Bad Sister(67)

Rage? The report showed evidence that Steph was angry at her mother, yes – but rage seemed a strong supposition. But then Connie only had access to the one report, and a redacted one at that. She could understand Steph’s hurt at being left to cope with the aftermath of the fire, such a traumatic experience to go through alone. However, Connie herself had seen no evidence of rage during their sessions. Anger, yes. Naturally.

Connie’s back tingled. The sensation prickled her skin, aggravating her nerve endings – like an itch deep inside her body. Unreachable. Something was off. She was missing something important. And it was to do with Steph’s mum. How could she find out what it was? Maybe there was a clue to this somewhere in Steph’s house. Connie slammed the laptop lid shut. Miles Prescott also knew more than he was willing to let on to Connie. That she was sure of. His sudden departure to Manchester the day Steph and Dylan were found, after Connie had relayed her concerns about Brett to him, was very suspect. He was avoiding talking to her, too. As yet, he’d been unable to give a satisfactory explanation about anything relating to Steph and the fire; her family. Brett. The whole thing felt wrong.

What was Miles covering up?

There was no way he’d respond to Connie on a weekend, so getting any answers from him would have to wait. But Connie might be able to get something from Steph’s house. The police wouldn’t have done a thorough search because as far as they were concerned it was a suicide. Any clues to what had been happening in the lead-up to Steph’s death might be there somewhere, waiting to be unearthed.

And she would find it. Tonight, under the cover of darkness, Connie would get into Steph’s house and conduct her own search.

She decided to catch the 6.20 p.m. train into Totnes, wait in her office until dark, then get a taxi to the end of Steph’s road. She wasn’t sure how she’d gain access to the property, it wasn’t like she’d done this sort of thing before. Now would be the perfect time to ‘fraternise’ with ex-cons – like Jonesy. His expertise would come in handy. Her heart rate shot up. She was planning on breaking and entering. What was she thinking? What if she got caught, how would that look? She was in enough bother without purposely putting herself in a stupid position.

She had no choice. She had to see if there was something that would clear Steph’s name. And prove Brett Ellison and Lindsay Wade and her team wrong.

After leaving the warmth of the taxi, Connie began to walk the length of Steph’s road. She casually glanced at Steph’s house as she approached it on her left, then swept her eyes around the estate, which contained roughly twelve houses: some terraced, some semi-detached. It had been ten o’clock when she hailed the taxi, and she supposed it’d taken about five minutes to reach the road she’d been dropped in. Lights shone in every house but Steph’s. Connie’s pulse jolted. A sadness swept over her.

Empty. The occupants dead. A void left behind.

What else had Steph left behind?

Nearing the pathway running to Steph’s house, Connie’s pace slowed. Then stopped altogether. Now she was close, she could see more clearly. Tears stung her eyes, a lump forming in her throat. Hundreds of tributes obscured the front wall of the house and littered the small, square garden. Damp, bedraggled teddy bears, candles, deflated silver helium balloons, bouquets of wilted flowers. Tributes – now as dead as those who once occupied the house.

Broken police tape, still partly attached to the metal railings and drainpipe, flapped gently in the breeze.

Maybe they did do a thorough search of the house, then. She should leave, be confident they did their job. There was a chance, though, that their search had been limited to finding something odd, out of place. What if the detail was ordinary, something easily missed by someone who didn’t know Steph?

She had to go in.

Connie forced her legs to move. She checked around her to see if anyone had noticed her standing there. She couldn’t see anyone. It seemed everyone was in their houses. If they’d seen her, they weren’t bothered. They’d probably become accustomed to spectators over the last week and now ignored anyone hanging around. Connie moved on, turning the corner at the end of the row of houses. She walked back on herself, on the road that would take her past the rear of Steph’s property.

She hesitated outside the large wooden gate at the back of Steph’s house. Once she breached the perimeter, she’d be committed to carrying out her sweep of the house. No going back. She took a deep breath and lifted the gate latch. It creaked, loudly.

Christ.

After one last check around her, Connie stepped inside, closing the gate behind her. She crept up to the back of the house, searching for the best place to enter. It was secure. No open windows. What had she expected? Taking her backpack off, Connie rummaged inside it for the torch. Keeping it low, she scanned the back garden for a stone large enough to break the glass. Connie took off her jumper and wrapped it around her arm, the one holding the stone, and with a quick, sharp jab hit the middle panel of glass in the back door. The tinkling of shattering glass filled the quiet night air. She released her breath, then cautiously reached inside and opened the door.

She was in.





CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE


Brett


She was going to take some convincing. He didn’t know what he’d expected; had he really thought that she’d immediately agree with him, take him at his word? She’d been seeing Jenna for months, listening to her side. And Jenna really was convincing. She’d spent eight years telling herself the same story. Even she believed it. As he had done. Once.