One Little Lie
One Little Lie
Sam Carrington
‘Sam Carrington has done it again. One Little Lie is a twisty, gripping read. I loved it.’ Cass Green‘Expertly written … with plentiful twists and unforgettable characters, it's an insightful and unnerving read.’ Caroline Mitchell‘My name is Alice. And my son is a murderer.’Deborah’s son was killed four years ago. Alice’s son is in prison for committing that crime.Deborah would give anything to have her boy back, and Alice would do anything to right her son’s wrongs.Driven by guilt and the need for redemption, Alice has started a support group for parents with troubled children. But as the network begins to grow, she soon finds out just how easy it is for one little lie to spiral out of control…They call it mother’s intuition, but can you ever really know your own child?Deeply psychological and suspenseful, One Little Lie is a twisty and unnerving story about the price of motherhood and the unthinkable things we do to protect our children.Perfect for fans of Cara Hunter and Laura Marshall.
Copyright (#u25a33c1e-5ccb-55dc-ab2c-89e481efcd60)
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Sam Carrington 2018
Cover design © www.blacksheep-uk.com (http://www.blacksheep-uk.com) 2018
Cover photograph © Arcangel
Sam Carrington asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008300814
Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008328689
Version: 2018-09-20
Dedication (#u25a33c1e-5ccb-55dc-ab2c-89e481efcd60)
For my sons, Louis and Nathaniel. You make me proud every day.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u45eaa88a-e48b-5cde-acde-8010e54c7ba5)
Title Page (#u7735c671-d881-557b-937f-ece1ff0477ec)
Copyright (#ud0c455ba-2e7f-51f7-83a0-20ef5d5ea829)
Dedication (#u32fe873c-0eb2-5944-ab3c-7c4f1331866a)
Prologue: 19th March 2014 – Exeter Crown Court (#ud1da805e-94d3-5e9a-8aae-c3009f3f96bc)
Part One (#u772657cc-4b82-5829-b2e5-fe082c108562)
Chapter One: Alice (#u4841af61-2866-5746-aff3-31a69162508b)
Chapter Two: Connie (#u9ba2e5b4-fcb3-5a67-b165-893a2e77737f)
Chapter Three: Connie (#u93bccac0-7f29-55e9-91a1-b4fbd76facc5)
Chapter Four: Alice (#u284d34c4-8781-5fb1-9b35-4a261271a187)
Chapter Five: Connie (#u1eaaf2dc-9f39-53af-9e4a-38a9f27ed90c)
Chapter Six: Alice (#uf084fc62-9b67-51c0-907b-1f7abd388919)
Chapter Seven: Connie (#ud890bbcc-8117-5b4f-9b4e-ca33052ed685)
Chapter Eight: Deborah (#uee7c540e-a0ad-5f06-8362-dcae6afa23d0)
Chapter Nine: Connie (#u2f493552-322f-559d-a28a-105b3037a019)
Chapter Ten: Alice (#ua07b1766-2fdb-53a9-b7fe-d61205a3e220)
Chapter Eleven: Connie (#u36d56bd7-aede-5564-aea8-452594bdb53a)
Chapter Twelve: Deborah (#uc233aaa6-f25e-5d90-b6ba-88914c26b188)
Chapter Thirteen: Connie (#u739e3344-42aa-5b61-b69e-8f6bba3d69e4)
Chapter Fourteen: Alice (#u2bee9902-88ca-5b18-bc0a-c9a84c56c33e)
Chapter Fifteen: Deborah (#u9f6d101c-8cbd-5c11-90d6-210b7a94440b)
Chapter Sixteen: Connie (#u38fc3024-9c6c-5651-a0f4-ccb1b653a10a)
Chapter Seventeen: Connie (#u70c9a690-16cc-53d5-9271-caa41d1998e4)
Chapter Eighteen: Deborah (#u09acea0f-1adc-51f1-901f-97409aea7d17)
Chapter Nineteen: Alice (#u46571f17-64ee-5d84-a7ac-d38700407acc)
Chapter Twenty: Connie (#u31d6299b-1620-5f87-83d8-b3bc11b12051)
Chapter Twenty-One: Connie (#u6b86f33d-3246-586d-9875-4c3be6cafc3b)
Chapter Twenty-Two: Tom (#u1611c0ac-bc19-5b6a-8ba6-8d567b28b904)
Chapter Twenty-Three: Deborah (#u1fce8a6b-3c27-5e65-85f7-a3f030d46b67)
Chapter Twenty-Four: Alice (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six: Alice (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty: Alice (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three: Alice (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Alice (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Five: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Six: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Seven: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Eight: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Nine: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-One: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Two: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Five: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Six: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Seven: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Eight: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Nine: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-One: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Two: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Three: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Five: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Six: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Seven: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Eight: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Nine: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-One: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Two: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Three: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Five: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Six: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Seven: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Eight: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Nine: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-One: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Two: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Four: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Five: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Six: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Seven: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Eight: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Nine: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-One: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Two: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Five: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Six: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Seven: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Eight: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Nine: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and One: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Two: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Four: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Five: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Six: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Seven: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Eight: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Nine: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Ten: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Twelve: Alice (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue: Monday 6th August 2018 (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#u25a33c1e-5ccb-55dc-ab2c-89e481efcd60)
19th March 2014 – Exeter Crown Court (#u25a33c1e-5ccb-55dc-ab2c-89e481efcd60)
‘It took approximately eight hours for Sean Taylor to die.’
She listened as the man spoke, her heart beating a little faster, her eyes blinking a little more than necessary. She shifted in her seat. Her bottom was numb, her legs heavy. She didn’t want to hear the details. She needed to. Her gaze fixed on the coroner; she couldn’t move her limbs and escape the courtroom, couldn’t close her ears to the words.
She had to know.
‘The stab wound to the back of his neck entered between cervical C5 and C6, causing complete severance of the spinal cord. Not immediately fatal, but it would’ve paralysed him.’
A tight band constricted her chest wall, threatening to squash her heart. Still, she listened.
‘He lay, unable to move, in his own blood for hours. It wasn’t until the tide came in fully that his life was finally taken.’
‘So, cause of death was drowning?’
The man’s left eye twitched. It was visible even from her seat in the gallery. ‘Well, officially, yes – suffocation from water was the decisive factor. But, clearly, the stab which caused—’
‘That will be all, Doctor Varsey. No further questions.’
The young man in the dock was standing very still – like a shop dummy, frozen in position by the person who put it there. Unmoved by proceedings. His mop of blond hair fell in loose curls, covering his eyes. Blocking his guilt from view. How could this unremarkable eighteen-year-old have caused so much devastation?
She swallowed.
He deserved what was coming to him. Didn’t he? A lifetime in prison.
A life for a life.
But he wasn’t the only one who needed to be punished.
PART ONE (#u25a33c1e-5ccb-55dc-ab2c-89e481efcd60)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_6812d50e-5eb7-53cf-ae04-359d311240e1)
Alice (#ulink_6812d50e-5eb7-53cf-ae04-359d311240e1)
Wednesday 31st January 2018
The chairs form an almost perfect circle. I manoeuvre the last two so they have equal distance between them. It’s important I try to maintain the personal space of those who’ll be seated here. Satisfied, I step back to check. Only one chair is different – double the room either side of it – separated from the rest of them. It’s also the only soft-furnished chair, the others being brown plastic.
This is my chair.
I’m their leader. I need to be seen easily by all the members – all eyes will need to be able to find mine. Eye contact is so important. That’s how they can see my empathy. My pain. Share it all with me.
Ten minutes left to wait.
It’s taken a few months of organisation: a lot of online chats, convincing others there was need for in-person interaction rather than virtual, finding an appropriate venue. Hopefully there’ll be a good turnout; at least six. I’ve optimistically put out ten chairs. Not a big group, but that doesn’t matter. Not to begin with. It will grow, once people realise how much they’re gaining. How much help and support it will offer them. And then they’ll travel from further afield to be a part of my group, a part of each other’s lives.
Five minutes.
A fizz of excitement bubbles inside my stomach. Most people wouldn’t understand that. Not with the type of group I’m running.
But this means a lot to me.
This is going to help redeem me.
‘Hello.’ A quiet, hesitant voice drifts in from the outer door of the church hall.
I straighten, my muscles hardening for a few seconds before I recover. I deftly smooth my black pencil-skirt with both hands, and pat my hair – the new curly style is taking some getting used to. I take small, quick steps towards the voice.
‘Welcome, I’m Alice Mann, come on in.’ I’m relieved to hear the words effortlessly flowing from my mouth as I thrust my hand into the palm of my first group member. The robust, ruddy-faced woman gives a shaky smile in return.
‘Wendy,’ she manages, her eyes flitting around the church hall.
I can tell she’s nervous. I must put Wendy at ease quickly, to make sure she stays; doesn’t turn tail at the first opportunity, or only attend this first session and never return.
‘A church,’ Wendy says. ‘Is it appropriate?’
‘Well, the church hall, to be exact,’ I say, as confidently as I can. ‘It’s the only venue I could secure locally.’ I pop my arm around Wendy’s shoulders and guide her to a chair.
I did wonder if this would be the best place, but I’d been limited. And this only cost £25 for two hours. It’s not like we’re in the actual church. But anyway, isn’t God meant to forgive people their sins? And the people coming to my group aren’t the ones who’ve sinned. I keep this thought to myself.
The sound of footsteps catches my attention. A sigh of relief forms but dies in my throat. At least it’s not going to be just the two of us. That would be a disaster. I smile as I greet four more people: three women and one man. I hope he won’t be the only male. It’s important to have a good selection.
After a few minutes of mumblings, squeaking of metal legs on the wooden floor, shuffling of bodies into a comfortable position – the room falls silent.
I can hear my own breath as it escapes my lips.
Six people, including me. All here for the same thing.
‘Welcome to the group.’ My enthusiastic voice fills the high-ceilinged room, and I almost jump – it sounds loud, unfamiliar. ‘I’m really pleased you’ve made it here today.’ I take a moment to look directly at each of the group members in turn. ‘I thought we’d start by going around the circle, each giving a brief introduction, start getting to know each other.’
A few people drop their gaze from mine. They don’t want to be the first to speak, the first to verbalise the reason they’re here. It’s easy, online, you see. To talk in a chat room, remain anonymous, unseen. This is different, and it’ll take a while before they build up trust in each other. In me. It will take time before they can be themselves. I can relate to that. I’m not even at that stage myself, yet.
I’ll start. I am the leader, after all.
‘Okay. I’ll begin.’ I take a large lungful of air, and slowly expel it before speaking again.
‘My name is Alice. And my son is a murderer.’
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_2abb3236-dfe9-563e-805a-e0d6f96e7f80)
Connie (#ulink_2abb3236-dfe9-563e-805a-e0d6f96e7f80)
Connie Summers all but sprinted up the hill towards the building that housed her psychological therapy practice, puffs of breath clouding the cold space in front of her. Eight months ago, she’d struggled to walk it – extra weight gained through long periods of stress-related binge-eating had taken its toll and prevented her from even ascending stairs without gasping for air. But when her new housemate had moved in, so too did a new regime: healthy eating, gym sessions, hikes over the moors. Detective Inspector Lindsay Wade had brought the best out in Connie.
Not everything in Connie’s life was rosy, though. The weight of worry still hunched her shoulders and tugged at her thoughts – still meant she couldn’t fully relax. Even now, as she strode past the familiar Totnes shops, flashbacks permeated her mind in short, sharp bursts. The images – bright, vivid and unwelcome – came to her when she didn’t even realise she was thinking about the events that had shaken her so profoundly last year.
Connie hadn’t fully recovered from the aftermath of her involvement in the Hargreaves’ murder, and she doubted she ever would. It was bad enough that she’d been one of the professionals responsible for the decision to release Ricky Hargreaves from prison, when days later he reoffended by raping a woman, but to then be dragged into Ricky’s murder case a year later when she’d begun to put her prison career behind her – it was like the red-blood icing on a poisoned cake. She’d lost clients, quite literally, due to a cruel twist of fate: the lethal mix of her previous work with offenders and her own father’s criminal links. The innocent faces of the young woman and her little boy – both now dead – were still at the forefront of Connie’s mind. She’d also struggled financially – her failure to drag herself to work every day, coupled with an inability to motivate herself to build her business back up, took its toll. This wasn’t only a direct effect of Hargreaves, but also her family’s own dubious past, its secrets unexpectedly revealing themselves, causing her thoughts to spiral uncontrollably for a while. Lindsay moving in had helped, enabling her to afford the mortgage repayments and the rent on her business premises. But it wasn’t the main reason Connie had suggested the arrangement. A friend was what she really needed.
Despite the memories haunting her walk to work, Connie was looking forwards to starting the week by welcoming a new client. Having completed the journey from the train station through the narrow side streets onto High Street and up the hill towards East Gate Arch, all in a dazed fog, Connie came back to the moment as she reached her building. She shook her head to clear it, took a breath and unlocked the blue front door. After taking a few steps across the reception area, she dashed up the stairs, giving a cursory glance at the newly installed security camera as she went. She unravelled her scarf and slung it, together with her coat, on the stand in the corner of her upstairs consulting room. The gentle clanking of the radiator filled the room – she’d timed it to come on at 8.45 a.m., so it was comfortable by 9 a.m. Connie went back downstairs to make a coffee, to let warmth replace the chill of the room before beginning her day.
Mug cradled in both hands, the heat penetrating her cold fingers, Connie leant back in her chair and listened to her answerphone. The third message made her sit forwards abruptly, spilling her coffee over the desk. What the hell?
‘Long time no speak, Con,’ the overly cheerful female voice said.
Connie reached forwards to delete the message before it played out, her finger hovering over the button. Curiosity prevented her from pressing it.
‘I know this might be a long shot,’ Jen paused, and Connie heard a sigh before she carried on. ‘But we’re in the shit here, really. You know how it is: lack of staff, too many prisoners to assess, parole board breathing down our necks. We’re swamped.’
A worm of dread began its journey through her stomach. She knew where this was heading.
‘So, anyway. The psych department has had permission to draft in some help, by way of independent psychologists popping in to carry out some of the backlog of reports. Obviously, I thought of you. You’re local, know the job, the prison. It makes sense. There are only a few men to assess, but the money will be good.’ There was another pause. ‘I thought perhaps you might appreciate a bit of extra income at the moment?’
Yes. She would. But, there was no way she’d be returning to HMP Baymead, no matter how much they paid her.
‘Think about it, eh, Con? Would be great to see you. Give me a call!’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_29d529fd-785f-54c4-8c84-f1f6a871b9ea)
Connie (#ulink_29d529fd-785f-54c4-8c84-f1f6a871b9ea)
‘It might not be such a bad idea,’ Lindsay said, sitting on the sofa with one leg tucked under her, both hands nursing her second mug of coffee.
‘Really? After everything that happened there? After leaving because of the fallout?’ Connie took a long, drawn-out breath. Even thinking about it was increasing her anxiety levels. Although if she was being honest, those levels had been elevated ever since listening to Jen’s message yesterday. The decision to leave her lead psychologist position at HMP Baymead had been the best move for her – she’d been off sick for months before she resigned, the fear of making another error of judgement too much in the end. She’d needed to feel as though she was contributing to something good, so made the focus of her new practice counselling those who’d been affected by crime. Victims, not offenders.
‘Think about it logically. And, you know – financially …’ Lindsay raised her eyebrows so they disappeared beneath her red fringe.
‘Yeah, I need the money. But I’m really not sure it’s worth putting my well-being at risk by going back in there. When I left, it was for good.’
‘Okay.’ Lindsay shrugged. ‘Say no, then.’
Connie narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you trying reverse psychology on me, Wade? That’s not your area.’
‘No. Although, I am quite good at it. Picked it up from the best.’ She wrinkled her nose and smiled.
‘Well, stop it.’ Connie got up from the sofa and walked to the window. A crisp, white layer of frost covered the ground. She shivered. She wasn’t ready for this. Not ready, nor willing to go backwards.
‘How many reports is Jen asking you to complete?’
‘A few.’ Connie made quotation marks with her fingers.
‘So what’s that, in terms of time within the prison walls?’
‘Three, maybe four days. I’d only need to see each prisoner for two sessions, I reckon. Then the rest could be done at home.’
‘So not even a week. Easy money, then.’ Lindsay’s voice softened. ‘I’m here, you know, to support you. It wouldn’t be like before.’ She got up and strode towards Connie, embracing her in a quick, tight hug. ‘I must get going – don’t want to be late for the morning briefing. Mack will take the lead without me, and I can’t have him feeling too important.’
Connie listened as Lindsay’s footsteps hurried through the house, grabbing her coat and bag. She heard the jangling of keys, then the slam of the front door. She didn’t relish the silence of the house when Lindsay wasn’t in it. She watched from the window as Lindsay got in her car and drove off, waving, as she always did.
Lindsay didn’t understand the battle Connie was having inside her head. Not fully. It wasn’t only the thought of going back into the prison causing her anxiety, it was the responsibility of compiling the written reports. What if she got it wrong again? And by worrying about being too positive about the prisoner, she’d probably err on the side of caution and perhaps not give a balanced, objective report. Just in case. Whatever way she played it, she would be wrong. And she wasn’t prepared to chance having another person’s life – or death – on her conscience.
Connie flung herself back on the sofa and lay with both arms crossed above her head. The money would come in useful. Lindsay was right about that. Having her as a support, knowing she’d have someone other than her mother to lean on, was reassuring. Lindsay hadn’t let her down – she’d been through the Hargreaves situation with her. She’d been the detective inspector on the case, and, after the initial frostiness between them, they’d come together for the common cause.
And then Lindsay had saved her. Literally saved her life.
She trusted Lindsay implicitly.
Connie pushed herself up. She’d give herself another day or two to consider it before calling Jen. For now, she had her own work to focus on. Her new client yesterday had been a woman whose son had been convicted of murder four years ago, and she’d presented with huge guilt issues. Her life had been upturned, she’d been hounded from the town she’d lived her life in, and although she was making progress in Totnes, she couldn’t get over the knowledge her own flesh and blood – a boy she’d brought up – could’ve ever committed such a heinous crime.
After the initial consultation, it had become clear to Connie that she had an ethical dilemma on her hands. Her new client, Alice Mann, had spoken of her son’s crime and an alarm of recognition rang in her head.
Her son was Kyle Mann.
And Connie knew him.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_0d72df4e-84c7-595c-8afd-4956b604b8e6)
Alice (#ulink_0d72df4e-84c7-595c-8afd-4956b604b8e6)
My knees are wobbling. I’m glad I chose a long skirt – only I know they’re shaking as I reach to press the doorbell. I know it’s working because I can hear the tacky tune it plays within the house. I wait for movement, looking through the patterned glass of the door. I lick my lips; the roughness catches my tongue. I can’t swallow either, all moisture has left my mouth and throat.
Maybe no one is in.
I’m not going to be able to ring again. My heart is already dancing along at a rate that can’t be good for me. This is my second attempt. At least I managed the bell this time. Last week I only got as far as the gateway. This is progress.
I turn, and, disappointed in my weakness, walk away from the house.
I see a flutter of a curtain as I pass by the house next door. A nosy neighbour, no doubt. I wonder if they saw me last week, too.
Oh well. Doesn’t matter if they did. I’m not doing anything wrong. In fact, what I’m trying to do is make things right. It’s all I want. I’m doing well so far, I reckon. I’ve set up the support group, I’ve even begun therapy myself. I’ve made huge leaps.
None of it was my fault. I didn’t make him do it.
I repeat this mantra a lot. I cannot be held responsible for his actions.
But I am accountable for my own. And while I didn’t make him do it, I didn’t stop him either. That’s what they said in the newspapers. What people gossiped about at the post office, in the local shops. I saw it, heard it.
It’s always the mother who gets blamed. Something she did, or didn’t do, when the child was growing up; some sort of neglect during that delicate stage of development. Lack of attention, lack of love, lack of stimulation. The list is endless. Who even decides this stuff? Who has the right to question the parenting skills of others? Probably some stuck-up university toff. What do they know about parenting?
I did my best.
Or is that another lie I tell myself every day?
‘Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs,’ I say quietly, making a sign of the cross on my chest as I slowly head back to the bus stop.
I get off the bus at a different stop than usual. I don’t want to go home. I can’t face that right now.
I slip and slide up the road towards the café at the top end of Fore Street. I wish I’d worn trainers instead of these ankle boots. The sole has little traction, and although there are only a few frosty patches on the pavements, I feel vulnerable. What if I fall and break an ankle?
I’m being silly. It’s not like I’m old, with brittle bones. I shouldn’t be worrying about stuff like this. I’m only fifty-five. If it hadn’t been for these past four years, I’d feel a lot younger, I’m sure. This has prematurely aged me.
The familiar sensation of prickling begins at the top of my nose, my eyes water. The cold makes them sting.
Don’t cry. Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t helping anyone. Neither is feeling guilty.
My preferred table in the corner of the café, practically hidden from view, is taken. Now what? I hesitate. It might be better to leave. But no one really knows me here. My face won’t be recognised. I am anonymous. With a confidence I’m unsure of the source of, I position myself at the table by the window.
It’s only when I have ordered my latte that I allow myself to look outside. I can see the psychologist’s building from here – down the hill a bit, on the left, before East Gate Arch. I have another session with Connie Summers on Monday. Our first meeting involved a lot of background information, a setting up of expectations. Talk of objectives and goals.
I told her about Kyle.
I don’t mind talking about him. It makes me feel better to talk about what he did. I told Connie that, and wondered if she thought me odd. I bet she thinks I’m off my rocker. Maybe I am. It’s not normal to feel better when talking about how someone murdered another mother’s son, is it?
But I am beginning to feel better. Talking about it is all I can do at this present time. And now I have two outlets. Two opportunities to make right.
The third way will come. Any day now, I’ll be brave enough. It’s building, this inner strength I’ve found.
Soon, I’ll be strong enough to face her.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_39ce1cd1-d6c0-56a1-8a1d-e89e22ccb097)
Connie (#ulink_39ce1cd1-d6c0-56a1-8a1d-e89e22ccb097)
Alice Mann was quite still. She didn’t fidget, didn’t flit her eyes about; she wasn’t nervous in her demeanour. She appeared calm, confident – keeping her eyes squarely on Connie’s as she told what seemed to be a well-rehearsed retelling of her story. Her experience of finding out her son had committed a murder. Connie’s decision to accept Alice as a client despite her earlier misgivings was made after carefully deliberating the pros and cons. Now, as she sat opposite Alice, listening to how her son’s actions had such far-reaching implications, Connie felt confident she’d made the correct choice. She could help this woman. She could make a difference to her life.
‘I tried, you know? I tried so hard to encourage him out of his bedroom, to go out with his friends, not just chat to them over the internet. I literally took his door off its hinges once – I wanted to know what he was up to, all those hours with his eyes fixed on that screen, earphones plugged into his ears – it wasn’t healthy. He could get nasty, would shout at me to leave him alone. So, you know, I let him put the door back on eventually. Not like I had much choice, as I couldn’t stand up to him physically. You understand?’ Alice took a breath.
Connie took advantage and jumped in before she set off again. ‘It sounds as though you had a difficult time with Kyle. Had his behaviour been challenging before, or was it new?’
‘Oh,’ Alice sighed, ‘it had been since his dad left, about two years before … you know. Anyway, I noticed that he was beginning to take on a different character, really. Like he was now the boss of the house. He took over where his dad left off. Looked after me, in his own way.’
For the first time during the session, Alice lowered her head, staring at her lap. She traced the flower pattern on her skirt with her index finger. Connie noted a small bald patch at the crown of her head, or maybe it was where her dyed ash-blonde hair had become white-grey at the roots. What did she mean by ‘looked after me, in his own way’? She made a mental note to come back to that in a later session.
‘That must’ve been hard, to manage on your own. Did you seek any help?’
Alice gave a guttural laugh. ‘Help? What kind of help? He wasn’t a child, he was sixteen. No one was interested in helping.’
‘You said before that he was always in his room, that you tried to get him to interact with others, but failed. How then did he come to commit the murder?’ Connie spoke softly, in an attempt to take the hard edge off her question.
‘Well, they said the victim was someone he met online.’ Alice straightened. ‘On some stupid gaming site. He spent hours on it. I could hear his low voice, even through the soundproofing he’d put on the walls. Always chatting – you know, on the headphone mic, into early morning.’
‘What was he talking about?’
‘Not sure. On the few occasions I was allowed to be in his room when he was talking, it was mostly about the game. Tactics, medi-packs – or something like that … Killing. The game was about killing.’ Alice closed her eyes. ‘It was only a game, though. How could I have known he was going to go one further – take it into real life?’
‘Do you think you should have known?’ Connie said.
‘I’m his mother. Yes, I should’ve known. I should’ve seen something bad coming. Done something about it.’
‘What do you think you could’ve done to prevent it?’
‘Talked to him. Given him more of my time; attention.’ She sighed again, gently shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. Something. I could’ve done something. Instead, I went for the easy life, the easy option. When he was in his room, I could relax, I didn’t have to worry about any conflict. If I gave him what he wanted, we could get on with each other.’
‘What he wanted?’
‘Yes. Privacy, to be left alone. Not to be challenged about anything. Not to go on about him getting a job. No nagging.’
Connie thought back to her own tempestuous teenage years. Her behaviour had got out of hand after her brother Luke was stabbed. She became unruly, disobedient. Promiscuous. Her parents’ numerous warnings and well-meaning interventions – their constant nagging – went ignored. The consequences of that had been far-reaching and had followed Connie into her adult life. A shudder shot along the length of her spine as the memory of That Night flashed in her mind. All she’d wanted after that was to be left alone – shutting herself away in her bedroom with only her shame and rock music for company. She’d not spoken to her mum or dad for days on end.
Hadn’t Alice’s son behaved like a lot of teenagers? How could she have known, really, that he would go on to commit a terrible crime? Unless there were other indicators. Perhaps Alice wasn’t telling the whole story, yet. Connie had the feeling there was a lot more behind Kyle’s behaviour. It was one thing to kill in a game, quite another for that to escalate into killing in real life. Despite what the anti-gamers wanted people to believe, it was not common for violent games to make a violent person. There was usually something already in them, or something predisposing them to violence.
Like growing up with an abusive parent.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_59577699-031d-591e-94f0-533f3b3208e7)
Alice (#ulink_59577699-031d-591e-94f0-533f3b3208e7)
I think that went well. Connie is going to be helpful, I feel sure of that. I must be guarded, though. Be careful not to tell too much; think about how I’m saying things. She’s smart – she’s going to chip away, use her psychological knowledge to get under my skin. Attempt to get to the root of my issues. I want that as well, to a degree. But I need to protect my son, still. I know what he did is bad, and to some, unforgivable. But he’s my flesh and blood. A product of me. And him.
We created him, and I nurtured him. Despite what I try to tell myself, it’s my fault he’s turned into this monster.
The walk back to the house is slow. The sun is shining, and it’s quite pleasant – a mild day for February – but I feel heavy. Cumbersome. I stop a few times, looking into random shop windows. I know I’m not really seeing anything. My eyes don’t focus on the displays. It’s like I’m looking past them into the distance. Into my past. My future. Both are equally messed up.
I need to jolt myself out of this mood.
Should I attempt another visit to her house? I think getting to the next stage will pull me out from under this dark cloud. It’s been over a week since I was last there. Standing at her door full of dread, but with an inkling of hope.
Hope is what I need right now.
I turn and head back to the lower end of town. I’ll get the bus, go there while I’m feeling bold. No guarantee she’ll be there, of course. I should try to figure out her schedule so I don’t waste these bursts of courage by getting there and her being out.
I need to be more organised if I’m to achieve what I want.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_c53365ed-7a00-5c9b-819c-2db270b7206a)
Connie (#ulink_c53365ed-7a00-5c9b-819c-2db270b7206a)
Connie stared at the phone, one hand twiddling a piece of her sleek black hair around and around her fingers. She’d just looked at her accounting records – it didn’t make for good reading. Her client base was growing, but slowly. She needed an injection of cash for advertising.
A piece of A4 paper was placed next to the phone with two columns: one showing the ‘pros’, one showing the ‘cons’ of going back to Baymead to do the reports. Connie picked it up. The only thing in the pros column was ‘extra money’. Not really the best reason for stepping back into the lion’s den, she mused. Maybe another pro could be that by going back, facing her demons, she’d be able to move on more successfully. Had she really put everything that happened behind her or was she avoiding anything that brought the memories back?
Connie had often thought about her actions, examined them, considered what else she could’ve done – should’ve done – and, each time, she concluded that she wouldn’t have handled Hargreaves any differently than she had back then. She wasn’t the last gatekeeper either – as the psychologist, she’d merely handed her report to the parole board for them to make the final decision of whether to release him or not.
Still, Connie never shook the feeling that her favourable report gave considerable weight to proceedings, and ultimately led to the rape of a woman. The ripple effect of her involvement had caused so much hurt and pain. If she went back, would something similar happen again? But then, could she go through the rest of her life worrying about whether a single action of hers could cause something bad to happen?
It had in the past, she reminded herself.
She sighed and tried to refocus. If she did take up Jen’s offer of work, and nothing bad happened, maybe she could finally put her paranoia to rest. She pushed the competing thoughts from her mind and, without analysing it any further, dialled the number on the Post-it note she’d had tucked beneath her fern desk plant for the past week.
‘Hi, can I speak with Jennifer Black, please?’ Her voice shook.
She cleared her throat, and sat up straighter, waiting for the person on the end of the phone to speak. Connie hoped Jen was in the office; she wasn’t sure if she’d have the nerve to call back again.
‘Just a moment, I’ll transfer you,’ the voice said.
There was silence for what felt like minutes, then a click.
‘Jennifer Black. How may I help?’
Jen’s ‘professional’ voice was one they’d always mocked when Connie had worked at HMP Baymead. She always put on a posh voice to conceal her strong Plymothian accent when speaking on the phone. She’d moved from Plymouth to Torquay when she was a teenager, but never managed to fully escape the accent.
‘You can drop the fake accent, Jen – it’s just me.’
‘Connie! Thank God. I didn’t think you were going to return my call, you’ve taken so long. I hope this means—’
‘Slow down, slow down. I’m calling to find out more details, that’s all. Don’t get too excited.’
‘Oh, come on. You’ll do it. You wouldn’t have phoned otherwise.’
Connie shook her head. Damn this woman. Her abruptness, her perceptiveness and her knack of getting to the point quickly was what made Jen one of the best managers the programmes department had ever had. You always knew where you stood with Jen.
‘Seriously, Jen. I need to weigh up the pros and cons of doing this – coming back in after …’
‘Pah! Water under the old bridge, Con. You know … we know, you did nothing wrong. You acted in line with every protocol. It was you who blamed yourself.’
‘Er, I think you’ll find it wasn’t just me. I didn’t see anyone else being dragged through the papers, and there wouldn’t have been a capability hearing if the governor didn’t think I’d messed up Hargreaves’ risk report.’ Merely talking about it again caused Connie’s heart rate to increase and her armpits to tingle with sweat.
End the call. This isn’t worth it.
‘Look, I know things went downhill rapidly for you after Hargreaves, but you shouldn’t let that stop you from coming in and completing a few assessments.’
‘Are they high-risk prisoners?’ Connie was immediately mad at herself for asking; it sounded as though she was seriously considering the offer.
‘Not really. None are up for parole. It’s their progression through the system we need to focus on. Some of the guys have been here a long time, and we have a fair few refusing to do any of the offending behaviour programmes. We’re under pressure to get arses on seats so they can move forwards in their sentence plans, get them into a Cat-D establishment.’
‘Nothing new there, then.’
‘Exactly. Our group numbers are actually falling. Anyway, point is, you can come in, do the assessments, and get out. You can write the reports at home. That’s the extent of your involvement. I wasn’t kidding when I said it was easy money, Con.’
Connie exhaled loudly and sat back in her chair. Risk-wise, these prisoners weren’t up for release, so her reports would only be used as evidence for the decision to move them to an open prison, or not – or recommend action, such as attending further offending behaviour programmes. An open prison would mean there was a chance of the prisoner absconding though, so she could still get a backlash if she wrote a favourable report and then something bad happened later down the road.
‘And how many would I be assessing again?’
‘Only three. We have another psychologist coming in as well, so between us all, we should catch up on the backlog. Might have to spread it over a few weeks though.’
Connie’s shoulders sank. She’d been hoping, if she were to do it, that it would be over in a week. Realistically though, she’d known deep down it wasn’t likely to be possible.
There was one other thing that was bothering her.
‘I need to ask something.’
‘Shoot,’ Jen said.
‘You don’t have an Aiden Flynn at Baymead, do you?’
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_bb1031ce-5a8c-5bf3-a317-55fd85092c0e)
Deborah (#ulink_bb1031ce-5a8c-5bf3-a317-55fd85092c0e)
She doesn’t realise I know.
I sit here anyway, listening to her. I’ve made a pot of tea and I pour her a cup from the bone china teapot belonging to the set that once sat on my mother’s oak sideboard – reserved for special occasions; people she wanted to impress. I don’t know why I chose to dig it out from the back of the cupboard now. Or why I’m trying to impress this woman. I’m turning into my mother.
‘That’s a lovely picture of Sean,’ she says, gesturing to the large silver-framed photo on the mantelpiece.
I take a deep breath.
‘Yes.’ I force a smile. ‘Would you like a biscuit? I have chocolate digestives or rich tea.’ I want to avoid talking about my son. Even though I know that’s why she’s here.
‘Oh, um … chocolate, please. Although I really should be watching my waistline.’ She pats her belly. There’s no fat on the woman, but I refrain from remarking as I shake out some biscuits from the packet and offer them to her.
‘Thanks for letting me come in,’ she says as she dips the biscuit in her teacup. She leaves a trail of brown slush on its side. I look away. It’s a bone china cup for God’s sake, not a mug.
‘Well, I couldn’t leave you on the doorstep, could I?’ Although that’s exactly what I’d wanted to do at first – her babbling on about her son being at school with my Sean was irritating at best. My lips are tight; the smile harder to come this time. How polite should I be in this situation? A huge part of me doesn’t want to be polite at all – it wants to shout in her face, tell her to get out of my house. But there’s something about her – vulnerable, yet brave. It would be like kicking an inquisitive puppy. It must’ve taken some guts to turn up at my door, even though she’s yet to come clean and tell me who she really is. Didn’t she think I’d recognise her? I thought I’d hardened over the last few years, but the harsh words that spring into my mind – the ones telling this woman exactly what I think of her efforts to squirm her way into my life – evaporate before I can speak them.
Maybe it’s curiosity.
I find myself wanting to know why she thinks it’s a good idea for her to visit the mother of a murdered boy. He was only eighteen. Not even a man. He’d hardly lived, had so much to look forwards to.
She puts her cup and saucer down on the table, and I watch as her pale-blue eyes travel back to Sean’s photograph.
‘You must miss him terribly.’ Her words are quiet, almost inaudible – her face directed away from mine.
My skin is suddenly cold, as though someone has placed a blanket of ice on me. Of course I miss him. He was my only child; my life, up until that terrible day. I’ve had to learn to live without him, carry on with everyday things, all the while knowing my life would never again have meaning. Not the same meaning, anyway. I’m no longer someone’s mum. Tears come at this thought.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have allowed this woman in. Curiosity is not good for me.
I wipe my eyes with my sleeve.
‘Yes, it’s like I have a part of me missing. A hole that will never be filled.’ I can feel a bubble of anger. I should keep a cap on that.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, simply.
‘Oh, so am I. Sorry he ever encountered Kyle Mann. Sorry I wasn’t able to protect him.’ I must be careful, or years’ worth of hatred will erupt in this lounge. Amongst my mother’s bone china tea set. With the smiling face of my handsome Sean staring down at me.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have …’ She shifts awkwardly; she’s flustered. It looks as though she’s thinking about leaving.
‘No. Maybe not. But you’re here now,’ I say firmly. We lock eyes.
‘Yes, it’s taken quite a while to pluck up the courage.’ She gives a wavering smile.
‘Right.’ It’s time to stop the pretence. ‘So now that you’re here, what exactly do you want, Alice?’
CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_3674ff93-714c-5fac-bb90-15f10f5a0502)
Connie (#ulink_3674ff93-714c-5fac-bb90-15f10f5a0502)
‘Well, well. If it isn’t the infamous Connie Moore!’ The voice bellowed from behind the glass partition.
‘Hey, Barry.’ Connie kept her chin low, almost tucked into the collar of her blouse. She didn’t want him to see her discomfort at being back inside the prison. Barry had been an operational support grade for as long as she could remember, and clearly, even given the time she’d been away, her reputation still stood. She’d contemplated giving them her new surname, Summers, which she started using when she set up her own practice to avoid any connections with the Hargreaves case. But she decided it would be a bad idea in this instance. She preferred to keep her prison life in a separate box.
‘I saw you were on the list today. Says here I gotta give Verity a call and get her to come and fetch you, now you haven’t got your own keys and ID. Take a seat, love. Won’t be long.’
Connie turned on her heel and sat heavily on the leather-look bench seat that ran alongside the window of HMP Baymead’s gatehouse and placed her coat beside her. She’d only ever sat here once before: the day she came for her interview, eight years ago. She pulled self-consciously at the cuffs of her sleeves. She even felt like she had all that time ago: nervous, uncertain – questioning whether her skills were up to the job. She kept her eyes down, not wanting to catch a glimpse of anyone else she knew from her previous life there. She didn’t want to face any awkward questions.
Why did I agree to this? Stupid, stupid woman.
Connie pushed her cuff up, checking her watch. It would take at least ten minutes for Verity to reach the gatehouse. Baymead was spread over a wide area, and the psychology block was on the far side of the grounds. She used to love the early morning walk to the office from the gatehouse, when the prisoners were yet to be unlocked. She could stroll along the tree-lined concrete paths, taking her time to let herself through the huge gates. The walk back after her day ended was never quite so pleasant. She’d often time it so her departure didn’t coincide with prisoners going back to the wings after their activities, or work. But even then, if she was on her own, she couldn’t help feeling vulnerable. And the times she’d happened to leave the office when the prisoners were on their way back to their living blocks were more stressful. She didn’t miss that at all.
At least now, for the period she was going to spend here, she’d have someone accompanying her around the prison. She’d have to be let through each gate in the grounds, and have the living-block gates opened for her. She’d be collected from her interviews with the prisoners and taken back to the psychology block.
Connie consciously unclasped her hands, placing them loosely on her lap. This could be all right. It wasn’t as though she was going to be spending enough time within the confines of the establishment to warrant anyone taking much notice of her. And it was almost two years since she’d last been here. Some staff were bound to know her, remember her, but it was unlikely many prisoners would. At least Aiden Flynn, the man responsible for the murder of Ricky Hargreaves last year, was not residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Baymead. That had been one of her biggest fears. He was the last person she’d want to come into contact with. Not only was he a cold-blooded murderer, but he also had a personal vendetta against Connie and had been determined to exact revenge on her because of something that her father had done twenty years previously. And he’d almost managed to accomplish his task: attacking Connie in her own home, beating her to the ground. If it wasn’t for Lindsay … Connie shook the memory away. No, the most that would happen is she’d get some attention from being a ‘new’ female about the place. Whistles, some remarks shouted at her – the common response from a proportion of the men – those she could handle.
A whooshing noise alerted Connie to someone coming through the glass security doors. She jumped up as a young woman, who looked to be around twenty, walked towards her.
‘Connie?’
‘Yes.’ Connie grabbed her coat and offered her hand. The woman limply shook it.
‘I’m Verity, the new admin for the programmes department.’ She smiled broadly, her small, round face appearing to almost split in two. ‘I’ll be your key person.’ She laughed.
‘Great, thanks, Verity. I appreciate it. Sorry you’ll have to be dragged wherever I’m going though, not much fun for you.’
‘No problem. It’ll be a good excuse to get out of the office. It’s manic in there at the moment.’
‘Oh?’ They both entered the glass box of the security pod and stood still, waiting for the operational support grade to close one door before he opened the other. Connie had always disliked the pod. Sometimes, if she’d timed it badly, she’d been stuffed inside there along with some twenty-odd people: admin staff, officers, service providers – all squished in, waiting at the mercy of the OSG on duty in the gate room to be quick with the release button for the other door. It was claustrophobic. Today though, it was only her and Verity, and the OSG didn’t leave them too long before releasing the inner door.
Connie’s tummy flipped as she left the pod and walked the familiar corridor that led to the outside. Which was really inside. She put on her coat as they stood by the heavy door, waiting for the noise that would inform them it was open.
Click.
For a moment, Connie wobbled. She was dizzy.
Take deep breaths.
A waft of air hit her face as Verity opened the door and stood aside to let Connie through.
That sight. The grassed area, the large trees, the metal fences separating the living blocks beyond. She shivered, pulling the coat tighter around her. What was she doing? The old twinges of stress, worry – the unease – were suddenly back, swooping in at her from every angle.
This is a mistake.
‘Are you okay?’ Verity’s concerned face turned towards Connie’s. ‘Jen said you might feel a bit, well … odd. Coming back.’
Odd? That didn’t come close.
‘No. All good. I’m fine.’ Connie forced a smile, keeping her gaze forwards while quickening her pace. She was aware of Verity tripping along beside her, trying to keep up, chatting away as they walked. But she wasn’t listening. She’d feel better once she was less exposed, safely inside the psychology portacabin.
They paused at each gate as Verity unlocked, then relocked them as they moved through – every clank of the locks sending a wave of familiarity through Connie’s mind. Then goosebumps. It was a sound she had assumed she’d never hear again.
As they approached the psychology office, Connie’s muscles finally relaxed. She rubbed at the back of her neck, at the knot of muscle – she hadn’t realised she’d been hunching her shoulders. Verity ushered Connie in, then locked the door. The large whiteboard inside the entrance named everyone in the office: showed whether they were in or out, and if out, which block or room they’d gone to and an approximate time they were due back to the office.
Jen was ticked in. Connie took a slow intake of breath, holding it as she pushed through the inner door.
‘Hey, mate! So pleased you decided to come and help us out.’ Jen jumped up from her seat upon Connie’s arrival, and arms outstretched, strode towards her, enveloping her in a hug that expelled her held breath.
‘Good to see you, Jen.’ Connie gently pulled back and gazed around the room. Very little had changed. A couple of people she didn’t recognise were sitting at the desks, but that appeared to be the only difference.
‘Yes, as you can see, things are just the same, bar a few new faces. I’ll introduce you in a sec, but let’s get the kettle on first.’
She was in there now. In the prison, in the office. She could hardly revoke her offer of helping with the reports. But a creeping uneasiness spread through her, like her blood was travelling around her body delivering tiny parcels of adrenaline.
Preparing her.
Fight or flight.
And Connie wasn’t at all sure she had enough fight in her.
CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_d8520d8a-de48-5d9a-91f4-3cbd14c9442c)
Alice (#ulink_d8520d8a-de48-5d9a-91f4-3cbd14c9442c)
Things are moving along nicely now. I couldn’t imagine being at this point before: feeling more positive than I have in years. I even feel a bit lighter. I noticed my reflection in the shop windows as I walked past this morning, and I’m standing taller too – not stooped as I had been. This is good. I want to mark this progression somehow.
I should share it.
As founder and leader of the group, it’s my duty to give positive news to my members. Tell them about the steps forwards I’ve made. Of course, I’ll have to be slightly economical with the truth – mould it to make it fit. But it will give them hope. Inspiration. Let them know we can all come through these terrible times, bit by bit. Moment by moment.
I’ll finish washing the breakfast dishes, then I’ll get on the laptop and go to the online support group page. Our next in-person meeting isn’t for another eight days – the last Wednesday of the month. Maybe by then I’ll have even more good news to share. More to celebrate.
My heart sinks a little as I gaze out of the kitchen window. Is it right to feel this way? Excited about a few minor steps in the right direction? There’s still so much to do; such a long way to travel to get to the end. If there is an end. Oh, please God, let there be an ending to this. I make the sign of the cross on my chest. Before all of this happened, I’d go to church to pray; being in God’s house made me feel as though I had a direct link with Him. After the murder, though, I was afraid. They’d know. I couldn’t face being judged by the congregation. And, after all, my support group is giving me what the church once did, and God is everywhere – I don’t have to be in a holy place to pray, to be listened to. So now, at times like this, I look to Heaven for help, wherever I am. Surely I deserve some help, some divine intervention.
I’m doing God’s work here.
Once the dishes are neatly stacked on the drainer, I settle in the lounge, at the rectangular pine table on the far side, the one I eat my meals at – alone. I’ve angled the table so I can see the TV. It’s my company these days. I also keep my laptop on this table.
The house is silent. I rarely get disturbed. I’m rarely needed.
I fire up the laptop and go to the only icon on the menu I regularly use.
Group support.
There are no members live. My shoulders slump, my back arching in disappointment. My initial excitement gives way to a darkness. Gloom.
Never mind, I can still leave a comment – I’ll begin a new thread so it’s the first thing people notice when they log in. I see Bill has been active over the past few hours. Poor man. His daughter, Isabella, has gone off the rails and he has no clue how to handle it. His wife, he says, is useless. Isabella’s already been cautioned for drug possession, and now it seems she’s disappearing every night and they don’t know where she’s going. The group have asked Bill why he doesn’t stop her – prevent her from leaving the house. Lock her in her room. But I know these ‘easy’ steps are, in fact, incredibly difficult. Near to impossible sometimes. She will find a way, because it’s not like she’s a child – she’s in her early twenties. It’s even more challenging with a boy, when you’re a single parent – my strength was no match for his.
Before I compose my own, I write a supportive message on Bill’s thread, encouraging him to attend the group meeting at the end of the month. I think he needs more help than we can offer him online. He needs to be with us, see us, speak to us in person. Share everything. It’ll lighten the load. Plus, we need another man in the group.
I have another session with Connie Summers two days before the group meeting. She’d wanted me to see her weekly, but I’m struggling to get the money, so I explained I could only do fortnightly. I didn’t tell her it was due to lack of funds. I’m hoping to steer the next session where I want it to go. If I can gain some more insight, and helpful suggestions from her, I’ll be able to share those with my members on Wednesday. It makes me sound more authoritative when I can spout jargon and give good advice.
I can’t help smiling.
I am giving back to the community; I’m helping parents to cope with their unruly offspring. I’m offering a service.
That makes me a good person.
Doesn’t it?
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_846188fd-8d72-5c96-88b1-efb714979b19)
Connie (#ulink_846188fd-8d72-5c96-88b1-efb714979b19)
The sound of men in the exercise yard behind the psychology portacabin filtered into Connie’s consciousness. She was sitting at the desk closest to the window, but her back was to it. Wooden fencing panels separated the area from view, so even if she’d been facing the window she wouldn’t have seen the prisoners. From the lower floor of the portacabin they were only visible if you were standing. Still, a sharp tingling sensation ran the length of her back. She’d never been bothered by her proximity to them before – in fact, she’d often stood and watched to see who was interacting with who, trying to pick up on the body language of the men she’d had in her group at that time, or those she was compiling reports for. It was good to get a different perspective, watch them when they were unaware of it, so their actions and behaviour were more natural than when they were sitting in front of her.
Now though, for a reason she couldn’t pinpoint, she was uncomfortable.
Maybe it wasn’t them – maybe it was her. Being out of the establishment for this long meant she’d lost some of that toughness – her invincibility – which was required in order to work in the prison environment. She wasn’t the confident leader she had once been. This was no longer her territory, and it felt every bit as alien as she’d expected it would. That must be the reason she felt so out of her comfort zone. As she’d said countless times, there were good reasons why she’d left in the first place.
Coming back now was revisiting the past – the past she’d worked so hard to put behind her.
‘How are you getting on with those files? Got everything you need?’ Verity popped her head over the blue partition that divided the desks.
Yes, she must keep focussed. The quicker she read the files, the quicker she could get on with the job in hand.
‘Fine, I think everything’s here.’ Connie slid out the bottom of the three files given to her and flicked through it. ‘Actually, there doesn’t appear to be a list of pre-cons for a … Michael Finch.’ She looked up at Verity.
‘I’ll walk over to the offender manager unit, check his main file and photocopy it,’ Verity said, immediately rising from her seat. ‘I mostly only keep the psychology-related stuff in our filing room. The bulk is kept with the offender managers.’ She was out in the corridor, her coat half on before Connie could say another word. It was a shame Verity hadn’t been around when Connie worked here; having admin support would’ve really cut down her running-around time.
Connie returned her attention to the other files she had on the desk. The name Kyle Mann stared out at her. Connie leant back; what were the odds? It might be a conflict of interest to see him, compile his report now she was in a therapeutic relationship with his mother.
‘Jen?’ Connie stood, and then made her way over to Jen’s desk. ‘Not sure I can do this one.’ She handed Jen the file.
‘Oh, this is the guy you saw way back when he first came to Baymead. The silent one.’ Jen made quote marks with her fingers.
‘Yes, I remember that – those one-way conversations with him were so frustrating.’ Connie raised her eyebrows at the recollection.
Jen’s forehead wrinkled. ‘Why can’t you see him now?’
‘Ethically. His mum is a client of mine.’ The only reason she’d decided it wasn’t unethical seeing Alice Mann was the fact Kyle had never spoken a word during any of Connie’s previous encounters with him. It was ironic she was now concerned about seeing Kyle because of her sessions with his mum.
Jen sat up straighter, her mouth gaping. ‘Oh! Um … well, to be honest, Con, I don’t reckon it’ll matter much. He still hasn’t uttered a word to any of us. We need his report doing, but I’m not expecting any great things. It’ll be compiled on what we already have in his file, and info from the wing records, his personal officer and whatnot. I mean, I could swap him for another, but we’ve all started the assessments on the other guys …’
Connie pursed her lips. If Kyle had not spoken to any of the psychology or programmes team before, he was unlikely to now. Maybe it wouldn’t be unethical. She’d literally be going over old ground, things she’d already known before. She weighed it up in her mind. If he didn’t speak, then it wouldn’t take very much time to get his report done. That was a bonus – she could get out of the prison even more quickly than she’d hoped if she didn’t have to start from scratch with a new prisoner with lots to say.
‘His risk is going to remain high if he doesn’t comply, doesn’t commit to doing any offender behaviour work. He does know that, right?’
‘Con, he’s been informed many a time. There are a lot of refusers, he’s not the only one, and it would appear they don’t care whether it’s keeping them from progressing through the system.’
‘I bet he’s the only one who’s never spoken, though?’
‘Yes, that’s true. Four years of silence is some accomplishment. I just can’t understand why he won’t talk.’
Connie delved into her somewhat hazy memory of the case. ‘Wasn’t there a suspicion someone else was involved with the crime?’
‘There was something like that.’ Jen moved to her keyboard and opened the OASys database, which kept records and assessments of all the offenders in the establishment. She scanned through the various pages, searching for the details of the offence. ‘Of course, this didn’t come from Kyle Mann – it says here that police suggested due to the nature of the abduction and murder that it was improbable that a single individual was able to carry it out. The police pushed Kyle for details, but he went down the no comment line, and they didn’t have any substantial proof, so …’ Jen clicked on another page in OASys: ‘the only hard evidence they had was all stacked against Kyle and it was enough to safely convict him of the murder of Sean Taylor.’
‘He was only eighteen.’ Connie frowned. ‘Such a terrible crime for someone so young.’
‘Poor bloody victim, though. Jesus, have you read the file?’
‘I did originally, back when he first came to us, but haven’t refamiliarised myself yet. When I saw the name, I thought it best I should mention it.’
Jen tapped her pen against her bottom lip. ‘It’s not like your client is the victim’s mother – then I’d definitely say not to carry out his assessments and report. But I don’t see a conflict of interest here. As long as you don’t disclose anything of your work here to Kyle’s mother, and vice versa, then there’s nothing to worry about. And anyway, like I said, it’s not like we’re going to gain new information from him, is it?’ Jen held the file up.
Connie took it from her. ‘Okay. No problem, I’ll get to work.’
CHAPTER TWELVE (#ulink_c2ca527b-83a2-5ec8-975d-8b647b75d5c6)
Deborah (#ulink_c2ca527b-83a2-5ec8-975d-8b647b75d5c6)
‘Deborah.’ I hear the voice, but somehow it sounds far away, like a distant echo, rather than directly behind me.
I carry on walking, entering the building.
‘Hey, Deb!’ It’s more insistent. She knows I hate being called Deb. I guess I can’t really ignore her now. It’ll be obvious I’ve heard that harsh yell.
My muscles are all tense. What does she want?
I slow and, reluctantly, turn to face Marcie. My boss.
Her face is flushed, but otherwise she’s the usual picture of perfection. She’s half my age, practically, and runs the marketing business with her brother.
‘Didn’t think you were going to stop,’ she says, her breathing rapid.
‘Miles away, sorry. Just keen to get to work, you know me,’ I say with a smile I know is disingenuous.
‘I wanted to catch you before we reached the office. Have a quick chat.’
My pulse dips. This can’t be good. This’ll be a ‘you’re not pulling your weight’ kind of chat. My mind has been preoccupied of late; I’m here in body, but my head has been AWOL. I’ve been in this job for seventeen years – I was here at the beginning, when her father, George, ran the place. I’d secured and managed some of the company’s biggest client accounts. George had often told me I was indispensable. I’d loved the job back then – and although I can’t say that with conviction now, I still need it; it’s my home from home.
Before I realise what’s happening, Marcie’s arm is looped through mine and she’s gently steering me back to the door, against the throng of people entering the foyer. I catch sight of Andrew and Marcus; they stare questioningly at us as we exit the building. This will set the office gossips going. They will be thinking I’m about to get the sack.
Oh, bloody hell. Am I about to get the sack?
I need this job. I can’t do without it. Not only the money, but the time outside of my own head – when I can focus. It’s what keeps me going.
I swallow the rising panic. Take a steadying breath.
‘What’s this all about, Marcie?’ I say as she guides me into the Costa a few feet away.
‘Coffee and a heart-to-heart.’ She grins. Her teeth are a perfect line of white squares. She gets them whitened. Everything on this woman is falsely enhanced: teeth, eyelashes, eyebrows, hair, boobs, the lot. I suddenly feel old and ugly in her presence.
But at least I’m real.
And a cosy heart-to-heart with this young, business-driven woman is really not what I need right now. I still remember her prior attempts to get me to open up. I easily brushed aside her offers to chat. But now – almost four years later – she’s actually managed to ‘trap’ me. It’s futile, though. This chat. How is she likely to understand what I went through? What I’m still going through? Every single day is a struggle. A struggle to stay in this life.
I sit at a table at the back of the coffee house, waiting for her to bring the drink I don’t want. I used to love people-watching. It was one of my favourite pastimes. Not any longer. I don’t care enough about them to watch. Their lives are of no interest to me.
I watch as Marcie heads towards me with two lattes on a tray. I don’t even like coffee.
I can hear my own heartbeat.
I lean my elbows on the table, clasping my hands together to stop them shaking.
‘Thank you,’ I say as she places the drink in front of me.
‘Right. So, Deborah, how are things for you at the moment?’
‘Great,’ I hear myself saying.
‘Really?’ she says. Her head tilts to one side.
Christ. She’s giving me a sympathetic smile to boot. How condescending.
How can I veer the conversation in a different direction?
‘Yes, really, Marcie. I’m good. Getting stuck into work helps, but you know that. After your dad died you did the same, didn’t you?’
I see the flinch in her face, the flicker of her eyes as I bring the conversation back to her. See how she likes it.
Over to you.
‘I guess so.’ She takes a sip of her drink. ‘But I had little choice. Me and Alexander had to get stuck in, keep the business Dad had built afloat. We owed it to him. Not to mention that we had to ensure everyone, like you, kept their jobs.’ She smiles.
Back to me.
‘That must have been a challenging time. No opportunity to grieve for your father.’ Now I put my head to one side.
Over to you.
‘It was challenging at times, yes. But I mourned in private. And I tried to keep my private life separate from work, you know? I think that’s important.’ Her eyes are fully on mine as she places her cup down and props her elbows on the table.
Back to me.
Now I’m aware of where this ‘chat’ is going, I drop the pretence – the personal game I’m playing – and get to the point.
‘You’re trying, in your roundabout fashion, to tell me I’m not keeping my private life separate from my work life.’ My irritation oozes out in my tone.
She exhales dramatically and looks away from me for a moment. Then faces me and begins to deliver her speech, the one she’d probably rehearsed all night.
‘I’m … we’re … worried about you, Deborah. It’s been four years, yet you still appear to be in mourning. It was a shocking, terrible, event—’
‘Event!’ My shrillness pierces the room, other people stop their conversations to look at me. ‘Event, Marcie?’ I lower my voice to a harsh whisper. ‘My son was murdered. I lost my only child.’ The tears are escaping my stinging eyes. I didn’t want to show my emotion in this way. It’s not helping my cause.
‘I know, and I’m so sorry – I can’t even begin to imagine …’
‘No. Of course you can’t.’ I look down at my lap. Wait for her next shot.
‘You didn’t take a lot of time off work when it happened. I thought that was a mistake at the time, now I definitely do. Take some time right now, Deborah.’
I look up sharply. ‘No. No, I don’t need to take time off. I need to be in work, with other people.’
‘But, Deborah, you don’t even speak to your colleagues. I mean, unless you absolutely have to for your role. You are falling behind on your workload, and most of the time you don’t appear to be with us at all. Things are getting missed, others are having to carry you.’ She leans forwards, takes my hands.
This is it. She’s letting me go.
‘You’ve been part of this company since its birth. I want you to continue to be part of it. But I’m seriously concerned for your welfare, and with that in mind, I’m telling you to take some time – with full pay to start with, of course. Two months, maybe three, that’s all. To get your head together.’
I’m defeated. I can’t even think of an argument to strengthen my case to stay. The words ‘to start with’ echo in my ears. It won’t be just two or three months – she’ll keep stretching it out, make sure I don’t return at all.
‘What will I do, Marcie?’ I hate the sound of my own desperation.
‘That’s the problem, isn’t it? Outside of work you have nothing. Maybe you need a hobby.’
And we’re back to being condescending. Even more so.
I do have a husband – has she forgotten that?
‘Fine.’
I push my chair back, the loud screech hurting my ears. I don’t look at her again. I take my bag and walk, head down, out of Costa. Out of my job.
What the hell am I going to tell Nathan?
Marcie demanding I take time off work is a mistake.
Me, alone with my thoughts, is going to be an even bigger one.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#ulink_a0d316d7-2e40-57ef-ab5a-87da4fad7160)
Connie (#ulink_a0d316d7-2e40-57ef-ab5a-87da4fad7160)
The chill of the wind caught Connie across her face and made her eyes water. She touched the back of a hand to her right cheek and winced.
‘Shall we make our way back down to the car park?’ Lindsay’s arm reached out, giving Connie’s a tug.
‘Sorry. This outdoor life’s still taking some getting used to.’
Lindsay shook her head – a gentle mocking of Connie’s fragility.
‘Yes, your ability to survive on the moor in adverse conditions is questionable. But you’ll become hardy, eventually.’
‘If you’ve got anything to do with it. Even if it kills me.’ Connie slumped against a large rock, catching her breath. Her walking boots were heavy, clogged with mud, making her feel a stone heavier when she walked. On the plus side, she thought her thighs had started looking less chunky. But today was a bit much. They’d walked further than they’d done before and the weather was bitterly cold on the high ground. Dartmoor was one of the most beautiful places she knew. It was Lindsay’s idea to spend more quality time there, despite it being an area her professional life had brought her to on a few horrible occasions. She wanted to make good memories on the moor. Replace the bad ones. Or at least, diminish them.
‘Ready to go back down?’ Lindsay offered an arm.
‘Oh, yes. I’m ready.’ Connie gave a grateful smile.
Connie sat in the passenger seat and shivered, the North Face jacket Lindsay had lent her rustling with the small, jerky movements.
Lindsay poured a coffee from the flask, and handed it to her.
‘That’ll have you warmed up in no time,’ Lindsay said. She poured herself a plastic cupful as well and leant back in the driver’s seat. ‘What do you reckon to eating out tonight, save either of us having to cook?’
Connie shrugged. ‘Sure, I’m up for that. Where do you fancy?’
‘I thought maybe the Italian in town, we could walk there?’
‘More walking?’ Connie raised her eyebrows, but smiled. ‘Sounds good. We’ve not been out for ages.’ She drained the cup of the warm liquid.
With Lindsay’s recent work pattern being so erratic, they hadn’t seen a great deal of each other in the evenings. Often, Connie spent the hours of darkness alone. Her previous irresponsible, single-life antics had all but ceased weeks before she’d met Lindsay, so she’d got used to the quiet, lonely evenings prior to her moving in. But then she’d had a period of time with Lindsay being home with her more, her hours almost sociable. It’d been comforting; she enjoyed Lindsay’s company – her friendship had become important to her. Now, again, she was having to accustom herself to it being just her and Amber, her ragdoll cat, most evenings. This weekend had been a rarity – they’d spent the entire time together, uninterrupted by work.
Connie knew it was likely to be a one-off. Something was bound to crop up – some big case that would take all of Lindsay’s focus; her time, even at weekends. For now, though, Connie would make the most of it.
She followed Lindsay’s gaze – her eyes were intense, focussed on the rocks of Haytor looming in front of them.
‘You okay?’
Lindsay didn’t take her eyes from the tor. ‘Still plays on my mind. This place.’ She sighed.
‘I can imagine.’ Connie placed her hand on Lindsay’s arm. Even she had bad thoughts about Haytor: of Steph, one of her clients last year, and her son – but she hadn’t had to witness it first-hand like Lindsay had; the broken bodies at the foot of the rock, the shock of seeing an innocent child taken to his death by his own mother in what was, as far as the police were concerned, a terrible suicide. Connie took some comfort in the fact that she wasn’t the only person troubled by her past and wanted to support her friend just as she’d been supported herself. ‘New memories, though – remember? We both need to attach positive feelings to this place, I think it’s the only way we can move on.’
‘Yep. Absolutely. Thanks, Connie.’
‘You don’t have to thank me. That’s what friends are for.’
‘That, and half-killing them in the name of fitness,’ Lindsay laughed.
‘Yeah, don’t push it. Friendships can turn nasty, you know.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#ulink_8eb8500e-9225-52a8-ac5d-10f8698f1b85)
Alice (#ulink_8eb8500e-9225-52a8-ac5d-10f8698f1b85)
It was hard to get out of the house this morning. Every time I was about to leave, something dragged me back.
One more chore.
One more check.
One more problem.
I’m out now, though, and I’m trying to stop my mind wandering as I walk to the bus stop. I want to be thinking about what’s ahead, but what’s behind me appears to be dragging me back. I need to talk myself out of it – keep my goal firmly in my mind’s eye.
I concentrate my thoughts on her. I know where she lives, and now I’ve found out where she works. It didn’t take much. The internet is both a curse and a blessing. It’s so easy to find out details with a few clicks, some clever searches using key words. Most people would think I’m mad, given how the internet brought my life crashing down. But it’s like most things, there is good and bad in everything. You just have to be careful – treat it with respect.
As I approach the bus stop at The Plains, opposite the Seven Stars Hotel, pain in my palms alerts me to my clenched fists. My nails have left crescent-shaped imprints where they’ve dug in. I can’t believe she’s still working. I wonder how she’s managed that when I was barely able to drag myself out of bed – the amount of sedatives I was taking for my anxiety, together with the drinking, turned me from a bubbly, chatty customer assistant at Marks & Spencer into a drowsy zombie not fit to be employed. A small part of me is jealous she’s continued with her life. She’s kept her job. I lost mine. She’s kept her husband. I lost mine.
But our sons. They’re a different story.
She won’t agree we’ve both lost them.
Maybe she doesn’t have to agree on that point. There is a truth in her denial. But we’ve both suffered, and I need to show her that. I can help her to come to terms with what happened. She’ll realise I am like her, that we can both support each other. I must help her. Then, in return, she’ll help me achieve my goal.
It’s the only way I can be free.
I cross the road quickly as the bus is there already. I pay my fare and take a seat halfway up – a window seat. The glass is smeared. Dirty. I don’t want to contemplate what with. I shuffle into the aisle seat. I don’t need to see where I’m going anyway. I hate having to use public transport, but I can’t afford a taxi to Coleton, my destination. The only destination I’ve ventured to this past month. I’m lucky no one has sat with me. Nothing worse than being squashed next to another body, a stranger who typically feels the need to speak – make polite, yet utterly useless, boring conversation. Small mercies.
Every now and then I check where we are – counting down the minutes until I arrive. Not long now. We’ve just passed the huge grey monstrosity that is the multi-storey car park. Another minute and I’ll be there.
A tall, narrow-looking building comes into view. My heart flutters nervously. I’m not sure what I’m going to do once I get off the bus. I don’t want to draw attention by hanging around the entrance to her workplace.
I press the bell. The bus slows and I stand, gradually making my way to the front. The bus stop is opposite the building, so once I step out, I stand for a few moments to gather my thoughts. I stare at the rows and columns of windows. Which one is hers?
I’m buffeted by someone walking past. I didn’t realise I was in the middle of the pavement, getting in the way. I back up, pressing myself against the wall of the hairdresser’s to allow the shoppers, the random people, to go about their business. Despite having been thinking about this for days, now I’m here I have no idea of how to progress. Should I wait for her to come out? Or make an excuse to enter the building, ask to speak with her. I’m not certain how she would react to my presence here, she could make a scene. I can’t risk that.
I’ll have to go into the building, though, as I’ve no idea which level she works on. I could do a recce of the place, then sit somewhere out here. I glance around me to see where would work. Yes, I could sit on one of the benches along from the building, near the river. Maybe she’ll leave at lunchtime, and I can catch up with her then, save me going inside. Whatever happens today though, I can’t wait past three o’clock. I’ve got my appointment with Connie at four, so I have to get the 3.10 bus back to Totnes to get there on time. I probably should’ve waited to do this until tomorrow rather than have two things to worry about in one day. But once I decided I was going to do it, it had to be attempted right away. No putting it off.
‘Hello, Alice.’ The voice, though soft and unassuming, sends a jolt of electricity through my body. I take a steadying breath as I realise it’s only Wendy, from my support group. Not great timing, and I could certainly do without her here, but it could be worse.
‘Lovely to see you, Wendy,’ I trill, twisting my lips into a forced smile. Now, how to get rid of her quickly without appearing rude. ‘Not long until our group session now – will be great to catch up on Wednesday, see how we’ve all done these past few weeks.’
‘Yes, I’m actually looking forwards to it.’ She lowers her dark eyes, looking to the ground. She carries on talking, and while I am listening to Wendy, and trying hard to appear interested in whatever she’s talking about, my eyes keep flitting around her bulky frame. I want to keep my focus on the entrance, in case she walks out.
Then the situation worsens.
A familiar face stands out from the crowd of people walking alongside the building.
What’s he doing here?
How?
I turn quickly, snapping my head around to face the wall I’d been leaning against prior to Wendy turning up.
Please, God, don’t let him see me.
I forget Wendy’s here, next to me. I take her arm, and gently pull her towards me. I whisper conspiratorially in her ear: ‘Don’t look behind, but my ex-husband is over there and I can’t handle him today. Just keep facing this way.’ I keep my grasp on her arm, so she knows I’m serious.
Her eyes are wide as she stares at me, saying nothing.
If he hasn’t seen me, it’ll be all right. If he has …
I use Wendy as a shield as I twist my head slightly to look over her shoulder to the building opposite. It’s clear. He’s gone.
For now, at least. But that was too close. And with Wendy here too. It could’ve been disastrous.
I relax my grip on her and give a brief explanation of how awfully things had ended between us when Kyle was convicted of murder.
She needn’t ever know it’s a lie.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#ulink_22a4ddb6-ad58-57dd-a40c-fcb4f7dc79f4)
Deborah (#ulink_22a4ddb6-ad58-57dd-a40c-fcb4f7dc79f4)
Marcie’s words played over in my mind all weekend. They wouldn’t stop. I’ve flipped between full-on anger and complete helplessness and now, standing at the top of Berry Head, I just feel utterly lost. This seemed the best place to come – something drew me here.
The waves smash loudly against the rocks below. I watch the tiny droplets of water as they fly upwards, but I can’t feel the spray on my face as I’m too far above. Must be a two-hundred-foot drop.
Enough to kill me.
Put me out of this misery.
Nathan would be all right. He’s got his job, his overbearing mother, his precious golf buddies. I’m fairly sure he has a mistress, too. He’d do fine without me.
I teeter on the edge; the grass is slippery with dew. The intermittent gusts of wind shake my body – push me ever closer to the sheer drop. It really wouldn’t take much.
The nerve of that woman. Sitting there, spouting on about how she misses her son. The nerve of Marcie, making me take time off work. The pity in her perfectly line-free face. Why now? I know I’ve been a bit more distracted recently – it is coming up to the anniversary. However, it’s nothing she, or any of my colleagues, should take issue with. Others are worse. Colin, now he is one lazy shit – he’s the one they should be telling to have time off. He’s the one who delegates all his work to others while he wanks off in the loos in a vain attempt to compensate for his marriage break-up a year ago. Why isn’t anyone bringing that to Marcie’s attention? They’re ganging up on me, picking faults, trying to get enough on me to get rid of me permanently. What have I done that’s so wrong?
Surely it’s enough that I lost my son. I don’t think I should be punished further. Not me. I’m not the one needing punishment.
I catch my breath. The clarity of that thought hits me, like a short, sharp punch to the stomach.
I look down. I don’t deserve those rocks, the crashing waves, the deep, dark, cold water as my grave. I shouldn’t be the one to suffer that fate.
I take a step back.
I shouldn’t be the one to suffer at all.
Maybe it was a blessing, Marcie forcing me to take leave. I have time now.
Time to put a few things straight.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#ulink_954fd01f-00a6-5a79-a890-f25cb5951da5)
Connie (#ulink_954fd01f-00a6-5a79-a890-f25cb5951da5)
The Alice standing opposite Connie was not the same calm and collected Alice she’d seen two weeks ago. She was now red-faced, flustered, and appeared agitated.
‘So sorry I’m late,’ she said, her breathing laboured. ‘I had to … practically run … up the hill.’
‘Please, Alice, don’t worry. Take your time, there’s no rush – you’re my last client of the day.’
She took some deep breaths, then slumped, relaxing into the chair. Connie took her seat and waited for her to recover. After a few minutes, her colour had returned to normal.
‘How have you been since our last meeting, Alice?’
Connie noted Alice’s rapid blinking and how she was rubbing her hands together, and wondered what had happened to alter her demeanour. She waited for a response, but Alice remained silent.
‘Maybe you could begin by telling me something you felt was positive?’ Connie coaxed.
Alice’s face broke into a wide smile. Connie gave an inward sigh of relief. At least there was something good to give her a starting point for this session.
‘Positive, yes – there have been some good things since I last saw you. Some progression.’
‘That’s excellent, Alice. Let’s begin with that then, shall we?’
‘I found someone like me, someone who’s going through the same issues as me. It’s given me a purpose; some motivation.’
‘It can be very helpful to know others have experienced similar situations to yourself, showing you that you’re not alone in your struggles. Is it someone from your support group?’
Alice’s mouth twitched; she took a while before she nodded.
‘And you began the group, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. It was just online at first, but I decided it was more important to have proper face-to-face meetings.’
‘That’s such a positive step, and a really good outcome that you’ve bonded with someone else so early on in the group sessions. You must feel proud of your achievement?’
‘I do, actually. The group is the best thing I’ve ever done,’ Alice said, her face glowing. ‘I feel as though I’ve met a kindred spirit.’
‘Ah, that’s great,’ Connie said, nodding her head encouragingly. ‘How has it helped you, in your everyday life?’
‘It’s given me hope. A focus. The group as a whole has obviously helped, but this one person is the key, I think.’
‘The key? To what?’
‘To me forgiving myself,’ Alice said, her voice soft, almost a whisper.
Guilt was one of the biggest obstacles Connie had picked up on during her sessions with Alice. The fact she recognised she needed to forgive herself was a huge step. But that being said, Connie had a niggling feeling about Alice’s part in all of this. Maybe she had good reason to blame herself. But that wasn’t really Connie’s role – to apportion blame, dig into someone’s life and play detective. That was Lindsay’s area of expertise. If she did unpick Alice’s reason for guilt, and she was somehow to blame, Connie had to deal with it in a totally different way. Alice was her client. She had to help Alice. It was her job.
Now Connie had found out some of the positive things, she wanted to explore the reason for her earlier agitation.
‘When you arrived today, it seemed like you were flustered. I know you were late and had rushed, but there was something else. What caused that?’
‘Oh, it was nothing much. Stupid, really.’ She flicked her hand dismissively.
‘It didn’t appear to be nothing, and I’m sure it wasn’t stupid.’
Alice dropped her head, then snapped it back up, her intense eyes boring into Connie’s.
‘I had a shock, is all. Saw my ex-husband in town when I wasn’t expecting it. I suppose it rattled me, made me panic.’
‘Why would seeing him cause you to panic?’
‘He’s not a very nice man, Connie. Not someone I would want to have confronting me, especially as I was with someone from the group, too – and I didn’t want her to see him. Meet him.’
‘The woman you were talking about? The one you feel you have a lot in common with?’
‘Um …’ Alice looked confused for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, yes – that one.’
‘If you felt a connection with her, had things in common, maybe she would’ve understood if you’d confided in her?’
‘Maybe. But I couldn’t take the chance. I didn’t want to expose her to him. Didn’t want him knowing what I’m doing, who I’m friends with. He’d ruin it, put a stop to it. He doesn’t like me talking to people about, you know, what happened. About Kyle.’
‘I see.’ Connie thought about this new information. It sounded as though Alice feared her ex-husband, and coupled with what she’d told her in the last session about how her son had taken over where her husband had left off, Connie suspected that Alice Mann had experienced a lot of trauma in her past – possibly abuse from both of them.
‘I’m really sorry he made … makes you feel that way, Alice. I’m sure it must cause difficulties, and means it’s challenging for you to move forwards.’
‘He prevents me moving forwards, yes. I have to do my best despite him; pretend he’s not here. I suppose I pretend a lot.’
‘You shouldn’t have to pretend. I can help you work through these challenges, help with coping strategies. If your ex-husband is threatening you, causing you fear, there are people who can assist with that too – not only the police, but services who can offer practical support.’
‘No!’ Alice jumped up. ‘No, Connie. Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’m sorry. This wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about, not what I wanted help with.’
‘Okay, I’m sorry, Alice. Please sit back down.’ Connie got to her feet and reached out to touch Alice’s arm, but the damage seemed to have been done.
Alice turned her back and walked towards the consulting room door. She stopped in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder.
‘I’m wasting your time, I’m sorry.’
The door slammed behind her.
Connie screwed her eyes up. Damn. She must have gone too far.
She had pushed Alice away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#ulink_04adae6d-d567-5d3a-99f9-1eaa705673af)
Connie (#ulink_04adae6d-d567-5d3a-99f9-1eaa705673af)
‘Yes, Mum, I promise I’ll be careful.’ Connie’s ear was hot from pressing the phone to it for so long.
‘I feel it’s a mistake, I can’t help it, love. You shouldn’t be going backwards, you should be concentrating on the future, moving forwards in your life. No good can come of this – your practice should be your focus, not those degenerates.’
‘I know, I know.’ Connie rolled her neck, attempting to release some of the tension stored there. Her mum had repeated this advice at least four times in the one call. ‘This will be the one and only time, I swear. I’ve done one session, I’m there tomorrow, then perhaps two more days next week, that’s it.’
‘Yes, you already said, dear.’
Connie closed her eyes and shook her head, suppressing the urge to say, it must be catching, saying instead: ‘Well, I thought I’d reiterate it.’
‘I don’t want any harm to come to you. That’s not a bad thing, is it?’
‘No. Of course not,’ Connie said.
There was a silence at the end of the line. Connie knew why. It wasn’t only the last few years she was alluding to. When Connie was fifteen, her mum had feared for her well-being, had told her she was making mistakes – but her words had gone unheeded. Connie dropped her hand to her stomach, thinking about how her behaviour back then had led to one of the worst things that had happened to her. It was no wonder her mum was always worrying about her. But in some ways, Connie could understand that. While she wasn’t a mother herself, she knew exactly how it felt to need to protect someone.
Because Connie was keeping the biggest secret of all from her mum – one that had come crashing into her own life last year, and that she’d worried about every day since. Twenty-one years ago, Connie’s older brother Luke was stabbed to death. And just eight months ago, Connie discovered that his injury had not, as they’d all been led to believe, been fatal. As a result of her involvement in the Hargreaves murder inquiry, her father’s lies had been spilled, their abhorrent nature made clear. Luke’s death had been faked to protect him from their father’s toxic business dealings, dealings that ensured Manchester gangs were out for blood. His, or his family’s. After Luke’s supposed death, Connie had spent years feeling she was the one her father would’ve rather lost. Anyone but his precious son. She’d fought for his approval throughout her life, even when he moved back to Manchester, leaving her and her mum in Devon. Connie strived to make him proud of her, to the point she began to hate him, or maybe even herself, for the way she allowed him to make her feel. And then she’d discovered that the bulk of her life was built on a lie. At the time of the revelation, Connie had been absolutely convinced she should go straight to her mum and tell her everything she’d learned. She’d wanted to resist her father’s control, his warped sense of protection over them.
It’ll kill her if she found out now. Don’t do it, Connie, he’d begged.
It’s killing her anyway, Connie had argued.
She would never forgive her father, but for her mother’s sake, as well as for fear of putting Luke and her family in further jeopardy, Connie continued pretending that none of it had resurfaced – that Luke was still buried.
‘So,’ her mum’s voice cut into her thoughts, ‘are you free to come over for a bite to eat on Saturday? I’d quite like some company …’
Connie drew in a large lungful of air. It was Luke’s birthday on Saturday. Her brother would’ve been forty-one if he hadn’t been taken from them at seventeen. Connie quickly shook away the thought. He is going to be forty-one.
‘Yeah, of course, Mum. Do you want me to bring anything? Wine? Pudding?’
‘Just yourself, dear … and your friend, if you like?’
That would make things easier. Lindsay would help with conversation, prevent it from slipping into the dangerous territory of family secrets.
‘If you’re okay with that, then yes. Lindsay would love to meet you properly.’
‘It’s a date, then.’
Connie could hear in her mum’s tone she was smiling. Maybe the fact Connie was keeping this huge secret from her was the right thing to do.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#ulink_311b7177-2499-557d-b1df-45326b134a3d)
Deborah (#ulink_311b7177-2499-557d-b1df-45326b134a3d)
A chill ripples inside my body, shaking my foundation like a gust of wind through a tree threatening to shed its leaves. My fingers tremble as I flatten the yellowing newspaper page. I hide the tin full of cuttings from Nathan. He doesn’t think it’s good to brood over the past. Now, seeing the headlines again, I relive it all with frightening clarity.
I am there. Back on that day. I can feel all I felt then, only now it’s even worse. Because I know more now than I did when I was first told of my son’s death. His murder. I know far too much about Kyle Mann. I swallow the rising hatred.
Why does the media insist on displaying the faces of those who have committed such hideous crimes, name them, talk about them, dissect every area of their lives? Why give them the space, the attention? I can’t stand it. It’s the victims who should be the focus. I don’t want to read about how this murdering bastard had a hard life; a difficult upbringing. So what?
I had many of these thoughts back then. I told anyone who was willing to listen. Even those who weren’t. Looking at these articles again now, I’m aware my anger hasn’t subsided. I’ve just done a good job of distracting myself from it.
But now that distraction has gone, thanks to Marcie.
The driveway gravel crunches beneath a car. I jump up, place the cuttings back inside the old biscuit tin and push it under the pile of my jumpers on the shelf in the walk-in wardrobe. Nathan’s home. I haven’t told him I’m on ‘gardening leave’ yet. Not sure whether I should. Maybe I can keep it to myself, for a while at least.
He won’t know that I’m not leaving for work. He always leaves the house before me, and I’m home before him. I can keep up the facade easily. After all, I’m well-practised.
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#ulink_b8160555-63fe-57b1-b1a5-703de3a84774)
Alice (#ulink_b8160555-63fe-57b1-b1a5-703de3a84774)
I’m sitting waiting.
The last Wednesday of February seems to have taken an age to come around, and now it’s here, I’m consumed with impatience for my group to arrive. I got here nice and early to ensure I had plenty of time to set up the room. I’ve brought supplies for a tea break too this time. We can all have a relaxed chat while we refuel.
It’s cold today. The air in the large, high-ceilinged church room envelops me in its cool cocoon. I do up the buttons of my cardigan, but it won’t be enough to stop the shivers. Maybe I should bring my electric blower heater next time. Although, looking around me, I can see there are radiators. I’ll ask the caretaker why they aren’t on. Perhaps he doesn’t think a small group like mine deserves to have money spent on it. It must cost a lot to heat this huge space.
Half an hour to go.
I’m regretting arriving here quite so early. This last thirty minutes is dragging. What if no one turns up this time? The first session went well, I thought – and Wendy did say she was looking forwards to it.
Relax. They will come.
I get up, and begin to pace the wooden floor. I need to try to warm up.
My mind goes back to my session with Connie. I’ve gone over it again and again. It hadn’t progressed the way I wanted it to. She’d been clever, picked up on something I didn’t really want to talk about, and directed the session her way. Towards her agenda, not mine. I hadn’t had a chance to ask the questions I’d planned; ones that would’ve been useful for today’s group meeting. The next counselling session could be awkward, she might continue down the abused wife route. I’ll have to think of something to start off the session differently. A big disclosure to knock her sideways, steer it in the opposite direction to what I know she wants.
Actually, maybe I have just the thing …
No time to think about it now – I hear the outer door bang.
‘Thank you, God.’ I look up to the Lord, crossing my chest. At least someone has turned up.
It’s Wendy. She was first here last time too.
My heart dips a little. I hope some others come early as well. I don’t want too much time alone with her – I don’t want her to bring up the episode with my ‘ex-husband’. I’ve got a little story planned, though, just in case. I have to cover all bases, be prepared.
As I’m welcoming her, a few others follow.
Warmth replaces the cold I’d been feeling.
Finally, when everyone has filtered in, I notice that my group has grown by two people. Once we’re all settled in the circle, we do another brief round of introductions, welcoming the new members. And I’m thrilled to find one of them is Bill.
I smile widely, feeling my face glow. Excellent. I’ve been successful in getting him to the group – my comment on the online support group obviously did the trick. It feels good to know I have some powers of persuasion.
CHAPTER TWENTY (#ulink_bd2e75c4-4cc6-55ac-9036-877718924409)
Connie (#ulink_bd2e75c4-4cc6-55ac-9036-877718924409)
‘Any men on the scene, Connie, love?’
Connie slumped against the high back of the dining chair. She’d been waiting for something like this all evening; her mother’s idea of small talk at the dinner table.
‘No, Mum. It’s been a while since I’ve been on the dating scene – no time for all that.’ It was the easiest and quickest way to shut that particular conversation down. She’d had issues trusting men ever since her teenage trauma – ‘That Night’ at the party where things had gone terribly wrong and she was taken advantage of. It was a time in her life Connie didn’t like to dwell on, or revisit.
‘Oh, that’s a shame. You’re not getting any younger – I suppose I’m not going to be a grandma anytime soon then.’
Connie’s face flushed.
‘What about you, dear, anyone special?’ She directed her probing question to Lindsay.
‘About the same, I’m afraid, Bev.’ Lindsay took a large gulp of red wine. ‘My divorce came through a few months ago.’
‘Ahh, I’m sorry. Is that why you’ve got a room in Connie’s house?’
‘That, and it made sense financially and geographically. I was travelling to Coleton every day from Plymouth, it was a long trek. After Connie’s … experience … last year, we decided it would work well for both of us. And it does.’ Lindsay turned to Connie and smiled as she raised her glass in a toast.
Connie noted that her mum had inched forwards in her seat, clearly itching to interject. She certainly didn’t waste any time.
‘So, tell me, Lindsay, what big case are you working on right now? The missing girl I heard about on the news?’
‘You can’t ask that, Mum! Lindsay can’t talk about cases outside of her work.’
‘I’m sure she talks to you about it though, doesn’t she?’ Her mum gave a cringeworthy wink as she passed Lindsay the dish of vegetables. Connie threw an apologetic smile at Lindsay.
‘It’s okay.’ Lindsay slyly jabbed her elbow in Connie’s side and widened her eyes at her before turning back to her mum. ‘If I don’t divulge anything that could compromise any ongoing investigations, I can talk about them. You know, in general.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t tell Connie very much, actually.’ Lindsay pushed the serving dish towards Connie.
Connie took it and dolloped a small spoonful of veg on her plate. Her appetite had waned the minute Lindsay had turned off the main Teignmouth road and crossed the bridge into Shaldon. As soon as Connie had walked through the front door of her mum’s terraced house, her gut had twisted into a painful knot and hadn’t relaxed since. At least the emphasis so far had been on Lindsay and her role as detective inspector. She hoped she didn’t feel uncomfortable with her mum’s questions. Judging by the dig she’d been given in the ribs, she guessed she must be fine with it. She should try to relax a little.
‘See, Connie, Lindsay doesn’t mind.’ She smirked teasingly at Connie and then took a mouthful of food.
‘I am involved in the missing person case, yes,’ Lindsay said.
Connie looked up sharply. ‘Are you? I didn’t realise.’
Lindsay had worked long hours the last couple of days, but hadn’t told Connie why. She should’ve guessed it was on the missing twenty-one-year-old’s case, which had been widely reported since Wednesday evening.
‘See, Bev, I don’t tell her everything.’ Lindsay laughed.
‘Terrible business. That poor family. I do hope it’s a happy ending. Do you think it will be, Lindsay?’ Connie watched as her mother’s eyes darkened. This topic of conversation wasn’t a good idea; her mum would be thinking about Luke, especially given today was his birthday, and how she’d lost her son under such tragic circumstances. It would make it difficult for Connie, knowing what she now knew. She’d tried so hard not to think about Luke, not to contemplate the hows, whys and whens. Tried hard not to spill everything to her mum, often wrestling with her decision not to disclose the details.
Lindsay placed her knife and fork on her plate and leant back, exhaling loudly. ‘If I’m honest, Bev, it doesn’t look very hopeful. In this kind of case we’re searching for proof of life. It’s been over forty-eight hours and we haven’t found any evidence of that yet. Those first hours are critical.’
‘But maybe she’s gone off with friends without telling anyone?’ Her mother’s voice was filled with a hope that made Connie’s heart ache.
‘It’s a possibility,’ Lindsay said, ‘but she hasn’t accessed her bank account, her mobile phone hasn’t been used, so …’
‘Must be a hard job, dealing with something so awful – having to be the sole hope for her family.’
‘Yes, it is. You never really get used to it, although you do learn to manage. All my major cases have been challenging, each one for different reasons.’
‘You must be very strong, Lindsay. I’m glad there are people like you who work for the victims, their family. Get justice.’ Tears sparkled in her eyes.
Connie looked down at her plate, not wanting to witness her mum’s pain.
‘I try to be strong. You have to be, really, to keep on doing the job. We don’t always serve justice though, I’m afraid. Not every case results in a conviction.’
‘No. I know. We never got justice for our Luke.’
Connie’s stomach flipped. She shut her eyes tightly, not trusting herself to look into her mother’s eyes. The silence stretched.
‘I’m really sorry about your son, Bev. I’m sorry closure wasn’t gained.’
Connie felt a hand on hers and opened her eyes. Lindsay had her other hand on her mum’s. Connie wondered if Lindsay felt guilty too. She had confided in her, and so she also knew about Luke being alive and well. Not dead.
The weight of the lie dragged Connie down; made her heavy. Almost twelve months of keeping this huge secret. How had her father done it for twenty-two years? Unbelievable.
‘You are back working in the prison on Monday then, Connie.’ Her mum’s sudden change in direction was both welcome and unwanted. At least she wasn’t talking about Luke. It wasn’t long ago that she’d wanted to hear her mum talk about her brother, encouraged her – manipulated situations in order to make her talk about him. Now she was quashing her attempts, changing the subject and avoiding any talk of him. It was unfair. Cruel.
She hated her father. For lying in the first place, for hiding the truth for so long. And for dragging Connie into his deceit, making her a co-conspirator. A liar.
At the same time, she didn’t want to discuss her decision to go back to HMP Baymead, to go over her mother’s fears yet again. Didn’t she have enough to feel guilty for?
‘Yes, Mum. It’s going okay, actually. It’s not the same as before.’ She smiled at her mum. ‘Honestly.’
‘Good. I’m glad. They won’t keep asking you to do these … report things, will they?’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ve made it perfectly clear this is a one-off. Even if they ask again, I’ll say no …’
‘No you won’t, Connie. You’re like your dad in that way.’ Her voice was flat, monotone.
Connie’s heartbeat jolted. Like your dad. The words cut deep.
But there was a truth in them that Connie couldn’t deny.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#ulink_96207d82-8cfe-5a5b-b2d3-bf692bf82c6b)
Connie (#ulink_96207d82-8cfe-5a5b-b2d3-bf692bf82c6b)
‘I’m Connie. I don’t know if you remember me – I saw you when you first arrived at Baymead two years ago …’
Kyle Mann’s eyes were cloudy, red-rimmed. He looked as though he’d just woken up after a heavy drinking session. Or, as was more likely in prison, he’d taken drugs. The mass of blond curls he’d had when Connie first met him were gone: a shaved scalp now replaced them, giving his features a harder edge. He looked more like the criminal he was than the younger butter-wouldn’t-melt appearance he’d entered the prison system with.
Connie tilted her head in the direction of his gaze, seeking his attention. He didn’t give any sign he’d heard her, or that he was even aware of her presence. He was sitting opposite her, a table separating them, with Connie closest to the door. And the alarm. He appeared relaxed: his legs loosely positioned, knees splayed – very close to Connie’s – and hands resting on the table.
Jen had said that he hadn’t spoken a word to any of the staff since his imprisonment. She wondered if he kept this vow of silence with other inmates. She’d get Verity to take her to the wing later so she could speak to his personal officer to find out who he associated with, and if they’d had any evidence of him communicating in any way.
‘I am a forensic psychologist. I’m here today to carry out an assessment that will be used together with a number of other reports and will be compiled for the parole board in relation to your progression through the system. Do you understand, Kyle?’
Nothing.
Jen was right; it was unlikely he would start talking now, not after all this time. Connie needn’t have worried about a conflict of interest, any ethical dilemma in working with Alice. She’d have to carry on with this meeting regardless though, get what she needed, and then call for Verity to come back and escort her to the psychology office.
‘I’m an independent psychologist, which means I don’t work in the prison, or for the prison service. My role is to work with you, talk to you about your offence, your risk factors, and give recommendations for rehabilitation programmes. I’ll do a written report, which will be provided to the parole board. Okay?’
Connie thought she saw a flicker in Kyle’s eyes. A quick glance in her direction. But still she was faced with the wall of silence. She moved her chair along slightly, lining it up so that she was in his direct line of vision. He lowered his head, purposely avoiding catching her eye. So, he did know she was there. He was well aware of why she was there, she felt sure.
‘Right, well, I’m going to read through some of these notes I have here,’ Connie said as she placed his file on the table and opened it. ‘And you jump in whenever you want. Tell me if there’s anything you want to clarify, or add. Anything you don’t agree with.’
Connie started to read out the description of his offence. Every now and then she paused, looking up to observe his body language, to see if his expression had altered. He remained closed. He’d had a few years to perfect this routine. He was good at it. It was highly improbable Connie would crack him without something new, something to give him cause to wobble – a reason to speak.
During her last visit to the prison, when she’d studied the files of the men she’d be assessing, Connie had reread the police transcript of their interview with Kyle prior to him being charged with murder. He’d been incredibly vague, often giving one-word responses, but had spoken. However, as soon as they charged him, further interviews had been ‘no comment’ ones or he’d simply remained quiet – supposedly at the advice of his solicitor. She’d also read the lengthy transcript of the interview with Kyle’s parents. With Alice, and her husband, Edward. How they’d been so certain their son would not have committed this crime without serious coercion. His mother in particular had been totally convinced he’d been targeted, manipulated and groomed by someone. She’d said he was an easy target because of his behavioural difficulties. She’d said he suffered with mild Asperger’s and had some learning difficulties growing up. None of this could be substantiated in court later – there was simply no hard evidence to back up her claims. No assessments, no input from services, school, or any doctors able to confirm anything Alice Mann had asserted.
As Connie began reading from the notes she’d taken from the transcript, Kyle’s eyes closed, and she noticed his knuckles turning white as he clenched his hands into fists.
Just talking about what his mum had said to the police had touched a nerve.
‘Your mum really believes in you. You know that, don’t you?’
There was a scraping sound as Kyle drew in his legs, tucking them under the chair.
‘You know she doesn’t believe you would be capable of such a crime. Of murder.’ Connie was on a roll. Her passion for forensic psychology was reignited in that moment; she wanted to do a good job, like she always felt she had prior to the Hargreaves incident. Looking at Kyle now, she was suddenly eager to get something from him. A reaction. Even if she couldn’t get him to speak. She picked up a piece of paper containing her scribbled notes and, holding it so she could see it and Kyle’s face easily above the paper, began reading:
‘Kyle wouldn’t purposely hurt anyone. He’s always been a kind, considerate boy, but he was used. People took advantage of him, of his vulnerability. He couldn’t have done this on his own. It’s impossible.’ Connie read the words loudly, leaning in towards Kyle’s face. She was pushing it, she knew – but something made her feel safe; she didn’t sense he was a risk to her.
Kyle’s breathing rate increased; Connie could hear the flow of air as it pushed through his nostrils and was quickly drawn back in again.
This was the most reaction she’d ever known Kyle Mann give. His mum was the key. The way she could get him to speak, she was convinced of that now.
Without much thought of the consequences, Connie played her trump card.
‘I know your mum feels incredible guilt about you being here. She believes she’s let you down, that she could’ve done something to prevent it.’
His eyes were wide now. Focussed on Connie for the first time.
She continued. ‘I know this, Kyle, because she told me. The other day in fact, when she came to see me for my help.’
Kyle lurched forwards. Connie’s pulse banged in her neck.
‘You’re lying,’ he shouted, before slamming his back against his chair, the plastic bouncing with the force.
Connie’s mouth slackened. She’d done it. Made him utter actual words.
She stalled in her shock, but quickly recovered; she had to keep it going now she’d made a breakthrough.
‘I wouldn’t lie to you, Kyle. I think you should know what your mother is going through.’
A pang of guilt struck her. She shouldn’t have told him, she’d really compromised herself now. In her eagerness to get Kyle to speak, she’d broken the code of conduct.
Dammit.
What if Kyle’s stony silence didn’t stretch as far as his mum? He could call Alice, tell her what Connie had said. She’d be in all kinds of trouble. Again. But she’d done what no one else had been able to: she’d made Kyle Mann talk. She may only have this one chance. She had to continue – and deal with the consequences later.
‘She’s not the only one who thinks you didn’t act alone, is she? The police also suspected you were with someone else that day. That another person was as responsible, if not more so than you, for the murder of Sean Taylor.’
‘They’re wrong.’ His voice was a quiet rasp, as though not speaking for all this time had dried his vocal cords and stringing a whole sentence together was challenging.
‘Are they, Kyle? Even your mum?’
‘Especially my mum. I’m not the son she thinks I am.’
Connie sat back, turning over in her mind what Alice had revealed so far about Kyle during her sessions. The aggressive, almost bullying nature she’d described as part of the behaviour she’d endured from Kyle at home, prior to his offence, was not the same picture Alice had painted at the time of his arrest. Didn’t sound like the Kyle she’d spoken of in the transcript Connie had read. Had Alice lied in the interview with the police in an attempt to protect him?
‘I would really like to hear an account of what happened in the lead-up to Sean Taylor’s death. How did the day begin for you, Kyle?’
He snorted and shook his head. ‘I’ve done all this.’
‘Well, actually you haven’t. If your records are correct, you gave “no comment” interviews. Where did you spend the day, Kyle?’ Connie laid her notes down and rested her elbows on the table.
Kyle shrugged his shoulders. Had he verbally communicated all he was willing to? An unexpected sense of disappointment swept through her.
‘Who else did you see that day? Did you meet up with someone?’
He averted his eyes from Connie’s. She was losing him.
‘Who was it? Someone you used to game with online?’ Connie immediately regretted her question. She was using things arising from Alice’s session as a way of forcing Kyle to speak. It was so unethical, she felt her face grow hot with the knowledge of what she was doing.
Kyle’s own face flushed, his eyes growing wider, darker; his pupils dilating.
Connie swallowed hard as he pushed violently up from his chair.
He left the room without saying another word.
Someone else had been involved with Sean’s murder, she felt sure now. The one that got away. And for some reason, Kyle was protecting him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#ulink_4ecaa26c-3d4a-5897-852a-dcc6c8e8a76c)
Tom (#ulink_4ecaa26c-3d4a-5897-852a-dcc6c8e8a76c)
The house was even quieter than usual. He knew he must be alone. He was glad. At least he didn’t have to worry about being caught; he was getting fed up of having to deal with endless questions. He could talk online uninterrupted. His sessions had increased again. The time it’d taken to organise the gaming site had taken far more effort; it was time-consuming getting the right people involved. Keeping them on his domain, even more challenging. Everyone thought they were a gamer these days. Most didn’t know the skill it took. Most didn’t realise the thrills would diminish later down the line. When they’d played as long as he had, they’d come to the same conclusion: online slaughter isn’t enough. Once you reach a certain level it’s more difficult to get the adrenaline going, more difficult to feel alive.
When you’re at my level, things have got to get real.
He’d lasted four whole years. He’d tried to recreate the thrills online only. But now the urge was too strong, he needed more.
He’d obviously got away with the last one, so he should be fine.
It was time.
He needed another kill – and he’d found the perfect player.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#ulink_dadde95a-0218-5f80-bd01-aef8d21f4ec2)
Deborah (#ulink_dadde95a-0218-5f80-bd01-aef8d21f4ec2)
I lie still, watching as Nathan dresses in his charcoal-grey suit. He’s still attractive – he’s aged exceptionally well. He doesn’t even have any visible grey in his hair, and is not receding, or balding like a lot of men his age. He keeps himself trim, weekly visits to the gym, plus running and golf at the weekend. I can see why he gains female attention at work. There seem to be a lot of women employees at the district council offices. When I used to pop in to see Nathan on my lunch breaks, I’d noticed how the reception desk was manned by dolled-up, pretty women. Back when I really cared, it would bother me, how they tripped over themselves to speak to him, almost scrambling to get his attention. Even if I was standing with him, they would openly flirt, as if I wasn’t there.
I wonder who he’s shagging.
‘Come on, lazybones, you’re going to be late for work,’ he says as he bends to plant a kiss on my head.
‘Five more minutes.’ I stretch and make out I’m still tired. I am tired, as it happens. I lay awake for long periods in the night, thinking. About work. Or lack of it – and how I’m going to fill the endless hours each day. And thinking about Alice. How I might pay her a visit. The newspapers didn’t say much about her at the time of Kyle Mann’s arrest and subsequent trial; her husband, Edward, was the focus. The troubled father-son relationship, often speculative and also told through the subjectivity of neighbours, was what gained column inches; sold papers. It would perhaps be interesting to find out what part Alice herself played in her son’s delinquent behaviour; his ultimate ability to take another’s life.
‘I might be a bit late tonight, sorry. There’s a planning meeting at six, discussing the new project, remember – the expansion of a small industrial estate to incorporate a supermarket?’
He’d not spoken of it since the last meeting he’d had that had run over time. By two hours. ‘Oh yes, right. I’ll cook late then, for eight?’ I push my lips into a smile.
‘Oh, I would just put something back for me. You can never tell how long these meetings are going to take. No doubt Phil will have countless questions to ask right at the end – always does.’ Nathan doesn’t look me in the eye. It’s the first time I really feel it – the disloyalty. I’m not sure whether to be angry or sad, or thankful that at least someone’s giving him what he needs. How can I blame him for grasping any ounce of happiness that comes his way? Life has been such a struggle for us since losing Sean. If I had the inclination, I could probably stop him from straying. But I don’t, not at the moment. Plus, if his attention is elsewhere, I’ll be more likely to get away with my own indiscretion.
I wait until the front door bangs closed, listen to the car wheels noisily spewing small stone chippings as Nathan leaves the driveway, before I swing my legs from the bed. I shower and dress as I would for a normal workday.
Only, today isn’t normal.
Today is the first day of living a lie.
Or is it? Maybe that’s what I’ve already been doing up until today.
A change is as good as a rest, my mum would’ve said. Having no job to go to is certainly a change.
I don’t know where to find Alice. She didn’t say where she lived and I only gleaned a few things from her nervous chatter – like she works, or worked, part-time somewhere – but I can’t remember much, as I wasn’t taking it in. I didn’t ask any questions about her, or her life. I wasn’t interested before now.
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Sam Carrington
‘Sam Carrington has done it again. One Little Lie is a twisty, gripping read. I loved it.’ Cass Green‘Expertly written … with plentiful twists and unforgettable characters, it's an insightful and unnerving read.’ Caroline Mitchell‘My name is Alice. And my son is a murderer.’Deborah’s son was killed four years ago. Alice’s son is in prison for committing that crime.Deborah would give anything to have her boy back, and Alice would do anything to right her son’s wrongs.Driven by guilt and the need for redemption, Alice has started a support group for parents with troubled children. But as the network begins to grow, she soon finds out just how easy it is for one little lie to spiral out of control…They call it mother’s intuition, but can you ever really know your own child?Deeply psychological and suspenseful, One Little Lie is a twisty and unnerving story about the price of motherhood and the unthinkable things we do to protect our children.Perfect for fans of Cara Hunter and Laura Marshall.
Copyright (#u25a33c1e-5ccb-55dc-ab2c-89e481efcd60)
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Sam Carrington 2018
Cover design © www.blacksheep-uk.com (http://www.blacksheep-uk.com) 2018
Cover photograph © Arcangel
Sam Carrington asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008300814
Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008328689
Version: 2018-09-20
Dedication (#u25a33c1e-5ccb-55dc-ab2c-89e481efcd60)
For my sons, Louis and Nathaniel. You make me proud every day.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u45eaa88a-e48b-5cde-acde-8010e54c7ba5)
Title Page (#u7735c671-d881-557b-937f-ece1ff0477ec)
Copyright (#ud0c455ba-2e7f-51f7-83a0-20ef5d5ea829)
Dedication (#u32fe873c-0eb2-5944-ab3c-7c4f1331866a)
Prologue: 19th March 2014 – Exeter Crown Court (#ud1da805e-94d3-5e9a-8aae-c3009f3f96bc)
Part One (#u772657cc-4b82-5829-b2e5-fe082c108562)
Chapter One: Alice (#u4841af61-2866-5746-aff3-31a69162508b)
Chapter Two: Connie (#u9ba2e5b4-fcb3-5a67-b165-893a2e77737f)
Chapter Three: Connie (#u93bccac0-7f29-55e9-91a1-b4fbd76facc5)
Chapter Four: Alice (#u284d34c4-8781-5fb1-9b35-4a261271a187)
Chapter Five: Connie (#u1eaaf2dc-9f39-53af-9e4a-38a9f27ed90c)
Chapter Six: Alice (#uf084fc62-9b67-51c0-907b-1f7abd388919)
Chapter Seven: Connie (#ud890bbcc-8117-5b4f-9b4e-ca33052ed685)
Chapter Eight: Deborah (#uee7c540e-a0ad-5f06-8362-dcae6afa23d0)
Chapter Nine: Connie (#u2f493552-322f-559d-a28a-105b3037a019)
Chapter Ten: Alice (#ua07b1766-2fdb-53a9-b7fe-d61205a3e220)
Chapter Eleven: Connie (#u36d56bd7-aede-5564-aea8-452594bdb53a)
Chapter Twelve: Deborah (#uc233aaa6-f25e-5d90-b6ba-88914c26b188)
Chapter Thirteen: Connie (#u739e3344-42aa-5b61-b69e-8f6bba3d69e4)
Chapter Fourteen: Alice (#u2bee9902-88ca-5b18-bc0a-c9a84c56c33e)
Chapter Fifteen: Deborah (#u9f6d101c-8cbd-5c11-90d6-210b7a94440b)
Chapter Sixteen: Connie (#u38fc3024-9c6c-5651-a0f4-ccb1b653a10a)
Chapter Seventeen: Connie (#u70c9a690-16cc-53d5-9271-caa41d1998e4)
Chapter Eighteen: Deborah (#u09acea0f-1adc-51f1-901f-97409aea7d17)
Chapter Nineteen: Alice (#u46571f17-64ee-5d84-a7ac-d38700407acc)
Chapter Twenty: Connie (#u31d6299b-1620-5f87-83d8-b3bc11b12051)
Chapter Twenty-One: Connie (#u6b86f33d-3246-586d-9875-4c3be6cafc3b)
Chapter Twenty-Two: Tom (#u1611c0ac-bc19-5b6a-8ba6-8d567b28b904)
Chapter Twenty-Three: Deborah (#u1fce8a6b-3c27-5e65-85f7-a3f030d46b67)
Chapter Twenty-Four: Alice (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six: Alice (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty: Alice (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three: Alice (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Alice (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Five: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Six: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Seven: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Eight: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Nine: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-One: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Two: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Five: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Six: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Seven: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Eight: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Nine: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-One: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Two: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Three: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Five: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Six: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Seven: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Eight: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Nine: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-One: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Two: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Three: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Five: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Six: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Seven: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Eight: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Nine: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-One: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Two: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Four: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Five: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Six: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Seven: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Eight: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighty-Nine: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-One: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Two: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Four: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Five: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Six: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Seven: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Eight: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ninety-Nine: Tom (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and One: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Two: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Three: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Four: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Five: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Six: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Seven: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Eight: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Nine: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Ten: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Twelve: Alice (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen: Connie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen: Deborah (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue: Monday 6th August 2018 (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#u25a33c1e-5ccb-55dc-ab2c-89e481efcd60)
19th March 2014 – Exeter Crown Court (#u25a33c1e-5ccb-55dc-ab2c-89e481efcd60)
‘It took approximately eight hours for Sean Taylor to die.’
She listened as the man spoke, her heart beating a little faster, her eyes blinking a little more than necessary. She shifted in her seat. Her bottom was numb, her legs heavy. She didn’t want to hear the details. She needed to. Her gaze fixed on the coroner; she couldn’t move her limbs and escape the courtroom, couldn’t close her ears to the words.
She had to know.
‘The stab wound to the back of his neck entered between cervical C5 and C6, causing complete severance of the spinal cord. Not immediately fatal, but it would’ve paralysed him.’
A tight band constricted her chest wall, threatening to squash her heart. Still, she listened.
‘He lay, unable to move, in his own blood for hours. It wasn’t until the tide came in fully that his life was finally taken.’
‘So, cause of death was drowning?’
The man’s left eye twitched. It was visible even from her seat in the gallery. ‘Well, officially, yes – suffocation from water was the decisive factor. But, clearly, the stab which caused—’
‘That will be all, Doctor Varsey. No further questions.’
The young man in the dock was standing very still – like a shop dummy, frozen in position by the person who put it there. Unmoved by proceedings. His mop of blond hair fell in loose curls, covering his eyes. Blocking his guilt from view. How could this unremarkable eighteen-year-old have caused so much devastation?
She swallowed.
He deserved what was coming to him. Didn’t he? A lifetime in prison.
A life for a life.
But he wasn’t the only one who needed to be punished.
PART ONE (#u25a33c1e-5ccb-55dc-ab2c-89e481efcd60)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_6812d50e-5eb7-53cf-ae04-359d311240e1)
Alice (#ulink_6812d50e-5eb7-53cf-ae04-359d311240e1)
Wednesday 31st January 2018
The chairs form an almost perfect circle. I manoeuvre the last two so they have equal distance between them. It’s important I try to maintain the personal space of those who’ll be seated here. Satisfied, I step back to check. Only one chair is different – double the room either side of it – separated from the rest of them. It’s also the only soft-furnished chair, the others being brown plastic.
This is my chair.
I’m their leader. I need to be seen easily by all the members – all eyes will need to be able to find mine. Eye contact is so important. That’s how they can see my empathy. My pain. Share it all with me.
Ten minutes left to wait.
It’s taken a few months of organisation: a lot of online chats, convincing others there was need for in-person interaction rather than virtual, finding an appropriate venue. Hopefully there’ll be a good turnout; at least six. I’ve optimistically put out ten chairs. Not a big group, but that doesn’t matter. Not to begin with. It will grow, once people realise how much they’re gaining. How much help and support it will offer them. And then they’ll travel from further afield to be a part of my group, a part of each other’s lives.
Five minutes.
A fizz of excitement bubbles inside my stomach. Most people wouldn’t understand that. Not with the type of group I’m running.
But this means a lot to me.
This is going to help redeem me.
‘Hello.’ A quiet, hesitant voice drifts in from the outer door of the church hall.
I straighten, my muscles hardening for a few seconds before I recover. I deftly smooth my black pencil-skirt with both hands, and pat my hair – the new curly style is taking some getting used to. I take small, quick steps towards the voice.
‘Welcome, I’m Alice Mann, come on in.’ I’m relieved to hear the words effortlessly flowing from my mouth as I thrust my hand into the palm of my first group member. The robust, ruddy-faced woman gives a shaky smile in return.
‘Wendy,’ she manages, her eyes flitting around the church hall.
I can tell she’s nervous. I must put Wendy at ease quickly, to make sure she stays; doesn’t turn tail at the first opportunity, or only attend this first session and never return.
‘A church,’ Wendy says. ‘Is it appropriate?’
‘Well, the church hall, to be exact,’ I say, as confidently as I can. ‘It’s the only venue I could secure locally.’ I pop my arm around Wendy’s shoulders and guide her to a chair.
I did wonder if this would be the best place, but I’d been limited. And this only cost £25 for two hours. It’s not like we’re in the actual church. But anyway, isn’t God meant to forgive people their sins? And the people coming to my group aren’t the ones who’ve sinned. I keep this thought to myself.
The sound of footsteps catches my attention. A sigh of relief forms but dies in my throat. At least it’s not going to be just the two of us. That would be a disaster. I smile as I greet four more people: three women and one man. I hope he won’t be the only male. It’s important to have a good selection.
After a few minutes of mumblings, squeaking of metal legs on the wooden floor, shuffling of bodies into a comfortable position – the room falls silent.
I can hear my own breath as it escapes my lips.
Six people, including me. All here for the same thing.
‘Welcome to the group.’ My enthusiastic voice fills the high-ceilinged room, and I almost jump – it sounds loud, unfamiliar. ‘I’m really pleased you’ve made it here today.’ I take a moment to look directly at each of the group members in turn. ‘I thought we’d start by going around the circle, each giving a brief introduction, start getting to know each other.’
A few people drop their gaze from mine. They don’t want to be the first to speak, the first to verbalise the reason they’re here. It’s easy, online, you see. To talk in a chat room, remain anonymous, unseen. This is different, and it’ll take a while before they build up trust in each other. In me. It will take time before they can be themselves. I can relate to that. I’m not even at that stage myself, yet.
I’ll start. I am the leader, after all.
‘Okay. I’ll begin.’ I take a large lungful of air, and slowly expel it before speaking again.
‘My name is Alice. And my son is a murderer.’
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_2abb3236-dfe9-563e-805a-e0d6f96e7f80)
Connie (#ulink_2abb3236-dfe9-563e-805a-e0d6f96e7f80)
Connie Summers all but sprinted up the hill towards the building that housed her psychological therapy practice, puffs of breath clouding the cold space in front of her. Eight months ago, she’d struggled to walk it – extra weight gained through long periods of stress-related binge-eating had taken its toll and prevented her from even ascending stairs without gasping for air. But when her new housemate had moved in, so too did a new regime: healthy eating, gym sessions, hikes over the moors. Detective Inspector Lindsay Wade had brought the best out in Connie.
Not everything in Connie’s life was rosy, though. The weight of worry still hunched her shoulders and tugged at her thoughts – still meant she couldn’t fully relax. Even now, as she strode past the familiar Totnes shops, flashbacks permeated her mind in short, sharp bursts. The images – bright, vivid and unwelcome – came to her when she didn’t even realise she was thinking about the events that had shaken her so profoundly last year.
Connie hadn’t fully recovered from the aftermath of her involvement in the Hargreaves’ murder, and she doubted she ever would. It was bad enough that she’d been one of the professionals responsible for the decision to release Ricky Hargreaves from prison, when days later he reoffended by raping a woman, but to then be dragged into Ricky’s murder case a year later when she’d begun to put her prison career behind her – it was like the red-blood icing on a poisoned cake. She’d lost clients, quite literally, due to a cruel twist of fate: the lethal mix of her previous work with offenders and her own father’s criminal links. The innocent faces of the young woman and her little boy – both now dead – were still at the forefront of Connie’s mind. She’d also struggled financially – her failure to drag herself to work every day, coupled with an inability to motivate herself to build her business back up, took its toll. This wasn’t only a direct effect of Hargreaves, but also her family’s own dubious past, its secrets unexpectedly revealing themselves, causing her thoughts to spiral uncontrollably for a while. Lindsay moving in had helped, enabling her to afford the mortgage repayments and the rent on her business premises. But it wasn’t the main reason Connie had suggested the arrangement. A friend was what she really needed.
Despite the memories haunting her walk to work, Connie was looking forwards to starting the week by welcoming a new client. Having completed the journey from the train station through the narrow side streets onto High Street and up the hill towards East Gate Arch, all in a dazed fog, Connie came back to the moment as she reached her building. She shook her head to clear it, took a breath and unlocked the blue front door. After taking a few steps across the reception area, she dashed up the stairs, giving a cursory glance at the newly installed security camera as she went. She unravelled her scarf and slung it, together with her coat, on the stand in the corner of her upstairs consulting room. The gentle clanking of the radiator filled the room – she’d timed it to come on at 8.45 a.m., so it was comfortable by 9 a.m. Connie went back downstairs to make a coffee, to let warmth replace the chill of the room before beginning her day.
Mug cradled in both hands, the heat penetrating her cold fingers, Connie leant back in her chair and listened to her answerphone. The third message made her sit forwards abruptly, spilling her coffee over the desk. What the hell?
‘Long time no speak, Con,’ the overly cheerful female voice said.
Connie reached forwards to delete the message before it played out, her finger hovering over the button. Curiosity prevented her from pressing it.
‘I know this might be a long shot,’ Jen paused, and Connie heard a sigh before she carried on. ‘But we’re in the shit here, really. You know how it is: lack of staff, too many prisoners to assess, parole board breathing down our necks. We’re swamped.’
A worm of dread began its journey through her stomach. She knew where this was heading.
‘So, anyway. The psych department has had permission to draft in some help, by way of independent psychologists popping in to carry out some of the backlog of reports. Obviously, I thought of you. You’re local, know the job, the prison. It makes sense. There are only a few men to assess, but the money will be good.’ There was another pause. ‘I thought perhaps you might appreciate a bit of extra income at the moment?’
Yes. She would. But, there was no way she’d be returning to HMP Baymead, no matter how much they paid her.
‘Think about it, eh, Con? Would be great to see you. Give me a call!’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_29d529fd-785f-54c4-8c84-f1f6a871b9ea)
Connie (#ulink_29d529fd-785f-54c4-8c84-f1f6a871b9ea)
‘It might not be such a bad idea,’ Lindsay said, sitting on the sofa with one leg tucked under her, both hands nursing her second mug of coffee.
‘Really? After everything that happened there? After leaving because of the fallout?’ Connie took a long, drawn-out breath. Even thinking about it was increasing her anxiety levels. Although if she was being honest, those levels had been elevated ever since listening to Jen’s message yesterday. The decision to leave her lead psychologist position at HMP Baymead had been the best move for her – she’d been off sick for months before she resigned, the fear of making another error of judgement too much in the end. She’d needed to feel as though she was contributing to something good, so made the focus of her new practice counselling those who’d been affected by crime. Victims, not offenders.
‘Think about it logically. And, you know – financially …’ Lindsay raised her eyebrows so they disappeared beneath her red fringe.
‘Yeah, I need the money. But I’m really not sure it’s worth putting my well-being at risk by going back in there. When I left, it was for good.’
‘Okay.’ Lindsay shrugged. ‘Say no, then.’
Connie narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you trying reverse psychology on me, Wade? That’s not your area.’
‘No. Although, I am quite good at it. Picked it up from the best.’ She wrinkled her nose and smiled.
‘Well, stop it.’ Connie got up from the sofa and walked to the window. A crisp, white layer of frost covered the ground. She shivered. She wasn’t ready for this. Not ready, nor willing to go backwards.
‘How many reports is Jen asking you to complete?’
‘A few.’ Connie made quotation marks with her fingers.
‘So what’s that, in terms of time within the prison walls?’
‘Three, maybe four days. I’d only need to see each prisoner for two sessions, I reckon. Then the rest could be done at home.’
‘So not even a week. Easy money, then.’ Lindsay’s voice softened. ‘I’m here, you know, to support you. It wouldn’t be like before.’ She got up and strode towards Connie, embracing her in a quick, tight hug. ‘I must get going – don’t want to be late for the morning briefing. Mack will take the lead without me, and I can’t have him feeling too important.’
Connie listened as Lindsay’s footsteps hurried through the house, grabbing her coat and bag. She heard the jangling of keys, then the slam of the front door. She didn’t relish the silence of the house when Lindsay wasn’t in it. She watched from the window as Lindsay got in her car and drove off, waving, as she always did.
Lindsay didn’t understand the battle Connie was having inside her head. Not fully. It wasn’t only the thought of going back into the prison causing her anxiety, it was the responsibility of compiling the written reports. What if she got it wrong again? And by worrying about being too positive about the prisoner, she’d probably err on the side of caution and perhaps not give a balanced, objective report. Just in case. Whatever way she played it, she would be wrong. And she wasn’t prepared to chance having another person’s life – or death – on her conscience.
Connie flung herself back on the sofa and lay with both arms crossed above her head. The money would come in useful. Lindsay was right about that. Having her as a support, knowing she’d have someone other than her mother to lean on, was reassuring. Lindsay hadn’t let her down – she’d been through the Hargreaves situation with her. She’d been the detective inspector on the case, and, after the initial frostiness between them, they’d come together for the common cause.
And then Lindsay had saved her. Literally saved her life.
She trusted Lindsay implicitly.
Connie pushed herself up. She’d give herself another day or two to consider it before calling Jen. For now, she had her own work to focus on. Her new client yesterday had been a woman whose son had been convicted of murder four years ago, and she’d presented with huge guilt issues. Her life had been upturned, she’d been hounded from the town she’d lived her life in, and although she was making progress in Totnes, she couldn’t get over the knowledge her own flesh and blood – a boy she’d brought up – could’ve ever committed such a heinous crime.
After the initial consultation, it had become clear to Connie that she had an ethical dilemma on her hands. Her new client, Alice Mann, had spoken of her son’s crime and an alarm of recognition rang in her head.
Her son was Kyle Mann.
And Connie knew him.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_0d72df4e-84c7-595c-8afd-4956b604b8e6)
Alice (#ulink_0d72df4e-84c7-595c-8afd-4956b604b8e6)
My knees are wobbling. I’m glad I chose a long skirt – only I know they’re shaking as I reach to press the doorbell. I know it’s working because I can hear the tacky tune it plays within the house. I wait for movement, looking through the patterned glass of the door. I lick my lips; the roughness catches my tongue. I can’t swallow either, all moisture has left my mouth and throat.
Maybe no one is in.
I’m not going to be able to ring again. My heart is already dancing along at a rate that can’t be good for me. This is my second attempt. At least I managed the bell this time. Last week I only got as far as the gateway. This is progress.
I turn, and, disappointed in my weakness, walk away from the house.
I see a flutter of a curtain as I pass by the house next door. A nosy neighbour, no doubt. I wonder if they saw me last week, too.
Oh well. Doesn’t matter if they did. I’m not doing anything wrong. In fact, what I’m trying to do is make things right. It’s all I want. I’m doing well so far, I reckon. I’ve set up the support group, I’ve even begun therapy myself. I’ve made huge leaps.
None of it was my fault. I didn’t make him do it.
I repeat this mantra a lot. I cannot be held responsible for his actions.
But I am accountable for my own. And while I didn’t make him do it, I didn’t stop him either. That’s what they said in the newspapers. What people gossiped about at the post office, in the local shops. I saw it, heard it.
It’s always the mother who gets blamed. Something she did, or didn’t do, when the child was growing up; some sort of neglect during that delicate stage of development. Lack of attention, lack of love, lack of stimulation. The list is endless. Who even decides this stuff? Who has the right to question the parenting skills of others? Probably some stuck-up university toff. What do they know about parenting?
I did my best.
Or is that another lie I tell myself every day?
‘Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs,’ I say quietly, making a sign of the cross on my chest as I slowly head back to the bus stop.
I get off the bus at a different stop than usual. I don’t want to go home. I can’t face that right now.
I slip and slide up the road towards the café at the top end of Fore Street. I wish I’d worn trainers instead of these ankle boots. The sole has little traction, and although there are only a few frosty patches on the pavements, I feel vulnerable. What if I fall and break an ankle?
I’m being silly. It’s not like I’m old, with brittle bones. I shouldn’t be worrying about stuff like this. I’m only fifty-five. If it hadn’t been for these past four years, I’d feel a lot younger, I’m sure. This has prematurely aged me.
The familiar sensation of prickling begins at the top of my nose, my eyes water. The cold makes them sting.
Don’t cry. Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t helping anyone. Neither is feeling guilty.
My preferred table in the corner of the café, practically hidden from view, is taken. Now what? I hesitate. It might be better to leave. But no one really knows me here. My face won’t be recognised. I am anonymous. With a confidence I’m unsure of the source of, I position myself at the table by the window.
It’s only when I have ordered my latte that I allow myself to look outside. I can see the psychologist’s building from here – down the hill a bit, on the left, before East Gate Arch. I have another session with Connie Summers on Monday. Our first meeting involved a lot of background information, a setting up of expectations. Talk of objectives and goals.
I told her about Kyle.
I don’t mind talking about him. It makes me feel better to talk about what he did. I told Connie that, and wondered if she thought me odd. I bet she thinks I’m off my rocker. Maybe I am. It’s not normal to feel better when talking about how someone murdered another mother’s son, is it?
But I am beginning to feel better. Talking about it is all I can do at this present time. And now I have two outlets. Two opportunities to make right.
The third way will come. Any day now, I’ll be brave enough. It’s building, this inner strength I’ve found.
Soon, I’ll be strong enough to face her.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_39ce1cd1-d6c0-56a1-8a1d-e89e22ccb097)
Connie (#ulink_39ce1cd1-d6c0-56a1-8a1d-e89e22ccb097)
Alice Mann was quite still. She didn’t fidget, didn’t flit her eyes about; she wasn’t nervous in her demeanour. She appeared calm, confident – keeping her eyes squarely on Connie’s as she told what seemed to be a well-rehearsed retelling of her story. Her experience of finding out her son had committed a murder. Connie’s decision to accept Alice as a client despite her earlier misgivings was made after carefully deliberating the pros and cons. Now, as she sat opposite Alice, listening to how her son’s actions had such far-reaching implications, Connie felt confident she’d made the correct choice. She could help this woman. She could make a difference to her life.
‘I tried, you know? I tried so hard to encourage him out of his bedroom, to go out with his friends, not just chat to them over the internet. I literally took his door off its hinges once – I wanted to know what he was up to, all those hours with his eyes fixed on that screen, earphones plugged into his ears – it wasn’t healthy. He could get nasty, would shout at me to leave him alone. So, you know, I let him put the door back on eventually. Not like I had much choice, as I couldn’t stand up to him physically. You understand?’ Alice took a breath.
Connie took advantage and jumped in before she set off again. ‘It sounds as though you had a difficult time with Kyle. Had his behaviour been challenging before, or was it new?’
‘Oh,’ Alice sighed, ‘it had been since his dad left, about two years before … you know. Anyway, I noticed that he was beginning to take on a different character, really. Like he was now the boss of the house. He took over where his dad left off. Looked after me, in his own way.’
For the first time during the session, Alice lowered her head, staring at her lap. She traced the flower pattern on her skirt with her index finger. Connie noted a small bald patch at the crown of her head, or maybe it was where her dyed ash-blonde hair had become white-grey at the roots. What did she mean by ‘looked after me, in his own way’? She made a mental note to come back to that in a later session.
‘That must’ve been hard, to manage on your own. Did you seek any help?’
Alice gave a guttural laugh. ‘Help? What kind of help? He wasn’t a child, he was sixteen. No one was interested in helping.’
‘You said before that he was always in his room, that you tried to get him to interact with others, but failed. How then did he come to commit the murder?’ Connie spoke softly, in an attempt to take the hard edge off her question.
‘Well, they said the victim was someone he met online.’ Alice straightened. ‘On some stupid gaming site. He spent hours on it. I could hear his low voice, even through the soundproofing he’d put on the walls. Always chatting – you know, on the headphone mic, into early morning.’
‘What was he talking about?’
‘Not sure. On the few occasions I was allowed to be in his room when he was talking, it was mostly about the game. Tactics, medi-packs – or something like that … Killing. The game was about killing.’ Alice closed her eyes. ‘It was only a game, though. How could I have known he was going to go one further – take it into real life?’
‘Do you think you should have known?’ Connie said.
‘I’m his mother. Yes, I should’ve known. I should’ve seen something bad coming. Done something about it.’
‘What do you think you could’ve done to prevent it?’
‘Talked to him. Given him more of my time; attention.’ She sighed again, gently shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. Something. I could’ve done something. Instead, I went for the easy life, the easy option. When he was in his room, I could relax, I didn’t have to worry about any conflict. If I gave him what he wanted, we could get on with each other.’
‘What he wanted?’
‘Yes. Privacy, to be left alone. Not to be challenged about anything. Not to go on about him getting a job. No nagging.’
Connie thought back to her own tempestuous teenage years. Her behaviour had got out of hand after her brother Luke was stabbed. She became unruly, disobedient. Promiscuous. Her parents’ numerous warnings and well-meaning interventions – their constant nagging – went ignored. The consequences of that had been far-reaching and had followed Connie into her adult life. A shudder shot along the length of her spine as the memory of That Night flashed in her mind. All she’d wanted after that was to be left alone – shutting herself away in her bedroom with only her shame and rock music for company. She’d not spoken to her mum or dad for days on end.
Hadn’t Alice’s son behaved like a lot of teenagers? How could she have known, really, that he would go on to commit a terrible crime? Unless there were other indicators. Perhaps Alice wasn’t telling the whole story, yet. Connie had the feeling there was a lot more behind Kyle’s behaviour. It was one thing to kill in a game, quite another for that to escalate into killing in real life. Despite what the anti-gamers wanted people to believe, it was not common for violent games to make a violent person. There was usually something already in them, or something predisposing them to violence.
Like growing up with an abusive parent.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_59577699-031d-591e-94f0-533f3b3208e7)
Alice (#ulink_59577699-031d-591e-94f0-533f3b3208e7)
I think that went well. Connie is going to be helpful, I feel sure of that. I must be guarded, though. Be careful not to tell too much; think about how I’m saying things. She’s smart – she’s going to chip away, use her psychological knowledge to get under my skin. Attempt to get to the root of my issues. I want that as well, to a degree. But I need to protect my son, still. I know what he did is bad, and to some, unforgivable. But he’s my flesh and blood. A product of me. And him.
We created him, and I nurtured him. Despite what I try to tell myself, it’s my fault he’s turned into this monster.
The walk back to the house is slow. The sun is shining, and it’s quite pleasant – a mild day for February – but I feel heavy. Cumbersome. I stop a few times, looking into random shop windows. I know I’m not really seeing anything. My eyes don’t focus on the displays. It’s like I’m looking past them into the distance. Into my past. My future. Both are equally messed up.
I need to jolt myself out of this mood.
Should I attempt another visit to her house? I think getting to the next stage will pull me out from under this dark cloud. It’s been over a week since I was last there. Standing at her door full of dread, but with an inkling of hope.
Hope is what I need right now.
I turn and head back to the lower end of town. I’ll get the bus, go there while I’m feeling bold. No guarantee she’ll be there, of course. I should try to figure out her schedule so I don’t waste these bursts of courage by getting there and her being out.
I need to be more organised if I’m to achieve what I want.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_c53365ed-7a00-5c9b-819c-2db270b7206a)
Connie (#ulink_c53365ed-7a00-5c9b-819c-2db270b7206a)
Connie stared at the phone, one hand twiddling a piece of her sleek black hair around and around her fingers. She’d just looked at her accounting records – it didn’t make for good reading. Her client base was growing, but slowly. She needed an injection of cash for advertising.
A piece of A4 paper was placed next to the phone with two columns: one showing the ‘pros’, one showing the ‘cons’ of going back to Baymead to do the reports. Connie picked it up. The only thing in the pros column was ‘extra money’. Not really the best reason for stepping back into the lion’s den, she mused. Maybe another pro could be that by going back, facing her demons, she’d be able to move on more successfully. Had she really put everything that happened behind her or was she avoiding anything that brought the memories back?
Connie had often thought about her actions, examined them, considered what else she could’ve done – should’ve done – and, each time, she concluded that she wouldn’t have handled Hargreaves any differently than she had back then. She wasn’t the last gatekeeper either – as the psychologist, she’d merely handed her report to the parole board for them to make the final decision of whether to release him or not.
Still, Connie never shook the feeling that her favourable report gave considerable weight to proceedings, and ultimately led to the rape of a woman. The ripple effect of her involvement had caused so much hurt and pain. If she went back, would something similar happen again? But then, could she go through the rest of her life worrying about whether a single action of hers could cause something bad to happen?
It had in the past, she reminded herself.
She sighed and tried to refocus. If she did take up Jen’s offer of work, and nothing bad happened, maybe she could finally put her paranoia to rest. She pushed the competing thoughts from her mind and, without analysing it any further, dialled the number on the Post-it note she’d had tucked beneath her fern desk plant for the past week.
‘Hi, can I speak with Jennifer Black, please?’ Her voice shook.
She cleared her throat, and sat up straighter, waiting for the person on the end of the phone to speak. Connie hoped Jen was in the office; she wasn’t sure if she’d have the nerve to call back again.
‘Just a moment, I’ll transfer you,’ the voice said.
There was silence for what felt like minutes, then a click.
‘Jennifer Black. How may I help?’
Jen’s ‘professional’ voice was one they’d always mocked when Connie had worked at HMP Baymead. She always put on a posh voice to conceal her strong Plymothian accent when speaking on the phone. She’d moved from Plymouth to Torquay when she was a teenager, but never managed to fully escape the accent.
‘You can drop the fake accent, Jen – it’s just me.’
‘Connie! Thank God. I didn’t think you were going to return my call, you’ve taken so long. I hope this means—’
‘Slow down, slow down. I’m calling to find out more details, that’s all. Don’t get too excited.’
‘Oh, come on. You’ll do it. You wouldn’t have phoned otherwise.’
Connie shook her head. Damn this woman. Her abruptness, her perceptiveness and her knack of getting to the point quickly was what made Jen one of the best managers the programmes department had ever had. You always knew where you stood with Jen.
‘Seriously, Jen. I need to weigh up the pros and cons of doing this – coming back in after …’
‘Pah! Water under the old bridge, Con. You know … we know, you did nothing wrong. You acted in line with every protocol. It was you who blamed yourself.’
‘Er, I think you’ll find it wasn’t just me. I didn’t see anyone else being dragged through the papers, and there wouldn’t have been a capability hearing if the governor didn’t think I’d messed up Hargreaves’ risk report.’ Merely talking about it again caused Connie’s heart rate to increase and her armpits to tingle with sweat.
End the call. This isn’t worth it.
‘Look, I know things went downhill rapidly for you after Hargreaves, but you shouldn’t let that stop you from coming in and completing a few assessments.’
‘Are they high-risk prisoners?’ Connie was immediately mad at herself for asking; it sounded as though she was seriously considering the offer.
‘Not really. None are up for parole. It’s their progression through the system we need to focus on. Some of the guys have been here a long time, and we have a fair few refusing to do any of the offending behaviour programmes. We’re under pressure to get arses on seats so they can move forwards in their sentence plans, get them into a Cat-D establishment.’
‘Nothing new there, then.’
‘Exactly. Our group numbers are actually falling. Anyway, point is, you can come in, do the assessments, and get out. You can write the reports at home. That’s the extent of your involvement. I wasn’t kidding when I said it was easy money, Con.’
Connie exhaled loudly and sat back in her chair. Risk-wise, these prisoners weren’t up for release, so her reports would only be used as evidence for the decision to move them to an open prison, or not – or recommend action, such as attending further offending behaviour programmes. An open prison would mean there was a chance of the prisoner absconding though, so she could still get a backlash if she wrote a favourable report and then something bad happened later down the road.
‘And how many would I be assessing again?’
‘Only three. We have another psychologist coming in as well, so between us all, we should catch up on the backlog. Might have to spread it over a few weeks though.’
Connie’s shoulders sank. She’d been hoping, if she were to do it, that it would be over in a week. Realistically though, she’d known deep down it wasn’t likely to be possible.
There was one other thing that was bothering her.
‘I need to ask something.’
‘Shoot,’ Jen said.
‘You don’t have an Aiden Flynn at Baymead, do you?’
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_bb1031ce-5a8c-5bf3-a317-55fd85092c0e)
Deborah (#ulink_bb1031ce-5a8c-5bf3-a317-55fd85092c0e)
She doesn’t realise I know.
I sit here anyway, listening to her. I’ve made a pot of tea and I pour her a cup from the bone china teapot belonging to the set that once sat on my mother’s oak sideboard – reserved for special occasions; people she wanted to impress. I don’t know why I chose to dig it out from the back of the cupboard now. Or why I’m trying to impress this woman. I’m turning into my mother.
‘That’s a lovely picture of Sean,’ she says, gesturing to the large silver-framed photo on the mantelpiece.
I take a deep breath.
‘Yes.’ I force a smile. ‘Would you like a biscuit? I have chocolate digestives or rich tea.’ I want to avoid talking about my son. Even though I know that’s why she’s here.
‘Oh, um … chocolate, please. Although I really should be watching my waistline.’ She pats her belly. There’s no fat on the woman, but I refrain from remarking as I shake out some biscuits from the packet and offer them to her.
‘Thanks for letting me come in,’ she says as she dips the biscuit in her teacup. She leaves a trail of brown slush on its side. I look away. It’s a bone china cup for God’s sake, not a mug.
‘Well, I couldn’t leave you on the doorstep, could I?’ Although that’s exactly what I’d wanted to do at first – her babbling on about her son being at school with my Sean was irritating at best. My lips are tight; the smile harder to come this time. How polite should I be in this situation? A huge part of me doesn’t want to be polite at all – it wants to shout in her face, tell her to get out of my house. But there’s something about her – vulnerable, yet brave. It would be like kicking an inquisitive puppy. It must’ve taken some guts to turn up at my door, even though she’s yet to come clean and tell me who she really is. Didn’t she think I’d recognise her? I thought I’d hardened over the last few years, but the harsh words that spring into my mind – the ones telling this woman exactly what I think of her efforts to squirm her way into my life – evaporate before I can speak them.
Maybe it’s curiosity.
I find myself wanting to know why she thinks it’s a good idea for her to visit the mother of a murdered boy. He was only eighteen. Not even a man. He’d hardly lived, had so much to look forwards to.
She puts her cup and saucer down on the table, and I watch as her pale-blue eyes travel back to Sean’s photograph.
‘You must miss him terribly.’ Her words are quiet, almost inaudible – her face directed away from mine.
My skin is suddenly cold, as though someone has placed a blanket of ice on me. Of course I miss him. He was my only child; my life, up until that terrible day. I’ve had to learn to live without him, carry on with everyday things, all the while knowing my life would never again have meaning. Not the same meaning, anyway. I’m no longer someone’s mum. Tears come at this thought.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have allowed this woman in. Curiosity is not good for me.
I wipe my eyes with my sleeve.
‘Yes, it’s like I have a part of me missing. A hole that will never be filled.’ I can feel a bubble of anger. I should keep a cap on that.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, simply.
‘Oh, so am I. Sorry he ever encountered Kyle Mann. Sorry I wasn’t able to protect him.’ I must be careful, or years’ worth of hatred will erupt in this lounge. Amongst my mother’s bone china tea set. With the smiling face of my handsome Sean staring down at me.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have …’ She shifts awkwardly; she’s flustered. It looks as though she’s thinking about leaving.
‘No. Maybe not. But you’re here now,’ I say firmly. We lock eyes.
‘Yes, it’s taken quite a while to pluck up the courage.’ She gives a wavering smile.
‘Right.’ It’s time to stop the pretence. ‘So now that you’re here, what exactly do you want, Alice?’
CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_3674ff93-714c-5fac-bb90-15f10f5a0502)
Connie (#ulink_3674ff93-714c-5fac-bb90-15f10f5a0502)
‘Well, well. If it isn’t the infamous Connie Moore!’ The voice bellowed from behind the glass partition.
‘Hey, Barry.’ Connie kept her chin low, almost tucked into the collar of her blouse. She didn’t want him to see her discomfort at being back inside the prison. Barry had been an operational support grade for as long as she could remember, and clearly, even given the time she’d been away, her reputation still stood. She’d contemplated giving them her new surname, Summers, which she started using when she set up her own practice to avoid any connections with the Hargreaves case. But she decided it would be a bad idea in this instance. She preferred to keep her prison life in a separate box.
‘I saw you were on the list today. Says here I gotta give Verity a call and get her to come and fetch you, now you haven’t got your own keys and ID. Take a seat, love. Won’t be long.’
Connie turned on her heel and sat heavily on the leather-look bench seat that ran alongside the window of HMP Baymead’s gatehouse and placed her coat beside her. She’d only ever sat here once before: the day she came for her interview, eight years ago. She pulled self-consciously at the cuffs of her sleeves. She even felt like she had all that time ago: nervous, uncertain – questioning whether her skills were up to the job. She kept her eyes down, not wanting to catch a glimpse of anyone else she knew from her previous life there. She didn’t want to face any awkward questions.
Why did I agree to this? Stupid, stupid woman.
Connie pushed her cuff up, checking her watch. It would take at least ten minutes for Verity to reach the gatehouse. Baymead was spread over a wide area, and the psychology block was on the far side of the grounds. She used to love the early morning walk to the office from the gatehouse, when the prisoners were yet to be unlocked. She could stroll along the tree-lined concrete paths, taking her time to let herself through the huge gates. The walk back after her day ended was never quite so pleasant. She’d often time it so her departure didn’t coincide with prisoners going back to the wings after their activities, or work. But even then, if she was on her own, she couldn’t help feeling vulnerable. And the times she’d happened to leave the office when the prisoners were on their way back to their living blocks were more stressful. She didn’t miss that at all.
At least now, for the period she was going to spend here, she’d have someone accompanying her around the prison. She’d have to be let through each gate in the grounds, and have the living-block gates opened for her. She’d be collected from her interviews with the prisoners and taken back to the psychology block.
Connie consciously unclasped her hands, placing them loosely on her lap. This could be all right. It wasn’t as though she was going to be spending enough time within the confines of the establishment to warrant anyone taking much notice of her. And it was almost two years since she’d last been here. Some staff were bound to know her, remember her, but it was unlikely many prisoners would. At least Aiden Flynn, the man responsible for the murder of Ricky Hargreaves last year, was not residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Baymead. That had been one of her biggest fears. He was the last person she’d want to come into contact with. Not only was he a cold-blooded murderer, but he also had a personal vendetta against Connie and had been determined to exact revenge on her because of something that her father had done twenty years previously. And he’d almost managed to accomplish his task: attacking Connie in her own home, beating her to the ground. If it wasn’t for Lindsay … Connie shook the memory away. No, the most that would happen is she’d get some attention from being a ‘new’ female about the place. Whistles, some remarks shouted at her – the common response from a proportion of the men – those she could handle.
A whooshing noise alerted Connie to someone coming through the glass security doors. She jumped up as a young woman, who looked to be around twenty, walked towards her.
‘Connie?’
‘Yes.’ Connie grabbed her coat and offered her hand. The woman limply shook it.
‘I’m Verity, the new admin for the programmes department.’ She smiled broadly, her small, round face appearing to almost split in two. ‘I’ll be your key person.’ She laughed.
‘Great, thanks, Verity. I appreciate it. Sorry you’ll have to be dragged wherever I’m going though, not much fun for you.’
‘No problem. It’ll be a good excuse to get out of the office. It’s manic in there at the moment.’
‘Oh?’ They both entered the glass box of the security pod and stood still, waiting for the operational support grade to close one door before he opened the other. Connie had always disliked the pod. Sometimes, if she’d timed it badly, she’d been stuffed inside there along with some twenty-odd people: admin staff, officers, service providers – all squished in, waiting at the mercy of the OSG on duty in the gate room to be quick with the release button for the other door. It was claustrophobic. Today though, it was only her and Verity, and the OSG didn’t leave them too long before releasing the inner door.
Connie’s tummy flipped as she left the pod and walked the familiar corridor that led to the outside. Which was really inside. She put on her coat as they stood by the heavy door, waiting for the noise that would inform them it was open.
Click.
For a moment, Connie wobbled. She was dizzy.
Take deep breaths.
A waft of air hit her face as Verity opened the door and stood aside to let Connie through.
That sight. The grassed area, the large trees, the metal fences separating the living blocks beyond. She shivered, pulling the coat tighter around her. What was she doing? The old twinges of stress, worry – the unease – were suddenly back, swooping in at her from every angle.
This is a mistake.
‘Are you okay?’ Verity’s concerned face turned towards Connie’s. ‘Jen said you might feel a bit, well … odd. Coming back.’
Odd? That didn’t come close.
‘No. All good. I’m fine.’ Connie forced a smile, keeping her gaze forwards while quickening her pace. She was aware of Verity tripping along beside her, trying to keep up, chatting away as they walked. But she wasn’t listening. She’d feel better once she was less exposed, safely inside the psychology portacabin.
They paused at each gate as Verity unlocked, then relocked them as they moved through – every clank of the locks sending a wave of familiarity through Connie’s mind. Then goosebumps. It was a sound she had assumed she’d never hear again.
As they approached the psychology office, Connie’s muscles finally relaxed. She rubbed at the back of her neck, at the knot of muscle – she hadn’t realised she’d been hunching her shoulders. Verity ushered Connie in, then locked the door. The large whiteboard inside the entrance named everyone in the office: showed whether they were in or out, and if out, which block or room they’d gone to and an approximate time they were due back to the office.
Jen was ticked in. Connie took a slow intake of breath, holding it as she pushed through the inner door.
‘Hey, mate! So pleased you decided to come and help us out.’ Jen jumped up from her seat upon Connie’s arrival, and arms outstretched, strode towards her, enveloping her in a hug that expelled her held breath.
‘Good to see you, Jen.’ Connie gently pulled back and gazed around the room. Very little had changed. A couple of people she didn’t recognise were sitting at the desks, but that appeared to be the only difference.
‘Yes, as you can see, things are just the same, bar a few new faces. I’ll introduce you in a sec, but let’s get the kettle on first.’
She was in there now. In the prison, in the office. She could hardly revoke her offer of helping with the reports. But a creeping uneasiness spread through her, like her blood was travelling around her body delivering tiny parcels of adrenaline.
Preparing her.
Fight or flight.
And Connie wasn’t at all sure she had enough fight in her.
CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_d8520d8a-de48-5d9a-91f4-3cbd14c9442c)
Alice (#ulink_d8520d8a-de48-5d9a-91f4-3cbd14c9442c)
Things are moving along nicely now. I couldn’t imagine being at this point before: feeling more positive than I have in years. I even feel a bit lighter. I noticed my reflection in the shop windows as I walked past this morning, and I’m standing taller too – not stooped as I had been. This is good. I want to mark this progression somehow.
I should share it.
As founder and leader of the group, it’s my duty to give positive news to my members. Tell them about the steps forwards I’ve made. Of course, I’ll have to be slightly economical with the truth – mould it to make it fit. But it will give them hope. Inspiration. Let them know we can all come through these terrible times, bit by bit. Moment by moment.
I’ll finish washing the breakfast dishes, then I’ll get on the laptop and go to the online support group page. Our next in-person meeting isn’t for another eight days – the last Wednesday of the month. Maybe by then I’ll have even more good news to share. More to celebrate.
My heart sinks a little as I gaze out of the kitchen window. Is it right to feel this way? Excited about a few minor steps in the right direction? There’s still so much to do; such a long way to travel to get to the end. If there is an end. Oh, please God, let there be an ending to this. I make the sign of the cross on my chest. Before all of this happened, I’d go to church to pray; being in God’s house made me feel as though I had a direct link with Him. After the murder, though, I was afraid. They’d know. I couldn’t face being judged by the congregation. And, after all, my support group is giving me what the church once did, and God is everywhere – I don’t have to be in a holy place to pray, to be listened to. So now, at times like this, I look to Heaven for help, wherever I am. Surely I deserve some help, some divine intervention.
I’m doing God’s work here.
Once the dishes are neatly stacked on the drainer, I settle in the lounge, at the rectangular pine table on the far side, the one I eat my meals at – alone. I’ve angled the table so I can see the TV. It’s my company these days. I also keep my laptop on this table.
The house is silent. I rarely get disturbed. I’m rarely needed.
I fire up the laptop and go to the only icon on the menu I regularly use.
Group support.
There are no members live. My shoulders slump, my back arching in disappointment. My initial excitement gives way to a darkness. Gloom.
Never mind, I can still leave a comment – I’ll begin a new thread so it’s the first thing people notice when they log in. I see Bill has been active over the past few hours. Poor man. His daughter, Isabella, has gone off the rails and he has no clue how to handle it. His wife, he says, is useless. Isabella’s already been cautioned for drug possession, and now it seems she’s disappearing every night and they don’t know where she’s going. The group have asked Bill why he doesn’t stop her – prevent her from leaving the house. Lock her in her room. But I know these ‘easy’ steps are, in fact, incredibly difficult. Near to impossible sometimes. She will find a way, because it’s not like she’s a child – she’s in her early twenties. It’s even more challenging with a boy, when you’re a single parent – my strength was no match for his.
Before I compose my own, I write a supportive message on Bill’s thread, encouraging him to attend the group meeting at the end of the month. I think he needs more help than we can offer him online. He needs to be with us, see us, speak to us in person. Share everything. It’ll lighten the load. Plus, we need another man in the group.
I have another session with Connie Summers two days before the group meeting. She’d wanted me to see her weekly, but I’m struggling to get the money, so I explained I could only do fortnightly. I didn’t tell her it was due to lack of funds. I’m hoping to steer the next session where I want it to go. If I can gain some more insight, and helpful suggestions from her, I’ll be able to share those with my members on Wednesday. It makes me sound more authoritative when I can spout jargon and give good advice.
I can’t help smiling.
I am giving back to the community; I’m helping parents to cope with their unruly offspring. I’m offering a service.
That makes me a good person.
Doesn’t it?
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_846188fd-8d72-5c96-88b1-efb714979b19)
Connie (#ulink_846188fd-8d72-5c96-88b1-efb714979b19)
The sound of men in the exercise yard behind the psychology portacabin filtered into Connie’s consciousness. She was sitting at the desk closest to the window, but her back was to it. Wooden fencing panels separated the area from view, so even if she’d been facing the window she wouldn’t have seen the prisoners. From the lower floor of the portacabin they were only visible if you were standing. Still, a sharp tingling sensation ran the length of her back. She’d never been bothered by her proximity to them before – in fact, she’d often stood and watched to see who was interacting with who, trying to pick up on the body language of the men she’d had in her group at that time, or those she was compiling reports for. It was good to get a different perspective, watch them when they were unaware of it, so their actions and behaviour were more natural than when they were sitting in front of her.
Now though, for a reason she couldn’t pinpoint, she was uncomfortable.
Maybe it wasn’t them – maybe it was her. Being out of the establishment for this long meant she’d lost some of that toughness – her invincibility – which was required in order to work in the prison environment. She wasn’t the confident leader she had once been. This was no longer her territory, and it felt every bit as alien as she’d expected it would. That must be the reason she felt so out of her comfort zone. As she’d said countless times, there were good reasons why she’d left in the first place.
Coming back now was revisiting the past – the past she’d worked so hard to put behind her.
‘How are you getting on with those files? Got everything you need?’ Verity popped her head over the blue partition that divided the desks.
Yes, she must keep focussed. The quicker she read the files, the quicker she could get on with the job in hand.
‘Fine, I think everything’s here.’ Connie slid out the bottom of the three files given to her and flicked through it. ‘Actually, there doesn’t appear to be a list of pre-cons for a … Michael Finch.’ She looked up at Verity.
‘I’ll walk over to the offender manager unit, check his main file and photocopy it,’ Verity said, immediately rising from her seat. ‘I mostly only keep the psychology-related stuff in our filing room. The bulk is kept with the offender managers.’ She was out in the corridor, her coat half on before Connie could say another word. It was a shame Verity hadn’t been around when Connie worked here; having admin support would’ve really cut down her running-around time.
Connie returned her attention to the other files she had on the desk. The name Kyle Mann stared out at her. Connie leant back; what were the odds? It might be a conflict of interest to see him, compile his report now she was in a therapeutic relationship with his mother.
‘Jen?’ Connie stood, and then made her way over to Jen’s desk. ‘Not sure I can do this one.’ She handed Jen the file.
‘Oh, this is the guy you saw way back when he first came to Baymead. The silent one.’ Jen made quote marks with her fingers.
‘Yes, I remember that – those one-way conversations with him were so frustrating.’ Connie raised her eyebrows at the recollection.
Jen’s forehead wrinkled. ‘Why can’t you see him now?’
‘Ethically. His mum is a client of mine.’ The only reason she’d decided it wasn’t unethical seeing Alice Mann was the fact Kyle had never spoken a word during any of Connie’s previous encounters with him. It was ironic she was now concerned about seeing Kyle because of her sessions with his mum.
Jen sat up straighter, her mouth gaping. ‘Oh! Um … well, to be honest, Con, I don’t reckon it’ll matter much. He still hasn’t uttered a word to any of us. We need his report doing, but I’m not expecting any great things. It’ll be compiled on what we already have in his file, and info from the wing records, his personal officer and whatnot. I mean, I could swap him for another, but we’ve all started the assessments on the other guys …’
Connie pursed her lips. If Kyle had not spoken to any of the psychology or programmes team before, he was unlikely to now. Maybe it wouldn’t be unethical. She’d literally be going over old ground, things she’d already known before. She weighed it up in her mind. If he didn’t speak, then it wouldn’t take very much time to get his report done. That was a bonus – she could get out of the prison even more quickly than she’d hoped if she didn’t have to start from scratch with a new prisoner with lots to say.
‘His risk is going to remain high if he doesn’t comply, doesn’t commit to doing any offender behaviour work. He does know that, right?’
‘Con, he’s been informed many a time. There are a lot of refusers, he’s not the only one, and it would appear they don’t care whether it’s keeping them from progressing through the system.’
‘I bet he’s the only one who’s never spoken, though?’
‘Yes, that’s true. Four years of silence is some accomplishment. I just can’t understand why he won’t talk.’
Connie delved into her somewhat hazy memory of the case. ‘Wasn’t there a suspicion someone else was involved with the crime?’
‘There was something like that.’ Jen moved to her keyboard and opened the OASys database, which kept records and assessments of all the offenders in the establishment. She scanned through the various pages, searching for the details of the offence. ‘Of course, this didn’t come from Kyle Mann – it says here that police suggested due to the nature of the abduction and murder that it was improbable that a single individual was able to carry it out. The police pushed Kyle for details, but he went down the no comment line, and they didn’t have any substantial proof, so …’ Jen clicked on another page in OASys: ‘the only hard evidence they had was all stacked against Kyle and it was enough to safely convict him of the murder of Sean Taylor.’
‘He was only eighteen.’ Connie frowned. ‘Such a terrible crime for someone so young.’
‘Poor bloody victim, though. Jesus, have you read the file?’
‘I did originally, back when he first came to us, but haven’t refamiliarised myself yet. When I saw the name, I thought it best I should mention it.’
Jen tapped her pen against her bottom lip. ‘It’s not like your client is the victim’s mother – then I’d definitely say not to carry out his assessments and report. But I don’t see a conflict of interest here. As long as you don’t disclose anything of your work here to Kyle’s mother, and vice versa, then there’s nothing to worry about. And anyway, like I said, it’s not like we’re going to gain new information from him, is it?’ Jen held the file up.
Connie took it from her. ‘Okay. No problem, I’ll get to work.’
CHAPTER TWELVE (#ulink_c2ca527b-83a2-5ec8-975d-8b647b75d5c6)
Deborah (#ulink_c2ca527b-83a2-5ec8-975d-8b647b75d5c6)
‘Deborah.’ I hear the voice, but somehow it sounds far away, like a distant echo, rather than directly behind me.
I carry on walking, entering the building.
‘Hey, Deb!’ It’s more insistent. She knows I hate being called Deb. I guess I can’t really ignore her now. It’ll be obvious I’ve heard that harsh yell.
My muscles are all tense. What does she want?
I slow and, reluctantly, turn to face Marcie. My boss.
Her face is flushed, but otherwise she’s the usual picture of perfection. She’s half my age, practically, and runs the marketing business with her brother.
‘Didn’t think you were going to stop,’ she says, her breathing rapid.
‘Miles away, sorry. Just keen to get to work, you know me,’ I say with a smile I know is disingenuous.
‘I wanted to catch you before we reached the office. Have a quick chat.’
My pulse dips. This can’t be good. This’ll be a ‘you’re not pulling your weight’ kind of chat. My mind has been preoccupied of late; I’m here in body, but my head has been AWOL. I’ve been in this job for seventeen years – I was here at the beginning, when her father, George, ran the place. I’d secured and managed some of the company’s biggest client accounts. George had often told me I was indispensable. I’d loved the job back then – and although I can’t say that with conviction now, I still need it; it’s my home from home.
Before I realise what’s happening, Marcie’s arm is looped through mine and she’s gently steering me back to the door, against the throng of people entering the foyer. I catch sight of Andrew and Marcus; they stare questioningly at us as we exit the building. This will set the office gossips going. They will be thinking I’m about to get the sack.
Oh, bloody hell. Am I about to get the sack?
I need this job. I can’t do without it. Not only the money, but the time outside of my own head – when I can focus. It’s what keeps me going.
I swallow the rising panic. Take a steadying breath.
‘What’s this all about, Marcie?’ I say as she guides me into the Costa a few feet away.
‘Coffee and a heart-to-heart.’ She grins. Her teeth are a perfect line of white squares. She gets them whitened. Everything on this woman is falsely enhanced: teeth, eyelashes, eyebrows, hair, boobs, the lot. I suddenly feel old and ugly in her presence.
But at least I’m real.
And a cosy heart-to-heart with this young, business-driven woman is really not what I need right now. I still remember her prior attempts to get me to open up. I easily brushed aside her offers to chat. But now – almost four years later – she’s actually managed to ‘trap’ me. It’s futile, though. This chat. How is she likely to understand what I went through? What I’m still going through? Every single day is a struggle. A struggle to stay in this life.
I sit at a table at the back of the coffee house, waiting for her to bring the drink I don’t want. I used to love people-watching. It was one of my favourite pastimes. Not any longer. I don’t care enough about them to watch. Their lives are of no interest to me.
I watch as Marcie heads towards me with two lattes on a tray. I don’t even like coffee.
I can hear my own heartbeat.
I lean my elbows on the table, clasping my hands together to stop them shaking.
‘Thank you,’ I say as she places the drink in front of me.
‘Right. So, Deborah, how are things for you at the moment?’
‘Great,’ I hear myself saying.
‘Really?’ she says. Her head tilts to one side.
Christ. She’s giving me a sympathetic smile to boot. How condescending.
How can I veer the conversation in a different direction?
‘Yes, really, Marcie. I’m good. Getting stuck into work helps, but you know that. After your dad died you did the same, didn’t you?’
I see the flinch in her face, the flicker of her eyes as I bring the conversation back to her. See how she likes it.
Over to you.
‘I guess so.’ She takes a sip of her drink. ‘But I had little choice. Me and Alexander had to get stuck in, keep the business Dad had built afloat. We owed it to him. Not to mention that we had to ensure everyone, like you, kept their jobs.’ She smiles.
Back to me.
‘That must have been a challenging time. No opportunity to grieve for your father.’ Now I put my head to one side.
Over to you.
‘It was challenging at times, yes. But I mourned in private. And I tried to keep my private life separate from work, you know? I think that’s important.’ Her eyes are fully on mine as she places her cup down and props her elbows on the table.
Back to me.
Now I’m aware of where this ‘chat’ is going, I drop the pretence – the personal game I’m playing – and get to the point.
‘You’re trying, in your roundabout fashion, to tell me I’m not keeping my private life separate from my work life.’ My irritation oozes out in my tone.
She exhales dramatically and looks away from me for a moment. Then faces me and begins to deliver her speech, the one she’d probably rehearsed all night.
‘I’m … we’re … worried about you, Deborah. It’s been four years, yet you still appear to be in mourning. It was a shocking, terrible, event—’
‘Event!’ My shrillness pierces the room, other people stop their conversations to look at me. ‘Event, Marcie?’ I lower my voice to a harsh whisper. ‘My son was murdered. I lost my only child.’ The tears are escaping my stinging eyes. I didn’t want to show my emotion in this way. It’s not helping my cause.
‘I know, and I’m so sorry – I can’t even begin to imagine …’
‘No. Of course you can’t.’ I look down at my lap. Wait for her next shot.
‘You didn’t take a lot of time off work when it happened. I thought that was a mistake at the time, now I definitely do. Take some time right now, Deborah.’
I look up sharply. ‘No. No, I don’t need to take time off. I need to be in work, with other people.’
‘But, Deborah, you don’t even speak to your colleagues. I mean, unless you absolutely have to for your role. You are falling behind on your workload, and most of the time you don’t appear to be with us at all. Things are getting missed, others are having to carry you.’ She leans forwards, takes my hands.
This is it. She’s letting me go.
‘You’ve been part of this company since its birth. I want you to continue to be part of it. But I’m seriously concerned for your welfare, and with that in mind, I’m telling you to take some time – with full pay to start with, of course. Two months, maybe three, that’s all. To get your head together.’
I’m defeated. I can’t even think of an argument to strengthen my case to stay. The words ‘to start with’ echo in my ears. It won’t be just two or three months – she’ll keep stretching it out, make sure I don’t return at all.
‘What will I do, Marcie?’ I hate the sound of my own desperation.
‘That’s the problem, isn’t it? Outside of work you have nothing. Maybe you need a hobby.’
And we’re back to being condescending. Even more so.
I do have a husband – has she forgotten that?
‘Fine.’
I push my chair back, the loud screech hurting my ears. I don’t look at her again. I take my bag and walk, head down, out of Costa. Out of my job.
What the hell am I going to tell Nathan?
Marcie demanding I take time off work is a mistake.
Me, alone with my thoughts, is going to be an even bigger one.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#ulink_a0d316d7-2e40-57ef-ab5a-87da4fad7160)
Connie (#ulink_a0d316d7-2e40-57ef-ab5a-87da4fad7160)
The chill of the wind caught Connie across her face and made her eyes water. She touched the back of a hand to her right cheek and winced.
‘Shall we make our way back down to the car park?’ Lindsay’s arm reached out, giving Connie’s a tug.
‘Sorry. This outdoor life’s still taking some getting used to.’
Lindsay shook her head – a gentle mocking of Connie’s fragility.
‘Yes, your ability to survive on the moor in adverse conditions is questionable. But you’ll become hardy, eventually.’
‘If you’ve got anything to do with it. Even if it kills me.’ Connie slumped against a large rock, catching her breath. Her walking boots were heavy, clogged with mud, making her feel a stone heavier when she walked. On the plus side, she thought her thighs had started looking less chunky. But today was a bit much. They’d walked further than they’d done before and the weather was bitterly cold on the high ground. Dartmoor was one of the most beautiful places she knew. It was Lindsay’s idea to spend more quality time there, despite it being an area her professional life had brought her to on a few horrible occasions. She wanted to make good memories on the moor. Replace the bad ones. Or at least, diminish them.
‘Ready to go back down?’ Lindsay offered an arm.
‘Oh, yes. I’m ready.’ Connie gave a grateful smile.
Connie sat in the passenger seat and shivered, the North Face jacket Lindsay had lent her rustling with the small, jerky movements.
Lindsay poured a coffee from the flask, and handed it to her.
‘That’ll have you warmed up in no time,’ Lindsay said. She poured herself a plastic cupful as well and leant back in the driver’s seat. ‘What do you reckon to eating out tonight, save either of us having to cook?’
Connie shrugged. ‘Sure, I’m up for that. Where do you fancy?’
‘I thought maybe the Italian in town, we could walk there?’
‘More walking?’ Connie raised her eyebrows, but smiled. ‘Sounds good. We’ve not been out for ages.’ She drained the cup of the warm liquid.
With Lindsay’s recent work pattern being so erratic, they hadn’t seen a great deal of each other in the evenings. Often, Connie spent the hours of darkness alone. Her previous irresponsible, single-life antics had all but ceased weeks before she’d met Lindsay, so she’d got used to the quiet, lonely evenings prior to her moving in. But then she’d had a period of time with Lindsay being home with her more, her hours almost sociable. It’d been comforting; she enjoyed Lindsay’s company – her friendship had become important to her. Now, again, she was having to accustom herself to it being just her and Amber, her ragdoll cat, most evenings. This weekend had been a rarity – they’d spent the entire time together, uninterrupted by work.
Connie knew it was likely to be a one-off. Something was bound to crop up – some big case that would take all of Lindsay’s focus; her time, even at weekends. For now, though, Connie would make the most of it.
She followed Lindsay’s gaze – her eyes were intense, focussed on the rocks of Haytor looming in front of them.
‘You okay?’
Lindsay didn’t take her eyes from the tor. ‘Still plays on my mind. This place.’ She sighed.
‘I can imagine.’ Connie placed her hand on Lindsay’s arm. Even she had bad thoughts about Haytor: of Steph, one of her clients last year, and her son – but she hadn’t had to witness it first-hand like Lindsay had; the broken bodies at the foot of the rock, the shock of seeing an innocent child taken to his death by his own mother in what was, as far as the police were concerned, a terrible suicide. Connie took some comfort in the fact that she wasn’t the only person troubled by her past and wanted to support her friend just as she’d been supported herself. ‘New memories, though – remember? We both need to attach positive feelings to this place, I think it’s the only way we can move on.’
‘Yep. Absolutely. Thanks, Connie.’
‘You don’t have to thank me. That’s what friends are for.’
‘That, and half-killing them in the name of fitness,’ Lindsay laughed.
‘Yeah, don’t push it. Friendships can turn nasty, you know.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#ulink_8eb8500e-9225-52a8-ac5d-10f8698f1b85)
Alice (#ulink_8eb8500e-9225-52a8-ac5d-10f8698f1b85)
It was hard to get out of the house this morning. Every time I was about to leave, something dragged me back.
One more chore.
One more check.
One more problem.
I’m out now, though, and I’m trying to stop my mind wandering as I walk to the bus stop. I want to be thinking about what’s ahead, but what’s behind me appears to be dragging me back. I need to talk myself out of it – keep my goal firmly in my mind’s eye.
I concentrate my thoughts on her. I know where she lives, and now I’ve found out where she works. It didn’t take much. The internet is both a curse and a blessing. It’s so easy to find out details with a few clicks, some clever searches using key words. Most people would think I’m mad, given how the internet brought my life crashing down. But it’s like most things, there is good and bad in everything. You just have to be careful – treat it with respect.
As I approach the bus stop at The Plains, opposite the Seven Stars Hotel, pain in my palms alerts me to my clenched fists. My nails have left crescent-shaped imprints where they’ve dug in. I can’t believe she’s still working. I wonder how she’s managed that when I was barely able to drag myself out of bed – the amount of sedatives I was taking for my anxiety, together with the drinking, turned me from a bubbly, chatty customer assistant at Marks & Spencer into a drowsy zombie not fit to be employed. A small part of me is jealous she’s continued with her life. She’s kept her job. I lost mine. She’s kept her husband. I lost mine.
But our sons. They’re a different story.
She won’t agree we’ve both lost them.
Maybe she doesn’t have to agree on that point. There is a truth in her denial. But we’ve both suffered, and I need to show her that. I can help her to come to terms with what happened. She’ll realise I am like her, that we can both support each other. I must help her. Then, in return, she’ll help me achieve my goal.
It’s the only way I can be free.
I cross the road quickly as the bus is there already. I pay my fare and take a seat halfway up – a window seat. The glass is smeared. Dirty. I don’t want to contemplate what with. I shuffle into the aisle seat. I don’t need to see where I’m going anyway. I hate having to use public transport, but I can’t afford a taxi to Coleton, my destination. The only destination I’ve ventured to this past month. I’m lucky no one has sat with me. Nothing worse than being squashed next to another body, a stranger who typically feels the need to speak – make polite, yet utterly useless, boring conversation. Small mercies.
Every now and then I check where we are – counting down the minutes until I arrive. Not long now. We’ve just passed the huge grey monstrosity that is the multi-storey car park. Another minute and I’ll be there.
A tall, narrow-looking building comes into view. My heart flutters nervously. I’m not sure what I’m going to do once I get off the bus. I don’t want to draw attention by hanging around the entrance to her workplace.
I press the bell. The bus slows and I stand, gradually making my way to the front. The bus stop is opposite the building, so once I step out, I stand for a few moments to gather my thoughts. I stare at the rows and columns of windows. Which one is hers?
I’m buffeted by someone walking past. I didn’t realise I was in the middle of the pavement, getting in the way. I back up, pressing myself against the wall of the hairdresser’s to allow the shoppers, the random people, to go about their business. Despite having been thinking about this for days, now I’m here I have no idea of how to progress. Should I wait for her to come out? Or make an excuse to enter the building, ask to speak with her. I’m not certain how she would react to my presence here, she could make a scene. I can’t risk that.
I’ll have to go into the building, though, as I’ve no idea which level she works on. I could do a recce of the place, then sit somewhere out here. I glance around me to see where would work. Yes, I could sit on one of the benches along from the building, near the river. Maybe she’ll leave at lunchtime, and I can catch up with her then, save me going inside. Whatever happens today though, I can’t wait past three o’clock. I’ve got my appointment with Connie at four, so I have to get the 3.10 bus back to Totnes to get there on time. I probably should’ve waited to do this until tomorrow rather than have two things to worry about in one day. But once I decided I was going to do it, it had to be attempted right away. No putting it off.
‘Hello, Alice.’ The voice, though soft and unassuming, sends a jolt of electricity through my body. I take a steadying breath as I realise it’s only Wendy, from my support group. Not great timing, and I could certainly do without her here, but it could be worse.
‘Lovely to see you, Wendy,’ I trill, twisting my lips into a forced smile. Now, how to get rid of her quickly without appearing rude. ‘Not long until our group session now – will be great to catch up on Wednesday, see how we’ve all done these past few weeks.’
‘Yes, I’m actually looking forwards to it.’ She lowers her dark eyes, looking to the ground. She carries on talking, and while I am listening to Wendy, and trying hard to appear interested in whatever she’s talking about, my eyes keep flitting around her bulky frame. I want to keep my focus on the entrance, in case she walks out.
Then the situation worsens.
A familiar face stands out from the crowd of people walking alongside the building.
What’s he doing here?
How?
I turn quickly, snapping my head around to face the wall I’d been leaning against prior to Wendy turning up.
Please, God, don’t let him see me.
I forget Wendy’s here, next to me. I take her arm, and gently pull her towards me. I whisper conspiratorially in her ear: ‘Don’t look behind, but my ex-husband is over there and I can’t handle him today. Just keep facing this way.’ I keep my grasp on her arm, so she knows I’m serious.
Her eyes are wide as she stares at me, saying nothing.
If he hasn’t seen me, it’ll be all right. If he has …
I use Wendy as a shield as I twist my head slightly to look over her shoulder to the building opposite. It’s clear. He’s gone.
For now, at least. But that was too close. And with Wendy here too. It could’ve been disastrous.
I relax my grip on her and give a brief explanation of how awfully things had ended between us when Kyle was convicted of murder.
She needn’t ever know it’s a lie.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#ulink_22a4ddb6-ad58-57dd-a40c-fcb4f7dc79f4)
Deborah (#ulink_22a4ddb6-ad58-57dd-a40c-fcb4f7dc79f4)
Marcie’s words played over in my mind all weekend. They wouldn’t stop. I’ve flipped between full-on anger and complete helplessness and now, standing at the top of Berry Head, I just feel utterly lost. This seemed the best place to come – something drew me here.
The waves smash loudly against the rocks below. I watch the tiny droplets of water as they fly upwards, but I can’t feel the spray on my face as I’m too far above. Must be a two-hundred-foot drop.
Enough to kill me.
Put me out of this misery.
Nathan would be all right. He’s got his job, his overbearing mother, his precious golf buddies. I’m fairly sure he has a mistress, too. He’d do fine without me.
I teeter on the edge; the grass is slippery with dew. The intermittent gusts of wind shake my body – push me ever closer to the sheer drop. It really wouldn’t take much.
The nerve of that woman. Sitting there, spouting on about how she misses her son. The nerve of Marcie, making me take time off work. The pity in her perfectly line-free face. Why now? I know I’ve been a bit more distracted recently – it is coming up to the anniversary. However, it’s nothing she, or any of my colleagues, should take issue with. Others are worse. Colin, now he is one lazy shit – he’s the one they should be telling to have time off. He’s the one who delegates all his work to others while he wanks off in the loos in a vain attempt to compensate for his marriage break-up a year ago. Why isn’t anyone bringing that to Marcie’s attention? They’re ganging up on me, picking faults, trying to get enough on me to get rid of me permanently. What have I done that’s so wrong?
Surely it’s enough that I lost my son. I don’t think I should be punished further. Not me. I’m not the one needing punishment.
I catch my breath. The clarity of that thought hits me, like a short, sharp punch to the stomach.
I look down. I don’t deserve those rocks, the crashing waves, the deep, dark, cold water as my grave. I shouldn’t be the one to suffer that fate.
I take a step back.
I shouldn’t be the one to suffer at all.
Maybe it was a blessing, Marcie forcing me to take leave. I have time now.
Time to put a few things straight.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#ulink_954fd01f-00a6-5a79-a890-f25cb5951da5)
Connie (#ulink_954fd01f-00a6-5a79-a890-f25cb5951da5)
The Alice standing opposite Connie was not the same calm and collected Alice she’d seen two weeks ago. She was now red-faced, flustered, and appeared agitated.
‘So sorry I’m late,’ she said, her breathing laboured. ‘I had to … practically run … up the hill.’
‘Please, Alice, don’t worry. Take your time, there’s no rush – you’re my last client of the day.’
She took some deep breaths, then slumped, relaxing into the chair. Connie took her seat and waited for her to recover. After a few minutes, her colour had returned to normal.
‘How have you been since our last meeting, Alice?’
Connie noted Alice’s rapid blinking and how she was rubbing her hands together, and wondered what had happened to alter her demeanour. She waited for a response, but Alice remained silent.
‘Maybe you could begin by telling me something you felt was positive?’ Connie coaxed.
Alice’s face broke into a wide smile. Connie gave an inward sigh of relief. At least there was something good to give her a starting point for this session.
‘Positive, yes – there have been some good things since I last saw you. Some progression.’
‘That’s excellent, Alice. Let’s begin with that then, shall we?’
‘I found someone like me, someone who’s going through the same issues as me. It’s given me a purpose; some motivation.’
‘It can be very helpful to know others have experienced similar situations to yourself, showing you that you’re not alone in your struggles. Is it someone from your support group?’
Alice’s mouth twitched; she took a while before she nodded.
‘And you began the group, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. It was just online at first, but I decided it was more important to have proper face-to-face meetings.’
‘That’s such a positive step, and a really good outcome that you’ve bonded with someone else so early on in the group sessions. You must feel proud of your achievement?’
‘I do, actually. The group is the best thing I’ve ever done,’ Alice said, her face glowing. ‘I feel as though I’ve met a kindred spirit.’
‘Ah, that’s great,’ Connie said, nodding her head encouragingly. ‘How has it helped you, in your everyday life?’
‘It’s given me hope. A focus. The group as a whole has obviously helped, but this one person is the key, I think.’
‘The key? To what?’
‘To me forgiving myself,’ Alice said, her voice soft, almost a whisper.
Guilt was one of the biggest obstacles Connie had picked up on during her sessions with Alice. The fact she recognised she needed to forgive herself was a huge step. But that being said, Connie had a niggling feeling about Alice’s part in all of this. Maybe she had good reason to blame herself. But that wasn’t really Connie’s role – to apportion blame, dig into someone’s life and play detective. That was Lindsay’s area of expertise. If she did unpick Alice’s reason for guilt, and she was somehow to blame, Connie had to deal with it in a totally different way. Alice was her client. She had to help Alice. It was her job.
Now Connie had found out some of the positive things, she wanted to explore the reason for her earlier agitation.
‘When you arrived today, it seemed like you were flustered. I know you were late and had rushed, but there was something else. What caused that?’
‘Oh, it was nothing much. Stupid, really.’ She flicked her hand dismissively.
‘It didn’t appear to be nothing, and I’m sure it wasn’t stupid.’
Alice dropped her head, then snapped it back up, her intense eyes boring into Connie’s.
‘I had a shock, is all. Saw my ex-husband in town when I wasn’t expecting it. I suppose it rattled me, made me panic.’
‘Why would seeing him cause you to panic?’
‘He’s not a very nice man, Connie. Not someone I would want to have confronting me, especially as I was with someone from the group, too – and I didn’t want her to see him. Meet him.’
‘The woman you were talking about? The one you feel you have a lot in common with?’
‘Um …’ Alice looked confused for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, yes – that one.’
‘If you felt a connection with her, had things in common, maybe she would’ve understood if you’d confided in her?’
‘Maybe. But I couldn’t take the chance. I didn’t want to expose her to him. Didn’t want him knowing what I’m doing, who I’m friends with. He’d ruin it, put a stop to it. He doesn’t like me talking to people about, you know, what happened. About Kyle.’
‘I see.’ Connie thought about this new information. It sounded as though Alice feared her ex-husband, and coupled with what she’d told her in the last session about how her son had taken over where her husband had left off, Connie suspected that Alice Mann had experienced a lot of trauma in her past – possibly abuse from both of them.
‘I’m really sorry he made … makes you feel that way, Alice. I’m sure it must cause difficulties, and means it’s challenging for you to move forwards.’
‘He prevents me moving forwards, yes. I have to do my best despite him; pretend he’s not here. I suppose I pretend a lot.’
‘You shouldn’t have to pretend. I can help you work through these challenges, help with coping strategies. If your ex-husband is threatening you, causing you fear, there are people who can assist with that too – not only the police, but services who can offer practical support.’
‘No!’ Alice jumped up. ‘No, Connie. Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’m sorry. This wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about, not what I wanted help with.’
‘Okay, I’m sorry, Alice. Please sit back down.’ Connie got to her feet and reached out to touch Alice’s arm, but the damage seemed to have been done.
Alice turned her back and walked towards the consulting room door. She stopped in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder.
‘I’m wasting your time, I’m sorry.’
The door slammed behind her.
Connie screwed her eyes up. Damn. She must have gone too far.
She had pushed Alice away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#ulink_04adae6d-d567-5d3a-99f9-1eaa705673af)
Connie (#ulink_04adae6d-d567-5d3a-99f9-1eaa705673af)
‘Yes, Mum, I promise I’ll be careful.’ Connie’s ear was hot from pressing the phone to it for so long.
‘I feel it’s a mistake, I can’t help it, love. You shouldn’t be going backwards, you should be concentrating on the future, moving forwards in your life. No good can come of this – your practice should be your focus, not those degenerates.’
‘I know, I know.’ Connie rolled her neck, attempting to release some of the tension stored there. Her mum had repeated this advice at least four times in the one call. ‘This will be the one and only time, I swear. I’ve done one session, I’m there tomorrow, then perhaps two more days next week, that’s it.’
‘Yes, you already said, dear.’
Connie closed her eyes and shook her head, suppressing the urge to say, it must be catching, saying instead: ‘Well, I thought I’d reiterate it.’
‘I don’t want any harm to come to you. That’s not a bad thing, is it?’
‘No. Of course not,’ Connie said.
There was a silence at the end of the line. Connie knew why. It wasn’t only the last few years she was alluding to. When Connie was fifteen, her mum had feared for her well-being, had told her she was making mistakes – but her words had gone unheeded. Connie dropped her hand to her stomach, thinking about how her behaviour back then had led to one of the worst things that had happened to her. It was no wonder her mum was always worrying about her. But in some ways, Connie could understand that. While she wasn’t a mother herself, she knew exactly how it felt to need to protect someone.
Because Connie was keeping the biggest secret of all from her mum – one that had come crashing into her own life last year, and that she’d worried about every day since. Twenty-one years ago, Connie’s older brother Luke was stabbed to death. And just eight months ago, Connie discovered that his injury had not, as they’d all been led to believe, been fatal. As a result of her involvement in the Hargreaves murder inquiry, her father’s lies had been spilled, their abhorrent nature made clear. Luke’s death had been faked to protect him from their father’s toxic business dealings, dealings that ensured Manchester gangs were out for blood. His, or his family’s. After Luke’s supposed death, Connie had spent years feeling she was the one her father would’ve rather lost. Anyone but his precious son. She’d fought for his approval throughout her life, even when he moved back to Manchester, leaving her and her mum in Devon. Connie strived to make him proud of her, to the point she began to hate him, or maybe even herself, for the way she allowed him to make her feel. And then she’d discovered that the bulk of her life was built on a lie. At the time of the revelation, Connie had been absolutely convinced she should go straight to her mum and tell her everything she’d learned. She’d wanted to resist her father’s control, his warped sense of protection over them.
It’ll kill her if she found out now. Don’t do it, Connie, he’d begged.
It’s killing her anyway, Connie had argued.
She would never forgive her father, but for her mother’s sake, as well as for fear of putting Luke and her family in further jeopardy, Connie continued pretending that none of it had resurfaced – that Luke was still buried.
‘So,’ her mum’s voice cut into her thoughts, ‘are you free to come over for a bite to eat on Saturday? I’d quite like some company …’
Connie drew in a large lungful of air. It was Luke’s birthday on Saturday. Her brother would’ve been forty-one if he hadn’t been taken from them at seventeen. Connie quickly shook away the thought. He is going to be forty-one.
‘Yeah, of course, Mum. Do you want me to bring anything? Wine? Pudding?’
‘Just yourself, dear … and your friend, if you like?’
That would make things easier. Lindsay would help with conversation, prevent it from slipping into the dangerous territory of family secrets.
‘If you’re okay with that, then yes. Lindsay would love to meet you properly.’
‘It’s a date, then.’
Connie could hear in her mum’s tone she was smiling. Maybe the fact Connie was keeping this huge secret from her was the right thing to do.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#ulink_311b7177-2499-557d-b1df-45326b134a3d)
Deborah (#ulink_311b7177-2499-557d-b1df-45326b134a3d)
A chill ripples inside my body, shaking my foundation like a gust of wind through a tree threatening to shed its leaves. My fingers tremble as I flatten the yellowing newspaper page. I hide the tin full of cuttings from Nathan. He doesn’t think it’s good to brood over the past. Now, seeing the headlines again, I relive it all with frightening clarity.
I am there. Back on that day. I can feel all I felt then, only now it’s even worse. Because I know more now than I did when I was first told of my son’s death. His murder. I know far too much about Kyle Mann. I swallow the rising hatred.
Why does the media insist on displaying the faces of those who have committed such hideous crimes, name them, talk about them, dissect every area of their lives? Why give them the space, the attention? I can’t stand it. It’s the victims who should be the focus. I don’t want to read about how this murdering bastard had a hard life; a difficult upbringing. So what?
I had many of these thoughts back then. I told anyone who was willing to listen. Even those who weren’t. Looking at these articles again now, I’m aware my anger hasn’t subsided. I’ve just done a good job of distracting myself from it.
But now that distraction has gone, thanks to Marcie.
The driveway gravel crunches beneath a car. I jump up, place the cuttings back inside the old biscuit tin and push it under the pile of my jumpers on the shelf in the walk-in wardrobe. Nathan’s home. I haven’t told him I’m on ‘gardening leave’ yet. Not sure whether I should. Maybe I can keep it to myself, for a while at least.
He won’t know that I’m not leaving for work. He always leaves the house before me, and I’m home before him. I can keep up the facade easily. After all, I’m well-practised.
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#ulink_b8160555-63fe-57b1-b1a5-703de3a84774)
Alice (#ulink_b8160555-63fe-57b1-b1a5-703de3a84774)
I’m sitting waiting.
The last Wednesday of February seems to have taken an age to come around, and now it’s here, I’m consumed with impatience for my group to arrive. I got here nice and early to ensure I had plenty of time to set up the room. I’ve brought supplies for a tea break too this time. We can all have a relaxed chat while we refuel.
It’s cold today. The air in the large, high-ceilinged church room envelops me in its cool cocoon. I do up the buttons of my cardigan, but it won’t be enough to stop the shivers. Maybe I should bring my electric blower heater next time. Although, looking around me, I can see there are radiators. I’ll ask the caretaker why they aren’t on. Perhaps he doesn’t think a small group like mine deserves to have money spent on it. It must cost a lot to heat this huge space.
Half an hour to go.
I’m regretting arriving here quite so early. This last thirty minutes is dragging. What if no one turns up this time? The first session went well, I thought – and Wendy did say she was looking forwards to it.
Relax. They will come.
I get up, and begin to pace the wooden floor. I need to try to warm up.
My mind goes back to my session with Connie. I’ve gone over it again and again. It hadn’t progressed the way I wanted it to. She’d been clever, picked up on something I didn’t really want to talk about, and directed the session her way. Towards her agenda, not mine. I hadn’t had a chance to ask the questions I’d planned; ones that would’ve been useful for today’s group meeting. The next counselling session could be awkward, she might continue down the abused wife route. I’ll have to think of something to start off the session differently. A big disclosure to knock her sideways, steer it in the opposite direction to what I know she wants.
Actually, maybe I have just the thing …
No time to think about it now – I hear the outer door bang.
‘Thank you, God.’ I look up to the Lord, crossing my chest. At least someone has turned up.
It’s Wendy. She was first here last time too.
My heart dips a little. I hope some others come early as well. I don’t want too much time alone with her – I don’t want her to bring up the episode with my ‘ex-husband’. I’ve got a little story planned, though, just in case. I have to cover all bases, be prepared.
As I’m welcoming her, a few others follow.
Warmth replaces the cold I’d been feeling.
Finally, when everyone has filtered in, I notice that my group has grown by two people. Once we’re all settled in the circle, we do another brief round of introductions, welcoming the new members. And I’m thrilled to find one of them is Bill.
I smile widely, feeling my face glow. Excellent. I’ve been successful in getting him to the group – my comment on the online support group obviously did the trick. It feels good to know I have some powers of persuasion.
CHAPTER TWENTY (#ulink_bd2e75c4-4cc6-55ac-9036-877718924409)
Connie (#ulink_bd2e75c4-4cc6-55ac-9036-877718924409)
‘Any men on the scene, Connie, love?’
Connie slumped against the high back of the dining chair. She’d been waiting for something like this all evening; her mother’s idea of small talk at the dinner table.
‘No, Mum. It’s been a while since I’ve been on the dating scene – no time for all that.’ It was the easiest and quickest way to shut that particular conversation down. She’d had issues trusting men ever since her teenage trauma – ‘That Night’ at the party where things had gone terribly wrong and she was taken advantage of. It was a time in her life Connie didn’t like to dwell on, or revisit.
‘Oh, that’s a shame. You’re not getting any younger – I suppose I’m not going to be a grandma anytime soon then.’
Connie’s face flushed.
‘What about you, dear, anyone special?’ She directed her probing question to Lindsay.
‘About the same, I’m afraid, Bev.’ Lindsay took a large gulp of red wine. ‘My divorce came through a few months ago.’
‘Ahh, I’m sorry. Is that why you’ve got a room in Connie’s house?’
‘That, and it made sense financially and geographically. I was travelling to Coleton every day from Plymouth, it was a long trek. After Connie’s … experience … last year, we decided it would work well for both of us. And it does.’ Lindsay turned to Connie and smiled as she raised her glass in a toast.
Connie noted that her mum had inched forwards in her seat, clearly itching to interject. She certainly didn’t waste any time.
‘So, tell me, Lindsay, what big case are you working on right now? The missing girl I heard about on the news?’
‘You can’t ask that, Mum! Lindsay can’t talk about cases outside of her work.’
‘I’m sure she talks to you about it though, doesn’t she?’ Her mum gave a cringeworthy wink as she passed Lindsay the dish of vegetables. Connie threw an apologetic smile at Lindsay.
‘It’s okay.’ Lindsay slyly jabbed her elbow in Connie’s side and widened her eyes at her before turning back to her mum. ‘If I don’t divulge anything that could compromise any ongoing investigations, I can talk about them. You know, in general.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t tell Connie very much, actually.’ Lindsay pushed the serving dish towards Connie.
Connie took it and dolloped a small spoonful of veg on her plate. Her appetite had waned the minute Lindsay had turned off the main Teignmouth road and crossed the bridge into Shaldon. As soon as Connie had walked through the front door of her mum’s terraced house, her gut had twisted into a painful knot and hadn’t relaxed since. At least the emphasis so far had been on Lindsay and her role as detective inspector. She hoped she didn’t feel uncomfortable with her mum’s questions. Judging by the dig she’d been given in the ribs, she guessed she must be fine with it. She should try to relax a little.
‘See, Connie, Lindsay doesn’t mind.’ She smirked teasingly at Connie and then took a mouthful of food.
‘I am involved in the missing person case, yes,’ Lindsay said.
Connie looked up sharply. ‘Are you? I didn’t realise.’
Lindsay had worked long hours the last couple of days, but hadn’t told Connie why. She should’ve guessed it was on the missing twenty-one-year-old’s case, which had been widely reported since Wednesday evening.
‘See, Bev, I don’t tell her everything.’ Lindsay laughed.
‘Terrible business. That poor family. I do hope it’s a happy ending. Do you think it will be, Lindsay?’ Connie watched as her mother’s eyes darkened. This topic of conversation wasn’t a good idea; her mum would be thinking about Luke, especially given today was his birthday, and how she’d lost her son under such tragic circumstances. It would make it difficult for Connie, knowing what she now knew. She’d tried so hard not to think about Luke, not to contemplate the hows, whys and whens. Tried hard not to spill everything to her mum, often wrestling with her decision not to disclose the details.
Lindsay placed her knife and fork on her plate and leant back, exhaling loudly. ‘If I’m honest, Bev, it doesn’t look very hopeful. In this kind of case we’re searching for proof of life. It’s been over forty-eight hours and we haven’t found any evidence of that yet. Those first hours are critical.’
‘But maybe she’s gone off with friends without telling anyone?’ Her mother’s voice was filled with a hope that made Connie’s heart ache.
‘It’s a possibility,’ Lindsay said, ‘but she hasn’t accessed her bank account, her mobile phone hasn’t been used, so …’
‘Must be a hard job, dealing with something so awful – having to be the sole hope for her family.’
‘Yes, it is. You never really get used to it, although you do learn to manage. All my major cases have been challenging, each one for different reasons.’
‘You must be very strong, Lindsay. I’m glad there are people like you who work for the victims, their family. Get justice.’ Tears sparkled in her eyes.
Connie looked down at her plate, not wanting to witness her mum’s pain.
‘I try to be strong. You have to be, really, to keep on doing the job. We don’t always serve justice though, I’m afraid. Not every case results in a conviction.’
‘No. I know. We never got justice for our Luke.’
Connie’s stomach flipped. She shut her eyes tightly, not trusting herself to look into her mother’s eyes. The silence stretched.
‘I’m really sorry about your son, Bev. I’m sorry closure wasn’t gained.’
Connie felt a hand on hers and opened her eyes. Lindsay had her other hand on her mum’s. Connie wondered if Lindsay felt guilty too. She had confided in her, and so she also knew about Luke being alive and well. Not dead.
The weight of the lie dragged Connie down; made her heavy. Almost twelve months of keeping this huge secret. How had her father done it for twenty-two years? Unbelievable.
‘You are back working in the prison on Monday then, Connie.’ Her mum’s sudden change in direction was both welcome and unwanted. At least she wasn’t talking about Luke. It wasn’t long ago that she’d wanted to hear her mum talk about her brother, encouraged her – manipulated situations in order to make her talk about him. Now she was quashing her attempts, changing the subject and avoiding any talk of him. It was unfair. Cruel.
She hated her father. For lying in the first place, for hiding the truth for so long. And for dragging Connie into his deceit, making her a co-conspirator. A liar.
At the same time, she didn’t want to discuss her decision to go back to HMP Baymead, to go over her mother’s fears yet again. Didn’t she have enough to feel guilty for?
‘Yes, Mum. It’s going okay, actually. It’s not the same as before.’ She smiled at her mum. ‘Honestly.’
‘Good. I’m glad. They won’t keep asking you to do these … report things, will they?’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ve made it perfectly clear this is a one-off. Even if they ask again, I’ll say no …’
‘No you won’t, Connie. You’re like your dad in that way.’ Her voice was flat, monotone.
Connie’s heartbeat jolted. Like your dad. The words cut deep.
But there was a truth in them that Connie couldn’t deny.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#ulink_96207d82-8cfe-5a5b-b2d3-bf692bf82c6b)
Connie (#ulink_96207d82-8cfe-5a5b-b2d3-bf692bf82c6b)
‘I’m Connie. I don’t know if you remember me – I saw you when you first arrived at Baymead two years ago …’
Kyle Mann’s eyes were cloudy, red-rimmed. He looked as though he’d just woken up after a heavy drinking session. Or, as was more likely in prison, he’d taken drugs. The mass of blond curls he’d had when Connie first met him were gone: a shaved scalp now replaced them, giving his features a harder edge. He looked more like the criminal he was than the younger butter-wouldn’t-melt appearance he’d entered the prison system with.
Connie tilted her head in the direction of his gaze, seeking his attention. He didn’t give any sign he’d heard her, or that he was even aware of her presence. He was sitting opposite her, a table separating them, with Connie closest to the door. And the alarm. He appeared relaxed: his legs loosely positioned, knees splayed – very close to Connie’s – and hands resting on the table.
Jen had said that he hadn’t spoken a word to any of the staff since his imprisonment. She wondered if he kept this vow of silence with other inmates. She’d get Verity to take her to the wing later so she could speak to his personal officer to find out who he associated with, and if they’d had any evidence of him communicating in any way.
‘I am a forensic psychologist. I’m here today to carry out an assessment that will be used together with a number of other reports and will be compiled for the parole board in relation to your progression through the system. Do you understand, Kyle?’
Nothing.
Jen was right; it was unlikely he would start talking now, not after all this time. Connie needn’t have worried about a conflict of interest, any ethical dilemma in working with Alice. She’d have to carry on with this meeting regardless though, get what she needed, and then call for Verity to come back and escort her to the psychology office.
‘I’m an independent psychologist, which means I don’t work in the prison, or for the prison service. My role is to work with you, talk to you about your offence, your risk factors, and give recommendations for rehabilitation programmes. I’ll do a written report, which will be provided to the parole board. Okay?’
Connie thought she saw a flicker in Kyle’s eyes. A quick glance in her direction. But still she was faced with the wall of silence. She moved her chair along slightly, lining it up so that she was in his direct line of vision. He lowered his head, purposely avoiding catching her eye. So, he did know she was there. He was well aware of why she was there, she felt sure.
‘Right, well, I’m going to read through some of these notes I have here,’ Connie said as she placed his file on the table and opened it. ‘And you jump in whenever you want. Tell me if there’s anything you want to clarify, or add. Anything you don’t agree with.’
Connie started to read out the description of his offence. Every now and then she paused, looking up to observe his body language, to see if his expression had altered. He remained closed. He’d had a few years to perfect this routine. He was good at it. It was highly improbable Connie would crack him without something new, something to give him cause to wobble – a reason to speak.
During her last visit to the prison, when she’d studied the files of the men she’d be assessing, Connie had reread the police transcript of their interview with Kyle prior to him being charged with murder. He’d been incredibly vague, often giving one-word responses, but had spoken. However, as soon as they charged him, further interviews had been ‘no comment’ ones or he’d simply remained quiet – supposedly at the advice of his solicitor. She’d also read the lengthy transcript of the interview with Kyle’s parents. With Alice, and her husband, Edward. How they’d been so certain their son would not have committed this crime without serious coercion. His mother in particular had been totally convinced he’d been targeted, manipulated and groomed by someone. She’d said he was an easy target because of his behavioural difficulties. She’d said he suffered with mild Asperger’s and had some learning difficulties growing up. None of this could be substantiated in court later – there was simply no hard evidence to back up her claims. No assessments, no input from services, school, or any doctors able to confirm anything Alice Mann had asserted.
As Connie began reading from the notes she’d taken from the transcript, Kyle’s eyes closed, and she noticed his knuckles turning white as he clenched his hands into fists.
Just talking about what his mum had said to the police had touched a nerve.
‘Your mum really believes in you. You know that, don’t you?’
There was a scraping sound as Kyle drew in his legs, tucking them under the chair.
‘You know she doesn’t believe you would be capable of such a crime. Of murder.’ Connie was on a roll. Her passion for forensic psychology was reignited in that moment; she wanted to do a good job, like she always felt she had prior to the Hargreaves incident. Looking at Kyle now, she was suddenly eager to get something from him. A reaction. Even if she couldn’t get him to speak. She picked up a piece of paper containing her scribbled notes and, holding it so she could see it and Kyle’s face easily above the paper, began reading:
‘Kyle wouldn’t purposely hurt anyone. He’s always been a kind, considerate boy, but he was used. People took advantage of him, of his vulnerability. He couldn’t have done this on his own. It’s impossible.’ Connie read the words loudly, leaning in towards Kyle’s face. She was pushing it, she knew – but something made her feel safe; she didn’t sense he was a risk to her.
Kyle’s breathing rate increased; Connie could hear the flow of air as it pushed through his nostrils and was quickly drawn back in again.
This was the most reaction she’d ever known Kyle Mann give. His mum was the key. The way she could get him to speak, she was convinced of that now.
Without much thought of the consequences, Connie played her trump card.
‘I know your mum feels incredible guilt about you being here. She believes she’s let you down, that she could’ve done something to prevent it.’
His eyes were wide now. Focussed on Connie for the first time.
She continued. ‘I know this, Kyle, because she told me. The other day in fact, when she came to see me for my help.’
Kyle lurched forwards. Connie’s pulse banged in her neck.
‘You’re lying,’ he shouted, before slamming his back against his chair, the plastic bouncing with the force.
Connie’s mouth slackened. She’d done it. Made him utter actual words.
She stalled in her shock, but quickly recovered; she had to keep it going now she’d made a breakthrough.
‘I wouldn’t lie to you, Kyle. I think you should know what your mother is going through.’
A pang of guilt struck her. She shouldn’t have told him, she’d really compromised herself now. In her eagerness to get Kyle to speak, she’d broken the code of conduct.
Dammit.
What if Kyle’s stony silence didn’t stretch as far as his mum? He could call Alice, tell her what Connie had said. She’d be in all kinds of trouble. Again. But she’d done what no one else had been able to: she’d made Kyle Mann talk. She may only have this one chance. She had to continue – and deal with the consequences later.
‘She’s not the only one who thinks you didn’t act alone, is she? The police also suspected you were with someone else that day. That another person was as responsible, if not more so than you, for the murder of Sean Taylor.’
‘They’re wrong.’ His voice was a quiet rasp, as though not speaking for all this time had dried his vocal cords and stringing a whole sentence together was challenging.
‘Are they, Kyle? Even your mum?’
‘Especially my mum. I’m not the son she thinks I am.’
Connie sat back, turning over in her mind what Alice had revealed so far about Kyle during her sessions. The aggressive, almost bullying nature she’d described as part of the behaviour she’d endured from Kyle at home, prior to his offence, was not the same picture Alice had painted at the time of his arrest. Didn’t sound like the Kyle she’d spoken of in the transcript Connie had read. Had Alice lied in the interview with the police in an attempt to protect him?
‘I would really like to hear an account of what happened in the lead-up to Sean Taylor’s death. How did the day begin for you, Kyle?’
He snorted and shook his head. ‘I’ve done all this.’
‘Well, actually you haven’t. If your records are correct, you gave “no comment” interviews. Where did you spend the day, Kyle?’ Connie laid her notes down and rested her elbows on the table.
Kyle shrugged his shoulders. Had he verbally communicated all he was willing to? An unexpected sense of disappointment swept through her.
‘Who else did you see that day? Did you meet up with someone?’
He averted his eyes from Connie’s. She was losing him.
‘Who was it? Someone you used to game with online?’ Connie immediately regretted her question. She was using things arising from Alice’s session as a way of forcing Kyle to speak. It was so unethical, she felt her face grow hot with the knowledge of what she was doing.
Kyle’s own face flushed, his eyes growing wider, darker; his pupils dilating.
Connie swallowed hard as he pushed violently up from his chair.
He left the room without saying another word.
Someone else had been involved with Sean’s murder, she felt sure now. The one that got away. And for some reason, Kyle was protecting him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#ulink_4ecaa26c-3d4a-5897-852a-dcc6c8e8a76c)
Tom (#ulink_4ecaa26c-3d4a-5897-852a-dcc6c8e8a76c)
The house was even quieter than usual. He knew he must be alone. He was glad. At least he didn’t have to worry about being caught; he was getting fed up of having to deal with endless questions. He could talk online uninterrupted. His sessions had increased again. The time it’d taken to organise the gaming site had taken far more effort; it was time-consuming getting the right people involved. Keeping them on his domain, even more challenging. Everyone thought they were a gamer these days. Most didn’t know the skill it took. Most didn’t realise the thrills would diminish later down the line. When they’d played as long as he had, they’d come to the same conclusion: online slaughter isn’t enough. Once you reach a certain level it’s more difficult to get the adrenaline going, more difficult to feel alive.
When you’re at my level, things have got to get real.
He’d lasted four whole years. He’d tried to recreate the thrills online only. But now the urge was too strong, he needed more.
He’d obviously got away with the last one, so he should be fine.
It was time.
He needed another kill – and he’d found the perfect player.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#ulink_dadde95a-0218-5f80-bd01-aef8d21f4ec2)
Deborah (#ulink_dadde95a-0218-5f80-bd01-aef8d21f4ec2)
I lie still, watching as Nathan dresses in his charcoal-grey suit. He’s still attractive – he’s aged exceptionally well. He doesn’t even have any visible grey in his hair, and is not receding, or balding like a lot of men his age. He keeps himself trim, weekly visits to the gym, plus running and golf at the weekend. I can see why he gains female attention at work. There seem to be a lot of women employees at the district council offices. When I used to pop in to see Nathan on my lunch breaks, I’d noticed how the reception desk was manned by dolled-up, pretty women. Back when I really cared, it would bother me, how they tripped over themselves to speak to him, almost scrambling to get his attention. Even if I was standing with him, they would openly flirt, as if I wasn’t there.
I wonder who he’s shagging.
‘Come on, lazybones, you’re going to be late for work,’ he says as he bends to plant a kiss on my head.
‘Five more minutes.’ I stretch and make out I’m still tired. I am tired, as it happens. I lay awake for long periods in the night, thinking. About work. Or lack of it – and how I’m going to fill the endless hours each day. And thinking about Alice. How I might pay her a visit. The newspapers didn’t say much about her at the time of Kyle Mann’s arrest and subsequent trial; her husband, Edward, was the focus. The troubled father-son relationship, often speculative and also told through the subjectivity of neighbours, was what gained column inches; sold papers. It would perhaps be interesting to find out what part Alice herself played in her son’s delinquent behaviour; his ultimate ability to take another’s life.
‘I might be a bit late tonight, sorry. There’s a planning meeting at six, discussing the new project, remember – the expansion of a small industrial estate to incorporate a supermarket?’
He’d not spoken of it since the last meeting he’d had that had run over time. By two hours. ‘Oh yes, right. I’ll cook late then, for eight?’ I push my lips into a smile.
‘Oh, I would just put something back for me. You can never tell how long these meetings are going to take. No doubt Phil will have countless questions to ask right at the end – always does.’ Nathan doesn’t look me in the eye. It’s the first time I really feel it – the disloyalty. I’m not sure whether to be angry or sad, or thankful that at least someone’s giving him what he needs. How can I blame him for grasping any ounce of happiness that comes his way? Life has been such a struggle for us since losing Sean. If I had the inclination, I could probably stop him from straying. But I don’t, not at the moment. Plus, if his attention is elsewhere, I’ll be more likely to get away with my own indiscretion.
I wait until the front door bangs closed, listen to the car wheels noisily spewing small stone chippings as Nathan leaves the driveway, before I swing my legs from the bed. I shower and dress as I would for a normal workday.
Only, today isn’t normal.
Today is the first day of living a lie.
Or is it? Maybe that’s what I’ve already been doing up until today.
A change is as good as a rest, my mum would’ve said. Having no job to go to is certainly a change.
I don’t know where to find Alice. She didn’t say where she lived and I only gleaned a few things from her nervous chatter – like she works, or worked, part-time somewhere – but I can’t remember much, as I wasn’t taking it in. I didn’t ask any questions about her, or her life. I wasn’t interested before now.
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Sam Carrington
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 25.04.2024
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О книге: ‘Sam Carrington has done it again. One Little Lie is a twisty, gripping read. I loved it.’ Cass Green‘Expertly written … with plentiful twists and unforgettable characters, it′s an insightful and unnerving read.’ Caroline Mitchell‘My name is Alice. And my son is a murderer.’Deborah’s son was killed four years ago. Alice’s son is in prison for committing that crime.Deborah would give anything to have her boy back, and Alice would do anything to right her son’s wrongs.Driven by guilt and the need for redemption, Alice has started a support group for parents with troubled children. But as the network begins to grow, she soon finds out just how easy it is for one little lie to spiral out of control…They call it mother’s intuition, but can you ever really know your own child?Deeply psychological and suspenseful, One Little Lie is a twisty and unnerving story about the price of motherhood and the unthinkable things we do to protect our children.Perfect for fans of Cara Hunter and Laura Marshall.