Her thoughts had no structure – they were erratic, not settling on one concrete idea or theory. She needed other people’s input. Raising herself from her desk, she took the pictures to the back of the room and began sticking them to the large whiteboard. Sensing the room quietening, she turned. The team had stopped what they were doing and eager, keen eyes were now trained on the photos.
‘Right, well it looks as though I already have your attention.’ Lindsay moved to the side of the board. ‘Gather round.’
The squeaking of chairs and the shuffling of shoes followed her invitation. The group of officers stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the whiteboard. Lindsay waited for them all to settle and then turned to the board.
‘Four pictures: each depicting a tattoo left on Hargreaves’ body post-mortem,’ she said simply. ‘Thoughts?’
There was mumbling; some hushed interchange between officers.
‘Now, now, don’t be shy. Spit it out, people.’ Lindsay picked up a dry-wipe pen and drew a line downwards at the side of the photos. ‘Brainstorm time.’ She smiled. ‘Let’s have some ideas on photo one. Go.’
As brainstorms went, it had been a productive one; not too many ridiculous ideas, and some solid possibilities as to what they were and what they could mean. None of the ideas correlated with the victim himself, or Connie Summers. Currently, they were random tattoos.
‘Guv.’ DC Clarke raised his hand from behind his desk as he replaced the receiver. ‘Got a hit on one of the names on that list of Hargreaves’ prison associates.’
‘Go on.’
‘Oscar Manning. Was released six months ago from HMP Baymead. Had links with Hargreaves on the inside. He’s the only one on the list that’s not still banged up, so could be one of the outside sources. Someone who’d be able to help orchestrate an escape attempt from the funeral.’
‘Good work. We got an address for him?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘He could still be on licence.’ Lindsay rubbed at her temples. ‘Get hold of the local probation, see what they can tell us. We need to get him in for questioning, pronto.’
Lindsay swept past the rows of desks, working her way back to the whiteboard. The amount of time she’d spent staring at the photos of the tattoos meant she’d probably never get them out of her head. It would be far worse if she couldn’t figure out their relevance – they’d forever taunt her. Hopefully, Mack would get something to go on, something that might link the tattoos – either to each other, or to the victim, or Connie herself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Connie
At some point during Connie’s walk from the train station to her office, drizzle had laid a fine film of damp on her. Once she emerged from her thoughts and realised, she welcomed the coolness and lifted her face to meet the droplets. The forecast hadn’t given rain. The last few weeks had been unremitting heat and a humidity she wasn’t used to in the West Country. Connie paused halfway up the hill, readjusting her shoulder bag and stretching her back. It was aching more frequently these days, she really should get it seen to. She’d add it to the list of things she was unlikely to ever get around to.
As she stood in front of the Narnia shop – her favourite place to browse during her breaks from counselling – Connie looked through the East Gate Arch that spanned the narrow street. Beyond it, she could just make out the steps of her building, and a tall figure beside them. She groaned. It better not be him. Her stomach twisted. Of course it was. He couldn’t have seen her yet, though, so she still had time to turn tail. She’d sit in a café for a bit, he’d give up waiting soon enough. Wouldn’t he? Why
hadn’t he called to let her know he was coming? More to the point, why was he there? She’d insisted to DI Wade that if she was to assist them with the case that they should not come to her consultancy. Wade had agreed. Her face burned. That obnoxious, lanky man was going to mess up her hard work; ruin the progress she’d made – what if Steph saw him? She turned to walk away.
Three paces.
Damn that man. She cursed. She couldn’t. He’d only come back anyway.
Connie turned, and stomped towards DS Mack.
‘Ah, there you are. Morning, Connie.’ DS Mack greeted her with a smile; each corner of his mouth seemed to stretch to the sides of his face, like the Joker’s grin. There was a familiarity about that smile. She grimaced. Didn’t respond. Nudging past him, her eyes averted, she unlocked the front door and walked in. The urge to shut the door on him almost overtook her good judgement.
‘What do you want? You’re not meant to come here.’ She purposely made her tone sharp.
‘Sorry. Yes, I’m aware you spoke to DI Wade about that, but I’m afraid this was important, and, well, I couldn’t really afford to wait for you to come to us.’ He appeared awkward, nervous even – the arrogance he’d displayed the other day not apparent now he was on his own. Perhaps it’d been for the benefit of his DI.
Connie checked her watch. Forty-five minutes before her first client of the day. ‘Make it quick then.’ She let him into the waiting area and stood, staring at him. His hair was ruffled, giving him a dishevelled appearance despite his smart suit. The shoulders were a darker grey due to the drizzle. She imagined he’d have to buy specially tailored suits because of his height.
He cast his eyes warily around the area. ‘Shall we go up to your office?’
Connie tutted. ‘Fine.’
Upstairs, he stood by the wall of certificates and waited while she took her suit jacket off, watching as she shook the drizzle from it before hanging it up. Only when she sat, did he take the chair opposite her. Was he being polite now to make up for his previous poor manner? He really must want her onside. Despite wanting to give him a hard time to make up for his behaviour and the fact he’d ignored her request, Connie softened.
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