Bad Sister

by Sam Carrington

  The tension was palpable by the time the car parked up, just outside the outpatients’ department of Torbay Hospital. Connie’s palms were slippery with sweat, as a result of the awkward journey in the car, or the impending identification process, she didn’t know. How did it even work? She stayed immobile in the back seat, as the anxious grip that used to haunt her took hold once again.

  As if reading her thoughts, Lindsay approached Connie’s side of the car and opened the door. Crouching down to her level, she placed a reassuring hand on her arm.

  ‘It’ll be quick. The bodies are ready to be viewed. It’s a case of going in the room, looking at each face in turn, and making a positive identification. Then we’ll be out of there. Okay?’

  Connie felt sick. And that was before seeing them. She sucked in a large gulp of air, and got out of the car.

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ she said as she fell in step with Lindsay.

  It was bright – too bright; the false strip lighting harsh and unforgiving.

  Each mark, every blemish and dark bruise was stark against the waxy skin of the young woman’s lifeless face. Connie’s legs shook, her stomach turning over as she stood, staring, unable to tear her eyes away. Her head was light, then heavy; a shadow moved across her vision, like a curtain drawing. She was going to faint.

  Arms grasped her from behind. ‘You want to sit down?’ Mack held her up, and then made to move her towards the chair.

  ‘No. No, I’ll be fine,’ Connie said, shaking his arms from her. ‘It’s just the shock, that’s all.’ It wasn’t just shock, though. It was horror. And there was worse still to come. The motionless, smaller body lay on the gurney next to the woman. Connie closed her eyes, an attempt to put off the inevitable for a moment longer. She took slow, deep breaths. The smell, a mix of clinical products with what she guessed was the stale odour of death, overpowered her nostrils, and her stomach churned.

  ‘Breathe through your mouth, not your nose,’ the man’s voice told her. She was afraid she’d taste it if she did that, but she did as instructed. When she was confident she wasn’t going to faint, or throw up – and without Mack’s aid – she moved around the metal gurney to reach the second body.

  Tears pricked like tiny needles, her breathing shallowed.

  The boy’s pale white face, his misshapen head with his blond hair, dirty and matted with blood, was the last image she saw before she fell and hit the rough, grey floor of the mortuary.

  ‘Drink, come on – take bigger sips,’ Lindsay encouraged with her sharp tone and a gentle push.

  Connie held the tea between her shaking hands, the hot liquid sloshing in the plastic cup. She lifted it slowly to her mouth and drank. It was sweet – they must’ve put at least three sugars in. Her mum had always advocated tea with lots of sugar as a counter for shock, too. Connie recalled the time she’d been ironing her dolls’ clothes one day, her mum close by, keeping a watchful eye – when there was a loud bang. The iron had, in Connie’s mind, blown up and she’d dropped it and ran screaming from the room. Her mum had sat her down, given her a mug of tea. Connie had gagged on the syrup-sweet drink, but her mum had insisted she finish it. It’ll help the shock. Was that a real thing? Or just a very British thing: tea and sympathy. Had Lindsay’s mum told her the same?

  ‘I have to ask,’ Lindsay said, her arm on Connie’s, ‘can you confirm the identities of the bodies for me, please?’

  Connie winced at the words. The bodies. No longer people, just husks – like her dad had said about Luke.

  ‘I can confirm the woman is Stephanie Cousins, pre-viously known as Jenna Ellison. And the boy is Dylan Cousins, previously Dylan Ellison.’ The words had a robotic quality to them. Her emotions were drained; the official identification was complete. Her memory now stained with the sight of her dead client and her son.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Where’s Mack?’ Connie asked, looking around.

  ‘He had to take an important call. Look, I know this was an awful thing for you to have to do. Trust me, if there’d been anyone else …’

  ‘I know.’ Connie mustered a smile. ‘I didn’t think you’d find any capable family member. I haven’t experienced anything like that before, that’s all, and seeing them both, like that.’ Tears sprung again, this time she couldn’t hold them back. ‘I so wanted to help her, you know? Achieve a new life. That was the aim. Not to have it ended.’ Lindsay’s arm tightened around Connie’s shoulders and she felt a squeeze.

  ‘I’m sure you did your best for her. You can’t save everyone.’

  Connie’s eyes widened, her head snapped around to face Lindsay’s. ‘I clearly can’t save anyone, though, can I?’ She hung her head again, staring at the tea. ‘All I manage to do is mess up lives.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Lindsay straightened, her posture official again.

  ‘The evidence is stacking up against me,’ Connie said bluntly. Bad things happened around her. She was the common denominator – how could she not be to blame in some way? She was jinxed.

  The double doors to the room swung open. Mack reappeared, his cheeks flushed red.

  ‘We need to get back to the station,’ he said as he approached Lindsay.

  ‘Oh? We had a break?’ Lindsay was off, heading for the exit before realising that Connie was still sat, recovering. She swung back to face Connie. ‘We’ll have to get you home, quickly, sorry to rush you, but—’

  ‘Sure. No problem.’ Connie stood, wavered for a moment, and then steadied herself.

  ‘Are you going to be okay? Can I call anyone for you, so that you’re not on your own at home?’ Lindsay said.

  Connie snorted. ‘Nope. I’ll be good, there’s not really anyone I want with me.’

  ‘Oh, that reminds me.’ Mack, still flushed, stood aside as he held the door open. ‘We need that list from you, like ASAP, please.’

  Connie noted that Lindsay’s mouth fell open. She’d obviously had the same thought Connie had. Not the most appropriate time to drop that in. She blew out her cheeks.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten. I can email it through to the station later if you want it that desperately.’ She hoped he caught the terse edge to her voice.

  ‘Great. Thanks. Right, let’s get you home.’

  Connie followed, the sense of dread rising like a tidal wave in her stomach. Immediately after taking a call, Mack was asking for her list of people – men – that she’d had, or did have, contact with.

  What was going on?

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  DI Wade

  Lindsay felt uncomfortable knowing she was dropping Connie home to an empty house. After what was clearly a traumatic experience for her, she really should have company. It was the second time Lindsay had felt wrong leaving her. What was that about? Why had Connie affected her so strongly? Was it that she saw similarities between them, related to their circumstances? Single woman, living on her own, successful – to a degree – yet with a black mark against her for a past poor judgement call, one which had caused others to question her ability, her skills as a professional.

  Lindsay had fought hard against the backlash from her first murder case she’d been on as a DI. Her own judgement had been lacking, and as a direct result of that, a woman had died and a man had been murdered. A family had been left broken. For Connie, her apparently poor decision had resulted in a dangerous man being released from prison and a woman being attacked, raped in broad daylight, metres from her home. Then the man responsible had been murdered. Lindsay felt for Connie, though. As professional women who fought to gain their position in their chosen jobs, they should stick together – not every decision was necessarily going to be the right one; life wasn’t as simple as that.

  But now, as they drove away from Connie’s house and Mack relayed the phone conversation he’d had whilst they were at the morgue, Lindsay wondered if, yet again, her judgement had been off. Were her personal feelings causing her to narrow her focus?

  There was clearly
more to Connie Summers than she’d considered.

  ‘Okay, guys! Some hush, please.’ Lindsay perched on the edge of the melamine desk, scanning the room of officers. Everyone stopped talking and faced her.

  ‘We have positive IDs on both bodies from Tuesday’s suspected suicide. It’s now confirmed, they are Stephanie Cousins and her four-year-old son, Dylan. We have no reason to believe the incident is suspicious or that anyone else is involved. I’ve prepared a report for the coroner and the post-mortems will be carried out now they have been identified. We expect the findings to be suicide for Stephanie and unlawful killing for Dylan.’

  The room was silent. When a child was involved, especially in circumstances such as this, the mood of the team was often heavy. A number of the officers had children themselves.

  ‘Moving on.’ Lindsay lifted the briefing sheet from her lap, desperate to also lift the atmosphere. ‘We’ve had a delivery.’ She paused, looking out at the expectant faces. ‘An anonymous envelope was left at reception.’ A low mumble broke out. Lindsay could feel their excitement. The photos contained within the envelope were significant to the Hargreaves murder case. The officer who’d been in receipt of them had been extremely hyper when he’d called Mack to inform him of the latest development.

  But Lindsay didn’t share that excitement. As far as she was concerned, this was going to cause added grief, and it gave her an unpleasant taste in her mouth. As much as she wanted to stretch this out, prevent the disclosure for longer, she knew she had to update the team. The officers shuffled, muttering to each other, and Lindsay heard some tutting. She couldn’t put it off any longer.

  Putting on latex gloves, Lindsay reached for the evidence bag which lay on the desk beside her, and slowly retrieved a large A4 brown envelope. She was aware of how still the room had become. From the envelope she pulled a photograph: one of the two that had been included – she was holding the other one back, for now. She sighed, holding it up so everyone could see it. There was an outbreak of whispers, then louder comments.

  ‘We don’t know who took it.’ Lindsay raised her voice above the others. ‘But you might recognise one of the people in the photo.’

  ‘It’s Connie Summers,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Yes,’ Lindsay tried to keep the disappointment from her voice, ‘and the person she’s with is ex-prisoner, Trevor Jones.’

  ‘What’s the significance, Boss?’

  Lindsay stood, photo still in one hand. ‘The photo is date-stamped 6th June, so the day after the body dump. And see here?’ She pointed with a gloved finger at Connie’s hand. ‘She appears to have been handed something by Jones. She seems to be attempting to conceal it. But, whether she is or isn’t taking something from him, our initial concern is,’ she glanced over at Mack, ‘that, despite having left the prison service, it’s clear that Connie Summers is associating with ex-prisoners. And the burning question is, why would she be doing that?’

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  He was always the one that everyone looked up to. When he spoke, everyone listened. You didn’t mess with my old man. If you were brave enough, or, as he’d say, stupid enough to cross him, then look out.

  He never forgot.

  Never forgave.

  He’d just bide his time until the right moment. It might be a day. A week. Even months or years. He was patient. Waited until the opportunity and the resources aligned.

  Then WHAM.

  He never left a trace.

  And now it’s down to me. I need to be the same.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Connie

  Thursday 15 June

  Getting out of bed had been a challenge. Connie had wanted nothing more than to pull the duvet over her head and lie there all day – not facing the world. That would’ve been the easiest thing to do. Her sleep had been fitful. Visions of Steph’s and Dylan’s bodies slammed her unconscious and jolted her awake, sweat-soaked and afraid. The fear kept her from settling back to sleep, so she’d switched the lamp on, taken her notebook and made a start on the list.

  The damn list.

  She stared at the thirteen names now, as she sat facing the wrong way on the train. Going backwards made her queasy. But it was that, or squashing up beside an obese man, whose body took up three-quarters of the empty seat next to him.

  Thirteen names.

  Connie imagined the look on Mack’s face when he perused it. Would he question her about each man? She guessed he would – they needed to ascertain whether any of them could be a possible suspect for a revenge attack on Hargreaves. She still felt it was ludicrous to even consider that any of her ‘acquaintances’ would be bothered enough about her professional demise that they would take such extreme action.

  But, as a psychologist, she had to admit she would be asking similar questions of someone else. There was a possibility that, if one of the men had certain traits, or a personality disorder, he might have taken far greater an interest in her and her life than she’d even realised. One of them might have felt compelled to act to ‘save her’ or ‘even the score’ by eliminating Hargreaves – the source of so much angst, depression and hurt. Scanning the names, some of which were only first names, she highly doubted any of them had such traits. But then, some of them she’d only known one night. What if they knew her better than she knew them?

  Connie reached her building without having remembered the journey. She looked at the plaque to the side of the entrance – the one that a matter of days ago had brought such pride. Today, all she felt was emptiness, a strange detachment. Still with a sense of disinterest, Connie unlocked the door and walked into the reception room. The door failed to close behind her, snagging on the doormat.

  ‘Christ’s sake.’ She bent down and yanked it back, then slammed the door. That’s obviously what had happened the other day when her client had managed to enter the building without pressing the security buzzer. She should have had a sunken area for the doormat to fit snugly into. She made a mental note to call the builder she’d used for the interior refurbishment, get him to sort it. Snatching yesterday’s post from the tub chair where Mack had left it, Connie made her way upstairs.

  The nausea she’d felt the week before returned – the smell of cut grass hitting her senses as she walked into her office. Dropping the post on the desk, she went to the window and lifted the sash to breathe in the normal air. It was about time she got a new fragrance for the infuser. After a few deep breaths, Connie straightened. And that’s when she saw him.

  A figure across the street. A man in a black hoody.

  He stood stock-still, staring up at her.

  Connie jerked back instinctively. Was it the same guy she’d seen near the pirate ship with Steph?

  Flattening herself against the wall, she edged towards the window again. Slowly, she turned her head to peep out. He hadn’t moved. Was he waiting for Steph? Perhaps he thought she’d be having her usual session with Connie. And if that was the case, she could assume he had nothing to do with her death, couldn’t she? She moved away from the window again. Then, without stopping to really think about what she was going to say, she bolted from the room, ran heavily down the stairs and flung open the front door ready to confront him.

  He’d gone.

  Panting from the exertion, Connie looked frantically up and down the street. Surely he couldn’t have moved that fast, not so much as to be completely out of sight. He must’ve ducked into a shop. She took a few steps away from the entrance of her building, her eyes darting from shopfront to shopfront.

  Nothing. No man in a black hoody.

  The hand touching her arm made her shout out.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you, are you okay?’

  ‘Oh. Paul,’ she said, her words now no more than a whisper: an exhalation of air and fear. Her heart jumped erratically; Connie put her hand to her chest, as if to prevent it escaping.

  ‘I’m a bit early, sorry.’

  ‘No problem.’ Connie hadn’t noticed her client’s
approach; her attention had been on the other side of the road. ‘Come on in.’ She forced a smile as she and Paul made their way inside. Connie closed the door, pushing it tight until she heard the reassuring clunk that indicated the lock had operated.

  Paul stood watching.

  For the first time since she’d set up the consultancy, Connie questioned her security measures. She hadn’t wanted to be upstairs with a client, worrying about who could walk in, so the intercom system seemed the best idea. Without the buzzer system that allowed her to control who she let in, anyone could access the building. She needed to keep people out.

  But now, with Paul staring blankly at her, she questioned why she hadn’t installed anything that might offer protection from those she was inviting inside.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Connie

  ‘You look really pale, Connie. Are you feeling all right?’

  She considered the question for a few seconds before answering. In that time, she also asked herself whether she had any need to suddenly fear a man she’d been happily counselling for six weeks.

  ‘Yes, yes. A bit tired, but I’m fine, thank you.’ She could hear her mother’s voice in her head: You always say you’re fine.

  ‘You’re sure? I mean, if you don’t feel well …’

  ‘Honestly,’ Connie started up the stairs, ‘I’m good to go.’

  ‘That’s just as well,’ Paul said, squinting, ‘because this is our last session together. I wanted to make sure it was a good one.’

  Her stomach tightened. It was probably her imagination, but those words seemed to have an edge to them. The way he’d said ‘this is our last session together’ sounded almost threatening.

  Stop being melodramatic.

  What was wrong with her? It was his last session. He was purely stating a fact, not threatening her. Having no sleep was clearly having a detrimental effect. She needed to get her act together and conduct Paul’s session professionally.