Bad Sister(46)

‘Well, have you? Was there anything on her answer machine, because she said she’d been getting weird calls?’

Lindsay shook her head – it was minimal, but Connie noticed. Why weren’t they answering her questions? They wanted her opinion before. Now, suddenly, they weren’t interested.

‘The usual lines of enquiry have been completed, Connie, and no – there was nothing suspicious in her house, and as far as I’m aware, no strange messages on her answerphone.’

‘As far as you’re aware? So, you didn’t check personally?’

Mack turned his head sharply to look back at her. ‘Really. Everything has been covered, we promise. I realise you want this not to be suicide. But it is what it is. Sorry.’ He turned back, his eyes darting to Lindsay before looking straight ahead.

Connie slumped in her seat. Had they missed something crucial because they had been searching the house for a suicide note, not clues, anything untoward? Their focus was too narrow. They’d made up their mind it was suicide and weren’t seeing anything further. If there had been letters from Brett, they could have been removed prior to Steph’s death. Had Brett been in and covered his tracks?

‘Did you find a suicide note?’ If Brett had wanted it to look like she’d killed herself, he would’ve made her write a note. Connie waited for an answer. None came. They hadn’t heard her. ‘I said,’ she spoke loudly, ‘did you find a suicide note?’

‘My God, woman – you’re like a dog with a bone, aren’t you?’ Mack’s voice boomed in the confined space of the car. Connie reeled. She heard Lindsay chastise him.

‘Sorry. I’m only trying to get to the bottom of it. I really do think someone else was involved,’ Connie said, her voice quiet; wounded by his outburst.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ Mack said more softly. ‘I know this is a difficult time for you, and as you’ve worked so closely with her it must be hard to fathom her reasoning. But, as far as our investigation goes, we’ve not uncovered a single thing to suggest anything other than plain old suicide.’

Connie smarted. ‘Plain old suicide’. There was nothing plain about someone taking their life. There was also nothing plain about murder. Which she was sure this was. Perhaps she’d be better off talking to Lindsay alone. Mack clearly had no patience for her. It was as if she’d done something very wrong, and he was punishing her for it. Only, she had no clue what her offence had been. Her mind flipped back to some of the occasions she’d worked for the police as an independent psychologist. Had they crossed paths? Perhaps she’d offended him in a professional capacity at some point. If that was the case, then why didn’t he spit it out, they could move on then. Maybe he wanted to play the game, get her to mention whatever it was first. Well, he was in for a long wait, because apart from a niggling memory she couldn’t retrieve, the source of his inconsistent behaviour towards her was a mystery.

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.