Bad Sister(51)

Lindsay chewed the end of her pen while staring at Mack’s turned back. They hadn’t had a proper chat for a while. There was something up with him lately, and it was affecting him at work. She hadn’t noticed anything untoward prior to this case. Prior to meeting Connie Summers.

What was it about her that brought out the worst in her DS?

And what was it about Connie Summers that was making Lindsay feel so unsettled?





CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE


Connie


Connie sat down at her desk and tried to get the events straight in her head. So, she’d been given a memory stick with a news article about Luke’s death and a document that suggested her dad knew more than he’d ever let on to her and her mum about the circumstances that led to her brother being killed. She’d received a perturbing email via her consultancy web page, accusing her dad of not having learned the first time, and now she’d been hand-delivered an envelope containing two photos.

Acid burned Connie’s throat.

The photos lay side by side on the desk. She regarded them with a mix of anger, fear and confusion.

The one on the left had been taken at the train station. On the bridge where, moments before this was captured, she’d been confronted by the stranger with the memory stick. In this image, though, the focus was on her and Jonesy. It was when he’d helped her after her legs had weakened and she’d all but collapsed. His hand was on her elbow, steadying her. But that’s not what this looked like. This appeared to be a tender moment – a gentle hand on her arm; almost intimate.

Jesus. How could a scene be captured so wrongly? She hadn’t even noticed anyone else close by, let alone someone with a camera.

The other picture perturbed her even more. The picture with Jonesy had been taken in a public place. This other one was not.

Her hand trembled as she picked it up again to study it.

How and why did someone take this photo? Connie stared at the two figures silhouetted in what she knew was the bedroom window of the terraced house. The light from the room was enough to enable her to identify herself and the man.

Remembering the list, Connie pulled it from under the photos and began the email, punching the keys on her laptop so hard the sound echoed in the room.

As she hit the send button, she sighed. The shit would soon hit the fan. She couldn’t keep the photos to herself, it would be stupid of her not to disclose them. Who knew what the unknown sender was going to do next. The fact that the second photo showed her and one of the men she’d also had to name on the list was going to complicate things even more. She couldn’t even remember the guy’s surname, she’d blocked it from her mind for some reason – she only knew him as Gary. A heat spread across her cheeks. Not even knowing the full name of a man she’d slept with, and become pregnant by, did play on her mind. Her behaviour, particularly in the last year, had been questionable – the stress, the worry, had piled on, and her outlet had been meaningless one-night stands. Now that period of promiscuity was coming back to haunt her – again. As if it hadn’t been a big enough wake-up call to fall pregnant and then be punished by suffering a miscarriage, it appeared she was going to continue to pay for it.

Was that why the mystery photographer had taken this one in particular? They couldn’t possibly know, could they? Gary had no doubt told someone, though. He’d been very vocal when she’d informed him she was pregnant – even saying that he wanted them to be an item, make a future. She wished she hadn’t bothered telling him at all now – but at the time, it felt the right thing to do. It’d taken a lot to shake him off – a few white lies she wasn’t proud of – and in the end she’d got angry with him, told him to leave her alone. She was too old for him. He could do far better.

Connie tapped her pen against the edge of the desk, while simultaneously bouncing one leg, staring at the phone. Any minute now. Either Mack or Lindsay would’ve seen her email. They’d be calling. Wanting her to come into the station no doubt. All her nerve endings were jumping, her anxiety levels rising by the second. She could imagine what they were thinking, what they were assuming. She was going to add to the rather unsavoury picture the list painted her in by informing them of the photos. She would skim over the finer details of her and Gary, they didn’t need to know about her pregnancy, and the photo of her and Jonesy could be easily explained. But would they believe her?

What was taking them so long?

To take her mind off the impending call, Connie turned to her computer to check her emails. She was behind with all her admin, and she hadn’t listened to her phone messages either – she needed to keep sight of her own goals. Gaining new clients had been high on her list of priorities, and now, given she’d lost Steph, and Paul had completed his therapy, she desperately needed to build it up again. Her breath caught. She’d ‘lost Steph’. She hadn’t lost her, she’d been taken. And one way or another she had to make Lindsay believe there was more to it than suicide.

An email caught her attention.

From Miles. She took a deep breath. The bastard. Leaving her to identify the bodies, while he swanned about in Manchester. This better be good. She noted the subject heading:

PSYCHIATRIC REPORT – Jenna Ellison.



Right, so not about Brett. She’d given Miles too much credit, it seemed – his trip to Manchester was obviously unrelated to Steph’s case. Connie skim-read the email to double-check he hadn’t mentioned anything about Brett. Nothing. In fact, the only bit of text written by Miles which accompanied the attached file was: