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

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017

Copyright © Sam Carrington 2017

Cover photographs © Shutterstock

Cover design © Stuart Bache, Books Covered Ltd 2017

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.

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Source ISBN: 9780008200213

Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008200206

Version 2017-09-13

Dedication

For my sister, Celia – who is not bad at all.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: Then

Chapter One: Connie

Chapter Two: Di Wade

Chapter Three: Connie

Chapter Four: Connie

Chapter Five: Then

Chapter Six: Connie

Chapter Seven: Di Wade

Chapter Eight: Connie

Chapter Nine: Connie

Chapter Ten: Then

Chapter Eleven: Connie

Chapter Twelve: Di Wade

Chapter Thirteen: Connie

Chapter Fourteen: Then

Chapter Fifteen: Connie

Chapter Sixteen: Connie

Chapter Seventeen: Di Wade

Chapter Eighteen: Connie

Chapter Nineteen: Then

Chapter Twenty: Connie

Chapter Twenty-One: Connie

Chapter Twenty-Two: Di Wade

Chapter Twenty-Three: Connie

Chapter Twenty-Four: Then

Chapter Twenty-Five: Connie

Chapter Twenty-Six: Connie

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Di Wade

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Connie

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Then

Chapter Thirty: Connie

Chapter Thirty-One: Connie

Chapter Thirty-Two: Di Wade

Chapter Thirty-Three: Connie

Chapter Thirty-Four: Then

Chapter Thirty-Five: Connie

Chapter Thirty-Six: Connie

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Di Wade

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Connie

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Then

Chapter Forty: Connie

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two: Connie

Chapter Forty-Three: Di Wade

Chapter Forty-Four: Connie

Chapter Forty-Five: Then

Chapter Forty-Six: Connie

Chapter Forty-Seven: Connie

Chapter Forty-Eight: Di Wade

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty: Connie

Chapter Fifty-One: Connie

Chapter Fifty-Two: Di Wade

Chapter Fifty-Three: Connie

Chapter Fifty-Four: Then

Chapter Fifty-Five: Connie

Chapter Fifty-Six: Connie

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Di Wade

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Connie

Chapter Sixty: Connie

Chapter Sixty-One: Di Wade

Chapter Sixty-Two: Connie

Chapter Sixty-Three: Brett

Chapter Sixty-Four: Connie

Chapter Sixty-Five: Connie

Chapter Sixty-Six: Then

Chapter Sixty-Seven: Connie

Chapter Sixty-Eight: Di Wade

Chapter Sixty-Nine: Connie

Chapter Seventy: Connie

Chapter Seventy-One: Brett

Chapter Seventy-Two: Connie

Chapter Seventy-Three: Connie

Chapter Seventy-Four: Connie

Chapter Seventy-Five: Di Wade

Chapter Seventy-Six: Connie

Chapter Seventy-Seven: Connie

Chapter Seventy-Eight: Di Wade

Chapter Seventy-Nine: Connie

Chapter Eighty: Connie

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two: Connie

Chapter Eighty-Three: Di Wade

Chapter Eighty-Four: Connie

Chapter Eighty-Five: Connie

Chapter Eighty-Six: Connie

Chapter Eighty-Seven: Then

Chapter Eighty-Eight: Connie

Chapter Eighty-Nine: Di Wade

Chapter Ninety: Connie

Chapter Ninety-One: Connie

Chapter Ninety-Two: Connie

Chapter Ninety-Three: Connie

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Then

The heat pressed against her face.

On it. In it. Her cheeks felt like they were burning inside as well as out.

The little boy stood motionless beside her, his scorched pyjama bottoms trailing the pavement. His dark unblinking eyes stared up at the leaping flames erupting from the upper floor, then his attention turned to the bedroom window.

At the man screaming there.

She watched too, unable to drag her gaze away.

The man’s face seemed oddly distorted; like the famous painting she’d seen once: The Scream, wasn’t it? He banged against the windowpane, his mouth opening in a large O shape. The howl coming from the dark hole didn’t sound human. His hands were either side of his dripping face. Was it melting?

He disappeared from view.

The boy’s small hand slipped into hers. She snatched it away, and finally turned from the burning scene to look down at him.

‘What have you done?’

CHAPTER ONE

Connie

Monday 5 June

‘All right, Miss. Didn’t think I’d bump into you on the outside.’

Connie froze, the voice behind her instantly cooling the blood in her veins, despite the morning’s warmth. Her head dropped involuntarily, her bobbed, black hair falling forwards, creating a curtain on either side of her blanched face. She could pretend she hadn’t heard, carry on walking, but if she ignored him he might follow her. Slowly, she turned to face him.

The man – wiry, thin from heroin addiction – leant against the wall adjacent to the train station entrance, cigarette in mouth, his eyes squinting through a cloud of smoke.

A thin wisp of air expelled from Connie’s lungs and pushed its way through her pursed lips. Her shoulders relaxed a little. It was only Jonesy. She could cope with him.

‘Oh, hello, Jonesy. How are you doing?’ Connie instantly regretted the open question. She gave an exaggerated look at her watch, then smiled, hoping he’d get the message that she was in a rush.

‘Well, you know how it is, Miss. It ain’t easy, they got me on a short leash, like – but it’s better than being in that shithole I s’pose.’

Connie raised her eyebrows. She was inclined to agree with the last part.

‘What you doing with yourself now you’ve left, Miss?’

She hadn’t expected that question. How did he know?

‘Oh, well … I’ve gone for a change in direction.’ She turned away from him, her attention shifting to the small group of people heading into Coleton station, the low hum of their early morning conversation drifting on the air. She wished she could slide in step with them, get away from Jonesy quickly. She didn’t want to give him any details about her new job, or get into an awkward conversation. He might have done his time, but someone who’d been convicted of aggravated burglary wasn’t a person she particularly wished to converse with right now. She checked her watch again. ‘I’ve got to go; I’m going to miss the train. Sorry.’

‘Ah. Okay.’ He shrugged, his voice clipped. ‘Another time, then.’

Connie hoped not. ‘Good luck, though.’ She turned and walked towards the entrance.

‘They were wrong, you know,’ Jonesy said, his voice carrying after her. ‘To treat you like that. It wasn’t just your fault.’

Her steps ceased for a few seconds, then, without turning back, she ascended the stairs to the platform, her heels clicking rapidly on the metal.

Her heartbeat matched her footsteps.

CHAPTER TWO

DI Wade

As murder locations went, this was up there with the ones categorised as ‘unusual’. Detective Inspector Lindsay Wade had seen bodies dumped in all manner of places, and wasn’t easily rattled. This case didn’t have the shock factor in terms of it being off the wall, or weird – it was that the body was clearly meant to be found. Already this had put a bad taste in her mouth, and a cramp in her stomach. The killer wanted people to know, wanted the press coverage, the limelight. Murders like this were usually thought out, planned. And they also didn’t tend to be one-offs. These were the alarm bells ringing in Lindsay’s mind as she and Detective Sergeant Mack turned off the road in the dark blue Volvo Estate and on to the driveway leading to HMP Baymead, the local prison four miles outside of the market town of Coleton.

‘How long ago did uniforms get here, Mack?’

Fifty-two-year-old Charlie Mack had always been known simply as ‘Mack’ even at school. No one used his forename, bar his mum. Humming an unrecognisable tune, he flicked through his black pocket notebook. ‘The first got here at 7.35. Call came in from the Operational Support Grade in charge of the front gate at 7.20. Said he’d heard the screeching of tyres, saw a white, unmarked transit van drive at speed back up the road leading out of the prison. Thought it was just some idiot messing around; with the driveway being accessible to anyone, he said they often get vehicles that aren’t official – not relating to employees – coming in and out. There’s also a public footpath that runs along the top of the grounds, popular with dog walkers apparently.’

‘Christ, you’d think it’d be more difficult to get to, more secure.’

‘Yeah, but it’s a cat C prison, out in the sticks. The fencing is high enough, and it’s not like you’re going to get some nutter trying to scale it, in or out, not with that roll of wire on the top.’ DS Mack motioned out the car window at the perimeter fencing as they drove by. The red-brick walls of the prison buildings could be seen beyond the fence. The site had been used as an army camp in the run-up to World War Two. The buildings were now a mix of old and new, with a new larger cell block being more visible than the older ‘H-style’ living blocks that housed the majority of the inmates.

‘So, who found the body?’

‘A Carol Manning, prison officer. First one of the morning shift to arrive at approximately 7.10. She had to walk past the victim to get to the entrance. She raised the alarm with the OSG.’

‘Why did he wait for another ten minutes before he called it in?’

‘They were pretty shaken, you know, the way the man’d been killed … and the fact they knew him.’

‘I guess. Did uniform ask them whether they’d touched anything, messed with the scene during that time?’

‘Yep, and if they did, they didn’t own up to it. And apparently more employees arrived for work before uniform got here too.’

‘Great. So it’s a possibility then.’ Lindsay parked alongside the other police vehicles, sighed and pulled her long, red hair back into a ponytail, deftly looping and securing it into an elastic band before she got out of the car. As she usually did, Lindsay stood and took in the surrounding area, her hands firmly in her trouser pockets. Mack hung back, waiting for her to complete her routine scan. Lindsay’s eyes settled on the tape cordoning off the area, then shifted to the white tent erected over the body. A pale-looking PC stood at the entrance to the scene, clipboard in hand. She breathed in deeply, the mugginess of another humid day already saturating the air, then exhaled forcefully. ‘Right.’ She turned back to the boot of the car, lifting it to reveal the items they’d require. ‘Let’s get in there and see what we’ve been left.’

CHAPTER THREE

Connie

It took Connie ten minutes of winding through side streets and a brisk walk halfway up the main road of the historic town of Totnes to reach her building. She wiped the sheen of perspiration from her forehead – it was the reason she liked to get the early train, to prevent this kind of exertion first thing in the morning. The hill was a killer at the best of times and didn’t suit her size- 16 frame – a consequence of months of late-night snacking on salt and vinegar crisps, and her consumption of takeaway and convenience microwave meals for one. She much preferred to amble up it. Still, she’d made good time, despite her unexpected encounter with Jonesy.

She stopped and looked at the shiny gold-plated plaque which adorned the wall to the left of the entrance: MISS C SUMMERS CPsychol FBPsS, like she’d done every morning for the past five months. She’d probably tire of it at some point, but for now, seeing the plaque flooded her stomach with a warm sensation; she was proud of her efforts in setting the practice up, of gaining a client base. She’d considered getting a consulting room with one of the counselling psychologists she’d met when she trained seven years ago – to keep the financial outlay down. Melissa had a successful practice in Coleton – she’d gone straight into her counselling role, whereas Connie had made the choice to do a post-graduate qualification in forensic psychology. It would’ve been more convenient for Connie to take a room in Melissa’s building. But having the autonomy and freedom of being on her own outweighed the pluses of sharing workspace and costs.

Her new place of work was tucked in between a jewellery shop and an estate agency. It was a narrow two-storey building: a small room on the ground floor with a kitchenette and toilet off it, and another upstairs which she used as her office and consulting room. It was compact, but sufficient for her needs; a far cry from the vastness of the prison environment. A shudder passed through her. She disregarded it; the feeling would go in time. She had a lot to look forward to now: she had a new name – she’d changed it from Moore and taken her mother’s maiden name instead; her own consultancy; only herself to answer to, and she was no longer bound to working with criminals. Connie really had changed direction. It was time to concentrate on helping the victims of crime, not the perpetrators.

As Connie stepped through the blue wooden door into the room she’d designated as a client waiting area, a voice – high-pitched and shrill – assaulted her ears from behind.

‘Hey. You’re late. I’ve been hanging round here for ten minutes, people watchin’ an starin’ at me, like I’m some weirdo nut-job.’

Connie gave a tight smile and stepped aside to let the young woman and her four-year-old child through. ‘I’m sorry, Steph.’ She didn’t point out that Steph’s appointment was at 9.15 a.m. and actually she was early.

‘Well, you’re here now. Let’s get on wi’ it.’ Steph roughly tucked some long strands of wispy hair behind her right ear, then pulled at the boy’s arm, half dragging him towards the stairs.

‘Um … If you could give me a few minutes, please. Time to fire up the computer, sort the room …’ Connie indicated for Steph to sit in the floral-print tub chair. Steph stopped, glared at her for a few seconds, then huffed and pulled the boy away from the stairs. She sat down heavily on the chair, lifting the child on to her lap.

‘It’s tight time-wise today. As you can see, I got Dylan.’ She looked down at the boy, ruffled his mass of curly blond hair and then glared once more at Connie. ‘I got no one to ’ave him, his pre-school won’t take him ’cos he’s got a rash.’ Connie wondered if Steph had noticed her eyebrows suddenly lifting, because she quickly added, ‘It’s not contagious. He gets bouts of infected eczema, I’ve told ’em that, but they don’t listen.’

‘Perhaps a note from your GP might help.’

‘You know what I’m like with them. Don’t trust ’em.’

Connie would bet that Steph didn’t really trust her either. She seemed to put little faith in anyone.

Connie ascended the stairs and turned right at the top, swinging her consulting room door open. The smell of freshly cut grass wafted to greet her. She’d strategically placed the room diffuser so that her clients would feel relaxed by its refreshing fragrance. Everyone loved the smell of cut grass.

It didn’t usually have the desired effect on Steph, though. It would take far more than fresh cut grass to relax her. This was Steph’s third session. The other two had begun in a similar way and had ended the same – but in the middle, it seemed anything could happen. It was a surprise, like opening a box of chocolates and realising the menu was missing, so having to pop one in your mouth and hope that by the time the chocolate’s centre revealed itself it didn’t turn out to be Turkish delight. Today’s centre, Connie thought, was very likely to be Turkish delight. Apart from anything else, how was she going to carry out her session with Dylan in the room?

Once her computer was on, suit jacket hung up, comfy chairs arranged, and paper and pens placed on the floor under the window for Dylan, Connie called for Steph to make her way upstairs. She didn’t take notes during the sessions, worrying that doing so would give the impression it was some kind of test, or that a report was being written about the client. Connie preferred to let them talk, have a proper conversation, full eye contact throughout. It made for a more relaxing atmosphere, showed them she was genuinely interested in their problems. Following the hour-long session, Connie wrote up the main points straight on to the computer: any developments, issues for further consideration – and a plan of action structured to the individual for their progression.

Steph’s needs were complex; Connie had yet to penetrate the tough outer shell she’d constructed over the years, in order to expose the source of her current fears. Perhaps today might bring a breakthrough. But, as Dylan sauntered, head bowed, into the room and slumped to the floor beside the pens and paper, she realised it was unlikely. He seemed small for a four-year-old – not undernourished, but delicate, like a strong hug might break his bones. As much as Steph’s exterior was hard, and to the outside world she might appear to be an overly authoritarian parent, Steph was fiercely protective of her son, which meant she’d be guarded, hesitant to open up in front of him for fear of causing him worry.

‘Please, sit down, Steph.’

‘What we gonna talk about today then?’ Steph jutted her square chin forwards. ‘How coming to this place was a bad idea? How that copper assigned to help me integrate – or whatever posh word he called it – has basically given me the brush-off? How last night I was scared to sleep ’cos the dreams have got so bad I can’t bear to shut my eyes, just in case I see him again? Up to you, Connie. You choose.’ Steph threw herself back in the chair; head tilted upwards, a deep ragged breath escaping her open mouth.

Connie’s stomach tightened. Today was different. Steph seemed agitated from the off; no slow build-up. Where should she start? How could she approach her needs in this one-hour session? She decided to give the control back to Steph; clearly the lack of it in her own life made up a large part of her anger.

‘Which of those issues do you think is the main one troubling you at the moment?’

‘They all are. And them are just what’ve immediately sprung to mind right this second. Trust me, there’s a load more to add to that collection.’

‘It’s a case of untangling them, Steph – one by one. At the moment they’re all bunched together and it can be difficult to separate those that are founded, that are actually worthy of concern, and those that can easily be dispelled by just a few moments thinking them through. Seeing if they’re logical; real.’