Bad Sister(78)

‘If they wanted to get to me, they could. I don’t know why they would want to play games, go all around the houses by frightening you first. That doesn’t make sense.’

‘No, no it doesn’t.’ Connie had to agree. ‘So, it’s for Luke then. Like they said.’

‘You think it has something to do with the stabbing at the football ground, all those years ago? Why now?’

‘I can’t figure that out either, Dad. Who else would feel the need to get revenge for Luke?’

‘I can’t imagine anyone would. It was an accident – the coroner’s inquest said as much.’

‘Really, Dad? He returned an open verdict, actually. And that was because he was unable to come to a clear picture of the events that led to his death. Are you sticking with this story even now I’ve shown you the memory stick? Is it because you’ve told yourself that for so long you’ve come to believe it yourself?’

‘I can’t do this now.’ Her dad checked his watch. ‘I’m late for a meeting. There’s plenty of food in the fridge, help yourself. Wine is in the garage.’

And he walked out.

Connie was no further forward. She rushed to the front window and watched him get in his car. He didn’t drive off, though, he stayed in the driveway, mobile phone to his ear. Connie squinted, and with a finger, edged one of the vertical blinds to the side to get a clearer view. He seemed to be shouting – his actions were animated, his face red. Someone was getting an earful.

I wonder who?





CHAPTER EIGHTY


Connie


After a snoop around the house, Connie concluded there was nothing that would offer any clues to what had really happened with Luke that night. Her dad wasn’t going to be stupid enough to leave something incriminating in the house. She stopped short. Incriminating? What was it she thought she’d find anyway? Did she honestly believe that her dad had something to do with Luke’s death, that somehow, he was responsible? Had that been the intent of whoever had given her the memory stick – to drive a wedge even further between her and her dad? She had to admit, it was working. Maybe it was all a ruse.

As he so often did when there was any discontent, any hint of being put in a difficult situation, her father had walked away rather than face awkward questions. He was an expert. She might visit his offices later; he couldn’t run from her forever. For now, she had another person to visit – someone else she suspected was in retreat from the truth.

The nursing home was basic. No unnecessary flourishes, no home comforts. Enough to fulfil the requirements; adequate but nothing more. Connie’s heart sank as she walked through the corridors, catching sight of the building’s occupants. Some of them looked like they’d had all their happy memories taken from them via horrific means – Connie was immediately reminded of Harry Potter, and the hideous Dementors who sucked the very souls from people’s mouths. These poor people resembled empty shells; dummies.

What a depressing place to end your days. Connie slowed her breathing, trying not to take in the aroma of stale urine and that unique ‘old-people’ musty smell. Her hope for gaining answers from Mrs Ellison diminished as she progressed through the home. Finally, the care assistant who she’d been following slowed.

‘She’s in ’ere. But she won’t speak to you, you know that, right?’

Connie smiled thinly. ‘Yes, I understand. I just want to sit with her, talk to her.’ She wanted to add, ‘Because it doesn’t look like she’s had any human interaction for years,’ but refrained. The emaciated woman, dressed in a flimsy nightie, sat in a Parker Knoll chair, hands limp in her lap, staring dead ahead – presumably out of the window. Connie followed her gaze. A high red-brick wall was her only view. She turned to the care assistant to give her a nod in the hope she’d leave them alone, but she’d already gone, the door swinging shut and banging in its frame. Connie shook her head.

She looked around the room. There was a single plastic chair in the corner, so she took it and positioned it next to the woman. Now she was beside her, Connie saw the pallor to her skin, the deep wrinkles at her eyes, her mouth creased and dry. She hadn’t responded at all to Connie’s entrance. Not a flicker of acknowledgement. Connie took the crocheted shawl that hung over the arm of the chair and gently moved Rosie Ellison forwards, draping it around her bony shoulders. Still nothing.

Connie resigned herself to the fact she wasn’t going to find out anything about the fire. She wasn’t going to find out anything about anything. Instead, she decided to just chat to her, talk about Steph – Jenna – and Dylan. Would she even know who Dylan was though? She’d probably never met him, heard his name even.

After Connie had been talking for what felt like an hour, her mouth dry from her constant one-way conversation, a head popped around the door to the room.

‘How’s it going, love?’

‘Oh, you know.’ Connie gave a shrug.

The nurse came in, and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘She’s a bit of an enigma, our Rosie.’ She reached across and gave the woman’s arm a gentle rub.

‘How do you mean?’

‘She’s been here years, ever since I started working here. And that’s far too long for anyone.’ She laughed. Her face was kind, and she seemed as though she was actually interested in Rosie. ‘And sometimes I catch her,’ she whispered.