Bad Sister(60)

‘Wow. It’s not that bad a tattoo, is it?’ He laughed. ‘It’s a bird, Connie.’

‘Any significance?’

He frowned. ‘What? Why are you asking so many questions?’

‘Just curious.’

‘If you’ve asked me here to talk about tattoos, I think that’s a gross misappropriation of my time.’ He winked.

‘Big word for you, Niall.’

The atmosphere calmed, but Connie’s mind didn’t. The image of the photos depicting Hargreaves’ dead body, his tattoos, pushed to the forefront and nothing could replace them.

Or the thought that Niall’s tattoo seemed remarkably similar.





CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE


Connie


Friday 16 June

The anticipation had kept her awake; questions swamped her tired brain hour after hour. There was still time to call Brett and cancel the appointment for today. Give her more time to decide if seeing him was the right thing to do. But something was driving her on. It wasn’t merely curiosity, it was wanting to face the fear – do something that was actually quite risky, be brave enough to do it. Since being outed as one of the people responsible for Hargreaves’ release, Connie had shied away from doing anything remotely risky – instead playing it safe. Seeing Brett this morning was her way of taking back some control, being responsible for her own actions – and their consequences, again.

After shovelling a few mouthfuls of porridge in her mouth, Connie fled from her house and walked to the station quicker than she’d managed in weeks. She wanted to get the early train – one, to avoid Jonesy, and two, so she could be prepared for her ten o’clock appointment.

She shuddered at the thought.

How was she going to face this eighteen-year-old boy when she knew he’d not only killed his dad, but probably his sister and nephew too? She’d worked with plenty of killers, but somehow, this was different. Personal. She’d left the prison service, leaving behind the perpetrators of crime to counsel those affected by a criminal act. Now, here she was, about to have a session with a possible murderer.

She barely noticed the walk to her building, she was on auto-pilot. Once inside she headed straight up the stairs and started the computer, bringing up all the information she had from Steph’s sessions, plus the psych report she hadn’t fully read yet. She scribbled some notes, points she wanted to cover with Brett. The question that burnt in her mind was – why had he chosen to consult Connie? There was no way it could be a coincidence. Somehow, he knew that Steph had been her client.

What did he want from her?

The report flashed up on the screen. Connie read each and every word, ensuring she took it all in. It was as if she were reading about another girl, not Steph. But she had been a different person then. Jenna Ellison. Sixteen years old, and prior to the fire that destroyed her house and her life, Jenna had a mum, dad and brother. Although, Brett was not mentioned by name in this report. The part he played in the fire was skimmed over, barely mentioned. Or blanked out. Miles had said the document would be redacted, and he wasn’t kidding – huge chunks were black. Not for her eyes. She wondered what was so sensitive, so confidential, that she, as Steph’s psychologist, was unable to see it. Above all, she wondered why, given Miles had access to this report, he’d kept the information about Steph having a brother to himself – was it a mistake on his part? One of many, it seemed. From what Connie could gather from between the many lines of blacked-out text, the main focus of this report was the mother. And Steph’s feelings of abandonment.

It made for very depressing reading.

Connie made a few notes; there wasn’t much to go on. She dropped her pen as the noise of the buzzer blasted in her left ear. Her finger hesitated over the door release button. This was it. Once she let him in, there was no going back. She looked to her phone, a last-second doubt surfacing. No, she’d be fine. She’d dealt with so much worse in the prison. She took a deep breath and pressed the button.

She stood up and moved away from her desk, ready to greet her new client.

The footsteps grew closer; Connie’s heart banged hard against her ribs. The door swung open.

Brett strode in – assured, yet with an edge of vulnerability that flickered behind his eyes. He was tall, muscly and dark. His face had a hardness to it, one she’d seen many times from offenders who’d grown up in a prison environment; a deep scar ran from his temple to the top corner of his right eye. For a moment, they stared silently at each other. Each sizing up the other.

Connie was first to avert her eyes. She motioned to the chair she’d placed in front of her desk, and walked around to her own. She wanted to keep a barrier between them. Not her usual therapeutic style, but this was not her usual type of client. She’d positioned the phone close to her, in case she needed to make a 999 call. A large, heavy, metal hole-punch was also in reach. She blinked hard. She’d been alone with prisoners before. Murderers. Although in the prison, back-up had never been far away.

She’d been over and over this session in her head last night and this morning. Part of her knew she should’ve informed the police. But she had no evidence he’d done anything wrong since being released, neither did the police. And they’d given no weight to Connie’s feelings on the matter, practically dismissing her theory out of hand. So for now she decided to assess the situation as it happened. And right now, her concern was with how she was going to play this. Ignorant? No mention of Steph – Jenna? Let him do the talking. He sat down, his legs crossed at the ankles, his knees splayed out wide, white kneecaps jutting from ripped holes in his black jeans. He leant back, resting his interlocked hands over his groin. Relaxed. In control. He seemed to be waiting. Connie’s stomach knotted. This was going to be an uncomfortable hour.