Copyright
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street,
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-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?’
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.’