Copyright

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.

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 e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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: 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.’

‘They’re all fuckin’ real.’ Steph turned quickly towards Dylan. He was deeply engrossed in drawing a picture; she sighed and returned her attention to Connie. ‘Okay. I’m dead angry at Miles. He’s dumped me in this town, so bloody far away from my home, and expects me to just get on wi’ it. I know I had no support in Manchester, not really, but I knew people. Knew the places. Knew the dangers. Here, in this weird hippy-Totnes town, I know nothin’.’ Steph waved her arms around, supposedly mocking the town’s residents.

‘Okay. It’s good that you recognise where your anger is directed. We’ll start there.’

Connie relaxed a little. As a starting point, this was actually a good one. Steph had been relocated under the protected persons scheme two months ago. Her assigned constable was Miles Prescott, an old-school police officer – and one who was nearing retirement. Connie had met him a few times; she’d taken on two of his relocates: Steph and Tommy. Those in the scheme were always given access to a psychologist – often they had issues of trust, but mainly they were afraid. And having been taken from their family and friends it meant them starting over again, completely, with different identities, new names. From what she’d learnt of Steph, her sense of identity had already been on rocky ground. She was unsure who she was any more, and the only constants were Dylan, Connie and Miles.

Connie’s input was ten sessions, with an option of monthly catch-ups after – so, soon enough, one of Steph’s three supports was going to go. If she felt Miles wasn’t being as supportive as she’d been led to believe, then she’d feel alone – just her and Dylan. Connie had to try and encourage her to make friends in Totnes, help her to ‘become’ Stephanie Cousins. Put her old name and identity in a separate compartment. Not that anyone could forget who they were; where they came from. And nor should they – but if she was to succeed in integrating Steph here, Connie would have to help her build a new life.

‘So, what is the current situation with Miles?’

‘I think he’s fed up wi’ seeing me. Got better things to do wi’ his time. He told me he can’t babysit me and Dylan all the time, said I gotta be the one to make positive changes and embrace this new life.’ She whispered the next bit: ‘That fucker – I put my life at risk to help ’em out. I went to that court and helped put a lowlife drug dealer away. He won’t rest until he’s made me pay for that. He’d have killed me then an’ there, I could see that in his eyes. They still could, if they find out where we are … Miles is meant to protect me, ain’t he? Not abandon me when it suits him. When I’ve outlived my usefulness.’

‘Is that what you think he’s done? Abandoned you?’

‘What would you call it?’

Connie leant her elbow on the arm of the chair and rested her chin in her cupped hand, contemplating the question. ‘Well, abandonment is a strong word. I wonder if what he’s actually trying to do is reduce his support in an effort to encourage you to go out of your comfort zone—’

‘Er … I think you’ll find coming to this poxy town was already out my comfort zone. Dropping my boyfriend in it, testifying against one of the most powerful gangs in Manchester – that was out my comfort zone. But it’s not just that. What I want now is …’ Steph turned away. Connie saw dots of blood appear on her bottom lip, her teeth clamping down hard and grinding the thin skin.

‘Yes, go on. What is it that you want now?’

Steph wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, and then looked directly at Connie, the light from the window highlighting the unusual amber shade of her eyes. ‘I want someone to protect me. Make me safe. Stop him getting to me.’

‘Okay, that’s part of the reason you’ve been relocated – to prevent your boyfriend, or any of the gang members, from harming you. Miles has ensured—’

‘No. Not them. And Miles has ensured nothin’, apart from his stupid conviction. He might think he’s protected me by setting me and Dylan up here. But if he leaves me to it now, leaves me to fend for myself, then he ain’t gonna stop him from getting me.’ Steph’s face darkened, her expression fearful, frozen in time. Another time? Some other place?

‘Steph. If you aren’t talking about your ex-boyfriend, or the gang members, then who?’ Connie leaned forwards. ‘Steph.’ She placed her hand on Steph’s knee. Nothing. Steph remained stuck, transported, as if she was in a trance. ‘Stephanie.’ Connie spoke more firmly.

Steph’s eyes returned to Connie’s. ‘Sorry. I was gone then.’

‘Where? Where were you, Steph?’

‘Back.’ She shivered, drawing her unzipped hoody tighter across her chest. Her voice lowered, her tone hard. ‘Wi’ him.’

‘Who? Who are you with?’

‘Brett.’ She spoke the name as if it hurt her to say it.

The silence following the mention of this name stretched. Connie waited for her to elaborate. But she seemed to have gone into a daze again, her eyes penetrating the walls and beyond. Without warning, Steph bolted up and out of the chair, striding towards Dylan. She scooped him up. He thrashed briefly in her arms, trying to reach down for the paper scattered on the floor before she shouted at him to be still. Then she headed for the door.

‘Steph, we still have half an hour of the session. It might be good to carry on, don’t leave now,’ Connie shouted after her as she got up and followed Steph out.

She watched as Steph descended the stairs, Dylan bobbing up and down with each step. As she reached the bottom she turned. Her eyes were wet with tears.

‘He will come for me. He’ll finish what he started. I know it.’

‘How do you know it, Steph?’

‘Forget it, Connie.’ Her voice was flat. ‘You can’t help me.’

Connie was still on the top step as the front door of the building banged hard in its frame. She ran down, and outside. Steph was already disappearing into the crowd in the market square opposite. What was that all about? She’d assumed Steph’s fear of being found was related to the gang that her ex-boyfriend had been a part of. But now she’d thrown something new into the pot. She’d have to write it down while it was fresh in her mind. There was no mention of a Brett in Steph’s case file, the one Miles had given her, she was sure of it. Connie had read the file thoroughly; it hadn’t taken long. It detailed her ex-boyfriend and the known gang members, and family-wise it said that her mother was in a nursing home, her father’s whereabouts were unknown and she had no siblings.

As Connie returned to the consulting room to note down her questions, the security buzzer for the front door sounded. She exhaled and stretched across her desk, pressing the button to release the lock without asking who it was. It’d be Steph, hopefully, coming back to finish her session. But the noise on the stairs suggested more than one adult. Connie marched across the room. She let out an involuntary yelp as she flung the door open to find two people standing on the other side.

CHAPTER FOUR
Connie

‘Morning, sorry to arrive unannounced.’ The petite red-haired woman, who looked to be in her mid-thirties, didn’t seem at all sorry and squared up to Connie as she thrust a badge in front of her face. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Wade. This,’ she threw a thumb in the air, indicating back over her shoulder, ‘is Detective Sergeant Mack.’

Connie raised her gaze from the short female detective to the tall man standing directly behind her. The disparity in their heights was almost comical. ‘Right, um … okay. Come on in.’ Connie, flustered due to Steph’s shock exit and now the sudden arrival of the detectives, allowed them in and shut the door behind them. She’d met DS Mack before, she was sure – couldn’t place where right now, though. She was used to dealings with the police, but they were usually planned meetings. This was unexpected. It was likely to be something relating to being an expert witness, or profiling. Occasionally in the past she’d consulted independently on cases that required profiling criminals. She hadn’t done this kind of work since leaving the prison service. Somehow, though, this felt different. She’d always got a call first.

‘What can I do for you both?’ Connie sat in the office chair behind her desk as if having that barrier gave her an element of control.

DS Mack had taken a seat, the one Steph had occupied moments before, his long legs reaching the desk. But DI Wade paced the room, her hands in her suit trouser pockets. She settled in front of the array of framed certificates hanging on the wall adjacent to the window.

‘You used to work at HMP Baymead,’ DS Mack said as he flipped through his notebook. ‘As the Head of Psychology.’

‘Yes, that’s correct. I officially left at the beginning of this year.’ Connie shuffled in her seat.

‘Can you tell me the reason for your departure from your position there?’

Really? She was going to have to go through that?

‘Personal reasons, Detective Sergeant. I’d been on long-term sick for six months and the job no longer held the …’ she looked up and to her right, trying to think of the right word to use, ‘attraction that it once did.’

‘I can’t imagine that working with criminals could ever be classed as attractive, Miss Summers.’

‘Well, you work with them, DS Mack.’ Her eyes penetrated his. She wasn’t having her career choice, or the reasons for it, coming under fire.

‘Ah, well I don’t work with them; I work to put them away. And I’ve never thought it’s an attractive job. I’d like to think it’s more to do with my duty to the community.’

Of course, Connie thought, it was the standard answer many police officers gave. She’d put money on it not being entirely true for DS Mack.

‘Are we going to debate who has the best reason for working with criminals,’ Connie said overly sweetly, ‘or are you going to get to the point of why you’re here?’

A snigger came from the other side of the room. DI Wade turned her attention from the certificates and drew the remaining comfy chair across the beige carpet to sit next to DS Mack. She smiled at Connie before asking, ‘Your reason for leaving the prison service, or rather, an instigating factor I believe, was to do with an Eric Hargreaves, known to most as Ricky. Is that right?’

Connie gripped the arms of her chair almost as tightly as the anxiety gripped her insides. What had he done now? More to the point, what else was she going to feel responsible for – another offence? An attack, or worse, a death? Connie’s breathing accelerated; the wave of panic threatened to spill over. Relax. Breathe. Her grip loosened, her heart rate steadied. She was overreacting; her thoughts weren’t based on any actual evidence. They were unfounded. He was still in prison. Wasn’t he? Connie attempted to work out how long he’d got left to serve, but her mind scrambled around, unable to do the maths. Both detectives were staring at her, waiting for her to speak. To tell them about an experience she was trying so hard to forget. Ricky. That name unlocked so many painful memories.

‘The circumstances surrounding Ricky’s case certainly had an impact, yes. It’s not exactly ideal, is it? To recommend a prisoner’s release only for him to rape a woman days later.’ She averted her eyes. Didn’t want to think about it, much less talk about it. What that poor woman went through, how she must’ve felt when she found out her attacker had only just been released. How much she must hate those who allowed him back into the community – hate Connie for reporting to the parole board that he was safe … Connie rubbed at her wrist absently, a raised red mark appearing.

‘No, Miss Summers, it’s not,’ DS Mack said gently. Although to Connie, there was a hint of distaste in his words. He probably blamed her too.

‘Please, call me Connie.’ Him saying ‘Miss Summers’ was beginning to grate on her nerves.

‘The reason we’re here,’ DI Wade’s blunt, monotone voice cut through, ‘is because we have a murder scene—’

‘Oh, no, no. How? How has he committed a murder?’ Connie put her head in her hands.

‘Sorry, you don’t understand. He hasn’t committed it.’ DI Wade narrowed her eyes and moved forward in her chair. ‘He’s the victim.’

CHAPTER FIVE
Then

Blue lights reflected in the puddles of water that had formed on the pavement, spilling into the gutter and down the drain, taking with it lumps of black debris. The show was over; the flames extinguished. Life as she knew it extinguished as well. The door of one of the ambulances banged. The girl jumped – she’d been so focused on the scene. A hand touched her shoulder, a paramedic spoke to her as he guided her to another waiting ambulance. The sounds were muffled, as if she was underwater. She snapped her head left and right, trying to clear it. He’d disappeared from her side. Where was he? Had he already been taken?

‘Where’s my brother?’

The man looked down at her, his eyebrows drawn together until they touched in the middle. ‘What does he look like?’

‘About this high.’ With a shaky hand, she indicated up to her shoulder. ‘Black hair. He had blue pyjamas on. He’s ten.’ She swung around, eyes flitting over the scene, darting between the many figures that scattered the area. ‘Where is he? He was with me.’ The pitch of her voice elevated. The paramedic shouted to his colleague, asking if a boy had been taken to the hospital. She saw the shake of his head, the rising of his shoulders in a shrug.

‘Don’t worry,’ the man said, ‘I’m sure he’s safe. It’s scary for a ten-year-old, perhaps he’s got out of the way. I’ll ask the police to look for him.’ He made a move to bundle her into the ambulance, but she forced her body weight back against him, stopping his attempt. ‘Are you all right, love? Come on, you need to be checked over.’

‘No.’ She turned and glared at him. ‘I need to tell them. I have to find him, and make sure they know.’ She struggled against his grip, pulling away from him, and the blanket he’d placed around her shoulders fell to the ground.

‘Wait, please, you need to be assessed!’ His voice trailed after her as she fled.

There were at least four police cars. Why did they need so many? She ran to each one, pushing past bystanders as they lazily watched the scene, checking to see if he was in any of them. Where was he?

‘Hey, hey. Slow up.’ A policewoman gently placed both arms around her shoulders. Why did everyone feel the need to touch her? ‘What are you doing here? You should be on your way to hospital.’

‘No, no. I need to find my brother.’ She didn’t make eye contact with the woman.

‘Ah, I see. It’s okay, he was frightened, he’s with one of the PCs over there.’ She pointed at an unmarked car, up the road on the right.

‘Did he tell you?’ The girl raised her wide eyes to meet the policewoman’s.

‘Tell us what?’

‘That it’s his fault. Did the little creep tell you?’ She tore away, and ran towards the car. The policewoman followed. As the girl approached, she saw him in the back seat – with a blanket wrapped loosely around him, as they’d wrapped it round her. He looked small; innocent. The screech came from deep within her, filling the night air. ‘You little shit, you murderer!’ she shouted, banging both fists repeatedly against the window. The boy shrank away from it; from her – moving backwards, scrambling to the other side of the car. The policewoman was with her now, holding her arms; holding her back. ‘He did it. He started the fire. He’s a weirdo, always playing with fire. He killed him.’ Her determination gave her strength to break free. She launched again towards the window. She didn’t bang on it this time, but pressed up against it, squashing her features. It cooled her face.

The boy inside cowered. Tears had made clean tracks down his blackened face. He shook his head, his whole body seeming to tremble. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping out of water. Finally, he managed to say, ‘Don’t be angry at me. I’m sorry, sis.’

CHAPTER SIX
Connie

‘I don’t understand.’ Connie released her hands from the arms of the chair, gripping one in the other instead. ‘How?’ Her gaze darted between DI Wade and DS Mack, searching for clues while she waited for a response.

‘Mr Hargreaves was on ROTL – release on temporary licence—’

‘Yes, I know what ROTL is, Detective Inspector. But, why was he? He’d not long been reconvicted.’ Connie felt heat flushing her face. ‘How had he possibly been assessed as being safe to leave the prison?’

‘No offence, Miss … sorry … Connie. But hadn’t you assessed him as safe to return to the community?’ DS Mack said.

‘None taken. Because, yes, I recommended his release – along with other professionals, I might add – but at that time he hadn’t committed a further offence. Now he has, and so it would be ridiculous to allow him ROTL now, wouldn’t it?’

‘Calm down, Connie,’ DI Wade said, as she shot DS Mack what appeared to be a warning look. ‘DS Mack hasn’t really explained it properly. Hargreaves was granted permission by the prison governor to attend his mother’s funeral last Friday. It was meant to be for a few hours, under prison-officer guard. But somehow, following a commotion at the graveside, the full details of which we’ve yet to discover, he made a run for it. It’s assumed he had help on the inside as well as the outside so that he could orchestrate the whole thing to coincide with the funeral.’

Connie sat back, forcing her shoulders down into their natural position. ‘So, now he’s dead?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Three days following his escape. His body was dumped outside the prison gatehouse this morning.’

‘Well, that’s unfortunate for him, I guess. So what’s any of this got to do with me? Why are you here?’

‘Well, that’s the interesting part.’

Nothing about the case so far was in the slightest bit interesting as far as Connie was concerned. She didn’t want to have anything to do with it. Her upper body slumped. What the hell was coming next?

‘Eric Hargreaves’ body has been mutilated, the type and detail is not being disclosed for obvious reasons, but let’s just say it’s been done in a … particular way—’

‘And you think I can help establish the type of person who would do this, give you some clues as to their motive?’

DI Wade scrunched her face a little and gently shook her head. ‘I’m sure you could help with that, yes, but we’re calling on you for a different reason at present.’

Connie’s stomach dropped. ‘Oh?’

‘You see …’ DS Mack took over. ‘On closer inspection it was noted he had something written on his hand.’ He paused, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. He was enjoying dragging out the details; making Connie squirm. She rubbed at the raised red mark that was still on her wrist. It was stinging. She closed her eyes to block out DS Mack’s smug face. Although she couldn’t remember where she’d seen him before, she hoped after this that she’d never see his face again.

‘Am I meant to guess?’ Her tone sharp.

DS Mack shifted sideways slightly in his seat; his feet kicked the corner of her desk. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a see-through evidence bag containing a photograph. He held it out towards Connie between the thumb and forefinger of each hand.

She blinked rapidly a few times, then frowned.

She stared at the words: ‘CONNIE MOORE’ written in black on the palm of the bloody, grey-tinged hand.

Connie’s face tightened.

‘It’s a conundrum for us, too,’ DI Wade said. ‘But we’re hoping you’ll be able to shed some light on it?’

CHAPTER 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.’

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