‘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.
‘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