Bad Sister(75)

But Connie had changed her name for that exact reason – so that it wasn’t easy for anyone to find her: ex-prisoners, ex-colleagues, ex-anything. She let it slide for the moment, but the squirming doubt consumed her stomach – had he had help finding her? The usual suspects sprang to mind: Niall Frazer and Kelly Barton. Or had he merely followed the police trail? Had he been watching them? Was he the hooded figure she’d noticed? The thought lodged in her mind. Suddenly, she wanted this session to be over.

‘Your time’s up today, Brett.’

He gave a nod and stood up. Digging in his jeans pocket, he retrieved two scrunched-up twenty-pound notes and placed them on Connie’s desk.

‘That’s right, isn’t it?’ He looked into her eyes.

Connie felt weird about taking his money, despite that being the point of private therapy. She had to take it, though, otherwise she’d give the wrong impression.

‘Yes, thank you. Maybe you could discuss the arrangement with your probation officer, see if they can help with the cost of further sessions.’ Connie spoke quickly. A part of her hoped he wouldn’t return for another session. He’d found her. The suspicion of how would only grow from here.

Brett lingered, like he wanted to say something more. Connie walked around him to get to the door, opened it and stood aside, giving him his cue to leave.





CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN


Connie


A dull ache throbbed at her temples. That had been an intense hour. Brett had seemed reluctant to leave, even after she’d ushered him to the door. She was relieved when he finally thanked her and walked out. It wasn’t until she heard his feet descending the stairs that she realised her hands were shaking. She rested her head in her crossed arms on the desk, closing her eyes. What a tangled web. She didn’t know what to make of Brett; he came across as genuine enough. Angry, yes – but a killer? As with Steph, she’d yet to scratch the surface of Brett’s outer shell. They were similar in so many ways. Young, traumatised, damaged. The parents had a lot to answer for.

The more Connie thought about it, the more it was becoming clear the mother must hold the key. The letters Steph had written, the events Brett had spoken of – the mother was the common denominator. Connie turned to retrieve her bag from beside her desk – the zipped compartment was already open. She was sure she’d closed it properly. She tutted at her carelessness. Rummaging in her bag, she pulled out some of the letters, rereading them with a new perspective. The anger within the words was more directed, not only because she’d abandoned Steph after the fire, she could see it now. Steph blamed her mum for the whole thing. In their sessions Steph had only ever apportioned blame to Brett. Why, when these letters blatantly focused on the mother? And where did Brett’s dad, Steph’s stepdad, fit in to all of this?

How convenient the mother was ravaged by dementia. Maybe Connie should pay a visit to the home to find out how severe her condition really was. If she had lucid moments, then Connie might have a chance at uncovering the real story. Because there was more to this than she’d first thought. In a burst of energy she sat upright and found the number for the protected persons team. It took fifteen minutes of trying, but she came away with the address. The care home was a stone’s throw from Salford, Connie’s old stomping ground; the area she’d lived in when she and Luke had been youngsters. That was before her dad moved them to the ‘decent’ side of Manchester after Luke’d been killed.

Within seconds, Connie had formulated her plan. She’d phone the nursing home tomorrow, make the necessary arrangements, then go online to sort a train ticket. Amber could go to her mum’s, she’d be delighted to have a bit of company, and Connie would tell her she had decided to make an impromptu visit to her dad. Which meant she really would have to go and see him. Not that he’d bothered to see her when he was in Devon. It would keep the cost of the trip down, though, if she didn’t need to worry about accommodation. She needed to watch her expenditure. She didn’t want to go cap in hand to her dad.

A creaking noise from downstairs brought her back to the moment. Had Brett not left?

Damn. She hadn’t watched his departure out the window as she had before, too relieved he’d left the room. It didn’t cross her mind that he’d hang around inside the building. She checked the clock on her laptop. He left over twenty minutes ago, surely he wouldn’t have been inside for that long? She would’ve have heard him before now.

Slowly opening the desk drawer, Connie withdrew the only thing she could think might offer some protection. The large metal, double hole-punch. Armed with it, she tiptoed to the door, edging herself towards the top stair. She peered over the top of the banister.

Nothing.

Should she shout a warning from where she stood? Tell him she’d called the police? She strained to hear any movement.

A squeak – like a trainer on the lino flooring, reached her ears.

Someone was in the downstairs toilet.

Connie expelled the air she’d been holding in, lowering the arm wielding the hole punch. Brett must’ve just wanted to use the toilet before leaving.

But there was no sound of flushing. Hardly any sound at all, as if he was purposely attempting to go undetected. What was he playing at?

Another noise. A squeaking?

She descended the rest of the stairs and, raising the hole punch, approached the toilet door.