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

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.’

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 mobile display read Unknown caller.

Great. Was it starting again? One previous mistake. She’d thought it was over. But clearly others weren’t going to allow it to rest. And what would happen once his identity was confirmed, once they found out the police had come to her for help? When they knew her name had been found on Ricky’s body? A shudder rocked her. She got up from the sofa, paced the room, arms crossed tightly. The ringing stopped. Connie sighed. It was her work mobile, she’d purposely got a new one solely for her new business – she didn’t want to give her personal number out to clients. The unknown caller could be a prospective client responding to her advertisement.

The phone gave its sharp ring into the silence. Unknown caller, again.

Leave me alone.

Connie set it to silent. Hopefully, if they were clients, they’d leave a message and she’d return the calls tomorrow. She watched her hands. The tremor. Please don’t let it start again. She switched the TV off. A low buzzing sounded from her handbag. Her personal mobile. She rummaged in the pocket of the zipped compartment.

Her mum.

Inhaling deeply, Connie pressed the accept button.

‘Hey, Mum.’ Already tears pricked her eyes. How sad was it that her only ally was her mother? No boyfriend. No friend. She had some friends, but they were mostly linked to the prison. They weren’t close, more like acquaintances. And they certainly weren’t ones she wanted to speak to just yet.

‘Have you had a good day?’ Her mum’s concerned tone exposed her attempt at naivety. She’d definitely seen the news.

‘You saw it then.’

‘Oh, darling. I’m sure it’ll blow over. Again. They don’t even know it’s the same man.’ The hope was evident. Connie was about to crush that.

‘It is, Mum. It’s him.’

‘They—’

‘Mum. The police came to see me. It’s definite.’

Silence.

Her poor mum. How could Connie put her through it all again? It had almost destroyed her watching Connie fall deeper into the void of depression. She’d been scared. Scared that Connie might do something ‘stupid’. An image of her brother flashed through her mind. However low she’d sunk, Connie had always kept the knowledge within her sights that she had to come through it, for her mum if not for herself.

She couldn’t let her lose another child.

‘It’ll be fine, Mum. Don’t worry. And at least I changed my name, my consultancy won’t be affected …’ A thought crossed her mind. ‘Have you spoken to Dad?’

‘Er … well, I was really worried when I saw the news …’ Her voice was flustered. So, she had called him. Connie knew they still used each other for support. Years of marriage, a shared tragic loss – their joint histories brought them together during challenging times, despite their separation. But Connie wished he didn’t know of this latest development. He’d see it as a negative; an inability to handle herself – to stay out of ‘trouble’. She’d regularly disappointed him when she was growing up. He’d made it very clear that her brother had been the one who had the shiny, promising future ahead of him. The one he was proudest of. The one who would go into the family business. Nothing she could do would ever compare to the success her brother would’ve had, if he’d been the one who’d lived.

‘And what did he have to say?’ Why was she asking? She didn’t want to know.

‘He said it was probably a flash in a pan. Told me not to worry unduly, that it was just another blip …’

Connie snorted.

‘Just another blip,’ she repeated quietly. She took a deep breath. ‘He’s right, Mum. Honestly, you should listen to him. It’s a murder enquiry. The focus of the police and media will be on the person who did it, not so much on the victim. He was a criminal; no one will be interested in his life – or in me. It’s bigger than that now.’ Her voice held more conviction than she felt.

‘You sure?’

‘Look, I’m working with the police on this. It’s not my fault and I can’t be blamed for anything this time. I promise.’

The call ended with her mum in a more hopeful place.

But Connie shouldn’t have made a promise like that.

A nagging, anxious voice crept through her skull.

Are you sure it’s not your fault?