‘Sure. I can sleep just about anywhere … Like you, Connie.’
Connie drew in a sharp intake of air. She’d obviously been foolish to have thought Mack was over the fact she’d slept with his son. But Mack jumped in before she could respond.
‘Shit.’ He placed the palms of his hands on either side of his head. ‘I’m sorry, that was meant to be a joke – it didn’t sound like it, but it was.’
‘Right. Well, I’m too tired to have an argument, Mack, so I’ll leave you to sleep.’ Connie started towards the lounge door.
‘Wait. Connie, please …’ Mack rose from the sofa and took hold of her arm. ‘I really am sorry. It’s not even an issue anymore; Gary’s moved on and so have you. It was none of my business really, I was only looking out for my son. And, as it turns out, you’re all right.’
‘I’m all right?’ Connie frowned.
‘Yes. You know, you’re all right. A good person.’ Mack’s face coloured. It was clear it had taken a lot for him to admit this.
‘Thanks, Mack. You’re all right yourself. I guess.’ Her smile transformed into a laugh, and at that moment, Lindsay returned with her arms full of bedding.
‘What’s so funny? she said.
‘I think your partner may have finally forgiven me, Lindsay.’
‘Jesus, you two. Well, I’m glad you’ve both finally matured enough to get over yourselves. Now try to get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be another mad day.’ Lindsay pushed the bedding at Mack. ‘What are you doing tomorrow, Connie?’
‘Oh, I thought I’d do some of my own detective work.’
An expression of horror passed between Lindsay and Mack.
‘I wouldn’t go digging where you shouldn’t—’
‘Lindsay. Don’t stress. I won’t make a nuisance of myself. I only want to do a bit of research. I want to find my Alice. I have a feeling she is in need of serious help.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Connie
The house was quiet – the bedding neatly folded at one end of the sofa. They’d left without waking her. Part of her felt annoyed, but at least it meant they weren’t going to talk her out of trying to find the fake Alice. Connie gathered the blankets and pillow and took the bundle upstairs, squashing it into the airing cupboard on the landing. The moment between her and Mack last night had been a relief. A clean slate, perhaps. Her and Gary’s mistake now fully in the past.
The ten-minute walk to Coleton station was pleasant – the sun pierced the clouds giving a brightness and a more optimistic feeling to the day ahead. Two clients this morning, then a free afternoon. Hopefully Lindsay would update her later on about when they planned to visit HMP Baymead. Connie couldn’t help but feel a bit apprehensive though, aware it was her initial leak about seeing Kyle’s mum which had most likely triggered the attack on Alice Mann. Would Lindsay and Mack uncover another reason, so she might be let off the hook?
Connie was alert, her eyes scanning the platform, the café and the passing trains. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was on the lookout for – a glimpse of the fake Alice? Or to spot someone watching her? Apart from Deborah Taylor, the only other potential lead Connie had as to where she might find fake Alice was the support group. If it was even real. She sighed loudly, the man standing near her shooting her a sideways glance. If fake Alice had lied about who she was, wasn’t it also likely she’d lied about everything else?
Maybe it would be impossible to find her and Connie would never uncover the truth of who she really was, why she’d taken on another woman’s identity.
The Plymouth train drew into the station and Connie was bustled towards the carriage door by a group of people with suitcases who had all moved close to her as the announcement had come across the tannoy. For a moment, anxiety consumed her – a sense of claustrophobia as strangers’ bodies pressed against hers. She wanted to push them away from her, give herself air, her own space. The train would be stationary for about five minutes before it moved off – its ultimate destination, Penzance. Thankfully, the Totnes stop was the first, and only eleven minutes from Coleton. If the train was packed, at least it wouldn’t be a long journey to suffer.
Connie headed in the other direction to the group of travellers, finding a seat in the relatively quiet D carriage. She sat by the window, staring out. A figure beside the steps to the bridge taking pedestrians across to the other side of the station drew her attention. A man in an overcoat, a scarf obscuring most of his face, seemed to be looking right at her. She sat upright, pressing her face against the cool glass to get a better view. The train jerked into movement, progressing the opposite way to the man. She’d been experiencing the feeling of being watched again for over a week. Maybe it was Luke keeping an eye out for her. Coming here would be a huge risk though, and she knew her father had put his foot down, categorically stating they couldn’t have contact. Why would Luke chance it?
It could be because he knew she was in danger again. Goosebumps appeared on her arms at the thought of what she might have started. She couldn’t blame her dad for anything this time. If she was in any kind of trouble, it was entirely her own making.
After her last client had gone, Connie’s thoughts drifted. She had a nervous ball in her stomach; a growing anxiety she knew was related to Alice, to Kyle, to the other person who’d been involved with Sean Taylor’s death. If he’d never been implicated, he’d been free all this time to create more damage. More victims. Had Alice Mann been his victim? She was in a bad way when she was found; Lindsay said it had looked like a frenzied attack. Someone who’d been angry. The writing on the wall, now confirmed as being a mix of Alice’s own blood with an animal’s, supported this. Whoever hurt Alice knew who she was. Connie hoped the poor woman would soon be well enough to be brought out of her induced coma, be able to tell the police who attacked her. Connie was worried Kyle knew the perpetrator – that it was the same person he’d been protecting. Even more worrying was the thought Alice might not be the only victim. Would there be more?
To get answers, Connie had to begin with Kyle Mann’s case. Although she knew a lot from the psychology and prison records, she hadn’t searched the internet. She could rectify that now. She went down to the kitchenette, grabbed her shop-bought sandwich from the fridge, made a coffee, and then settled herself in front of the computer. She typed ‘Sean Taylor murder’ into the search bar and watched in astonishment at the amount of hits Google returned. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. This was going to take some time. For now, she would concentrate on the court case; find any pictures she could. Maybe her Alice had been present during proceedings, might have been captured in a photo. She’d been so knowledgeable about the case, about Kyle and Alice Mann – she’d clearly studied it, and them. So, perhaps she’d been there, following the story.
Connie had to find her.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Deborah
Now Alice is in hospital, I’m surprised to find I’m actually missing her visits – there’s a gaping hole in my days. Twenty-four hours is a lot of time to fill, especially when only three or four of those are spent asleep. Work had been keeping me going – having a focus, the hours speeding past without thought, was important. I was needed. Being unwanted is not a good feeling. I’m not a mother, not a worker, and thanks to Nathan, I’m no longer a wife.
What am I?
Who am I?
I never envisaged it could be so easy to lose your identity. Although the ‘what am I’ is easier to answer. I am fifty-fifty: a half-sad, half-angry woman. The newspaper cuttings are strewn across the lounge floor. There’s no likelihood of Nathan catching me with them now, so I don’t need to hide my obsession. It’s not only articles about my Sean that I cut out and keep; it’s all the ones relating to a missing person, or attacks – the finding of dead bodies.
I pick up the one about a young woman who’d disappeared recently: Isabella Bond. I gaze at the pretty face which goes with the pretty name. Then there’s the man fou
nd stabbed to death on the park bench in Torquay. Each person I read about leaves me wondering; each article I keep is because deep down I know what happened to Sean will happen again to someone else. It’s only a matter of time before another bored gamer gets fed up with the fantasy of killing and wants to do it for real, or mixes the virtual world with reality. I’m compelled to keep check. I need to read about it when it happens. I don’t even know why – what it is making me want to know about terrible things happening to others. I just know another family will be destroyed by one person’s actions.
Or more than one. Something Alice said, moments before I lost my temper, comes back to me now. You know it wasn’t only my boy, don’t you? Someone made him do it, Deborah. Someone manipulated him, I’m sure of it. And he has never been punished, just my poor Kyle.
At the time, I flew into a rage, shouting and screaming at her: Poor Kyle? POOR KYLE? What about my son? He was left to die a slow, painful death all alone. Sod your poor fucking Kyle.
The look on Alice’s face had told me all I needed to know about how mine looked.
She was afraid.
Of me.
I don’t want to think about what happened after that. It’s an unclear, mixed-up mess of images and sounds. A chill shakes my body. I don’t want to remember.
Now, I look at the dozens and dozens of old and new cuttings and I wonder: was Alice right? Was there someone else – someone who helped kill my son?
I may have been blinded by her annoying perseverance to get me to like her. I discarded any possibility of it not being her fault. I was as bloody-minded as she was in my aim. I can see that now.
I straighten and catch my breath. What if Alice was being watched? She’d been outside my house, inside it – and I’d been to her house that day. I remember the figure by the bushes.
If someone had been watching, they could even know what I did. They may have been watching me, too. Might be watching me now.
I leap up, the articles from my lap scattering across the floor, and run to the front door. I slide the bolt and then hook the chain across for good measure. I go to the back door and lock that, too.
I need to keep myself safe.
My own laughter startles me. How ironic. Less than twenty-four hours ago I was contemplating ending my life.
Now I’m in fear for it.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Tom
He watched her, silently, from the doorway. She was engrossed in the television; an episode of The Chase. She’d always had a thing for Bradley Walsh, and now, despite everything else going on in her life, she was giggling at Bradley’s hysterics as a contestant gave a stupid answer. How did people watch this stuff, then have the nerve to slate those who played computer games?
She threw her head back, laughing. The sound was so rare, he couldn’t even recall the last time he’d heard it. He did love her, in a roundabout way. At least, he assumed it was love. It was a fine line between love and hate, he’d heard. The line was as easily crossed one way as it was the other. He’d had moments in his past when he’d hated his father. Really loathed him. The way he made him feel so worthless, irrelevant. How he’d degraded him, embarrassed him in front of friends.
He’d had some friends, in the early days of secondary school – ones he wanted to hang with, invite to his house to play Xbox. Before his dad had started being a prick.
Tom had a flashback to being in his bedroom one day after school. He was shouting instructions to Chris Newman, who he’d allowed to play his Call of Duty Black Ops on Xbox because Chris wasn’t allowed it at home. He’d thought Chris’s parents were stupidly strict not letting him have 18-rated games. He’d felt sorry for him. Which was ironic, because later on, his own dad had dragged him by the hair from his bedroom for disturbing him, and it was Chris then who felt sorry for him. Things like that had been the reason why he’d stopped asking people round, why he spent more and more time in the privacy of his own room.
He’d come to guard his space. He valued it above everything else. At times, he’d even placed its importance over his mother. She didn’t like that. But then, she should’ve done something before – to stop his father, prevent the beatings and humiliation – then he wouldn’t have needed to hide himself away, barricading himself into the tiny room.
She’d had ample opportunity, and yet she’d done nothing. Instead, she’d waited until his dad had had enough, until he wanted to leave. The time after his departure was mixed with relief and hope, but also uncertainty. His mum had fallen apart. Tom had become all she had and she suffocated him.
He’d been back to not having his own space again.
That’s when it started, really. When his moods changed, and his interests diversified.
Tom had also known of Kyle Mann from that time, although he’d been in a different tutor group at school and they’d never had any lessons together. Even though Tom had been a shy teenager, every time he’d seen Kyle in the school grounds at lunchtimes, he’d noted how Kyle appeared even more withdrawn than him – and weird, awkward. Tom never spoke to him, but he’d thought about Kyle – and years later, when he started online gaming, had looked him up. He’d observed him from afar, keeping a watchful eye on his online activities – the games he played, the people he interacted with. He’d unwittingly led Tom to Sean Taylor, someone Kyle clearly had issues with. The chatter between the both of them had gone far beyond playful banter – Sean had been verbally abusive to Kyle, slating his gaming ability at first, but then he got personal. It became apparent that Sean Taylor would make the perfect first victim. It hadn’t taken an awful lot of time or skill to groom Kyle, convince him that this Sean needed taking down a peg or two. The rest was history.
Now though, despite having pushed his mother out, he didn’t want her to come to harm. That wasn’t part of his plan. He needed to stop her, silence her sometimes, but he’d only ever done it as a last resort. A quick slap – a back-hander was usually all it took. It had annoyed him big time when he realised she was seeing a psychologist, but when he’d followed her and found out she was trying to contact Kyle’s mum, Alice – well that had been too much – a step too far. Alice would’ve put two and two together. She’d have found out.
She’d have uncovered the fact her son had been protecting the identity of the other killer.
And he couldn’t have that. It was one thing Alice suspecting Kyle had been manipulated, but another to have the truth stare her in the face in the form of his mother. What had she thought she’d gain by meeting Alice? Was she trying to get him put in prison? No, he’d never be able to cope with prison. He’d been abused enough. If he got put away, his life would be over.
He’d learned to appreciate that at least his dad was honest, though. Yes, he’d lashed out, he’d been abusive – a right bastard a lot of the time. But what you saw was what you got, and Tom loved him for that. For his straightforwardness. He was uncomplicated. Unlike his mother. She pretended to love Tom, and then went around, sneakily, behind his back. She lied. Tom never really knew what was behind those eyes.
She was deceitful.
He shook his head as he stared at her. Still laughing like she didn’t have a care in the world. She’d gone too far this time though, with her lies and tricks. He couldn’t let anything get in the way of his game plan. Tom crept past the doorway and slipped out of the house.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Connie
Connie had set Friday aside to catch up with her admin, but as soon as she walked into her building, drenched from the sudden downpour, her mind was on one thing only, and it wasn’t paperwork or filing. She chucked her umbrella in the kitchen sink, made a coffee then went up to her office. Once settled, her computer humming to life, she clicked on the images she’d saved to a file the previous day. She’d downloaded the most promising ones, and now, her face inches from the screen, she zoomed in on them. The photos had been mainly taken outside Exeter Crown Court during the trial, but Connie couldn’t pick her Alice
out of the crowds. She leant back in the chair, her hopes now diminishing.
She studied the photos of the real Alice, and immediately it struck her how much trouble the woman who’d been coming to see her had gone to in order to replicate her look. Her hair, her clothing, everything matched how the real Alice presented herself. Even if Connie had seen some photos beforehand, there was a strong likelihood she wouldn’t have sussed out she wasn’t Alice Mann at first. Why would you question someone who sought counselling because of a crime committed by their son? Connie had no reason to suspect she wasn’t who she’d said she was. And even though Connie believed she was holding something back, at no point had it crossed her mind that this was what it was. What on earth was she gaining by pretending to be someone else?
Had Connie missed the telltale signs that she was outright lying? She wished she’d videoed her sessions now, so she could have looked back over them frame by frame to scrutinise her body signals, the way she spoke – the language she used, or didn’t use, which may have given her away. The benefit of hindsight.
With the photos not bearing fruit, Connie went on to search Deborah Taylor. There were fewer hits, not so many online photographs. Strange how the murderer’s mother seemed to have gained more press attention, more media curiosity, than the victim’s mother. The pictures of Deborah were more guarded. In each one, she either had a protective arm around her, or her hand being held – always by her husband – named as Nathan Taylor, a local council planning officer. The articles were less sensationalised, more raw than those about Alice and Kyle Mann. The interest had been more for the perpetrator, his family. Not the victim. How did the Taylors’ cope with that?
One Little Lie Page 15