Bad Sister(8)

‘Okay. Hope she lightens up a bit then if we have to work together.’

‘If you apologise for the fact you never called her before we arrived, then perhaps she will.’ Lindsay gave him an exaggerated wink.

‘For heaven’s sake. You aren’t going to let it go, are you?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Just drive.’





CHAPTER EIGHT


Connie


Connie had left her office early. The bitter taste left by the detectives’ visit, followed by a phone call asking her to be an ‘advisor’ for the case, meant she hadn’t felt like doing the admin she’d originally planned for the afternoon. Now, with the sun moving behind the house and dulling the interior of her lounge, she snuggled on the two-seater sofa with Amber, her long-haired Ragdoll cat, who was lolled across her lap. She felt herself relaxing as she stroked the cat’s long white fur. Careful not to disturb Amber, Connie reached to the other end of the sofa for the controls and turned on the television.

She pitched forwards in shock, unintentionally slumping Amber on to the sofa.

The place was uncomfortably familiar. Connie’s neck flushed, the way it did when stress or nerves took over her body, her left hand unconsciously moving to it, touching the heat. She didn’t want to look, but her eyes refused to shift from the TV – the red-brick walls, the high perimeter fence, spread across the screen as if mocking her. Not again. Why was this happening now?

The reporter’s voice blended into the background as Connie scanned the picture for clues. A white tent covered the area where Ricky’s body had been, nothing to see there. To the side of the reporter, a small crowd gathered. She recognised a couple as her former colleagues: officers, a woman from admin. The others were probably rubberneckers, the draw of a major crime too great an opportunity to pass up; their morbid curiosity outweighing any sense of moral integrity.

‘Although the victim’s identity hasn’t been officially confirmed, an inside source has spoken to Spotlight and it is believed that the deceased may be the same man released in December 2015 following an assessment by psychologist, Connie Moore.’

Connie’s head snapped back. Did they just say her name? Stabbing at the controls, she rewound the programme and let it play again. The room darkened. Connie’s head felt light, her hands clammy as not just her name was expelled from the TV, but her picture flashed up too. Connie’s jaw slackened. Why link her with this? They didn’t even know the man’s identity for sure. Her full attention now gained, Connie stared at the reporter. Skinny woman, early twenties, pinched expression, a nose too big for her face. She now had ridiculous purple-coloured hair, not the chestnut brown it had once been, and it was shorter – but it was undeniably the same person. Kelly Barton. What a bitch. Her dubious reporting skills had gone a long way to triggering the depression and anxiety that caused Connie to go off sick last year, following the aftermath of the Ricky incident. She’d fixated on Connie’s involvement over and above that of the other people who’d also had a hand in Hargreaves’ release, which made it appear Connie was solely to blame. She hated this woman. How dare she drag her into this.

The ringing of her mobile made her jump. She snatched it up from the table beside the sofa, knocking this morning’s coffee mug as she did, the curdling milky dregs splashing out. She shook the droplets from her hand, then rubbed it on her jeans.

The mobile display read Unknown caller.

Great. Was it starting again? One previous mistake. She’d thought it was over. But clearly others weren’t going to allow it to rest. And what would happen once his identity was confirmed, once they found out the police had come to her for help? When they knew her name had been found on Ricky’s body? A shudder rocked her. She got up from the sofa, paced the room, arms crossed tightly. The ringing stopped. Connie sighed. It was her work mobile, she’d purposely got a new one solely for her new business – she didn’t want to give her personal number out to clients. The unknown caller could be a prospective client responding to her advertisement.

The phone gave its sharp ring into the silence. Unknown caller, again.

Leave me alone.

Connie set it to silent. Hopefully, if they were clients, they’d leave a message and she’d return the calls tomorrow. She watched her hands. The tremor. Please don’t let it start again. She switched the TV off. A low buzzing sounded from her handbag. Her personal mobile. She rummaged in the pocket of the zipped compartment.

Her mum.

Inhaling deeply, Connie pressed the accept button.

‘Hey, Mum.’ Already tears pricked her eyes. How sad was it that her only ally was her mother? No boyfriend. No friend. She had some friends, but they were mostly linked to the prison. They weren’t close, more like acquaintances. And they certainly weren’t ones she wanted to speak to just yet.

‘Have you had a good day?’ Her mum’s concerned tone exposed her attempt at naivety. She’d definitely seen the news.

‘You saw it then.’

‘Oh, darling. I’m sure it’ll blow over. Again. They don’t even know it’s the same man.’ The hope was evident. Connie was about to crush that.

‘It is, Mum. It’s him.’

‘They—’

‘Mum. The police came to see me. It’s definite.’