These thoughts clouded her mind for the entire journey to Totnes, the weight of them seeming to make her head heavy. When DI Wade had asked her to be an advisor, she’d been reluctant, not wishing to commit. She’d said she’d think about it. Connie’s assertion to her mother that she was working with the police had served to allay her mother’s fears – but for Connie, the thought made her stomach contract. The Hargreaves mess had caused her enough trouble and Connie was doubtful she’d be much help now that he was dead – she probably wouldn’t be able to tell DI Wade anything she didn’t already know. If she didn’t get involved any further, then she could forget all about it. No harm done. No further damage to her career. Or her well-being.
The earlier weight lifted as she walked through the side streets. All would be fine, she’d decline the invitation to be an advisor. She finally raised her head as she crossed the road to her office.
Steph was sitting on the steps, slumped against the wall. Had she come back to finish yesterday’s session?
‘Sorry, I know I haven’t got an appointment … but I’m worried.’ Steph dipped her head, fiddling with the zip on her hoody.
‘No problem, Steph. I’m free until ten.’ Connie unlocked the door and walked through, waiting for Steph to follow. Pulling herself up from the steps, Steph turned to face Connie, but didn’t make any move to cross the threshold.
‘I think I’m gonna ’ave to change shrinks.’ She stared into Connie’s eyes. ‘Sorry, but you’ve drawn attention to yourself – your face on TV for all to see. You’re too dangerous to me now.’
It took a whole month to rid herself of the smell. The stench of smoke: the taste of it, the memory of dripping, burning flesh clinging to the tiny hairs on the inside of her nostrils. Things had moved on quickly from that night; even before the reality of the situation had time to hit home. Her life had changed completely, snatched from her in an hour of fire and fear. She’d gone from her cosy three-bedroomed terraced family home – to a run-down, hellhole of a flat rented from the council by her good-for-nothing uncle. Or that’s how she remembered her mum talking about him. Good-for-nothing-Jimmy. Layabout. Scrounge. Druggie. Criminal. No one ever asked anything of him unless they were desperate. As she was now. Maybe her mum had got the better deal – even a shitty nursing home was preferable to this.
Because she was sixteen, there wasn’t much the social could do about it. And she was not being put under some do-gooder’s care. She could look after herself. And besides, her boyfriend had promised she could move in with him any day now. Things would get better then.
At least she wasn’t inside a secure unit.
But he’d got what was coming to him, hadn’t he? He had to be punished. He’d be safe inside there; looked after properly, by professionals. They’d sort him. Perhaps even help him.
And if he was inside … it meant she was safe too.
His face, pale, innocent, looking up at her from inside the police car, appeared every time she closed her eyes for more than a second. His voice – pleading, apologetic – sounded in her ears whenever there was a quiet moment. It snaked its way inside her brain and spread like a disease.
Damn him.
If you play with fire, you’ll get burnt.
‘I can’t afford to be found, you know that.’ Steph remained on the top step. She was alone, she must’ve dropped Dylan off at pre-school today. Connie looked up and down the street; no one was taking particular notice of them, but she felt the need to get inside, have the conversation in privacy.
‘Please come on in, Steph.’ She smiled, hoping to coax her. Steph gave a furtive look around too, and then bolted inside. Connie let out a lungful of air and gently closed the door.
‘This shouldn’t affect you, Steph. It’s something that happened over a year ago, before I began this consultancy. My involvement was reported at the time, then it all went quiet – it wasn’t even really to do with me, it was the justice system. And I changed my name …’ She trailed off. Without going into the whole sorry tale, she wouldn’t be able to make Steph understand. And it was unlikely to ease her concerns anyway. What would, really? She had every right to feel vulnerable. If the press began digging into Connie’s life again, there was a real risk that Steph’s new identity could be compromised. She prayed this would blow over. A few hours and she’d be telling Wade she was out; didn’t want to be involved. Although, the fact her name was written on the dead man’s hand complicated matters. How was she going to safeguard Steph?
‘But you can’t guarantee it, can you?’ Steph’s pupils, wide and accusing, bore right into Connie’s. Her shoulders dropped.
‘You’re right. It is a risk and, even though I think it’s a small one, I’ll contact Miles, let him know the situation and he can refer you to a new psychologist.’ Connie knew it was the sensible option. The safest. But she hated that she needed to do it. Hated that stupid bitch of a reporter. Hated Ricky Hargreaves. Even dead he was causing her problems.
‘So you’re givin’ up on me? Like everyone else? That was quick, Connie.’
Connie’s brow furrowed. She shook her head. She wasn’t expecting that reaction.
‘I don’t understand, you said you needed a new psychologist, that I’m a risk?’
‘Can we just have another session; I got something in the post this morning. You’re the only one I can talk to about it.’
‘You shouldn’t be getting post.’ Connie’s hand flew to her chest. ‘Who knows your address? Only utility companies should have it.’
‘It’s okay. It was forwarded to me at this address by Miles. They go into my Manchester place and pick up stuff now and then. They normally read it, ’specially if it looks suss, or they think it’s from any of the gang, but this was unopened.’
‘Oh, good.’ Connie released her hand from her chest.
‘But it’s not good. It’s from him.’
Connie’s interest was renewed. Was she going to find out the real reason for Steph’s current anxiety? The immediate situation with Ricky, and Steph’s threat of finding a new psychologist, melted into the background.
‘Let’s go on up, shall we?’ Connie started up the stairs, confident Steph would follow.
Steph took her usual chair; Connie pulled her own up close, just in front of Steph. She had to be careful here, let her talk, not jump in with questions. Be patient.
‘Tell me about the letter.’
Steph’s body shuddered, then she took in a deep breath. ‘It’s from Brett.’ Even though Steph was naturally fair-skinned, any hint of colour she’d had drained slowly from her face, like water being let out of a bath. It looked to Connie like she might faint, but she recovered; taking a few rapid breaths, she appeared to compose herself. Connie bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself talking, from pushing Steph into going faster. It had to be in her own time. She had to have the control, not Connie.
‘He used to write all the time. Well, monthly. From the YOI.’ She paused.