‘That’s your heart. If that starts speaking we’ve got more problems on our hands than we first thought.’
‘Take the piss. But you’ll see I’m right. We need to go to the beginning and listen afresh.’
‘Okay. I’ll humour you.’ Lindsay cupped her chin in her hands and looked thoughtfully at Mack. ‘So, oh wise one, what am I supposed to be listening to?’
‘Connie Summers.’
Lindsay lifted a single eyebrow in a high arc. ‘That’s your big idea?’
‘Yes, Boss. It begins and ends with our Ms Summers. We’ve just not been listening to the right bits of her story.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Connie
Connie fussed with the items on her desk, moving them, straightening them – anything to give her fingers a job – stop them trembling. She glanced at the clock. Still an hour before Brett arrived. After she’d called him, asked him to come back for a full session, Connie had made some enquiries. As per usual, Miles Prescott’s team had been unhelpful. She’d tried the local probation office, her theory being that if Brett was newly released and staying in this area, he’d likely have a probation officer assigned to him. She couldn’t see that someone like him, and at his age, would be released straight from the YOI with no licence.
She’d been in luck; she’d been able to get the details of Brett’s probation officer and finally, this morning, she spoke directly with her. Laura, a new PO and therefore incredibly cooperative, had given Connie lots of information. If only Miles had taken a keener interest when it mattered, things would’ve turned out differently. But then, he was on the opposite end of the scale – knocking on the door of retirement – he couldn’t have been less helpful if he’d tried.
Brett had been transferred from the youth offending team to probation services because he’d just turned eighteen. Laura had listed numerous incidents involving Brett while he’d been within the secure home and the YOI in Manchester. Mostly, they were fire-related, often occurring in the middle of the night. She went on to explain that Brett had been diagnosed as suffering with childhood pyromania, which was uncommon, but all clinical evaluations pointed towards it: revenge-seeking, social disorder – he’d been expelled from school and possibly had ADHD or adjustment disorder, although that had only been hinted at, never formally diagnosed. Perhaps he’d slipped through the net. But looking at it all now, everything ticked the box for pyromaniac. The exact underlying cause changed over the years. Different professionals each having their favoured theory. One thing agreed by all, however, was that Brett used fire as an impulsive act of stress-relief.
Everything Laura told Connie reinforced Steph’s story, and it fitted well with the timing of the fire that devastated the family house. The fire that destroyed a family. The fire Brett had been responsible for, unlike Miles’ assertion otherwise.
It seemed pretty cut and dried.
How did Brett expect her to believe he was innocent, that Steph had lied?
This and many other questions bombarded Connie’s already battered brain as she fought to keep control of her own emotions this morning. Yesterday’s admission from Niall, that he had been passing snippets of information to Kelly Barton, still grated. Hurt. Even though she’d had doubts about his intentions, deep down she hadn’t really thought he’d sink that low. Somehow it felt like an element of karma was coming into play here. She was getting punished. Thing was, she wasn’t at all certain what for, exactly, and who else was dishing it out.
Still playing for time, Connie headed downstairs to the reception room and made a coffee. Standing at the lower window, she watched the people that went by, all going about their business, largely unaware of others. Was the hoody-man out there somewhere, watching? She hadn’t noticed anyone since the day after Steph’s death, so maybe he really had been waiting for her – had been the one supplying her cannabis. She was unlikely to ever find out who he was, or what he’d wanted now. The trail had ended; no new leads. She closed her eyes, an image of Steph and Dylan on the pirate ship that Monday lunchtime coming to her. How could it be that a day later they were gone? For a moment Connie was lost, her focus blurring as cars drove by.
It was surprisingly quiet inside the building, given that it was situated in the main shopping street of Totnes. It was an old building, the walls thick, so most of the noise was filtered. It was like being in a giant cocoon: quiet, comforting, and protective. Until Brett came in; he’d break the seal, crack open the shell and it wouldn’t feel quite as safe. The bang of a door shutting upstairs startled her – a breeze from her open office window obviously blowing it closed, bringing her back to the moment. She quickly swallowed the last of the coffee and nipped to use the toilet off the reception room.
With both hands leaning on the small basin, Connie stared at herself in the mirror. Her face seemed swollen. Lack of sleep, lack of decent food, lack of hydration, all adding to a look of pallor, a dullness to her skin. She needed to visit a spa, go and get a facial or beauty treatment. Spoil herself. Would Lindsay go with her, so they could have a girly day together? Connie laughed out loud, and shook her head. Stupid thought. She’d like it, though. She’d spent more time with Lindsay than any other female friend for, well, she couldn’t remember the last time. It’d definitely been over a year ago. And she couldn’t really count the other women she’d worked with in the psychology department – they were different, not exactly friends, more colleagues. It was about time she made the effort to socialise, to make time for a proper friend – one who could be a constant in her life. Could Lindsay fit that role?
Connie took in a large breath. It was time to get organised for her client. Her stomach dipped violently, a mouthful of lukewarm coffee regurgitating into her mouth. She must call Lindsay, tell her that she was about to have a session with Brett, and that, if she didn’t call back by eleven, to assume something had happened. Something bad, and she should send someone over.
With a slightly more confident step, Connie ascended the stairs and rang Lindsay.
‘What is it you would like to gain from this session, Brett?’ Connie sat in the chair opposite him, no desk as a barrier, no pad and pen. Just her and him. Counsellor and client. She needed to treat him the same as she would any other; be professional.
He regarded her in silence, his eyes locked on hers. She resisted lowering her own gaze.
‘I can’t get my missing years back. My childhood was lost to the system. I have no family. No job, or likelihood of gaining one. This session, the next one, or a million after it, isn’t going to get me anywhere. In effect, my life is over. It ended in the street outside a burning house eight years ago.’
Connie wasn’t sure where to go with this. He wasn’t here for her help, not with cognitive behavioural therapy. He was here for something else. The realisation that it could be revenge chilled her. Had he already carried it out, did he want to talk about it – or was it still to come? And what part was she going to play in his plan? The therapist in her told her to avoid being drawn in to his negativity, to try a different tack.
‘Your PO informs me that as a child you were diagnosed with the disorder pyromania.’ Connie noted a twitch in Brett’s eye as he shot forwards. She held his stare and continued quickly before he could interrupt her. ‘In children, it’s quite rare – and the desire and the need to set fires is thought to be as a form of release. Like from pent-up anger or tension. Can you remember when you first felt that compulsion to set a fire?’
He shrugged. ‘I guess when I was about nine.’
‘What was it about that time that had caused you stress, or anger?’
‘It wasn’t anger. Not then. But stress, yeah – it could’ve been that. We’d just moved in. Been there about a week I suppose, when I saw it. When I got the feeling she hated me.’
‘Who hated you?’
‘Mum.’ His eyes seemed to darken and for a moment he was lost in a memory.
‘You believed your mum hated you? What made you think tha
t?’
‘She was right pissed when she realised we came as a pair.’
Connie narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying – when you came as a pair? What do you mean?’
‘She thought she was just getting my dad. Not another kid. She had one of them. Jenna. She said she had no money to support a benefit scrounger and his scraggly kid. From that day she treated me like shit. She was real mean, nasty. I hated her as much as she hated me. So that’s when I started burning things.’
Connie sat back. Brett and Steph weren’t brother and sister. Had that been why there was nothing in the background information, why Miles didn’t believe Steph? Maybe Miles wasn’t holding back relevant details from her, he simply didn’t know himself. Steph had never offered up the fact that Brett was a step-brother. What else had Steph failed to mention?
‘How did family life progress from the way it was when you first moved in?’
‘Got worse, basically. Mum clearly regretted her decision. I never once saw her and my dad kiss, cuddle, nothing. And as for Jenna, she went in on herself. Didn’t speak, dressed real scruffy, didn’t even wash.’
‘And you remember this?’
‘Yes. I worked a lot on my memories when I was inside.’
Connie raised her brow. It would be interesting to find out more about how they attempted to retrieve memories, delve into it all, but now wasn’t the time. She had to keep up the pace. ‘How about the fire-setting?’
‘I used that to keep me calm. I never did anything too bad, was only ever paper, the odd pillowcase. Small stuff. And it always worked – when she did something, said stuff, burning things always stopped the ball in my gut getting any bigger.’
‘So, you were angry, hurt, upset. All those emotions must’ve been so difficult for your ten-year-old mind to contemplate. It was an accident, Brett. I believe that. I don’t think you would’ve deliberately set out to kill your dad, burn the house to the ground. When we’re young the consequences of our actions aren’t as easy to predict.’
‘What are you on about?’ He slapped his hands down on his legs. ‘I didn’t start the fire that night. I’m trying to tell you, Connie. I used flames to calm me, not to hurt anybody else. I never let the fire get out of control. Never.’ He leant into Connie’s space, his face almost against hers. ‘I. Did. Not. Kill. My. Father.’ He sat back.
Connie cleared her throat. Her pulse skipped with the added adrenaline rushing through her body. She had to be careful how she said what she wanted to say next. Use a tone that was curious, not accusational.
‘All the evidence, in terms of your behaviour at the time, the opportunity and motive, all points to you, Brett—’
‘Can’t you see, Connie? I was the perfect scapegoat. Pin it on the ten-year-old pyromaniac. Perfect.’
Connie’s blood chilled. Scapegoat. Yes, she could relate to that. Is that why he came to her?
‘Why did you look me up?’
‘I thought you, of all people, might understand what it’s like to be blamed – I thought you’d give me a chance.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘Inmates talk. Your “case” was well known. Wasn’t that hard to find you.’
But Connie had changed her name for that exact reason – so that it wasn’t easy for anyone to find her: ex-prisoners, ex-colleagues, ex-anything. She let it slide for the moment, but the squirming doubt consumed her stomach – had he had help finding her? The usual suspects sprang to mind: Niall Frazer and Kelly Barton. Or had he merely followed the police trail? Had he been watching them? Was he the hooded figure she’d noticed? The thought lodged in her mind. Suddenly, she wanted this session to be over.
‘Your time’s up today, Brett.’
He gave a nod and stood up. Digging in his jeans pocket, he retrieved two scrunched-up twenty-pound notes and placed them on Connie’s desk.
‘That’s right, isn’t it?’ He looked into her eyes.
Connie felt weird about taking his money, despite that being the point of private therapy. She had to take it, though, otherwise she’d give the wrong impression.
‘Yes, thank you. Maybe you could discuss the arrangement with your probation officer, see if they can help with the cost of further sessions.’ Connie spoke quickly. A part of her hoped he wouldn’t return for another session. He’d found her. The suspicion of how would only grow from here.
Brett lingered, like he wanted to say something more. Connie walked around him to get to the door, opened it and stood aside, giving him his cue to leave.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Connie
A dull ache throbbed at her temples. That had been an intense hour. Brett had seemed reluctant to leave, even after she’d ushered him to the door. She was relieved when he finally thanked her and walked out. It wasn’t until she heard his feet descending the stairs that she realised her hands were shaking. She rested her head in her crossed arms on the desk, closing her eyes. What a tangled web. She didn’t know what to make of Brett; he came across as genuine enough. Angry, yes – but a killer? As with Steph, she’d yet to scratch the surface of Brett’s outer shell. They were similar in so many ways. Young, traumatised, damaged. The parents had a lot to answer for.
The more Connie thought about it, the more it was becoming clear the mother must hold the key. The letters Steph had written, the events Brett had spoken of – the mother was the common denominator. Connie turned to retrieve her bag from beside her desk – the zipped compartment was already open. She was sure she’d closed it properly. She tutted at her carelessness. Rummaging in her bag, she pulled out some of the letters, rereading them with a new perspective. The anger within the words was more directed, not only because she’d abandoned Steph after the fire, she could see it now. Steph blamed her mum for the whole thing. In their sessions Steph had only ever apportioned blame to Brett. Why, when these letters blatantly focused on the mother? And where did Brett’s dad, Steph’s stepdad, fit in to all of this?
How convenient the mother was ravaged by dementia. Maybe Connie should pay a visit to the home to find out how severe her condition really was. If she had lucid moments, then Connie might have a chance at uncovering the real story. Because there was more to this than she’d first thought. In a burst of energy she sat upright and found the number for the protected persons team. It took fifteen minutes of trying, but she came away with the address. The care home was a stone’s throw from Salford, Connie’s old stomping ground; the area she’d lived in when she and Luke had been youngsters. That was before her dad moved them to the ‘decent’ side of Manchester after Luke’d been killed.
Within seconds, Connie had formulated her plan. She’d phone the nursing home tomorrow, make the necessary arrangements, then go online to sort a train ticket. Amber could go to her mum’s, she’d be delighted to have a bit of company, and Connie would tell her she had decided to make an impromptu visit to her dad. Which meant she really would have to go and see him. Not that he’d bothered to see her when he was in Devon. It would keep the cost of the trip down, though, if she didn’t need to worry about accommodation. She needed to watch her expenditure. She didn’t want to go cap in hand to her dad.
A creaking noise from downstairs brought her back to the moment. Had Brett not left?
Damn. She hadn’t watched his departure out the window as she had before, too relieved he’d left the room. It didn’t cross her mind that he’d hang around inside the building. She checked the clock on her laptop. He left over twenty minutes ago, surely he wouldn’t have been inside for that long? She would’ve have heard him before now.
Slowly opening the desk drawer, Connie withdrew the only thing she could think might offer some protection. The large metal, double hole-punch. Armed with it, she tiptoed to the door, edging herself towards the top stair. She peered over the top of the banister.
Nothing.
Should she shout a warning from where she stood? Tell him she’d called the police? She strained to hear a
ny movement.
A squeak – like a trainer on the lino flooring, reached her ears.
Someone was in the downstairs toilet.
Connie expelled the air she’d been holding in, lowering the arm wielding the hole punch. Brett must’ve just wanted to use the toilet before leaving.
But there was no sound of flushing. Hardly any sound at all, as if he was purposely attempting to go undetected. What was he playing at?
Another noise. A squeaking?
She descended the rest of the stairs and, raising the hole punch, approached the toilet door.
A blur of movement to her side caught her off guard. Something solid, a body, slammed against her shoulder. With the wind knocked from her, she fell to the floor, her head banging down, hard.
Pain shot from her shoulder to her head. As the room began to fade, darken, Connie heard the front door slam.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
DI Wade
When Lindsay walked through the upstairs office door, DC Clarke in tow, she found Connie, a wet tea towel pressed against her head, slumped over her desk.
‘Jesus, Connie. You should see a doctor, get that checked over.’
‘I’m fine, really. It wasn’t that bad, the carpet cushioned my fall.’
‘You could have a concussion.’ Lindsay moved around the desk and put her hands either side of Connie’s head.
‘Ow!’
‘Sorry. Look at me, Connie.’
Her pupils were even, she looked as though she was focusing on her face, and she could follow Lindsay’s finger. That was a relief, at least.
‘Stop fussing, I’m not suffering from concussion, I’m just pissed off – hurt pride and all that.’ Connie pulled her head back from Lindsay’s grip.
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