Bad Sister(81)

As for Connie’s dad, now there was something she was right about. He was most definitely holding something back. Lying. To protect himself? To protect her and her mum? Or to protect Luke’s memory? She’d spent the rest of Tuesday night at his house, waiting for him to return after he walked out. When he came back it was like nothing had happened. He had brought takeaway home, and they sat watching TV while they ate and shared a bottle of wine. All very convivial. After her third glass, Connie told him about the photo the police had been given anonymously. Him in a bar. It turned out to have been taken while he was in Devon, the time he failed to see Connie. He’d shrugged it off, said it was just a business deal. No reason anyone should’ve taken a photo of them. Must’ve been merely to throw in a red herring, cause her to question him, he’d said. Connie couldn’t be as flippant. It felt like more than that. When she thought about the other photos, each were taken for a reason: her and Jonesy – to throw suspicion on her activities and give them cause to question whether she might’ve paid an ex-con to carry out a revenge attack; her and Gary in the house – to piss DS Mack off and further disaffect her relationship with the police. So the one of her dad and the unknown man were for what?

However hard Connie had pushed, her dad deflected every attack, and countered every argument she put forward with a reasoned response. She’d wanted to scream at the man, he was so exasperating. His final word on the matter that morning, before she got in the taxi, was: ‘That bastard Hargreaves messed your life up. Don’t let someone else carry on where he left off.’

What was that supposed to even mean?

Connie’s head throbbed. She didn’t want to visit Manchester again any time soon. Finally, at almost 3 p.m. the train drew into Coleton station. Stiff and tired, Connie jostled her way off the carriage, her overnight bag and laptop case banging awkwardly against other passengers. She looked cautiously up and down the platform before heading to the taxi rank. Now would not be a good time to run into Jonesy.

She’d told her mum she would pick up Amber, but too tired now, Connie gave the driver her home address instead – the cold lager was calling to her and the taxi would have her there in five minutes. She couldn’t wait.

The smell hit her first.

As soon as she swung her front door open, it assaulted her. She hadn’t even stepped inside. She put her hand to her nose. What was that? Gone-off food? She’d not even been gone two days. Nothing could smell that bad in such a short time, surely? Connie poked her head further in, and gagged. If she’d been at all healthy, she might have considered it to be rotting vegetables – broccoli perhaps. She took a deep breath and held it, rushing through the hallway to the kitchen. She’d have to open the windows and spray a can-full of Oust.

She stopped short of the window.

A dark oblong-shaped lump was situated in the centre of the kitchen floor.

She let out her breath and, with her hand cupped over her mouth and nose, stepped closer to inspect it.

A dead rat.

Connie’s stomach convulsed. She stepped over it and flung the window open wide. She threw her head out of it, gasping for fresher air. Amber had only ever brought a single field mouse inside the house before – how had she got this huge rat inside without her noticing?

Then she remembered.

Amber was at her mum’s. She couldn’t have left a rat in the middle of the kitchen before they left the house on Tuesday, Connie would’ve seen it.

In which case, how had it got there?

A chill shot through her insides, causing her to shudder violently.

Someone must have been in her house.





CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE


DI Wade


Wade walked up and down in front of the board where all their photographic evidence was displayed. Crime scene photos, murder victim in situ and post-mortem, the tattoos, and the Connie Summers photos – all linked by an invisible cord.

‘Come on, come on – it can’t be that complicated, there’s a clue here somewhere. Come on, show yourself,’ Lindsay said to herself.

‘First sign of madness.’ Mack had crept up behind her, making her jolt with surprise.

‘Bloody hell, Mack.’ Lindsay wiped at her shirtsleeve where her coffee had slopped over the rim of the cup.

‘Sorry, Boss.’

‘Anyway, I already exhibit a whole host of signs – talking to myself is the least scary one, I can tell you.’

Mack laughed. ‘Point taken.’

‘Apart from scalding your boss, did you have any other purpose for sneaking up behind me?’

‘Yes, actually.’ Mack gave a mock-superior look. Lindsay’s eyes widened in anticipation. ‘The teams didn’t bring you suspects, I’m afraid. But they did find someone who remembers seeing the white van that was used to transport our victim.’

‘Keep talking.’

‘He was going for his morning newspaper, same time as he does every day, 7.15 a.m. He walks the two-mile round trip to the post office in Ashbury to keep himself fit – he’s eighty-two years old—’

‘I don’t care about his exercise regime, Mack – or how old he is. Get on with it.’

‘Sorry. The van came speeding around the corner, heading out of the village, towards West Ashbury.’

Lindsay waved her hands impatiently. ‘And this is telling us what, exactly?’