I don’t know why I do this to myself. Is it to keep my own pain alive? To forget what Sean had gone through would be to forget the horror, to forget how someone, or some people, needed to be punished.
The article says the person who killed Isabella is still at large.
The bastard.
When they get him, they’d better not fill the pages of every newspaper with his image, his story. I don’t want Isabella’s family to have to go through what we did – seeing the face of your child’s killer staring at you day in, day out. He doesn’t deserve that attention, for people to read about the reasons he did it – feel any ounce of sympathy for how his depravity was the result of a broken family, poor upbringing and all the other bullshit the papers like to spout. That wouldn’t be fair. Or right. But I don’t hold enough hope that this murder, this killer, will be portrayed any differently from the ones that came before.
I take the cutting and place it with the others in the box. I pour my tea and think about the killer. Remember Alice’s words about the one that got away. Coleton is a small town by most standards.
Could Isabella’s murderer have been involved in Sean’s death?
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Angela
I have both longed for and dreaded this Wednesday. The plastic chair slides from my hand, hitting the wooden floor with a crash. I wipe my palms on my skirt and pick it up. The trembling isn’t only from the cold. What if it’s a trap? The online group page had been going on as normal: people starting new threads, supporting each other, the same as ever. They had all said they were attending the meet-up today. If they knew about Alice Mann, they were keeping it to themselves. Waiting for the moment to confront me in person?
It’s a chance I’m taking. I have to, so I can see Bill, offer him all the support I can give him. I swallow the rising bile. I couldn’t eat this morning, butterflies playing havoc with my stomach; last night’s vodka consumption probably didn’t help either. I check the wall clock for the millionth time.
Ten minutes to wait.
Part of me feels exactly as I did when I stood here weeks ago, waiting, wondering, hoping. I felt an element of dread then, but nowhere near the same as now. I lean on the back of the chair, trying to take some slow, deep breaths. If worst comes to worst, I’ll have to make a run for it. I almost laugh at the thought. Coward.
I imagine the chairs in the circle all filled with my group members, and I look out across their trusting faces and say:
‘Hi. I’m Angela Killion, and I’m a liar and a coward.’
My voice is louder than I expect. I turn quickly to make sure I’m alone. What if Wendy had turned up early, like she’s done on the other occasions? But the action of saying those words out loud has lifted a dark cloud. There is something to be said about the catharsis of honesty. Shame I was speaking to an empty room.
Protecting your children is the hardest job of all; everyone about to enter this church hall would agree. Protecting them from harm, protecting them when they harm – is equally challenging. Me, I’m attempting to do both.
I hear the creak of the external door and screw my eyes up. My breaths are shallow, the noise of the air expelling from my nose seems too loud.
Please, God, let today go well.
It’s Wendy. Of course it is. She’s always first to come in, last to leave. I’m reassured by the routine of this moment. I smile, and with my arms outstretched, move forwards to greet her. As I close in, I check for signs of mistrust; awkwardness. If she stiffens at my touch, if she pulls back from my friendly embrace, I’ll know she knows. I am almost crushed by her arms. She pulls me in too tight and holds me there. I hear her tears.
‘It’s … so … awful,’ she says between sobs, her words spoken into my neck. I can feel the wetness collect in my clavicle. I gently pull her arms from me. She’s talking about Isabella, I realise. My relief is momentarily displayed as I find myself smiling. I amend my expression quickly, so concern is all I show.
‘I know, I know.’ I take Wendy’s hand, patting it as I walk her to a seat. ‘Terrible times are ahead for Bill, but he has us. We are his network of support and we’ll help guide him through his grief.’ I sound like a preacher, some do-gooder, and I think the words sound staged, insincere. But they’re not, not really. I do want to help Bill. I have to.
‘But what if he doesn’t come today?’ Wendy asks.
‘He will. I’m sure of it.’ Although I’m not, and I hadn’t really thought about what I’d do if he didn’t. The whole point of taking this risk, being here today, is for Bill. If he doesn’t turn up, it’ll have been for nothing.
It’s time.
The chairs are all taken bar one. Bill isn’t here yet.
I glance at the clock. It’s bang on 3 p.m. When I look back to the circle, the faces are all on mine. Do any of them seem angry? Are any of them waiting to confront me? I daren’t dwell on these thoughts right now – I need to get started.
‘As you are all aware, this last week has brought dreadful, sad news,’ my voice shakes, but the group will assume it’s emotion. ‘I’m sure we’re all shocked at the death of Bill’s daughter—’
‘The MURDER!’
A heat flushes up my neck. I turn to the source of the shout. Bill is standing in the doorway, dishevelled, ashen. I jump up, moving towards him as quickly as I can without appearing to run.
‘Bill, dear Bill. Come in,’ I say quietly as I squeeze his arm. I want to embrace him, as Wendy had me minutes before, but refrain. It might be too much. We haven’t become that close yet.
He holds his head in his hands, and he wobbles. I’m afraid he’ll tumble to the ground, so I ask the group to help me take him to the empty chair in the circle.
One by one, my group members offer Bill their support. They share their shock and anger at what’s happened, and he begins to make eye contact. He starts to open up about how he’s feeling. I’m the only one who hasn’t spoken – and now, as he looks to me, I freeze. The knowledge my son has caused this numbs me. How can I help him?
The group are doing a great job – I suddenly realise he doesn’t need me. I can’t offer anything more than these people. I’m nothing special. Now his life has been touched by a murderer, does he also look at me differently? I’ve gained the group’s support, they all know my son is a killer – and although they think he’s in prison, paying for his crime, the fact remains Bill’s perspective will have been changed. Others may follow. Even if they don’t find out I’ve lied to them, they may well withdraw their support now this has happened. How much sympathy can a murderer’s mother warrant?
The rest of the session passes in a blur. The voices surrounding me seem like they’re a distance away, coming at me through a long, narrow tunnel. I try to focus on the good I’ve created. I started this group. Whether they change their opinion of me, given Bill’s circumstances or not, they can’t take away what I’ve already accomplished.
I watch the others as they talk, but it’s like watching a TV programme. Then I sense the room has fallen silent. All eyes are on me.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. What did I miss?
‘Alice?’ Bill says. ‘Are you feeling okay?’
Before I can stop them, tears are rolling down my face. Chair legs squeak on the floor and I feel half a dozen hands on my shoulders.
‘I’m sorry,’ I hear myself say. ‘You all must hate me.’ I drop my head, keeping my gaze on my lap, not able to look any of my group in the eye.
‘We’re here for you, Alice. We came together because we’ve all been affected by our children’s behaviour in one way or another.’ Bill’s voice sounds thick with emotion. ‘You’ve always been so brave in your honesty about what your son did. We aren’t going to turn on you now.’ This statement comes as a relief, but my guilt rages inside me like a hot rod being dragged through my intestines. Somehow having their support suddenly seems worse than having their disapproval.
Once everyone leaves, I stand in the s
ilence and gather my thoughts. I must take the positives from today’s meeting: no one has found out the truth, Bill has gained a wealth of support, and they still want me as their leader. The fact I am now left with a guilt almost as overwhelming as it was before I began trying to make things right in the first place is something I have to manage myself. How, I don’t know.
My fingers fumble with the key for the internal door in the church hall, they clatter as they hit the ground. I stand back up after retrieving them, and I’m about to lock it when I’m aware of a presence behind me. A foreboding stops me from turning around.
‘Hello, Alice.’
My pulse quickens. I know the voice.
I have no place to run. There’s no option but to turn; confront whatever is about to happen.
I force my body to move – it shuffles around, slowly.
‘Hello, Connie.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Tom
Not drawing attention to himself had proved more difficult than he’d expected. A young man in a hoody may not generally be an unusual sight, but hanging around in one spot attracted lots of stares from passers-by. The church was in Totnes’s main street – why had his mother chosen somewhere so bloody obvious? He’d waited in the doorway of the shop opposite until he’d become too conspicuous. Once he witnessed what appeared to be the last group member entering the church hall, he’d wandered off, having almost two hours to kill before they all came out again. Before he could approach Wendy. It was during that time the idea came to him.
Now, sitting on a dirty old blanket he’d stolen from a bin at the back of the market, a plastic container in front of him, he was confident he’d be largely ignored. How many people stopped to look at a guy begging in the street? It was the perfect cover.
Head bowed so as not to make direct eye contact with anyone, Tom raised his eyes slightly. A woman who’d been walking down from the East Gate Arch stopped at the window of the shop opposite, where he’d started off a couple of hours ago. She didn’t pay him any notice; her gaze was on the passageway leading to the hall door. He couldn’t make out her details without it being obvious he was staring at her, but he could see she was biting her nails, and every now and then she turned to look at the window display. She was probably someone who wanted to join his mother’s group but was too shy to go in.
Footsteps to his left alerted him to the end of the meeting. People were making their way down the path adjacent to the church and would be on the pavement in seconds. He had to time it carefully, make sure Wendy was alone when he spoke to her. He gathered his homeless kit together and stood. The woman who’d been waiting opposite now crossed the road and headed towards the hall. His attention left her once she’d passed him, not even giving him a fleeting glance, and settled upon the obese woman who now proceeded right, down the main street.
Tom followed, keeping a good distance behind her. It wasn’t as if she was walking fast – she lumbered, her size restricting her speed – so she was easy to keep up with; easy to keep in his sights. An easy target. As long as she didn’t get on a bus before he had a chance to speak to her, it would be fine.
Wendy was heading in the direction of the bakery at the bottom of town, near the waterside. Perfect. It was fairly quiet there – usually only good weather brought larger numbers of people that way. If he was lucky, she’d take a walk on the grassed area running alongside the river.
As Wendy left the bakery, a white paper bag clutched in her hand, Tom took a cut-through between the two shops to get to the rear of the buildings. He managed to position himself on the first bench just as she turned the corner and came into sight.
He waited for her to walk near him.
‘Hey, love, do you have a light?’ he said, leaning forwards on the bench towards her. She turned to face him. Her mouth opened, then closed again without words coming out. She continued onwards. Tom jumped up from the bench and sidestepped beside her as she walked. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to alarm you.’ He smiled, but Wendy wasn’t playing as he’d hoped, and she carried on walking, ignoring him. That pissed him off, feelings of inadequacy flooding his body. It was like being back at school, kids all huddled in their groups at lunchtime, ignoring his attempts to insert himself into their conversations. Losers.
He’d have to go for the stronger approach.
‘You go to the support group in the church, don’t you?’
Wendy stopped. He’d got her interest.
Now all he had to do was get into her head.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Connie
The woman’s shocked expression disappeared quickly, replaced with a smile and an attempt at appearing normal. But the colour had drained from her skin, leaving it waxy-looking, and her eyes gave her away. The fake Alice had been caught out – and she knew it.
Connie stood in silence for a few beats, allowing her surprise entrance to sink in before she spoke. She hadn’t really planned what to say in this moment, she had half-expected the woman she knew as Alice wouldn’t be at the meeting. Facing her now, Connie wasn’t sure how to confront the situation: subtlety or bluntly. She didn’t want to frighten her off – she might not get another chance to speak to her. Whatever her reasons for lying about who she was, it was obvious she needed help in one way or another. Connie hoped she could be the one to offer her support. Get to the root of her issues. At the same time, she wanted to find out if and how she was linked to the real Alice Mann.
‘Sorry to drop in on you unannounced, but you stopped coming to sessions and I was concerned about you,’ Connie said. She’d made the split-second decision to begin with the subtle approach; test the water.
‘Oh, well … um … I’m locking up now, got to rush off … sorry.’ Her movements were jerky, flustered – her eyes darting around. Connie sensed she was looking for a quick getaway and feared she would push past her, scurrying off before Connie could offer her help.
‘Look, I’m not here to upset you, or cause you a problem.’ Connie raised both arms, palms towards the woman, trying to appear unthreatening. ‘I want to help.’
‘I said before, Connie. You can’t help me.’
‘You came to me. You must’ve thought there was a possibility I could?’
‘I’ve no idea what I was thinking, really,’ she said, her shoulders dropping. ‘I guess I thought you’d be helpful in other ways. I knew you couldn’t do anything for me personally, but your knowledge would be useful.’
Connie frowned. What was she talking about?
She must’ve noticed Connie’s confusion and, taking advantage of her change of focus – and before Connie could say or do anything to prevent it – pushed her hard against the wall before taking off.
Winded, Connie gasped for air and attempted to follow her outside. The pathway running alongside the church was long enough that by the time she reached the road in her winded state, fake Alice was out of sight.
Connie leant back against the rail near the church, breathing deeply. Well, that didn’t go as planned. She scanned the shops opposite, then looked up and down the road. She couldn’t have got far, but Connie had no idea where to start looking – there were numerous shops she could’ve ducked into, and at least two roads off the main road close by she might’ve taken.
The hope she’d find out why her client had lied suddenly faded. The group meeting had been her only chance – she’d been incredibly lucky to find out where Alice held the meet-ups. Had her luck run out?
She hoped not – she’d need it tomorrow morning.
She’d need all the luck possible for her interview with Kyle Mann.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Connie
The taxi dropped Connie at the prison gatehouse. She was earlier than she’d arranged with Jen – who had written the movement slip for Kyle’s appointment at Connie’s request, stating Thursday 9 a.m – so Connie sat on the wooden bench outside, a bench made by the prisoners in the wood shop. They made beach huts too in the summer. She star
ed out across the grassed area running in front of the gatehouse. When was she going to see the back of HMP Baymead for good?
For all her attempts to stay away, eradicate it from her mind, she kept getting dragged back. The place haunted her. Now, the thought of seeing Kyle caused her to shiver. On the one hand, she wanted to help Lindsay and Mack in the hope it would shed some light on what was going on – who’d attacked Alice Mann, and maybe even who had murdered Isabella. She’d been given a few more details about it from Lindsay and there were similarities between the cases she was keen to discuss with Kyle. But, on the other hand, he’d gone to great lengths to get the mobile phone to Connie, and the reason for it worried her. It could be that he wanted to speak with her to help the case, or himself – but it could also be because he wanted to warn her off, threaten her in person to make sure she didn’t give more information to the police. His goal may still be to protect the other, as yet unknown, person. And if that was the case, her visit was going to be a waste of time, as well as dangerous.
Her eyes were drawn to a car driving down the long entrance. She followed its progression into the staff car park and watched as Verity climbed out and began slowly walking towards her. At least Connie wouldn’t have to get the OSG to call the psychology department now to get someone to come and meet her.
‘Morning, Verity.’ Connie stood up as Verity approached.
‘Were we expecting you?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Yes, I arranged it with Jen.’ Connie’s brow furrowed. She was surprised by this frosty reception. She hadn’t been particularly chatty when Connie was there last, but this was different.
‘Oh. Sorry, didn’t get that memo.’ Verity’s mouth twisted into a half-smile.
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