Bad Sister(53)

‘I will, Miss. But if I’m honest, you’re freaking me out here. What’s going on? You seem afraid. I could help—’

‘No! Well, you can help – by staying away. Please.’

The screeching of the train pulling into the station was one of the most welcome sounds Connie had heard in a while – besides the popping of cork from a bottle of prosecco. She ran to the platform edge, her toes going beyond the safety line, and as soon as the train stopped and the door released, she jumped on it. The relief oozed from her as she found a seat and sat with her shoulders turned so she couldn’t see out of the window. Couldn’t see Jonesy. Had she dodged him quickly enough, though? The whole encounter must’ve only lasted a minute, but might someone still have had the opportunity to take a photo of them together? How could she avoid him in the future? It was impossible; he just turned up, what could she do about that?

Possible reasons why he kept showing up jumbled in her mind. Despite varying her schedule, he still appeared, like a bad penny. Connie was aware her breathing was more rapid than it should be, her pulse raised. Her heightened anxiety was too much. He’d asked if she was avoiding someone. But did he already know who, and why? Perhaps she should’ve asked him a few questions. Like, did he know they’d been photographed together? Had he been approached by anyone who’d asked about her?

Or was it Jonesy who was behind all of this? If so, what was it he wanted to achieve?

What did he want from her?





CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX


Connie


The atmosphere was different; the noisy room she’d been in last time she’d assisted the investigation now uncomfortably quiet. Numerous pairs of eyes followed her as she made her way over to Lindsay, who was sitting, her face turned away, talking to Mack. Connie daren’t look towards the whiteboard at the back of the room, the one she’d been fascinated with before. Because she knew the photos would be displayed there. The one of her and Jonesy. And the one with her and Gary. The man with no surname. Connie shivered. If she thought the atmosphere in the room was uncomfortable now, it would be unbearable after they’d grilled her.

Mack jumped up as she approached. Connie noted the paper in his hand. Her list.

‘Sorry. Someone should’ve shown you straight to the interview room, not here.’ He was abrupt, and didn’t make eye contact. Connie’s stomach dipped.

‘Fine,’ she said.

‘Follow me, Connie.’ Mack strutted off, his long strides meaning he was already halfway across the room before Connie had a chance to move. She walked quickly to catch up, checking over her shoulder to see where Lindsay was. She remained at her desk. Why wasn’t she going with them? Please don’t let it just be Mack interviewing me.

Just as she thought she’d lose him if he kept up his pace, Mack stopped, his left arm outstretched. ‘After you.’

Connie hurried to where he was, and entered a small, airless room. She pulled at the collar of her shirt. It was a lightweight cotton one, but suddenly it seemed heavy, restrictive. A layer of heat covered her skin. She sat down where Mack indicated and waited for him to begin. As well as the list, he’d brought a file with him. He shuffled through it now, his head bowed. Silent. Connie fidgeted with the silver wishbone ring on her right fourth finger, rotating it around and around. Still, Mack was quiet. Then he placed two photographs on the table between them. They looked to be the same size as those she had in her bag. Connie kept her eyes on Mack’s face.

‘You have a right to consult a solicitor if you wish,’ he said, finally breaking the silence. Connie swallowed hard.

‘Are you charging me with something? Do I need a solicitor?’

‘You are not under caution, no, this is informal. At this point. But you can still have someone with you, or call a solicitor.’

‘No. I’m good, thanks. I’ve done nothing wrong.’ Connie reached down, taking her handbag, and retrieved her brown envelope. Mack frowned. She had told Lindsay that she’d received photographs, too. But Mack looked puzzled.

‘So, we received two photographs from an unknown source,’ Mack said, his eyes not making contact with hers. He separated the photos, turned them and pushed them towards her. Connie stared. The first one was no surprise; it depicted the same scene as the one she’d been given: her and Jonesy on the steps to the station bridge. She’d fully expected the other to be her and Gary. But it wasn’t. Her shoulders fell.

It was her dad. In the photo, he was in what looked like a bar, shaking another man’s hand. Why had the mystery photographer sent the police a photo of her dad?

‘For the record, can you state who you see in each of these pictures?’ Mack’s voice was steady.

‘Yes,’ Connie attempted to keep the wobble in her voice under control, ‘the one on the left is myself, and a man called Trevor Jones. And on the right is my father, Ian Moore. I don’t know who he’s with.’

Mack snorted. ‘Are you sure about that?’ He leaned forward, his upper body protruding over her side of the table.

She sat back heavily, her superficial composure now totally shaken. ‘Yes, I’m quite sure. I don’t recognise him. Why? Should I?’

Mack didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for the envelope she had placed to the side of her elbow. She resisted the urge to slam her hand on top of it, preventing him from taking it. She had no desire to speak to him about the photo of her and Gary, for him to question her about who he was, what she was doing in his house, or anything else related to him. Her memory of Gary had been blighted by the aftermath of one night of drunken sex. Having to detail it to DS Mack was not something she wished to go through. Particularly as it appeared that he’d got over his one episode of being nice to her that day when he’d visited her at her consultancy, and was now back to his delightfully polite self.