Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

‘That you didn’t learn the first time.’

  ‘Ah, well, it’ll be someone I’ve crossed in business no doubt.’ He sounded relieved. ‘Don’t know why on earth they’re involving you. The fact is, Luke was killed because of a football crowd that got out of hand and he got caught in a fight. Bloody hooligans. Hooligans were responsible for his death … not me.’

  ‘But how would they even link me with you, Dad? I changed my surname, remember?’ Connie’s attention was drawn to outside her front window. A dark blue Volvo had pulled up, and a woman was climbing out. She slammed the driver door and stood, hands in her trouser pockets, looking up at the house. Her dad’s mumbling became inaudible.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Dad. Speak later.’ Connie brought the conversation to an abrupt end and went to the front door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Then

  Barton Moss Secure Care Centre, Manchester

  Have you seen Mum? How is she? I know she probably hates me as much as you seem to, and obviously I’m not as close to her as you, but I thought she’d come and visit. You know, at least once, even if it was to scream at me, slap me – anything.

  I’ve been dreaming about it. The fire. Every night for the last month, it’s been the same dream, over and over. In it, I’m panicking, feeling sick that I can’t get to them and help them out of their bedroom. I see them, their faces frozen in horror at what’s about to happen. Then Mum gets out, leaving Dad on his own, stuck in the room with a wall of fire between him and the exit. The next thing, I’m stood in the road with you. You’re shouting at me: ‘It’s all your fault. What have you done?’ But I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m dazed, confused. And even though it’s just a dream, I can feel the heat from the fire. And I can feel the hatred. It’s oozing from the house. From you. And me.

  Each time I wake, I’m left with a taste in my mouth, like burnt charcoal from one of Dad’s rubbish barbeques. I actually taste it; it stays on my tongue until the rank breakfast replaces it.

  But no matter what I eat, there’s still a horrible taste that stays with me. It’s hate. And nothing seems to get rid of that.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Connie

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter? Why are you here, at my house?’ Connie greeted DI Wade before she’d made it through the gate. Lindsay’s face – stern due to her hard jawline and grooves in her forever-frowning forehead – was ashen.

  ‘Can I come inside, Connie?’

  She was on her own. No sidekick today. Connie dropped back to allow her to pass into the hallway.

  ‘Sorry to come to your home, but I know you’re not happy about us coming to your office …’

  ‘Well, that’s mainly because of my clients, well, one of them anyway. It puts her on edge—’ Something about Lindsay’s expression stopped her. ‘No matter, come on in.’

  They stood, until Lindsay suggested she should sit. Connie’s stomach fluttered, her heartbeat banging in her ears. What was this about?

  ‘I’m really sorry, Connie.’

  Connie swallowed hard. This moment – the feeling that was creeping inside her like death spreading its poison through her veins – sent her right back to the time she was told about Luke. Bile burned the back of her throat. What could possibly be coming?

  ‘Why are you sorry – what’s happened?’

  ‘There’s no easy way of saying this,’ Lindsay sighed and put on a thin, sympathetic smile. ‘I’m afraid we’ve just come from Haytor, on Dartmoor … where there’s been a suicide.’

  Connie shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, that’s terrible – they jumped?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Lindsay’s usual sharp tone was replaced with a softer one. Was this her ‘bad news’ voice? There was something more to come; Connie could sense it.

  ‘Why are you here, telling me this?’ Her throat tightened as she spoke the words.

  Lindsay’s chest rose as she inhaled deeply. ‘She was one of your clients.’ She looked down briefly at her hands before re-establishing eye contact again. ‘It’s Stephanie Cousins.’

  There was a bang deep in Connie’s chest, like an explosion that sent shrapnel tearing into her organs. The room wobbled as tears flooded her vision. She could hear the words, Oh my God, Oh my God, over and over. Her voice. Lindsay’s arm was around her, she had a vague sensation of its weight on her shoulder.

  ‘Connie, Connie! Take some deep breaths.’

  She did as she was instructed until she regained her natural breathing pattern.

  ‘I don’t understand. Why would she? She wouldn’t, she just wouldn’t. Where was she? I only saw her this morning! Oh, no. No. Where was her son? Where was Dylan?’

  ‘You really need to try and remain calm, please, Connie.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t kill herself, she wouldn’t leave Dylan.’

  Lindsay removed her arm from Connie’s shoulder and instead took both of her hands, gripping them tightly. ‘She didn’t leave him, Connie. I’m so sorry – she took him with her.’

  Connie pulled her hands away, jumping up from the sofa. No, no way. This isn’t true.

  ‘I’ll make some tea,’ Lindsay said before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving Connie in stunned silence.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense. We spoke this morning.’ Connie’s hands burned, pins and needles pricking her palms where she’d held the hot mug of tea for far too long.

  ‘What time did she leave you?’ Lindsay opened her pocketbook, her pen poised ready to write.

  Connie leant forward to place the mug on the coffee table. She stared at her hands, bright red from the heat, and rubbed them together. There was no feeling in them.

  ‘She was late arriving, so she didn’t stay for the full hour. By the time we’d finished I’d say it must’ve been about quarter to eleven? Give or take five minutes.’

  ‘Did she mention anything about where she was going after?’

  ‘No. She had Dylan with her, I assumed she’d be going back home.’ She bit at the edge of her thumbnail. ‘But I did see them at the pirate ship yesterday, the one by the river in Totnes. It might be somewhere they go regularly; she may have gone there afterwards.’ The memory of the unknown man surfaced. Had he been selling Steph drugs? Or had he been harassing her? Had he been the catalyst for her actions?

  ‘Okay, thanks. Is there anything else you remember her saying, any hint at her state of mind?’

  Where should she start? How much was relevant? Connie didn’t want to betray Steph’s confidentiality, despite her being dead. Dead. Connie sighed. How hadn’t she seen this coming? What kind of counsellor missed something this huge? Perhaps she hadn’t, though. Was DI Wade absolutely sure it was suicide? Was she even sure it was Stephanie and Dylan?

  ‘How do you know it was Steph, anyway? And that she was my client?’

  ‘She had some ID on her, and one of the local officers recognised her name. We made the link to you once we found out she was in the protected persons scheme.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Miles Prescott, her handler, then?’

  ‘We spoke briefly on the phone to confirm our suspicions as far as we could at that point. He’ll do the formal identification, I’m sure … but I wanted to see you first, before you heard anything on the news.’

  ‘Oh.’ Connie slumped. It sounded definite – it was Steph. An icy sensation snaked through her veins. And she’d killed Dylan. Her mind attempted to grasp this, but failed. She shook her head, trying to disperse the image of his little face. What’d Steph been thinking?

  Lindsay cleared her throat. ‘Sorry, but to get back to my question … her state of mind when you talked to her?’

  ‘Well, it’s difficult to say. She’d been afraid of being found by her brother, and when I saw her and Dylan at the pirate ship there was a weird bloke hanging around there. She’d seemed alarmed, took hold of Dylan and hurried away. I think there was more to that encounter than she let on to me during our session. And then there were the i
nconsistencies between what Steph had told me and what was in the file Miles Prescott had given me. I mean, it might not have been suicide, Lindsay.’ Connie’s thoughts were coming fast, and disjointed – the likelihood Steph had taken her own and her son’s life didn’t sit well at all.

  Lindsay nodded silently as she made notes in her pocketbook, the scrape of the pen on the paper the only sound. Then she looked up at Connie and spoke slowly, as if she was talking to a child.

  ‘People saw her, not long before – no one saw anyone else with her, apart from Dylan. There was no evidence at the scene that suggested anything other than suicide.’

  ‘How long is not long before?’

  ‘We had sightings reported about fifteen minutes before they were found at the bottom of the tor.’

  Connie buried her head in her hands: the vision of Steph and Dylan, broken at the foot of Haytor, too much.

  ‘We can look into the guy at the pirate ship, though. Hopefully there’s some CCTV that covers that area,’ Lindsay continued.

  ‘Well, it’s near the café too, so there must be something,’ Connie said, her voice flat.

  ‘Would you recognise him again?’

  ‘No. Probably not – I was on the other side of the river, he had a hoody on. I might be able to rule out people though. But why are you bothering if you are sure it was a suicide?’

  ‘We want to retrace her last steps; he might be useful. We’re putting out an appeal as well.’

  ‘Oh.’ Connie’s head snapped up. ‘Is that a good idea, her identity is meant to be protected.’ She heard the panic in her own voice.

  ‘No reason to protect her now.’

  Connie recoiled. ‘Christ. Just like that, her life now means nothing. No need to protect her.’

  ‘Sorry, it sounds harsh, but it’s the reality. Our job is to put together the pieces of the last moments of their lives. Ultimately, Stephanie Cousins committed murder. She has family that will want answers.’

  ‘Really? What bloody family?’ A heat blazed at her cheeks. ‘Not one of them was bothered about her as far as I know – her mother has dementia, her dad is dead, or missing depending on who you believe, she has a good-for-nothing uncle, and her brother, well, according to Steph, he was in prison until recently. If he exists at all. Why will they ask questions?’ She stared, wide-eyed, at Lindsay, not realising until this moment how messed up Steph’s situation had been – and how little she, Connie, had actually managed to piece together.

  ‘They still need to be informed, Connie. Stephanie’s new identity was to protect her from her ex-boyfriend and the gang members she gave evidence against. I know that meant no contact with her family either, and they weren’t privy to her new name or location, but now, given the circumstances, they need to know what’s happened.’

  ‘Well, good luck – it’ll be interesting to see who you actually find to tell!’ Connie got up and paced the lounge, her arms rigid at her sides, fists balled. ‘There’s got to be more to this. It doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘You’re in shock, Connie. You need time for this to register. I know this is a difficult situation, and you’ve had a lot to deal with this week.’ Lindsay offered a sympathetic smile as she stood.

  ‘Yes, it seems I have.’

  ‘Can I call anyone for you?’ Her question seemed an afterthought, one she quickly added before heading out the front door.

  Connie huffed. ‘No. I’m fine, thanks.’

  She was far from fine, but who would she call anyway? She had to be on her own to get her head around this; to figure out why Steph would’ve taken such drastic action so soon after their session. It wasn’t how it was meant to be. They were working together, to create a new life for her and Dylan. Connie had listened, believed in her – attempted to dig deep to get to the cause of her fears. She’d thought they were getting somewhere.

  Clearly Steph hadn’t.

  And poor little Dylan – totally innocent in this – his future now stolen. A heavy sadness settled in her stomach as the vision of his blond curls, his small, four-year-old body forced itself into her mind’s eye again. His life had been cruelly, needlessly, snuffed out.

  She rested her head against the closed door, her eyelids shut tight. The house, silent. She’d told Steph just before she’d left her office that morning: ‘We’ll get there.’ Steph’s last words now shot into her mind, loud; accusatory:

  ‘I hope so, Connie. I really hope you’re right this time.’

  How could she have been so wrong?

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  It won’t be easy, but I have back-up. Course, getting the right ones onside, that was a challenge in itself. In here, you know everyone is dodgy; choosing those to trust is a real art form. I got used to reading the signs, though. Sussing out who the grasses were, the arse-lickers, the weak, the lost. Some of the lost ones are the best. They’re dying just to have purpose, eager to please – be with the crowd that’ll keep ’em safe.

  I found the right one. Or he found me. Bloody spot-on – fell right in my lap. Sometimes, things are meant to be. Being celled up with him was like a gift from God. Not that I believe in God. How could I? But something, some ‘force’, is obviously on my side.

  We’ve got links. Things in common.

  I didn’t let him know that, though. I need him to think I’m doing it all for him, that’s one of the most important parts of the plan. He’s more use to me if he’s kept in the dark about my real reasons. Besides, I’ll be making sure he gets what he wants from this.

  He just won’t know he’s going to be complicit in murder too.

  The staff, well, they took the longest. Trial and error – spent some time down the block, got a few adjudications in the process. But it was worth it.

  I’ve chosen well I reckon.

  You’d be proud.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Connie

  The house was so silent that she could hear her pulse in her ears. Like putting a shell to your ear and hearing the sea; a gentle whooshing and the feeling of calm. Only she wasn’t calm. Her emotions were in turmoil: the past and the present colliding at high speed within her. Her mind couldn’t separate the events, they fought for attention, getting more and more jumbled. A guilt-ridden mess. Hargreaves. Katie. Steph. The list seemed like one long list of cock-ups, which were her fault. Add into the mix the resurfacing of Luke’s death, and the anxiety-fest was complete.

  Connie’s fingers were tapping out a text before she’d consciously decided she wanted company. When DI Wade had been in her lounge earlier, she’d had a strong urge to ask her to stay. Share a bottle of wine; chat about something mundane. She gave a burst of laughter, cracking the silence open. No, it seemed unlikely that Lindsay Wade would be the type to converse over a glass of wine. She always appeared so uptight – and whilst that might be her professional demeanour, Connie thought it was a strong possibility she was like that twenty-four/seven. As she waited for a reply from Niall, she allowed her mind to wander – to imagine what Lindsay’s life was like outside of the police force. If she even had a life outside it. Was she married? She hadn’t noticed a ring. Did she have children? She doubted that, somehow.

  Her phone pinged.

  I can get to you for 8. N x

  She placed the phone on the coffee table and went to the kitchen, throwing the fridge door open so wide it hit the wall. The light illuminated a pot of yogurt, an out-of-date pack of pasties and, on its side on the middle shelf – the last lager. That was it. She blew out a large breath of air. When was the last time she’d done a proper shop? Connie snatched the bottle of lager, then closed the fridge. She wasn’t hungry anyway. The drink would be enough. After flipping the lid off the bottle, she went back to the lounge, and sitting on the edge of the sofa, took two big swigs. Immediately, her head felt woozy, replacing the ache that had been there permanently since Lindsay had given her the news.

  Woozy was good. Better.

  She got her phone and sent another message to Nia
ll.

  On your way over can you pop into shop and pick up wine – and lager for yourself, ta x

  Connie sent it. Then quickly wrote another:

  PS You might want to grab some pizzas too, unless you’ve already eaten. x

  *

  At the sound of the doorbell, Connie jumped up, lager still in hand, and let Niall in. She drained the bottle as she walked into the lounge, then turned to him.

  ‘You managed to get some supplies, then?’ She motioned to the Sainsbury’s bags in his hands.

  ‘Yep, sounded as though you were running low on food, so I thought I’d get you stocked up,’ he said as he headed to the kitchen.

  Connie frowned. She’d only asked for pizzas and drink – not a whole week’s worth of food. Why was he being this nice? It wasn’t like he’d ever done her shopping before. She let it go. No doubt she’d find out later if he had an ulterior motive for his thoughtfulness.

  ‘You remembered the wine, didn’t you?’

  Niall put the bags on the worktop and withdrew a bottle of white wine, then turned to Connie.

  ‘Yes … but, do you think it’s a good idea to drink—’

  Connie pulled the wine from his grip without speaking. Why would he say that? He’d never questioned her before, why the hell would he now?

  ‘Right. Okay, then.’ Niall raised his eyebrows, but made no further comment about it. ‘Bad day?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Connie rolled her head, trying to release the tension in her neck. After opening the bottle and pouring the wine, she settled on the sofa next to him. What started as a brief few sentences, her intention to summarise as quickly as possible and without detail, turned into an hour-long, in-depth breakdown of Steph and Dylan’s story. Their deaths.

  By the time she’d finished speaking, she’d also finished the wine.

  The room was quiet. Connie was aware of Niall’s hand lying lightly on her thigh, where he’d placed it in a comforting way while she’d been spilling her guts. Now, as he kept eye contact with her, he shifted it higher. Connie felt the warmth of his hand spread until it was between her legs. He waited, still staring into her eyes. He was waiting for the sign.