Bad Sister(52)

I’ve had the report that was written on Stephanie (Jenna Ellison) redacted as necessary, but hope it’s of some use – you’ll note that she had a history of lying.



Miles had made his mind up about her. And he clearly wasn’t interested in digging further. Particularly as now she was no longer his problem. He wouldn’t want the mess that a murder investigation would bring, not so close to his retirement – his unblemished career to date, ruined. No. He’d want to brush all this under the carpet – forget about Stephanie and Dylan. And with the police writing their deaths off as suicide, she was on her own.

It was going to be down to her to ensure justice was brought for Steph and her son.

The phone’s shrill ring gave her a start.

This was it. She’d have to tell them about the photos. Would she be able to convince Lindsay and Mack that her meeting with Jonesy was purely coincidental? How much would they want to know about the list of names she’d sent? This was going to be an uncomfortable conversation.

She picked up the phone, and with an unsteady hand, put the receiver to her ear.





CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR


Then


I can’t remember how I started the fire, where I set it – but I can guess. And Jenna told me, that night when she screamed at me. I remember that clearly. Her face, white and angry: her eyes popping, her mouth wide – spit hanging in long trails. She looked mad, like a vicious, drooling dog. She also wrote to me and explained how it had happened, how she’d heard me go downstairs after setting the fire outside Mum and Dad’s room.

I was a freak, she’d said.

Everyone said that, so it must be true. It’s why I started fires all the time. Because I was weird. The court reckoned I didn’t really mean to kill my dad. I don’t think I meant to either. If anything, it was more likely I was trying to kill her – my wicked stepmother – so I could have my dad to myself again.

But Polly said I should look through a new lens at my past.

I didn’t get her at first, thought she was chatting shit. But then she explained better. She told me that I needed to wipe my mind of what I’d been told, and of what I thought I remembered about that night. That I should take this new lens (which wasn’t a real thing, she said it was metaphorical, or something) and look through it – concentrating specifically on that day: start in the morning, and go through until I got to the end. I assumed she meant the end of that night, when I was taken away by the police for murdering my dad.

So I used the relaxing techniques she’d taught me, and emptied my mind. It was like meditation.

And it worked.





CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE


Connie


The conversation was terse. Connie had opened her mouth, ready to tell Lindsay about the photos, but she’d jumped in first, and informed her that they’d been in receipt of a package containing photos of her and Jonesy. Her stomach lurched, so much so that she grasped it, holding on to it tightly. Whoever had sent the photos to her had also sent some to the police. What if they’d also gone to the papers – to Kelly Barton? When Lindsay had stopped talking, Connie told her she had photos, too. The call was brought to an abrupt end.

Connie took the envelope, shoving it roughly into her bag, and left her office.

She’d been summoned to the police station.

Her footsteps clacking along the train station platform sounded a tap dance. Why was she rushing? The train wasn’t even there yet, but there was an urgency. She wanted to be on it, safely enclosed in a carriage. Not outside, in the open; vulnerable. The tannoy boomed – the distorted voice telling her the train was due in five minutes. Head lowered, Connie made her way to the waiting room, then, seeing a dark figure of a man sat inside, thought better of it. It was only five minutes; she’d be fine to wait outside. There was nothing to be worried about. She leant up against the building and, retrieving her work mobile from her handbag, scrolled through her texts. The last one was a message informing her she had one new voicemail.

With the phone pressed to her ear, Connie listened. She squinted in concentration, the line breaking up several times. It was an enquiry, she guessed, a new client wanting her services. Excellent. Good timing. She saved the message so she could decipher it when she was somewhere quieter and contact him to arrange an initial consultation.

‘Hello, Miss.’ The voice came from nowhere, and together with the accompanied tap on her shoulder, caused Connie to leap away from its source.

Now, this wasn’t good timing. Not in the slightest.

Connie faced Jonesy, and without a thought, shouted, ‘What the hell are you doing?’

The man in the waiting room briefly looked in her direction, then returned his attention to his newspaper.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to make you jump.’ Jonesy smiled, exposing a row of blackened teeth.

‘Well, you did.’ She craned her head so she could take in the rest of the platform, and checked the bridge, too. No one with a camera that she could see.

‘What’s up? You’re jumpy.’ Jonesy followed suit, looking furtively up and down the station. ‘You trying to find someone or avoid them?’

‘Look, I’m sorry to be rude, but I can’t be seen with you.’ Connie walked purposefully in the opposite direction. Jonesy followed, skipping along beside her. She stopped. ‘Really. Please, you have to leave me alone.’ Jonesy’s face crumpled, and for a horrible moment it looked as though he was going to cry. But then Connie realised it was his ‘confused face’. She recalled it from group sessions. He’d used it when she’d asked him uncomfortable questions in front of the other prisoners.