Bad Sister: ‘Tense, convincing… kept me guessing’ Caz Frear, bestselling author of Sweet Little Lies. Sam Carrington

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СКАЧАТЬ SEVEN

       DI Wade

      ‘Wow, Mack, what was all that about?’ Lindsay slid into the seat and slammed the driver door in one smooth movement, then stared at him.

      ‘What?’ He kept his focus forward.

      She recognised that tone. He knew exactly what she was referring to; it wasn’t as if he could’ve missed her sharp glance when he’d spoken to Connie Summers.

      ‘Do you know her?’

      ‘No,’ he answered quickly. ‘Why do you say that?’

      ‘Oh, you know – the weird atmosphere as soon as we walked into her office, the underlying tension, the sarcasm; signs people might show if they’ve got history.’

      ‘Wow, you’ve got one hell of an imagination. Don’t you think she’s a bit young for an old codger like me?’ Mack ran a hand through his grey hair. Lindsay stared at him for a moment, taking in the mix of dark and light grey tones. She actually liked his hair; it was still thick, if not a bit unruly – if anything, it was his stubbly beard that aged him, made his face appear more weathered. She smiled.

      ‘Good point.’ Lindsay turned the ignition. She and Mack had worked together long enough for their working relationship to feel comfortable. Even as his superior, she could be herself, have a laugh. It was important in their line of work, and had become even more so since their last murder case; it’d taken a long while to regain her confidence after that one. To trust her judgements; instincts. Thankfully, the force still believed in her ability and skills as a DI.

      ‘Oh, cheers, Boss.’

      She grinned. She’d get to the bottom of it at some point. She’d never seen him conduct himself that way before. There had to be a reason for it.

      ‘So, your personal stuff aside, what did you make of Miss Summers?’

      Mack shook his head gently, tutting. ‘Not sure, if I’m honest. She was a bit hostile, short.’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘You know, personal stuff aside …’

      ‘Hah! Yeah, I thought that too, though. It could just be because she’d been slammed for being instrumental in his release, perhaps she still has guilt issues – and now her name is on Hargreaves’ hand she’s worried the past will rear its ugly head again. I get that.’

      ‘Or?’

      ‘Or, she has an idea of why her name’s on his hand and is hiding something.’

      ‘So, we’re not thinking she’s a target? If the killer wrote her name, you don’t think it’s because she might be the next victim?’

      ‘Well.’ Lindsay raised her shoulders in a half shrug. ‘We can’t rule that out. But it didn’t seem threatening, just a name – not you’re next, Connie Moore.’

      ‘I can see what you mean, but I’d feel pretty uncomfortable if it was my name on a dead man’s hand. How do you wanna play it then?’

      ‘I think get her onside in a professional capacity – as an advisor. She’s worked for the police before, so should be easy enough to cut through the red tape and get her cleared. That way we can keep an eye on her, keep her close, in case we do uncover any evidence that she’s at risk. And we need to get as much info from her on Hargreaves and his associates as we can, see where that leads us. I’ll give her a call later to set it up.’

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

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

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

      ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

      ‘Just drive.’

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       Connie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      The СКАЧАТЬ