Bad Sister(22)

‘Okay.’

‘And when you get to hers, keep it business, eh, Mack?’ Lindsay winked.

‘Ha. Ha. You’re so funny.’

‘Seriously, though, don’t act like you did before – we want her to assist us, not clam up because you’re rubbing her up the wrong way.’

‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll be on my best behaviour. Promise.’ He winked back.

Lindsay casually looked through the photos of the tattoos, her mind flitting from one thing to the next, the low hum of the computers and buzz of her colleagues’ discussions dissolving into the background. Her thoughts had no structure – they were erratic, not settling on one concrete idea or theory. She needed other people’s input. Raising herself from her desk, she took the pictures to the back of the room and began sticking them to the large whiteboard. Sensing the room quietening, she turned. The team had stopped what they were doing and eager, keen eyes were now trained on the photos.

‘Right, well it looks as though I already have your attention.’ Lindsay moved to the side of the board. ‘Gather round.’

The squeaking of chairs and the shuffling of shoes followed her invitation. The group of officers stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the whiteboard. Lindsay waited for them all to settle and then turned to the board.

‘Four pictures: each depicting a tattoo left on Hargreaves’ body post-mortem,’ she said simply. ‘Thoughts?’

There was mumbling; some hushed interchange between officers.

‘Now, now, don’t be shy. Spit it out, people.’ Lindsay picked up a dry-wipe pen and drew a line downwards at the side of the photos. ‘Brainstorm time.’ She smiled. ‘Let’s have some ideas on photo one. Go.’

As brainstorms went, it had been a productive one; not too many ridiculous ideas, and some solid possibilities as to what they were and what they could mean. None of the ideas correlated with the victim himself, or Connie Summers. Currently, they were random tattoos.

‘Guv.’ DC Clarke raised his hand from behind his desk as he replaced the receiver. ‘Got a hit on one of the names on that list of Hargreaves’ prison associates.’

‘Go on.’

‘Oscar Manning. Was released six months ago from HMP Baymead. Had links with Hargreaves on the inside. He’s the only one on the list that’s not still banged up, so could be one of the outside sources. Someone who’d be able to help orchestrate an escape attempt from the funeral.’

‘Good work. We got an address for him?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘He could still be on licence.’ Lindsay rubbed at her temples. ‘Get hold of the local probation, see what they can tell us. We need to get him in for questioning, pronto.’

Lindsay swept past the rows of desks, working her way back to the whiteboard. The amount of time she’d spent staring at the photos of the tattoos meant she’d probably never get them out of her head. It would be far worse if she couldn’t figure out their relevance – they’d forever taunt her. Hopefully, Mack would get something to go on, something that might link the tattoos – either to each other, or to the victim, or Connie herself.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


Connie


At some point during Connie’s walk from the train station to her office, drizzle had laid a fine film of damp on her. Once she emerged from her thoughts and realised, she welcomed the coolness and lifted her face to meet the droplets. The forecast hadn’t given rain. The last few weeks had been unremitting heat and a humidity she wasn’t used to in the West Country. Connie paused halfway up the hill, readjusting her shoulder bag and stretching her back. It was aching more frequently these days, she really should get it seen to. She’d add it to the list of things she was unlikely to ever get around to.

As she stood in front of the Narnia shop – her favourite place to browse during her breaks from counselling – Connie looked through the East Gate Arch that spanned the narrow street. Beyond it, she could just make out the steps of her building, and a tall figure beside them. She groaned. It better not be him. Her stomach twisted. Of course it was. He couldn’t have seen her yet, though, so she still had time to turn tail. She’d sit in a café for a bit, he’d give up waiting soon enough. Wouldn’t he? Why hadn’t he called to let her know he was coming? More to the point, why was he there? She’d insisted to DI Wade that if she was to assist them with the case that they should not come to her consultancy. Wade had agreed. Her face burned. That obnoxious, lanky man was going to mess up her hard work; ruin the progress she’d made – what if Steph saw him? She turned to walk away.

Three paces.

Damn that man. She cursed. She couldn’t. He’d only come back anyway.

Connie turned, and stomped towards DS Mack.

‘Ah, there you are. Morning, Connie.’ DS Mack greeted her with a smile; each corner of his mouth seemed to stretch to the sides of his face, like the Joker’s grin. There was a familiarity about that smile. She grimaced. Didn’t respond. Nudging past him, her eyes averted, she unlocked the front door and walked in. The urge to shut the door on him almost overtook her good judgement.

‘What do you want? You’re not meant to come here.’ She purposely made her tone sharp.

‘Sorry. Yes, I’m aware you spoke to DI Wade about that, but I’m afraid this was important, and, well, I couldn’t really afford to wait for you to come to us.’ He appeared awkward, nervous even – the arrogance he’d displayed the other day not apparent now he was on his own. Perhaps it’d been for the benefit of his DI.