Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

  She gave it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  DI Wade

  Wednesday 14 June

  It had come as a shock to Lindsay. She’d fully expected the suicide site to have a major impact on her, given the child, and the fact it was Dartmoor again. But she hadn’t anticipated the emotional aftermath of her visit to Connie Summers’ house. She’d delivered bad news before, and whilst she dreaded that part of her role, she always carried it out with professionalism and what she hoped was sensitivity. And afterwards, she usually came away feeling confident that she’d fulfilled her role to the best of her ability. Somehow, yesterday’s experience had been different. It’d played on her mind all night; keeping her awake until the early hours. She’d felt redundant, useless, watching Connie’s reaction, like she was merely on the sidelines watching a bad football game.

  Connie had taken it badly. The very fact that Lindsay knew she’d already had a lot to deal with lately made it all the more difficult to offer the right level of comfort. Stephanie Cousins had been Connie’s client, but Lindsay sensed that she’d felt more responsible for the young woman than was usual from a therapist–client relationship. She wondered if it was to do with the guilt from Hargreaves leaving the prison and attacking Katie. Whatever it was, Lindsay couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling she had right now, as she sat in the car waiting for Mack to stop chatting to the officers at the police station entrance and get in. Connie’s pale, waxy face would not shift from her mind. She’d left her too quickly. She should have stayed with her longer, talked through her concerns. And now, Lindsay was going to make matters even worse for her.

  Lindsay reached across and slammed the heel of her hand on the centre of the steering wheel. The resulting blare had the desired effect. Mack spun around, his shocked expression turning to one of irritation: his eyes narrowing and forehead crinkling. He muttered something then slowly walked towards the car.

  ‘Wow, someone’s patient today,’ he said as he folded his legs into the footwell of the driver’s side.

  ‘Wasting police time is an offence, you know.’ Lindsay settled back in the passenger seat and drew the seatbelt sharply across her, clunking it in its holder with a heavy hand. Mack gave her a sideways glance and started the car.

  ‘You going to tell me what’s got your goat, then?’ he asked, face forward as he drove out of the station car park.

  ‘We need to go and see Connie Summers.’

  ‘Oh? I thought you’d already done the deed?’

  ‘I did, yes. I also told her that Miles Prescott would be making the formal identification of the bodies.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, now he’s not. Apparently he’s stuck in Manchester and won’t be back until the weekend. So …’ Lindsay sighed, and ran her hands through her hair. ‘We’re going to have to ask the only other person who knew Stephanie Cousins and her son well enough.’

  An awkward silence fell between them.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Connie

  Miles Prescott was busy. Busy avoiding Connie’s calls. She’d spoken to his colleagues four times since the news about Steph’s death yesterday and none of those times had yielded any information. They weren’t interested. She’d asked them to make sure he called her as soon as he was less busy, but she had the distinct feeling she’d be giving him another ring later. She wouldn’t let him ignore her forever.

  It’d been the longest day. Connie stretched back in her chair, clicked her neck. Thank God it was almost over, no more struggling through sessions. The memory of last night flashed in her mind. Was she wrong to have sought comfort in the arms of someone who’d abandoned her when she’d needed him most? Niall hadn’t asked questions, and she’d been grateful for that. But when he’d left early that morning, he’d given her a quick kiss on the top of her head and left without conversation. It’d left her feeling empty. A moment of passion turned sour by a sheepish parting. Not how Connie had wanted to feel after giving herself to him. Again. Maybe it’d served its purpose, but something inside, a desire for something more, niggled at her and left her cold when he left. She realised now that she had wanted him to comfort her and talk things through. Had needed to share how she felt about everything going on. Wanted someone to make her feel loved.

  She fiddled with the notes on her desk, shuffling them from one side to the other. The piece of paper underneath some session notes revealed itself. It was the code that Mack had shown her. The one she was meant to be deciphering to impress him.

  Was that what she was trying to do? Impress Mack? She shook the thought away. Holding the paper in her hand, she sat back and studied the letters and numbers. Come on, come on – what are you? What do you mean? Her brain ached, she was trying too hard – looking for some complicated pattern. A cipher?

  She pushed the paper away from her. Perhaps if she did something else, her brain would subconsciously work it out. Although that hadn’t worked so far. Leaning forwards, Connie grabbed it again and opened the bottom drawer of her desk, ready to shove it into the darkness. A noise caught her off guard. The rolling of crayons. Connie’s eyes blurred as she watched the gentle rocking motion of the coloured wax sticks. Her stomach pitched. Poor Dylan. She carefully pulled at the picture that lay beneath them. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat feeling huge. Staring at the roughly drawn scene, Connie’s heart thudded. Bless him. Blinking away the tears, she saw that there were three stick figures with big round heads. The one on the left had long hair, wide eyes and a big red smiling mouth. Steph. And she was holding the hand of the small figure, presumably Dylan. He too had big wide eyes, but he didn’t have a mouth, the area where it should be left blank. But it was the figure standing to his other side that caused Connie’s mouth to dry. The tall one. A man? This figure was entirely void of facial features. Dylan had instead filled in the large circle of his head with heavy scribbles of black crayon. Connie lowered the drawing and sat back. Not the usual picture for a four-year-old to draw. This would be creepy enough in usual circumstances, but now, given that Steph and Dylan were dead – from apparent suicide – this was straight-up unnerving. Why had Dylan drawn a picture like this? What could it mean?

  Connie cradled her face in her hands. Who was the blacked-out figure? And what if this was not from Dylan’s imagination? This stick man could be who Steph had been afraid of. She shuddered.

  Brett.

  The past sessions with Steph flew through her mind. She had never come across to Connie as being at danger of harming herself or Dylan. She just couldn’t believe that Steph had committed suicide and killed her son in the process. Dylan was everything to Steph. She would’ve tried other options before taking such a devastating step, and even if suicide had crossed her mind, she would’ve spoken to Connie first. Wouldn’t she? Even if she hadn’t spoken about thoughts of ending it all, Connie would’ve sensed her mood shifting; picked up on the signs. And surely, if she’d been that scared, she would’ve been more forceful about getting Miles to relocate her.

  Unless Connie had somehow missed the signals; misread her behaviour?

  No, no, no!

  She refused to believe that.

  The sick, shaky sensation in her stomach told Connie that she didn’t believe it was suicide at all.

  Her gut was telling her that Steph and Dylan must’ve been pushed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Then

  He flicked the lighter and stared at the dancing flame.

  He could hear them; they thought he was asleep, but he wasn’t. It was 2.20 a.m. and he was wide awake, full of rage.

  They hated him. That’s what she’d said once before.

  We need to do something; he’s got out of hand.

  The voices downstairs were muffled, but he knew the man and woman were talking about him. His own dad, her; how could they? She’d never wanted him; he just came as a package. It’d been clear from the beginning she only wanted half of it. And now he was causing problems. The school had
expelled him – he was a nuisance.

  A freak.

  Perhaps he could bring them back together; be a real family. Make them love him.

  His breaths were rapid as he bundled together the paper, screwing the pieces up into tight balls. Sitting on his bed, his back against the wall, he threw each ball in the direction of the wastepaper basket in the corner of his bedroom. They’d removed it once. But he’d found it, and the lighter. They were stupid if they thought he wouldn’t look in the shed. That’s where they always went for a fag. It was the most obvious place.

  His stomach tensed. Why didn’t she want him? Why couldn’t she love him like she loved his dad? Because she hated him, he felt sure his dad was beginning to as well. He’d do anything to keep her happy. He was losing his dad to her.

  He propelled himself off the bed and thrust his hand into the bin. He flicked the lighter again and again, touching it against each of the paper balls. The flame caught, and grew until the entire contents were engulfed with the bright orange glow.

  He smiled as the heat reached his face.

  And his heart rate reduced, along with the knot of anger in his stomach.

  Fire always calmed him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Connie

  The buzzer made her jump. Connie dropped the picture and reached across to the intercom.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Connie, it’s Lindsay and Mack, can we have a moment of your time?’

  Connie’s head dropped. She hesitated, then pressed the button to release the door. The sound of their heavy footsteps on the stairs raised her heart rate. She rushed to the door, flinging it open just as they reached it.

  ‘Glad you’re here—’

  ‘That makes a change,’ Mack said, a frown creasing his forehead.

  ‘Well, it’s not an issue now, is it?’ Connie couldn’t hide the sarcasm in her voice.

  Lindsay had placed her hand on Mack’s arm; a warning to proceed with care?

  ‘I’m afraid we need to ask something of you …’ Lindsay looked reluctant, her body language closed.

  What do they want now?

  Fearing she was going to be asked something she might not like, Connie shot to her desk, picked up the crayon picture and thrust it in front of Lindsay.

  ‘What do you make of that?’

  ‘Er …’ Lindsay gave Mack a sideways glance.

  Connie could taste the tension. They wanted to talk to her, and she was making it awkward for them. So what? This was important.

  ‘It was drawn by Dylan. Tuesday morning.’ Connie raised her eyebrows, hopeful Lindsay would see it the way she had.

  ‘Kids draw some weird things, don’t they?’ Lindsay passed it back to Connie. ‘Look, Connie, I’m so sorry to have to ask you—’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ Connie couldn’t believe Lindsay was so dismissive of this possible evidence. ‘Look at the figure he’s drawn next to him, how he’s blackened out the face with scribbles.’ She held the picture towards her again, but when Lindsay didn’t take it, she pushed it into Mack’s hands instead. ‘That’s not right, is it? That figure has to be who Steph was afraid of.’

  Mack smiled thinly, and took the picture. After studying it for a few seconds he lowered it, and made eye contact with Connie.

  ‘We’ll take it, it might be useful, thank you.’

  Connie narrowed her eyes. Was he trying to placate her? Would they do anything with it, or just bury it in a file somewhere? Before she could question him, Lindsay spoke again, her voice loud, direct. She clearly didn’t want to be interrupted again.

  ‘Miles Prescott has been unable to confirm the identities of our suicide victims. You’re currently the only other person who knew Stephanie and Dylan well …’

  ‘Really? Are you kidding me? Why hasn’t Miles been able to?’ Connie felt her pulse bang in her neck. She moved around the desk, sitting heavily in her chair.

  ‘He’s away in Manchester on police business and won’t be back until after the weekend. It’s important we don’t wait any longer for the official ID to be made,’ Mack informed her.

  That would explain why he hadn’t returned Connie’s calls. It would have been easy enough for his colleagues to tell her he was away, though. Unless he didn’t want people to know. Manchester. Could he be looking into Brett’s whereabouts? Perhaps he’d taken Steph and her concerns seriously after all.

  ‘Right. Well. I guess I don’t have a choice, then. Do I?’ Connie directed this to Mack. He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘We could drive you now, if that’s convenient.’ Lindsay shifted her weight from one leg to the other, watching her, waiting for her to answer. To say it was fine.

  Connie’s head was heavy. It wasn’t fine. Nothing about this situation was fine. The thought of seeing Steph and Dylan’s lifeless bodies was too awful. This wasn’t how she’d envisaged her day ending. All she wanted was to get home to Amber and have a long soak in the bath.

  But, on the other hand, Connie couldn’t bear to think of Steph and little Dylan, cold and alone, waiting for someone to identify them. She ran her hands through her hair and groaned.

  ‘Okay. I’ll do it. Let’s go.’ Connie bolted up from the chair so quickly that she felt dizzy.

  ‘Thank you. We greatly appreciate you doing this, I realise it won’t be easy.’ Lindsay offered a steadying hand to Connie.

  ‘No. It won’t be. Not at all.’

  The three of them left the office, Connie trailing behind Lindsay and Mack down the stairs. When they reached the front door of the building, Mack stooped to pick up some post. He held it out to Connie, and she threw it on to the tub chair. She’d deal with that tomorrow. Her mind was on the scene she was about to be subjected to. She’d never even seen a dead body before. Her dad had categorically refused to let her see Luke; she’d been too young, he’d said; her memories of him should be when he was vibrant and full of life. Not as he was on the cold slab. He’d said something similar to her mum. Connie remembered her putting up a fight; she’d wanted closure, felt the only way to get that was to see her son. But in the end her dad had succeeded in convincing her that she would regret it. It was just a shell. Luke was gone.

  It looked as though her memories of Steph and Dylan were not going to enjoy the same protection.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Connie

  To distract herself from the task ahead, Connie bombarded Lindsay and Mack with questions during the car journey to the hospital morgue. But it wasn’t just distraction. She needed to know more.

  ‘Have you looked in her house – found anything suspicious?’ She leant forward from the back, pushing her upper body between the front seats, looking from Mack to Lindsay.

  ‘Can you put your seatbelt on please, Connie?’ Lindsay took her eyes off the road ahead and shot Connie a harsh look.

  She shuffled back and clunked in her belt.

  ‘Well, have you? Was there anything on her answer machine, because she said she’d been getting weird calls?’

  Lindsay shook her head – it was minimal, but Connie noticed. Why weren’t they answering her questions? They wanted her opinion before. Now, suddenly, they weren’t interested.

  ‘The usual lines of enquiry have been completed, Connie, and no – there was nothing suspicious in her house, and as far as I’m aware, no strange messages on her answerphone.’

  ‘As far as you’re aware? So, you didn’t check personally?’

  Mack turned his head sharply to look back at her. ‘Really. Everything has been covered, we promise. I realise you want this not to be suicide. But it is what it is. Sorry.’ He turned back, his eyes darting to Lindsay before looking straight ahead.

  Connie slumped in her seat. Had they missed something crucial because they had been searching the house for a suicide note, not clues, anything untoward? Their focus was too narrow. They’d made up their mind it was suicide and weren’t seeing anything further. If there had been letters from Brett, they could have been
removed prior to Steph’s death. Had Brett been in and covered his tracks?

  ‘Did you find a suicide note?’ If Brett had wanted it to look like she’d killed herself, he would’ve made her write a note. Connie waited for an answer. None came. They hadn’t heard her. ‘I said,’ she spoke loudly, ‘did you find a suicide note?’

  ‘My God, woman – you’re like a dog with a bone, aren’t you?’ Mack’s voice boomed in the confined space of the car. Connie reeled. She heard Lindsay chastise him.

  ‘Sorry. I’m only trying to get to the bottom of it. I really do think someone else was involved,’ Connie said, her voice quiet; wounded by his outburst.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ Mack said more softly. ‘I know this is a difficult time for you, and as you’ve worked so closely with her it must be hard to fathom her reasoning. But, as far as our investigation goes, we’ve not uncovered a single thing to suggest anything other than plain old suicide.’

  Connie smarted. ‘Plain old suicide’. There was nothing plain about someone taking their life. There was also nothing plain about murder. Which she was sure this was. Perhaps she’d be better off talking to Lindsay alone. Mack clearly had no patience for her. It was as if she’d done something very wrong, and he was punishing her for it. Only, she had no clue what her offence had been. Her mind flipped back to some of the occasions she’d worked for the police as an independent psychologist. Had they crossed paths? Perhaps she’d offended him in a professional capacity at some point. If that was the case, then why didn’t he spit it out, they could move on then. Maybe he wanted to play the game, get her to mention whatever it was first. Well, he was in for a long wait, because apart from a niggling memory she couldn’t retrieve, the source of his inconsistent behaviour towards her was a mystery.